Advent Day 5: The Broken Christmas

“Daddy,” the little girl asked gently, “Do we still get to hang Mommy’s stocking by the fireplace?”

The words cut through the young man’s heart. He smiled softly at his oldest daughter, and tried his best to hide the immense pain he was feeling. He had asked himself this question only this morning. “Yes, Izzy,” he answered. “We’ll always hang Mommy’s stocking along with ours. Mommy will always be part of our family.”

In his heart, he knew this, and he believed it. But he wasn’t feeling it very much these days. His name is Chris, and he is 32 years old. His wife Rachel died unexpectedly in October. She hadn’t been sick, in fact, she was the picture of health. Chris woke one morning and she was lying next to him, with a smile on her face, cold and lifeless. The doctors never could figure out what had happened. It was just her time.

Rachel was a Christmas soul. She loved the holidays and she made their home into a festive, welcoming haven. They’d been married 9 years, and had three children. Isabella, “Izzy” was 7, Michael was 5, and Millie was 18 months. Chris spent about three weeks in shock after Rachel died. His family, and her family, and folks from the church kept his house full of companions, and helped with the kids. But by Thanksgiving, he was left to deal with the rest of his life. A life without the only woman he’d ever loved. He had to figure out how to be a dad and do a mom’s job. Christmas was bearing down on him like a freight train and he was determined to make it feel as normal as possible. For the kid’s sake. And for his.

He hadn’t slept in their bed since she died. He fell into the habit of laying on the couch watching TV after the kids were all tucked in, and he’d just fall asleep there. Sometimes he’d wake to find himself on the living room floor, curled in a ball, his fingertips cut from the carpet fibers where he was gripping them in agony as he wept late into the night. He missed his wife. He was shattered. His heart broke for his children. How was he going to do this?

He’d hired a woman off Craigslist to come and give him decorating ideas. He’d shown her pictures of their house at previous Christmases and she was wise enough not to change much. She could tell he wanted to recreate Christmas as it had been before this year, and so she obliged. She finished in one day and refused his money. She had tears in her eyes when she told him she wasn’t taking it. “Keep it for you children,” she’d said, “This is my gift to you and to them.”

Chris hugged Izzy tightly as he reached down and scooped her up. They hadn’t really talked about this yet. About Christmas and their mom not being there. Millie was only now beginning to ask questions about where Mommy was. But the other two…there have been nightmares and crying fits and questions…oh the questions. They’d asked every possible question except one: “Why did God take Mommy?” Chris was glad they hadn’t asked that one because he had no answer. He was still asking it himself, sometimes in a whisper, most times through tears, occasionally in wild, rage-driven screams when the kids were at their grandparents and he could vent his spleen toward Heaven. After each mad session, he would fall to his knees and cry out to God, “I know you have a reason…help me to make it through this long enough to see it. And dear God…please help my children.

Chris sat the children down on the couch and sat on the floor on front of them. He didn’t know where to begin, so he just asked them bluntly; “What do you guys feel right now, about Christmas?” The answers were wide ranging. The kids opened up and poured out their soul. They couldn’t understand why Mommy left them. “Oh, honey she didn’t leave us,” Chris reassured. “It was her time to go to Heaven, that’s all. I’m sure if Mommy had a choice in the matter she would have stayed. She loved you guys so much. Never forget that…your Mommy loved you so much.”

They talked for 30 minutes or so, then Chris got them into their pajamas and they huddled around him on the couch and watched “The Grinch.” When the show was over, Michael asked innocently, “Daddy, are you going to tell us the manger story this year?” Chris stumbled with his answer. Other than Christmas morning, the night they set out the Nativity and he told them the “Manger story” was the centerpiece of their Christmas season. Rachel would gather the children around and carefully place each piece in its spot as Chris wove the tale of Jesus, and Mary, and the Shepherds, and no room in the Inn. He’d dreaded doing it this year and had every intention of just putting out the Nativity set during the day while the kids were preoccupied. But now Michael had asked him about it. He knew he couldn’t let them down, and he was determined to keep things much as they had always been before Rachel passed away.

“Yes son…” he answered, “I’ll tell the manger story again this year. We’ll do it on Christmas Eve like we always do.” Michael smiled and stifled a yawn. “Okay,” Chris said, “Off to bed with you now.” He tucked each of his children into their beds, listened to their prayers, kissed each tiny forehead, and returned to the living room. He went to the closet by the basement door and pulled down a worn box.

The Nativity set had been his grandmother’s. It was probably 100 years old, maybe more. It was made from alabaster, like the artisans used to make them back in the day. Rachel had wrapped each piece carefully in bubble wrap. They had discussed once, replacing this set with something newer and less valuable, and keeping it stored away as an heirloom. It was irreplaceable, and with small children around they didn’t want it to break. Then Rachel noticed some faded, yellowed glue along the bottom of one of the wise men. She pointed it out to Chris. “It’s already been repaired once,” he said. “If Nonna didn’t try to keep it perfect then neither will we. It’s meant to be shared.”

He looked carefully at each piece. He could see Rachel’s tiny hands wrapping each figurine. “She was the last person to touch this.” He thought. He clutched the figure to his face, imagining her hands again, trying to feel a connection.

He sat in the quiet of the room. Only the twinkling lights on the tree remained, and pierced the darkness. He thought of his children, “How am I going to do this?” He asked out loud. “How am I going to raise these children without their mom? How am I going to do this right?”

He reached toward the coffee table and picked up a framed picture of his wife. She had just run her first half-marathon, six months after having Millie. Chris was there holding the infant while Izzy and Mikey jumped gleefully in the air. Rachel had a bright smile. “Everything you loved is in this photo,” Chris whispered. The image blurred as the tears filled his eyes. He clutched the frame against his chest. “I miss you, Babe” he croaked.

Chris awoke at 2 a.m. He was lying on the couch with the picture of his wife still in his hands. He sat up and looked at the tree. He saw the little figurine of Jesus, still in its careful wrapping, sitting on the coffee table. “Jesus…help me. Please.” He whispered into the night.

He stood up and walked slowly toward his children’s bedrooms. He entered each room silently. They never felt the soft kiss he placed on each forehead. He hesitated at his own bedroom door, reached for the doorknob, then turned and went to the living room. He pulled a blanket from the closet, settled on the couch, and cried himself to sleep, clutching the picture of his wife. “Dear God,” he prayed, as sleep finally came, “Please help me get Christmas right.”