Christmas Lost and Found 

The frigid cold of this late December and the moisture in the air will make this a white Christmas.  Whenever most of us think of Christmas, that picture of layers of dreamy white over a countryside is what gives us the feeling that the season is truly here. 

For so many of us in this place in life -- surviving separation, betrayals, disconnection, divorce -- the romantic Christmas vision is like the ghost of Christmas past.  It's a memory of a more innocent time -- and one we know will not come again.  Too much has happened.  Too much is lost.  Too much anger, too much sadness, too much darkness in this darkest time of the year.  There are no rosy dreams of sugarplums dancing in heads.  There is economic uncertainty.  There is emotional turmoil.  There is fear for what the knock at the door, the certified letter, the next lawyer's bill, the confrontational phone call, will bring next.

I have lost a lot this year.  I am certain I will lose even more in the coming one.  And I cannot help but muse on some of it.  It's just my nature.  For me, even with the glass almost full, I complain about the fact that it's 10% empty.  It's really a shame, but I can't help it.  I can't help but feel sadness for the friends I've lost this year -- one because of my daughter's revelation that she is gay, one because of a stupid quarrel and relationship complications that neither of us seem to be able to repair, several in my extended family because of my impending divorce from my STBX.  I hate losing friends, especially when that lost is something for which I feel in part responsible.  I would rather have a limb amputated, because in so many ways, losing a friend is like have part of your soul amputated.

But even for "Mr. 10%" here, there are things I have found this Christmastime that have been pure joy.  My strengthening bond with my daughter, who is my life.  The blessing of still having work that will get me through another month of bills.  The greetings from my clients and friends thinking especially of me this year.  Christmas lights.  Hot baths.  The occasional Starbucks latte.  Even gratitude for a STBX who, although probably in denial about so much in our relationship and the course of our future, has been kind and loving to her kids, even to me. 

When opening my mail at my office yesterday, I received a gift from one of my special clients in New York.  He gave me a bronze token that his father had been given by his employer at a lumber company during the Great Depression.  My eyes welled with tears as I read the inscription on the token, one that had been a treasured family heirloom and a constant reminder to generations, which now my client had lovingly entrusted to me.  The inscription: "TIMES ALWAYS CHANGE -- FAITH."

We live in a dark, cold, uncertain country.  The naked branches of the trees; the browns and greys of a land with no promise; the snow that blankets the ground -- it all speaks of lifelessness and death.  What transforms that landscape into a land of joy and laughter and peace and contentment?  How can any of us hope against hope during this burdensome time, what Robert Frost called, "the darkest evening of the year"?  What helps us find Christmas? 

I think the difference lies in the sky.  If all we see is darkness and clouds, we will be tempted to think this winter will not end.  Our souls will freeze and remain as lifeless as the whitened earth.  But today, I look out (and up) at that scene, and the sun is shining, for the first time in weeks.  And the warmth and sparkle that eminates from the frozen crystals lying on the ground dazzles my eye.  It helps me remember the past not with loathing but a smile.  And in the blue sky, there is the promise that the snow will sometime, someday thaw.  I cannot determine its exact course -- only nature governs that.  But I can rest in course of the stars, the spinning earth that brings nighttime and daylight.  And yes, I can rest safe in the seasons -- here and yet to come.  Because, "Times Always Change".

Have faith.  Find Christmas.  It's waiting.