Be Ye Gracious

Tomorrow, Christmas day, marks the 30th anniversary of when my family and I got the opportunity to experience something that most people I've known get to experience nearly every Christmas: Christmas morning with a relative. We lived on the East Coast of the US, and my father's half brother and half sister and their children lived in Kansas, and my mother's family were in Northern Ireland and Scotland. Then, when I was 26, my Aunt Belle, who had no children of her own and whose husband Joe had died more than five years before, travelled from Scotland to spend the Christmas holiday with us.

Except for the predictable bump created by my mother's tussle with Christmas tree lights and her stressing over the holiday meal, the Christmas season at our house was a truly joyous time. My friends liked gathering there for that reason. My parents were more often than not gracious toward my friends, treating them as real people, deserving of the sort of attention many of my friends parents only reserved for other adults. They also seemed to understand the balance between engagement and leaving us to ourselves where so many parents made me and my other friends feel like we were underfoot, or as tweens or teens, not worthy of consideration.

Actually, my parents delighted in other people who entered our home. (You see, my Dad worked nights most of my life, and so for many years, my parents did not have much of a social life together outside of our home. And so having anyone in was treated as an occasion to be celebratory.) And my parents were often paid back in kind for their delight in others. For many years, after I'd left home and my home state, Diane Clarke, a high school chum of mine, delivered a Christmas carrot cake to my father. Making someone feel wanted and appreciated is apparently a secret recipe for causing some (those of us who know what it means to be grateful) to start a tradition that takes on a life of its own.

Having my Aunt Belle with us for the Christmas of '81 made for additional joy.

My aunt being there also coincides with one of my favorite Christmas moments. I'm sure, like me, you have many of them. Tiny moments of grace that are captured in time. Baubles of delight that you unpack each year as you remember Christmases past.

In my family, much to my consternation, we--each of us--opened our presents all at once. It was a level of chaos that was disconcerting to my Aspergian* need for calm and order. For as long as I can remember, I would have preferred that we, as a family, would take turns opening our presents so that we could savor the joy and lessen the din. (It's surprising just how much din four people can create opening presents at the same time.) And for as long as I can remember, my family resisted every attempt I made to bend their will to open gifts in a mad dash toward my need for a measured, less frenzied pace of activity.

So this Christmas was like every other. Wrapping paper ripped and flew and gifts were set aside without display while thank you's shot through the air in like heat seeking missiles, with me missing all those tiny moments of joy that come from knowing who was thanking whom for what. For me, watching the delight in my family's faces was the best Christmas gift, not getting to look through their haul afterward, and every Christmas morning went way too fast for my comprehension.

And it was during our annual rite to chaos and blur, my father held up a pair of black leather gloves and made a point of thanking my mother. The tone of his voice caused everyone to pause. My mother, instead of giving her obligatory, "You're welcome," stopped ripping open her own gifts. My 29 year old brother even looked up, which was a miracle in and of itself.

On my father's right hand was one glove while in his other hand he held up the other... another right hand glove. And did we laugh? Well, you might imagine the laughter. It was a mad house of glee because it was just like my mother to do something like that and just like my father to be so droll in his delivery. And the thing that made it even better was my Aunt Belle being there to partake in the fun.

My father died before the next Christmas and Christmases were never the same. Oh, Christmas managed to take on new traditions and we continued to find joy. It's been 12 years since my Aunt Belle passed and six years for my brother. It's also going to be the first Christmas my cousin Nedra, Sharon, Richard, and Isobel spend without their mother, my Aunt May, a wee Irish woman packed full of mischief. I remember how difficult it is that first Christmas a loved one is no longer seated at the family gathering.

My cousins' Christmas gathering is a big family affair every year, with more than twenty people--the entire McCullough clan (that sometimes includes my cousin Andrew and his own when they are able to make the trip from Scotland)--getting together at Nedra's to share a meal and an evening of frivolity. It was my good fortune (before becoming totally disabled) to have had the opportunity to spend Christmas morning with my cousin Nedra and her family, and also enjoy the remainder of the day with the clan that I claim as my own.

I hear people complain all the time about having to spend Christmas with relatives. And from my perspective, to be surrounded by people who are tied to you whether by accident of birth, adoption, or marriage can be something grand and good if it is in our hearts to believe. Some things have to be believed to be seen.

This year, go to your family gatherings with a big heart and look for the wee moments of grace that might be found, despite the stress you might encounter, in and among the missiles and missed opportunities. Seek and ye shall find... something, even if only a morsel. Your holiday may not be perfect--that morsel of a moment may not be perfect--, but nothing is perfect in life, and it is that realization, perhaps more than any other, that allows grace into our lives.

Whatever holiday you celebrate this time of year, go with grace. Be ye gracious.

Merry Christmas.


*Aspergian is a reference to my being on the autism spectrum.


Dedication: This blog post is dedicated to Diane Clarke for her kindness.