Christmas isn't the same

I put up a Christmas tree this year for the first time in three years. As a kid (and even as a teenager) if you told me I'd go years without putting up a Christmas tree, I would have admitted myself to the mental ward in advance. Surely I was ill.

Truth is, I haven't been ill (per se); I just didn't plan on mom dying at Christmastime.

A woman came up to me at mom's memorial service two years ago and told me Christmas would never be the same again. She knew, because she lost her husband around that same time a couple of years prior.

It was an awful comment, even though she didn't mean it that way. (Still, I tucked away a mental note never to repeat the same offense if a friend loses a loved one at some noteworthy time on the calendar.)

It's obviously a comment I haven't forgotten, and in a sense, my dear naysayer was right.

Christmas isn't the same.

I now have a two-year old who runs to plug in the yites every morning before breakfast; who just can't keep his hands off the low-down ornaments that make mees (music); who has no idea that the doorbell he just heard announced the arrival of his new, very-own train table.

I know this isn't what our well-meaning guest meant when she said Christmas would never be the same, but oh, it's just the beginning of how right she actually was.

The day I lost mom marked a forever change in my Christmases on earth.

And the same thing happened the day I got married, the day I got pregnant, and the day I got pregnant again.

It is true. Our memorial-service visitor was right. Christmas would never be the same.

The cat in the sparkly hula skirt hangs on a sturdy branch near the top of my tree this year, dancing to the rhythm of my house when Will races his dump truck across the floor or slams a door shut. It, like every other ornament I have, is from mom--the year she gave it to me written in black ink on its tail.

Mom's not here, but her ornaments are.

She's not here, but I am.

And a precious, rowdy toddler is, too.

Christmas is definitely not the same.

At the risk of sounding however this sounds, Christmas is different not because it's sad now that she's gone, or because memories of her death now shroud my mind when I hear Christmas music (although those things are true), but Christmas is different because I think I embody her more this time of year than perhaps any other time.

I see the Dewey's stand at the mall and stop to buy a Moravian sugar cake to put away for Christmas morning, just like she always did. 

I drape red beads around my tree, hang an ornament on every, single viable branch, and crown it with Santa Claus, looking so Williamsburg at the top, just like she always did. 

I get dressed for the millionth Christmas party of the season, and before turning out the light in the bathroom, I stop in my tracks because my face and the blush on my cheeks look startlingly like her.

More and more these days, I hear myself talk, I go shopping, I lead Bible study, I decorate my Christmas tree, and I know I'm doing it all just like she did.

Christmas isn't the same. When you become a mom, it changes. When you lose a mom, it changes.

I'm actually grateful for a time of year when I can so obviously embody the mother I've lost while at the same time embrace the motherhood I've gained.

I'm so happy that the Christmas season is back in the Thomsen household. I grieved (ignored, whatever you want to call it) like I needed the last two Christmases, and now I'm ready to embrace the season,

beautiful yites included.

It's a table topper this year only because we are likely MOVING
the day (or so) after Christmas! That's another post, but I
promise a full-fledged tree next year!

(More about Mom's Christmas legacy)