It’s Christmas. The first since losing my oldest son last year.
Most things aren’t that different though. In all the years he struggled with addiction he was more often than not, absent from family affairs.
It wasn’t that he wasn’t welcome. He just wasn’t there. So holidays without him became the norm.
I used to wonder what it would be like when he was finally able to recover. Every holiday and every season I hoped.
I feel his absence in my heart. But, I became accustomed to it a long while ago.
Heading into this holiday time I thought I’d feel different. I thought I wouldn’t be able to enjoy this season of miracles like I always had. But, that hasn’t been the case. I guess if you know the reason for the season and if you believe in the magic it brings nothing, even death can take that away.
Christmas began with a boy child. A gift to a very young mother. Really, a gift to the world. I wonder if she worried too that she might not get things right.
When a child is born, whether in a manger or in a hospital room, they bring the spirit of Christmas with them. They bring light and hope to all who love them. The promise of future to she who brought them forth from her womb.
The light of my life may have dimmed early but it did not go out. The flame of his life’s memory burns bright in me. In my hearts eyes it’s a little boy I see.
Christmas began with a boy child; all those years ago. It is that baby born in a manger that now carries me. In my grief he kept me standing, he never let me fall.
That is my Christmas miracle. That is my Christmas song. Remembering my Savior and my boy child all the day long.