At the beginning of every Christmas season, my emotions go through a roller coaster process that leaves me a bit shaken. As it is with so many others, my early memories of Christmas have been—painful. I know I am not alone. I know there are many who can identify.

The process starts when I don’t want to put away my fall decorations: the pumpkins, miniature bales of hay, faux brightly-colored leaves, the basket of gourds on my dining room table, the linen tablecloth.  My mind fills with oodles of excuses to put it off: they are beautiful; I haven’t had sufficient time to enjoy them; the work of putting them away is daunting, etc., etc. My favorite season of the year, fall becomes even more cherished just before I make room for the Christmas decorations.  Getting started feels like I am trying to run a race with lead weights in my shoes and inflexible knees that refuse to cooperate.

This is year was no different.  After being inspired by my industrious sister-in-law, who has already dispatched her favorite fall things and is ready to set out her Christmas ornaments, I was determined to spend today keeping a timetable other than my own.  I should have known.  That never works.

So, today was spent regrouping my wayward emotions, trying several times to get started, and finally giving up.  My husband and I watched Russell Crowe in Robin Hood.  It was terrific entertainment—although the PG-13 rating is questionable.  But the movie did the job: it took my mind off decorations, both fall and Christmas, and freed me from trying.  It is only when I stopped striving and listened to my own voice that I was able to regroup enough to define the problem yet again:  I hesitate to enter this holy season because it reminds me of injurious memories.  Or perhaps I am tired of trying to forget.  Either way, it is a real drag—literally.

Tonight, I am ready to remember good things:  my children’s excitement on Christmas morning; the baked breads, candy, cookies that I disburse each year to friends and neighbors who accept them with big smiles; carefully chosen gifts under the tree.  Finally, I remember a poem entitled, “First Santa.” I wrote it years ago to honor a man who tried to divert a little girl’s sad heart—and succeeded.  It is this recollection that helps me to give myself what he gave me: a distraction from loss.  In the midst of a painful childhood, because of the kindness of one person, I was thrown a lifesaver that I could hold onto through all these years: the memory of what it felt like to have received love and care on one sad Christmas morning.

Along with the nativity scenes, snowmen, Christmas tree, each year I put out my Santa collection. It reminds me that I still want to be like my first Santa.  I want to bring a little joy into a world that suffers under the burden of too much loss.

I now can take time to remember, time to allow myself to feel, to reread “First Santa.”  Soon I will get the decorations out.  I will attempt to be a small part of a good memory—for myself and others.

Laurel Jean Becker
ByLine Magazine – Honorable Mention, 1999
National Writer’s Association – Honorable Mention 2004