Christmas 1989

Christmas eve 1989 was the worst.

I lived in a one bedroom apartment with my friend at the time. It was COLD that night and the only holiday decoration we had was an old big-bulb strand of chipped-paint Christmas lights hanging on the window with a rusty nail. The lights were one degree away from total melt-down when I unplugged them.

Looking at them was only depressing me, anyway.

I had been estranged from my family for months. I would not forgive them for things they weren't even aware they had done. It's possible they may have not done them at all. My mind is a terrible thing that often presumes the worst intentions in the people who choose to love me.

My room-mate, who had strongly supported and encouraged my alienation of friends and family as some type of nirvana-like quest for lonerdome, had left me alone on Christmas eve to go spend time with his mother. The irony was not wasted on me.

I sat in silence, perhaps realizing for the first time in my young life, that I actually needed companionship for mental survival. I had a 5 inch television but no signal was coming in. My mood seemed reflected by the gray static and hiss of the screen.

As I looked at the blank walls of the room, I felt like I was in a vault buried miles under the earth. If I didn't leave soon, I would deplete all the oxygen and suffocate.

It was a long night. I wanted to sleep just to escape my own thoughts but sleep would not come.

Finally, I came to a decision. I had to go home.

But how could I go home for Christmas without presents?

So I searched my place for anything of value that I could pass off as gifts. I found a salt and pepper shaker, a scarf I'd never used and a pair of ear-rings my girlfriend had left behind. Using cracker boxes and anything else I could find, I wrapped the gifts and put them in a pillow case. I had no coat so I bunched up in shirts and sweaters for the long walk. It was about 5 miles and the temperature was just barely in the double digits.

As I walked humbled at my emotional weakness, my eyes involuntarily began to water from the cold. The tears freeze-dried to my face. I WAS NOT CRYING!

I arrived at my parents' home shortly after daylight and knocked quietly. Part of me wanted to run as fast as I could away from the door. The fact that my feet were solid blocks of ice forced me to stay.

My sister opened the door and the look of delight and joy in her eyes melted the cold and my fears away.

I had never missed a Christmas morning with my family and they had spent Christmas eve thinking this would be the first.

It was a homecoming of grand proportions. I was the prodigal son. I was welcomed with hugs and smiles although I had done nothing to deserve them.

And for the day, all hurts and anger passed away. All was forgiven.

I had never appreciated Christmas more than at that moment.

After I left, things slowly went back to normal. There was distance and paranoia, anger and resentment and buried mystery. It took time and Christ, not Christmas, to heal those wounds.

But for one day, all was well with the world.

My wish for you is that for one day, this year, it will be a joyous Christmas in the deepest and realest sense.