OUT OF MY MIND
This column is not about Yuletide cheer or “the most wonderful time of the year.”
Nor will it be a diatribe against the crass commercialization of Christmas, much as that is worthy of such.
This is about those persons who do not look forward to the holidays and find in them neither joy nor solace, but only suffering.
It’s about the downtrodden and beleaguered souls Jesus comforted, those deeply wounded by life while also enduring the avoidance, indifference or disdain of many around them.
So, for those of you who would rather not have a holiday “buzz kill,” you may wish to bail on reading further, or come back another time. There will be no “It’s a Wonderful Life” ending here.
It is ironic that Christmas is when some people who enjoy the emotional support and caring of family and friends fail to “pay it forward” and extend the same to others in need, as Christ implored.
I’m not referring to material well-being. Poverty of spirit is just as debilitating as the financial kind, so the absence of caring and empathic interactions is a very real deprivation, as Cynthia demonstrated.
“For me, it’s the loneliest time of the year,” she explained.
Three years past her husband’s sudden death and two into her battle with cancer, this middle-aged professional is relieved when the holidays conclude. She is not alone.
If you’re depressed, down on your luck, homeless, gravely or chronically ill, bereaved, going through a nasty breakup or otherwise have your back to life’s proverbial wall, this time of year can rub salt in your wound, not a salve.
This is made more so by the cultural expectation that we will all be of good cheer and embrace the so-called holiday spirit, regardless of our circumstances.
When in a bad place, the surrounding contrast of Yuletide merriment may deepen our pain. It creates an “if only” mind-set, one in which those under siege wonder what might have been, but isn’t.
For Cynthia, “if only” was a long and fruitful life with her husband, who was both loyal spouse and best friend. When, on top of that devastating loss, her health became a crisis, she needed the support of others in a big way.
Sadly, it is minimally forthcoming this time of year.
“Around the holidays, many avoid me because they care too much and it hurts them to see me struggling, or they feel awkward and don’t know what to say or how to help,” she explained.
Despite her magnanimous attitude and regardless of other people’s reasons, the result is Cynthia feels forgotten, lonely and out of sync with the festive folks around her.
“That’s why I turned down a kind invitation to Christmas dinner,” she told me. “I’m not in a holiday mood, and it hurts to be with people who are and who expect me to be the same. Plus, I don’t want to bring them down.”
What does she need? The caring presence of others who don’t need her to be upbeat and who can accept her as she is, not as they wish her to be.
During the holiday season, the greatest gift we can give is our compassion and caring. And that gift is greater still when the recipient is someone who sorely needs it.
I was the victim of a drive-by fruiting recently.
I was buzzing about in the kitchen vaguely aware of a small shadowy figure on the other side of the door leading to the garage. Frankly, there are a number of shadowy figures when 22 of us are together, so I didn’t think much about it.
Then I heard BAM! BAM! BAM! I looked at the door to see cherry tomatoes exploding, sending juice and seeds sliding down the glass. Sliding, sliding, sliding. The tomatoes looked remarkably similar to the cherry tomatoes dropping from the halfdead vines in the raised bed in the backyard.
And to think some grandmas hold grandchildren on their laps and read them stories.
My sister-in-law, married to my brother and the mother of two boys, clucked her tongue and quietly cleaned up the mess. She knew that at a different time, in a different place, it could have been any of hers doing the drive-by fruiting.
I was reasonably sure I knew who the offender was. OK, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt. I raised the kid’s father. They have the same DNA.
We got lunch on the table and everyone was seated and eating when I calmly announced there had been a crime wave in our neighborhood recently. The perp briefly looked up from his PBJ with big eyes, then immediately looked back down.
“We ourselves were a victim of crime this very day,” I said. “I was working in the kitchen, preparing lunch for all of you, when I heard BAM! BAM! BAM! at the kitchen door.”
The perp continued nibbling his sandwich, avoiding eye contact. All the other kids were wide-eyed and transfixed. Some nuts are harder to crack than others.
“I turned to see what it was and saw cherry tomatoes splattered on the door to the garage. Can you imagine how shocked I was? I was stunned!”
He’s not buying it. He’s knows it takes a lot more than a hit with three cherry tomatoes to shake this grandma.
“I thought about reporting the crime, calling the police. Then, just as I was ready to dial 911, I had second thoughts. What if the person who did this, did it on an impulse without thinking? What if the person who did this was sorry for what he did? (I was narrowing the field with the male pronoun; he still didn’t budge.)
“I’ve done some things I regret. And I’ve had some second chances along the way. Maybe the person who pelted my door with tomatoes needs a second chance. Maybe he’s sorry right now and wants to say so.”
No, he did not want to say anything.
“I believe in second chances,” I said. “Does anyone else around this table believe in second chances?”
His hand was the first to shoot into the air.
Later that afternoon he was outside and one of his uncles lifted him up to see in the kitchen window. A line of cherry tomatoes sat ripening on the window sill directly beneath the window.
You bet I did. Two of them. You should have seen him jump.
The knowing grin on his face said it all: “She’s smarter than she looks.”
So, for those of you who would rather not have a holiday “buzz kill,” you may wish to bail on reading further, or come back another time. There will be no “It’s a Wonderful Life” ending here.