Christmases recalled, in darkness and light

Here’s a column from Susan Carey Dempsey, which first appeared last December.

Discussing Christmas memories recently, I began to think that it’s hard to select a single special moment out of many years of celebrations. It dawned on me that the happy Christmases have all pancaked into one memory, and it’s easy to understand why.

Christmas traditions are deeply baked in, from religious observances to family favorites, almost rigorously followed year after year because they mean so much to us.

Every family can recount their stories, often the children waiting at the top of the stairs Christmas mornings while Daddy checks to “be sure” Santa has truly come. The proof will be in the crumbs of cookies that were left for the Jolly Old Elf, and the nibbled carrot for Rudolph.

Religious observances took place on Christmas Eve, at Midnight Mass, or on Christmas mornings when children grudgingly left their new toys aside to make the cold trek to church.

The Christmas story was represented in our home, as so many others, in the assemblage of figures in the Nativity Scene, the infant finally placed in the manger on Christmas morning. As the day went on, we’d always recount the funny stories of Christmases past, like the little brother sworn to secrecy after discovering a present for his father in the garage. “I can’t tell you what it is, Daddy, but it has wheels and cuts grass.”

Later in the day, adults would gather for toasts with Poinsettias and perfect Martinis. Dinner would bring everyone around the table, or tables, for a meal that began with Grace, and extra prayers for families facing difficult times.

These customs are comforting and cherished. What stands out among the memories, then, are the years when those difficult times came to our own family. The Christmas when a brother’s dormant illness took a life-threatening turn.

The exquisite pain of the first Christmas after the loss of a loved one. In those years, that person now present only in our hearts would inspire a new tradition, perhaps a bell or a cardinal to be added to the time-worn Christmas tree ornaments.

Perhaps the company of loved ones stands out even more brightly against the backdrop of worry or loss, counting blessings we’ve taken for granted. For some of us, it’s the challenge to embrace the glass half-full.

Last week, the Ukrainian Children’s Choir Shchedryk performed in New York City, first at Grand Central among stunned commuters, later in Carnegie Hall, singing the beautiful Carol of the Bells, by a Ukrainian composer, 100 years after it was written.

As I watched the video, I realized this musical gift was so much more precious knowing their young voices had practiced in underground bomb shelters and the homes in distant lands that had taken them in as refugees from the horror of war.

To be sure, the ancient tale that we celebrate with the creche, of the life that began in a manger, would have no meaning were it not for the knowledge of how and why that life would end.

This week, hanging a new silver ornament made by my grandson on our Christmas tree, I appreciated its brightness most when seen against the dark green branches of the fir tree.

I thought back to a December 11 years ago, when his parents worried their way through nine days while he lay in a Neonatal Intensive Care unit at a hospital miles from their home, waiting and praying while his lungs grew stronger.

It was Christmas Eve when my daughter received the call from the NICU nurse, exclaiming in a voice that boomed through the phone: “Come get your baby!”

I was busying myself with last minute errands and trying to keep calm driving through the gentle countryside when I got the good news. The worry was over; the celebrations could begin. Cranking up the Christmas carols on the car radio, I sang at the top of my voice: “Joy to the World!”

And, with thanks to the celestial choir known as Three Dog Night, may I close by adding “Joy to you and me!”