The Merry Side of Christmas

"Merry Christmas!" 

The cry rings in the balmy air of Oklahoma on this sunny day. Or, if you belong to this generation, you open the Facebook and you are assaulted with the smiley faces and caps lock accompanied with this joyous phrase. 

What does this statement mean? It may be very bluntly translated as: "You. Be happy. It is Christmas."

Be happy... It is no wonder that people through the ages, following on the heels of like tragedy as myself, see this holiday approaching and feel the deep urge to turn tail and run in the opposite direction. These past few days I have spent calculating just how difficult it would be for me to dig a hole to curl up in until these days are over. Now I am here, the day is done, and it seems that my worst fears are far from realized. The day was not dreadful; it was anything but dark. The sun was shining, laughter rang in the air, and joy - unexpected joy - flowed from the heart. 

I've realized that the darkest days are those you spend anticipating the light. Those days you spend anticipating the joy, feeling the loss of the one who will not be there, are the hardest days. When the joyful day arrives, somehow the loss is not so sharp. It is clouded over by a joy that comes from deep within those around you. Perhaps the joy comes from the sorrow and loss. I do not think my joy would be so sweet now if I had not lost someone so precious. When you lose someone you love, you realize just how sweet the presence and joy of those you love are. The pain of the one you lost is sharpest before you are surrounded by those you love, in anticipation of that joy. Somehow it will not be the same as before. The clown with his loud laugh and stomping feet will not be there to cause a riot. His loud comments, rambunctious attitude, and fun-loving ways are gone forever. Yet, somehow, someone fills in the laughter, someone makes the snide remarks, and someone stomps around. They do not take the place of the one who is gone, but they remind you that such things are not lost forever simply because he is gone. 

There is joy tempered by sorrow. There is light contrasting with the darkness. There is laughter after the tears. There is peace in the midst of the storm.  

 

"It Looks Good"

One of the things I remember the most clearly was his opinions. These probably because he voiced them so loudly. His opinions of clothes and complements I shall never forget. Many a Sunday morning I would walk up and say, "I like how you put this shirt with this sweater." (He always wore jeans, so I never felt the need to comment on his pants.) He would then embark on a long explanation of why the sleeves of the shirt must be folded over just so, and how the collar must look, etc. He had a pair of ancient cowboy boots he had found at the thrift store. No big spender on clothes himself, his accessory wardrobe consisted of many of these types of finds. His shirts and jeans mom would always supply, but his coats and his cowboy boots were thriftshop discoveries.
One morning I approached him after the service. I liked the shirt he had on - it was a dark gray with silver pin stripes. Stepping up to him I said, "That shirt is beautiful."
I have since learned that calling anything owned by this guy "beautiful" is a social mistake of the highest order.
"Beautiful is feminine; you don't call me beautiful!" He argued, the humor still thick in his voice. After arguing unsuccessfully about the word usage and origin I finally asked,
"Then how do I complement your outfit?"
"You call it good. Or you don't say anything at all," was his reply.
"I can do that. Can I call it cool?"
"Yes, you can do that. Frankly, I don't like people complementing my clothes, but if you're gonna do it, say it's good."
When I look at his clothes, when I hear what he says, when I remember what he has done, when I see the love he poured into all of those around him, it is good. It is so good.

Sketch of a Beautiful Person

He smiled only when he really meant it. That smile, slightly crooked, slightly silly, would creep up into his eyes and fill his entire being. If he didn't think it worth the smile, he wouldn't smile, he would make a face. How many faces he had! But his smile was the best, because it reached his very soul. Those big brown eyes would crinkle up at the corners as his whole face crumpled into that joyous expression. He smiled best when he forgot he didn't have his "teeth" in. The gaps really didn't matter - they were a part of who he was at the time.
If he didn't think the situation really merited a smile, he would cock one eyebrow, tilt his head slightly back, and look at you with a half mocking, half humorous look on his face. He could be serious as well. He wiped his face clean of the humor and looked at you in such a way that you knew that, whatever you said, his response would follow some serious deliberation. There were tears too. He was not afraid to cry, though he didn't enjoy it. But if he hurt emotionally, he cried. The times I remember best were when he was young. He cried when a family in the church left to go elsewhere. His love for this family left him devastated at their departure. He knew he would see them again, but he wept still. He cried out of frustration when he disappointed his father. It was not out of selfish ambition, but because he knew that he had failed someone he trusted and loved.
A big man, he could be gentle as well as rambunctious. If he saw another crying or hurting, he gave them a hug. If they were in serious pain, he made sure they were taken care of with as little discomfort as possible. If they were a child, he would scoop them up, tickle them, play with them, and left them wanting him to come back and do it again.
He was not a very quiet individual. His jokes echoed around the room, followed by his loud laugh. He laughed so well, and the sound was so full. He coveted joy. His had a confident stride. He entered a room without hesitating. His stride was not necessarily fast, but it was long. He knew where he wanted to go, and he went. I can still hear the heals of his worn out cowboy boots clicking on the tile as he walked into the worship service on Sunday. I can still hear the noisy stride, the rush of air as he opened the door, and his voice loudly marking his entrance into our house. He would drop everything quite noisily and plop himself down in the slouching blue chair, or onto the worn-out couch. The cover never seemed to stay put whenever he sat on that couch.
There are so many memories I have of him. They are all jumbled together in a colorful, noisy mess. As I pick them apart and put them together again piece by piece, I see a face. And it is the face of a beautiful person.