How the Grief stole Christmas
“Hey, wait up!” my husband hollered as I bounced up a flight of stairs at a wintery outdoor-music festival, several years back. “It’s icy and slick, and you’ve got your hands full.”
“Catch me if you can!” I said, turning back with a wink, dragging our “twice-my-size” inflatable Mr. Grinch towards the plaza.
Within minutes, Jim’s band arrived, bundled up in winter coats, scarves and fingerless mittens. Tossing microphones and Santa hats to one another, they quickly set up shop on the main stage, under mistletoe and heated lanterns, ready to rock at the Christmas tree lighting ceremony in our hometown.
After a lively setlist of classic carols and festive folksongs, the countdown began “three … two … one!” The master-of-ceremonies waved a fairy wand, and a cascade of lights burst onto the towering tree. The cheers and whistles of both visitors and locals rose above the band as they jammed to “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.”
The evening ended with an instrumental of “Oh Holy Night.” The honeyed notes of Jim’s acoustic 12-string floated through the frosty air, into the canyons of the snow-covered hills, the chords drifting like frankincense towards a tiny sliver-of-a-moon. The spellbound crowd shushed in a collective sigh of wonder and joy.
Several Christmas trees later, I came across a box from that starry night. The smell of hot chocolate and marshmallows filled the garage as I popped open the lid. At the top of the pile was the flopping deflated Grinch, with his green face, beady eyes and sinister smile.
“You’re sure a mean one.” I snarled, tossing his crumpled plasticity to the side. “Are you planning on stealing my Christmas, too?”
Ambushed by nostalgia, I crumpled onto the floor and sobbed. This was my third holiday without my husband, with his untimely death in 2021. The joy of the holidays had been sucked out of me, stolen by the real-life Grinch, otherwise known as Grief.
I accidentally knocked the box over, and oversized ornaments, glittery pinecones and stale peppermint balls rolled to a sudden stop at my feet. The tinkling of a strand of sleigh bells jolted me out of my funk.
It began with a song. An involuntary sound, neglected for three years, soft at first, then billowing, like a sudden wind. Springing to my feet, I jumped on a stepstool, grabbed a pinecone as a mic, and sang at the top of my lungs.
“and heaven and nature sing…aaand heaven …!”
The hot sad tears transitioned into something warmer, something comforting, something soothing, that replenished my soul – instead of stealing my breath away.
Suddenly, I realized that Grief couldn’t keep my Christmas from coming. It could not! My husband’s essence was all around me; in the blinking lights, the tinsel, the nutcracker, and yes … even in the ol’ Grinch.
Standing in my garage that evening – being present with unwrapped gifts all around me – my heart grew bigger, reclaiming some of what Grief had stolen from me.
The peace, comfort and joy of the holiday came into focus, clear as midnight. As if hearing the Angels’ voices, I fell to my knees in awe of this holy night and grateful for a chance to carve a new path.
(Lina Lambert is a resident of Chalfant.)