The Holidays

I just posted a 'comment' on a friend's blog and then I thought I need to do it here. She was talking about her grandmother's Christmas visit and how she would make 'from scratch' all this wonderful food providing them with wonderful meals, times, and memories.

I thought: 1. Blessed are those who have memories of holidays past.
2. Even more blessed are those of us who can still remember those loved ones who made our holidays (and every other day) so special by their talents of cooking, baking, laughter, kindness and just being who they were.

I do feel the pang of sadness and aloneness this time of year. Mom died 10 years ago and Dad 1 year ago. I think this melancholy begins just prior to Thanksgiving, Mom's favorite holiday~yes, she loved Christmas, too, but Thanksgiving didn't have 'all the extra stuff' tacked to it. Then my birthday falls on Dec. 3 and I don't ever remember a birthday when I didn't receive a birthday card with "a little piece of money" in it. Yes, it was a little piece of money. It was always a one dollar bill. It might be a crisp one or worn. It didn't matter...it was the tradition. I don't have that anymore. I admit, my heart aches for that kind of 'foolishness' we played with each other.

Not only was I blessed with awesome parents but wonderful grandparents on 'both' sides. Each one so individual, unique, and fun in their own special way. Christmas was always celebrated in Kingsport with the McConnell family members before Christmas and then Christmas Day was at Mamaw and Papaw Russell's, where we now live.

I have 'vintage' family ornaments and decorations that spawn good thoughts each time they are put on display.

With Mom and Dad, our stillborn (@20 weeks) son, my grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins gone...there is a lack. The lack is not in presents, but in presence. (Oh my, how my mom would have loved our Maggie-even more than she did. They would be so proud of her and the young lady she is becoming.)

To quote a blogger I read in "Good Housekeeping", Kyran Pittman: "Old sorrow is a thief. It picks your pocket. Or slips steel to your gut; your knees hit the ground and you're breathless."

Breathless, indeed. Once again, on Christmas Eve, I will light 2 candles, in my parents' memory and gaze into the flames feeling blessed and knowing that in the midst of joy ~ sorrow and loss are allowed.