A ‘Christmas Card’ to help me deal with the paradox inside me
“Hey, Siri, play Steven Curtis Chapman Christmas.”
With nothing more than that to go on, the little genie in my phone found a song I’d never heard before.
“Christmas Card” was released in 2012, but its lyrics resonated with me for the first time Sunday morning as I drove to church.
I think I passed you on the busy sidewalk last night
I think I caught the sadness in your eyes . . . .There may be joy for all the world but is there any joy for you . . . .
For everyone who’s been left standing on the outside looking in
Everyone with dreams that never will come true
When the story of your life gets rewritten over night . . .
I believe God knows and He’s right there with you.
I wiped tears off my cheeks when I pulled into the church parking lot and then entered to face my friends. Was I putting on a front to greet them heartily, to laugh and joke with them as if everything’s fine?
Contradictory feelings
I don’t think so. This is the enigma I’ve described before, a combination of contradictory feelings that continues to intrigue me.
I’m getting ready for Christmas in an empty house, and even after more than five years with Evelyn’s Alzheimer’s, I feel sadder than ever. But joy also runs deep, and my smiles are not fake.
Someone close to me texted last week, “Your blog this morning made me cry.”
“Well, I was crying as I wrote it,” I replied. “I’m doing fine. There’s so much so good. But still I cry.”
And there’s the paradox. Sometimes I feel guilty about the grief. Why be sad when, for me, everything’s about as good as it can be?
Good life
Evelyn’s doing fine. The hospice nurse tells me all her vitals are good. She eats and seems to sleep well. We still get smiles from her, and she’s still reading aloud anything we put in front of her. She’s content and almost always pleasant and generally well cared for.
My life is good. I’m busy. There’s never a week without at least one meal away with a friend or two. I enjoy my few hours of weekly volunteering. My house is paid for, my car’s running well, and I think I can cover the 2025 increase in the monthly rate for Evelyn’s care. My aches and pains never hurt enough or last long enough to send me to the doctor.
I’m mustering the energy to decorate two small trees in my house and throw up some lights outside. All my family will be here for Christmas.
Energy and release
But I’ve lost Evelyn, and the loss cuts deeper because she’s still here. Like a moth attracted to a flame, I can’t quit looking at pictures from our past. What a treasure we had in her!
And I can’t quit going to see her. I can’t quit searching for the light of her beauty in the fog of her disease. It’s a project. She’s the patient. The experience of being with her is something different than my memories of living with her. It’s not nearly as sad to engage her as it is to remember her.
I can’t forget her, but neither dare I be disabled by what’s happening to her. Life pulsates all around me. Needs are deep. Opportunities are real. I’m determined not to feel sorry for myself and to be a responsible steward of the blessings God has heaped upon me.
Needs are deep. Opportunities are real.
I have so much to smile about, and meanwhile, such a reason to weep. So I do both. My interactions with others give me energy. My tears provide release. I’ve decided it’s a healthy combination.
Finding comfort
Because of this blog, I’ve heard the stories of at least three widowers who are facing Christmas for the first time this year without their wives. Many other friends and acquaintances are grappling with grief this holiday. And then there are the caregivers who tell me their experiences are so much like mine.
Maybe all of these—and so many I don’t know—can find some comfort in knowing they’re not alone with their sadness. Their losses, profound and piercing, can’t be ignored.
But neither dare they be paramount. That’s the message of Christmas. That’s the driver behind Steven Curtis Chapman’s song. Find it and play it, and maybe you’ll respond as I have.
We have much to celebrate.