By Seth Boyes,
Seth Boyes, News Editor
Saturday’s snowfall certainly went a long way to making things feel like Christmas is actually upon us, and I’m going to make a confession, dear readers — that’s not always easy on me. And I imagine there’s a chance it might not always be easy on all of you either.
One of my early mentors in journalism promoted opinion columns as a way for the community to get to know the local news writers on a personal level — to learn a bit about who they were each week. So, that’s my aim this week. This won’t be a new topic for me to put down in black and white, but it is the first time I’ve had the opportunity to do so since taking my seat here at the Decorah Leader. So just know that I’ve borrowed heavily from my previous work to create this week’s column, but also know that I do so to let you know that you’re not alone, dear reader.
So, let’s get personal.
I have a hard time not crying when I hear Mannheim Steamroller’s version of “Silent Night” (or Stille Nacht if you’re in a particularly Germanic mood). It’s not just a few tears. It can truly break me over the course of just 5 minutes and 26 seconds. I mean it. Even if I can keep my eyes dry for most of the song, I’m sure to start gasping once I hear the toy piano chime in at the end of the song — there I said it.
And that’s because of how many of memories I’ve attached to that song — beautiful memories of my family and a childhood which are now terribly hard to dwell on because of how cruel life can sometimes be and how quickly things can change for any family.
The harmonies and tranquility of that musical track call to mind images from many years past and pull them together into a single scene so tightly they could well be almost any Christmas from my younger days — my mother is cooking in the kitchen, or maybe she’s washing the dishes. The living room is dim, and there are a couple red candles burning somewhere…I can smell the wax and the smoke, and I think there may be some vanilla in them. Our Christmas tree stands in the corner, its artificial branches carrying another scent I can’t quite name, but it’s one from the days when I was too young to realize how financially thin things were for our family, let alone why it was that way.
The Christmas lights are reflected in the large plastic sheets we used to tape over the windows every winter. Yet there’s a distinct chill in the air. I say distinct because somehow, inside the cracked plaster walls of that house, the cool draft against my skin doesn’t annoy or upset me — it makes me feel safe, because it’s the same chill I felt when we first moved into that house just before Christmas one year.
A music box stands on top of the antique roll-top desk where my father grades school papers under a classic green library lamp — but the music box is broken, and dad’s not there anymore.
His body betrayed him about a decade or so ago. Even simple thoughts don’t necessarily become speech for him anymore, and the effort behind every movement he can still choose to make is much greater than any of us can fully appreciate. So, it’s been quite a few years since he was able to spend Christmas at home — the home where he and his young sons smiled for a photo near the warmth of a heat register once the last moving truck was empty, igniting a new sense of home for the youngest boy, despite the cold creeping in under the porch door.
All this to state the ever-obvious truth — we all thought we’d have more time.
That’s what can sometimes be painful about Christmas memories. I can look back on a full bounty of wonderful times with my parents together in that house, and they were memories I had expected to relive with my own children in those same spaces — those same sights and scents — my parents with grey hair but the same faces. But unfortunately, that’s not how it worked out.
So, on the one hand, I cry because of what it feels like my family has lost. But I also cry because my grief reveals the value of those days was never confined to the past.
On the contrary, I’ve found myself in a strange juxtaposition the last couple years when I hear “Silent Night” — I’m simultaneously transported back to the settings of my youth, but I can clearly see my own children in front of me as they play in our own home (and yes, I’m going out of my way to listen to the song to make sure I appreciate this next point). My tears become tears of joy in those moments, as I more fully appreciate that I’ve become a parent and can give my children what my parents gave me — a home where the memories that last aren’t centered on gifts but on love for one another (there’s another story about when my mom literally sat me down and taught me that lesson one Christmas, but we’ll save that for another time).
So, in reality, maybe the reason Mannheim Steamroller’s “Silent Night” has such a grip on me is because it’s a triple-shot of emotion — fondness for what my family had, mourning for we lost and thankfulness for both what there is now and what may be.
I’m reminded of something a Presbyterian pastor once said about the Nativity scenes we see this time of year — and how inaccurate they must be. The pastor’s point was that, while we might prefer peaceful porcelain perfection, that’s not typically how God works. Mary and Joseph probably didn’t feel like things were going as planned after giving birth far from home, in a barn, amid the sights and scents of first-century livestock, and having nearly nothing with which to care for their newborn — but that didn’t mean things had gone wrong.
That pastor called the situation a “messy Christmas,” as opposed to a “merry Christmas,” and it’s a concept I think deserves more credence in modern life.
We all too often don’t give voice to the feelings of turmoil in our lives, and we’re especially careful not to let them out during Christmas, when we’re told how holly-jolly everything is supposed to be. We don’t want to get tears on the gift wrap. We don’t want smudges on the greeting cards. We don’t want to knock any of the delicate ornaments off the tree we seem to be trimming for everyone’s wellbeing but our own — we don’t want to risk anyone else at the family Christmas party stepping on the broken shards of our very personal and private grief.
But I also know, if no one talks about these things — if we just keep that perfect bow tied tight as we can — then we’ll all just end up feeling alone.
And no one should be alone on Christmas.
Now, as I said when I started writing all this, I know I’m not the only one who cries as Christmas gets closer — and I know a lot of folks have better reasons to do so than I do.
But, dear reader, if you’re feeling grief and loss every so often this holiday, know that I am too. Know you’re not alone — not nearly. Know that there is no reason you have to feel merry just because a song says it’s the most wonderful time of the year. But most importantly, know that shedding tears when we think about the good times can sometimes point us toward the best things we didn’t even know we still carry with us — things that make it easier (not always easy, but easier) to find joy in new settings.
So, don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope you cry this Christmas.
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Authentic, beautiful and powerful, Seth. Praying that your tears are mixed with moments of joy that make them feel less lonely. Your dad is so proud of you.