It was December 1977. My father had passed away in July of that year. I was fifteen years old. My sister was two years younger. My twenty-two year old brother had taken on the role of “man of the house” and worked to help support our family. My mother was severely depressed and stayed in bed most of the time. Being raised in a southern Christian home, celebrating Christmas was something we did every year. Though we were not “well off” by any stretch of the imagination, we did always manage to have a blessed Christmas. There were never many gifts under the tree, but there was a lot of love shared.
This particular Christmas was proving to be different, however. There was no joy in our home. It was a struggle for all of us to just make it thru the day. Though we did love one another dearly, we seemed to all be in our own little world of self-preservation. Each of us was dealing with the tragedy that had befallen our family in our own way. The pain we were experiencing was not something we talked about much at all.
I remember one day, just before Christmas, I went to my mother’s room and climbed into bed with her. I asked when we were going to decorate and put up the tree. She responded by saying that there would be no tree this year. She just could not find it within herself to celebrate…anything. Tears began to stream down my face as I once again was reminded how our lives had changed. I don’t know how long I lay there next to my mother, but I do know that not another word was spoken during that time…only silent tears from both of us.
At some point during the next few days, I got an idea. Even though it really didn’t feel like Christmas…I did want a tree. I knew there would be no gifts to put under it, but I still wanted to decorate. When I think about it now, I guess I was looking for that lost joy…for that feeling of love that always came with that time of year. I went to the garage, got my father’s old hand saw, convinced my sister to go with me and we headed for the woods. We didn’t have to go far. The woods around us were full of cedar trees. We found one that we thought we could manage and before long we were dragging our Christmas tree out of the woods and up the street to our house.
When we finally managed to get the tree into the living room, we realized that it wasn’t as big as it had seemed in the woods. It might actually have been the smallest tree we had ever had…but at least we were going to have a tree. My brother helped us put the tree in the stand and made certain that it was safely secured and standing straight. Then my sister and I went to the closets and gathered all the lights and decorations. We worked for hours. We even came up with a few “homemade” gifts to wrap and place under the tree. When we were finished…it looked like Christmas.
I can’t remember everything about that Christmas morning. I don’t know which of us kids got up first. I can’t remember opening any of the gifts. But what I do remember is that at some point during that morning, my mother got out of bed and came into the living room with us. She sat down and looked around at the lights and the decorations. She looked at our little tree and the gifts underneath… and then she smiled. She told us how beautiful everything looked. As I write this, I can once again feel the joy and love that I felt at that moment.
There have been many Christmas mornings to celebrate since that time. I have experienced the joy of seeing my own child’s eyes filled with the excitement of the season. I have felt the love that is Christmas many times as well. This year, I will even have the privilege of watching my grandson as he experiences his first Christmas. But, in my heart, none of these can compare to the love and joy that I felt as my family sat around our little tree on that Christmas morning all those many years ago.
~D~
Copyright 2009 – Denise Gilreath ©
