HOW ABOUT BOTH?
The knock, knock, knock came every year, and every year, my mom would ask, "what was that?" We'd all heard it as the eight of us sat around the kitchen table eating lasagna - an interesting choice for a German family's traditional Christmas Eve dinner, but then, as my dad always said, Germans make the best lasagna (and the best spaghetti and the best chow mien and the best tacos and the best . . . ). Of course, we knew the noise we'd just heard had to be Santa. We were all in the kitchen, so who else could have made that noise? He came on Christmas Eve at our house (our last name began with "B," and Santa had to start somewhere, right? Oh those poor schmucks whose last name began with "T" or, God-forbid, "Z!" After dinner, with the dishes cleared, we formed a train and sang Jingle Bells as we marched down the steps to find what treasures Santa had left for us. I was always so impressed by Santa - not only did the chubby man manage our chimney, but to get to our basement, he had to wiggle his way through the ash chute too. What a guy!
I loved believing in Santa Claus. It made Christmas so magical. As a parent though, I struggled with whether or not to tell our kids about Santa. I didn't want to detract from the true meaning of Christmas. In the end, I found a balance. The fact that I'm a terrible liar helped. I never came right out and said, "Santa brought these gifts." I would smile, shrug my shoulders, and say, "well, who do you think left them?"
For many years, we celebrated Christmas on December 23, so that on the 24th and 25th, we could be with our extended families. Somewhere along the line, we decided it was time to be our own family and celebrate Christmas on Christmas. My husband and I merged our family traditions, choosing those that we liked most or those that were most meaningful to us and then added some of our own: the four of use would take a day to pick out a tree and decorate it with Bing Crosby singing in the background and Christmas cookies and hot chocolate at the ready. Our son always put the little house ornaments over a light on the tree to make the houses glow. Our daughter always hung the "Great Grandma" ornament. Christmas Eve dinner is rouladan (a little more ethnically appropriate for this mostly German family). After Christmas Eve service, we'd open gifts by candlelight. On Christmas morning, the kids' stockings would be full, and we'd have brunch followed by a lazy day. The only reason to lose our p.j.s and don a coat was to see a movie - one that we'd decided upon weeks, sometimes months, in advance.
Now, our children are married. We have to share them with their in-laws. We all live in different cities, so the planning and executing requires the coordinating of a lot of schedules. I'll be honest. I don't like it. I want them all to myself. For every holiday of every year. I don't want to share. My husband has a standard reply when asked what's on his wishlist for an upcoming birthday, Fathers' Day, or Christmas. It's what he truly wants, but still it makes us all groan. His answer? "A day with my family." After twenty years of hearing this reply, I finally realize the truth of it - the deep, heartfelt truth of it - and I agree with him.
Life is ever-changing, and just as my husband and I had to let go of the traditions of each of our families and begin our own, our children have to do the same thing. For now, we have to share our children, their spouses, and our grandchildren with our son and daughter-in-law's families, only seeing them every other Christmas. I know that a day will come when they will tell us that this is the year they are staying home on Christmas. This is the year they will start their own family traditions. I don't like it. I want to hold on to the past. I want to relive those precious memories, but I love my children and grandchildren too much. I want them to have their own traditions. I want their families to be strong. I want them to experience the joy that their dad and I have had all these years with them. I want them to become grandparents and have a hard time letting go because the memories they hold will be as precious to them as ours are to us.
As I let go of them, as I let them be the adults that they are, I'm letting go of a part of me, of my identity. That's not easy to do, but as I read Paul's words in Philippians 3, a new hope has begun to rise in my heart:
"but one thing I do, forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward calling of God in Christ Jesus."
I don't think Paul means that he literally forgets the past, but he lays it down. He doesn't let it burden him. So, while I may not like being a big girl and having to share, I don't want to hold onto what was and miss what is and what will be. By His grace, I want to press on toward the goal even on Christmas Day without my children and grandchildren surrounding me.
The knock, knock, knock came every year, and every year, my mom would ask, "what was that?" We'd all heard it as the eight of us sat around the kitchen table eating lasagna - an interesting choice for a German family's traditional Christmas Eve dinner, but then, as my dad always said, Germans make the best lasagna (and the best spaghetti and the best chow mien and the best tacos and the best . . . ). Of course, we knew the noise we'd just heard had to be Santa. We were all in the kitchen, so who else could have made that noise? He came on Christmas Eve at our house (our last name began with "B," and Santa had to start somewhere, right? Oh those poor schmucks whose last name began with "T" or, God-forbid, "Z!" After dinner, with the dishes cleared, we formed a train and sang Jingle Bells as we marched down the steps to find what treasures Santa had left for us. I was always so impressed by Santa - not only did the chubby man manage our chimney, but to get to our basement, he had to wiggle his way through the ash chute too. What a guy!
I loved believing in Santa Claus. It made Christmas so magical. As a parent though, I struggled with whether or not to tell our kids about Santa. I didn't want to detract from the true meaning of Christmas. In the end, I found a balance. The fact that I'm a terrible liar helped. I never came right out and said, "Santa brought these gifts." I would smile, shrug my shoulders, and say, "well, who do you think left them?"
For many years, we celebrated Christmas on December 23, so that on the 24th and 25th, we could be with our extended families. Somewhere along the line, we decided it was time to be our own family and celebrate Christmas on Christmas. My husband and I merged our family traditions, choosing those that we liked most or those that were most meaningful to us and then added some of our own: the four of use would take a day to pick out a tree and decorate it with Bing Crosby singing in the background and Christmas cookies and hot chocolate at the ready. Our son always put the little house ornaments over a light on the tree to make the houses glow. Our daughter always hung the "Great Grandma" ornament. Christmas Eve dinner is rouladan (a little more ethnically appropriate for this mostly German family). After Christmas Eve service, we'd open gifts by candlelight. On Christmas morning, the kids' stockings would be full, and we'd have brunch followed by a lazy day. The only reason to lose our p.j.s and don a coat was to see a movie - one that we'd decided upon weeks, sometimes months, in advance.
Now, our children are married. We have to share them with their in-laws. We all live in different cities, so the planning and executing requires the coordinating of a lot of schedules. I'll be honest. I don't like it. I want them all to myself. For every holiday of every year. I don't want to share. My husband has a standard reply when asked what's on his wishlist for an upcoming birthday, Fathers' Day, or Christmas. It's what he truly wants, but still it makes us all groan. His answer? "A day with my family." After twenty years of hearing this reply, I finally realize the truth of it - the deep, heartfelt truth of it - and I agree with him.
Life is ever-changing, and just as my husband and I had to let go of the traditions of each of our families and begin our own, our children have to do the same thing. For now, we have to share our children, their spouses, and our grandchildren with our son and daughter-in-law's families, only seeing them every other Christmas. I know that a day will come when they will tell us that this is the year they are staying home on Christmas. This is the year they will start their own family traditions. I don't like it. I want to hold on to the past. I want to relive those precious memories, but I love my children and grandchildren too much. I want them to have their own traditions. I want their families to be strong. I want them to experience the joy that their dad and I have had all these years with them. I want them to become grandparents and have a hard time letting go because the memories they hold will be as precious to them as ours are to us.
As I let go of them, as I let them be the adults that they are, I'm letting go of a part of me, of my identity. That's not easy to do, but as I read Paul's words in Philippians 3, a new hope has begun to rise in my heart:
"but one thing I do, forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward calling of God in Christ Jesus."
I don't think Paul means that he literally forgets the past, but he lays it down. He doesn't let it burden him. So, while I may not like being a big girl and having to share, I don't want to hold onto what was and miss what is and what will be. By His grace, I want to press on toward the goal even on Christmas Day without my children and grandchildren surrounding me.
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ReplyDeleteThis was very poignant. It touched me in a good way and made me cry.
ReplyDeleteSo precious! Marc's response year after year reminds me of what Dad used to say when asked what gift he wanted. "Just a bunch of good kids."
ReplyDeleteFound the Scripture sited means so much to me as I often still miss my Michael.