My father defined himself as an agnostic, which I found frustrating, because as a child, I preferred simple yes and no answers. It had to be one way or the other.
Dad had memorized large sections of the bible and when the door bell would ring he would invite in the Jehovah Witness, or the Seventh Day Adventist, or the Mormon missionaries. He was eager to discuss what they believed and how they interpreted the scripture, especially certain sections that perplexed him.
My six-year-old brain longed for simple answers, while my father seemed to enjoy holding more than one idea at a time.
“Dad!” I insisted, “Do you believe in God?”
He looked at me for a long moment and gently replied, “I don’t know.”
Nevertheless, we celebrated Christmas. It was a tradition.
Father made our greeting cards. He started in the summer each year, learning a different method of print making. Then he prepared the fabric, metal, or wood he used to print the cards. Lastly, he drew the design. In November he began printing the cards.
Mother steamed figgy pudding for gifts. While the scent of cinnamon and cloves filled the kitchen, I made snowmen out of hard sauce to place on top when the pudding was reheated and served. The snowman would melt into a sweet puddle.
My parents explained that Santa Claus was not a person, but “the spirit of giving.” It amused me that I could tell my eight-year-old friends I still believed in Santa when they felt their faith had been betrayed.
Outside the sanctuary of the church of my childhood, the minister built an enormous Buddha out of snow. He positioned it just outside the window looking into the sanctuary. The Buddha’s eyes were closed, and I wondered what he thought of us singing Christmas carols.
Now, I see Winter Solstice, Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, and “ for the rest of us” as a mix of secular and sacred holidays. This season carries both joy and weight. It is a time of celebration, but also of unrealistic expectations, stress, anxiety, and sorrow.
The first time I experienced grief was on December 24, 1964 when we learned my great-uncle Eustace had died. I still remember how sad I felt that Christmas Eve. Just the previous summer, he had shown me how to extend my fishing pole, holding the little fish dangling on the line close to the camera.
“Everyone will think you caught a big fish when they see this photo,” he winked.
During this time of year, sights, songs, or even quiet moments often bring me to tears. Each year, my arthritis and fatigue constrain me to do less and less to decorate the house with winter cheer. When I realize that I once had abilities that are now gone, I can slip into remorse.
Even my friend’s challenges weigh on me. My neighbor died last June and while alive, he insisted that his family hold a Christmas party every year, although his widow strained to make all the preparations. This year she is hosting the party alone and I wonder how her heart is feeling as she does.
A few weeks ago, the granddaughter of another neighbor died. She told me she is too distraught to celebrate this year. When she admits she isn’t even sure how her granddaughter died, because her son does not want to talk about it, I listen.
Grief cannot be denied. And when you live in a retirement community, it is a regular visitor. However loss enters our lives, it deserves to be acknowledged and affirmed.
Even though I once demanded my father take a stand, these days I believe life does not fit neatly into little boxes. It is not one way or another. Faith and doubt, joy and sorrow, hope and fear are fluid, shifting as we age.
So although I wish people well this time of year, I am mindful of the complicated emotions the season carries. For me, caring for one another matters more than our differences.
Sometimes it’s better to be kind than to be right. We do not need an intelligent mind that speaks, but a patient heart that listens.
Gautama Buddha
My Turn 