Last Christmas I had a revelation of Ebenezer Scrooge proportions. When academic jobs were hit as hard as any profession by the meltdown, my prospects (at least in the short term) for becoming a literature professor nearly vanished. As you might imagine or may yourself already know, this didn't feel very good at all. So when Christmas came I threw myself into the season like I never had before. My biggest solace of all was singing carols--in the shower, in the car, inappropriately when my wife wished for quiet. In the end I came out of it all, if not a Christian, a total convert to Christmas--an atheist for Santa, or, if you must have alliteration, a secularist for Saint Nick.
This year, I opted of my own free will to bring my parents to a Christmas eve mass at the local episcopalian church. It's a beautiful church, with a gorgeous service, and the singing and feeling of good will, despite my being an interloper, was deeply uplifting.
Amidst all this warmth, I couldn't help but spot the loners, especially when the Reverend mentioned the few who felt not joy but loss during the holiday due to strained or broken relations with family. It made me think of the people that I've loved, so closely as to consider them family, and yet know that I will never see or be so close with again. Maybe it's just a sign that I've broken the thirty barrier, but along with all the brimming, bursting presence I've associated with Christmas, I felt the absence at its center. It occurred to me then that that's part of the meaning; the birth is, after all, only made present to the extent that it is remembered across the vast abyss of history.
In a way, it puts last year into perspective. I took it all for granted until the moment I realized it could disappear so quickly. The thing is though, I wouldn't swap this insight for the world. It's brought a new passion and determination to my relations with the people, and yes, I'll say it, the "things" I love and that love me in return.
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