Christmas Eve, 2012

Well, it's not much of a white Christmas here in Pittsburgh--more like a wet Christmas. Still, the rain tapping on the roof and the crackle of the fire in the fireplace is calming. Jack is 'nestled all snug in his bed' after a visit from Santa (a nearly 50-year-old neighborhood tradition), and John and I are lounging in flannel pants and oversized sweatshirts. My mom's santa collection peers out from every corner of the living room and family room. Her miniature Christmas trees host tiny glass and pewter ornaments, sparkling symbols of the season that give Jack hours of entertainment as he bats at them. The memory of her is strong and close-by. My Christmas wishes are so different now then they were five years ago. I wish for Jack to be safe and healthy and kind and confident and full of faith. I wish for him to never know the loss that I know. I wish for time to spend with the people I love, for meaningful conversations and nothing to regret. I wish for everyone around me to be spared pain and grief and loneliness. I have on-going conversations with my mom in my mind. We talk about trivial things like our nails and the Golden Globe nominations and where we want to vacation next; we talk about important things like gun control and the educational system in this country and raising Jack. At Christmastime, among other profound revelations, I marvel at the truth that a tiny baby, even smaller and more helpless than Jack is right now, is the key to everything. And if God could sacrifice his only Son because he loved ME, he cares enough to walk next to me through this Christmas and every other one that I will celebrate without Mom. Mom sent out more Christmas cards than anyone I know. How did she do it all? These days, with Jack trying to scribble his own messages on my envelopes, I haven't even sent all of mine out yet. This simple wish will have to suffice. Merry Christmas, friends and loved-ones. May peace and joy reign in your hearts.