Christmas eve is my favourite day of the year. I love the lights, mystery and the magic. Everyone seems willing to share their hearts and connections are made with strangers through warm smiles and twinkling eyes. This year was different. For the past several days we were in the midst of an unrelenting ice storm. My ex-husband’s power was out from the severe ice that entombed wires and trees around his farm with a heavy, icy sheath. Trees smashed through several power lines. It would be days before he had power to use the toilet, bathe or cook. For two days, he had been baking at my house. He had a lot of baking to do. My house soon became ensconced in a pot-pourri of spices from shortbread, fruit cake, date squares and ganosh.
I marvelled at his ability to prepare such lovely items. He had boxes, wax paper and home made Marzipan stacked on my dining table. I wondered how on earth I was still spending my favourite holiday with my ex. Where was a new love to be making new traditions with? Why was I feeling so disappointed, when for the past month my Christmas spirit was more alive than I had felt in years. This was the first Christmas of no more heartache. A lot of the Christmases from before were laden heavily with loneliness and sadness buried under a counterfeit smile. This was the first year since my divorce and dad dying last December, that I felt free. But old stories are easily triggered if we are not watchful and I was knee deep in my abandonment story crap.
Even though I was “friends” again with my ex-husband, his attitude towards me was still peppered in irritation and impatience. I questioned myself, why was I still seeing this in my life? When had I been impatient and annoyed with others? I thought of how impatient I can be with my sister. Time to own up to the fact that this very difficult behaviour coming from my ex-husband was also coming from me at some point in time. Insightful reflections for a future I could create was helpful. Better to not react. There was little I could do to alter the situation and at least someone in the family was baking and preserving history.
It was also our son’s birthday which also makes Christmas eve so special to me. After a long day of baking, we were all having dinner together and going to church in the evening. Going to church with my children has been a coveted tradition that I was hesitant to share with my ex-husband but I was trying. We entered into the church and they were already in prayer. Heads bowed I found that the pew we normally sit in was still mostly empty. There was a young man with head bowed sitting at the isle seat with his coat placed on the right of him as if saving spaces for someone. I waited for the prayer to end and asked if he could get by. The man got up and slid over 4 seats. As we sat down, I realized that I was sitting beside my ex-husband instead of my son. “Oh dear Lord”,I thought, “can I get up and switch seats”? Sitting beside my son was always very special to me. I needed to feel that connection, it that kept me grounded in all that is right with the world. My kids have always been an uncomplicated relationship in my life. There are no hurts, or buried wounds. I decided that I’d stay put. Maybe it was a nice gesture to involve my ex in this tradition and that this was a gift I could give him. I let go of my need to create a perfect family Christmas. It seems that this was never going to happen anyway. I surrendered to the letting go of the need for a “postcard family”, as we broke into the singing of Christmas hymns.
Singing in church has been a lifelong enjoyment for me. As a child I loved singing in church. I grew up in the 70’s with a full rock band who lead the service each Sunday.As I sat there singing I could faintly hear the man next to me sing. He sang every word and every song, softly but clearly. I melted into his calming voice and squished myself closure to him. On my left was my, slightly feral, fiery, non singing, ex-husband. To my right was this lovely, clean cut, man singing softly. My heart had been pierced and tears streamed down my cheeks. This man singing next to me reminded me of my father. I remembered my dads soft barely audible singing voice in church. It wasn’t loud but had a quiet dignity. All of the sudden I felt like my father was there, sitting beside me in the pew singing. I tried hard to sing with him but my voiced wavered with the memory and tears silenced external output. I felt so safe here in this place and wished I could have sat with this young man for much longer. The outside world had come to a halt. Nothing mattered except my connection with this man. I felt like I was enveloped in a vortex. My dad was there.
After church I turned to the man and thanked him for singing and told him that it reminded me of my father. He smiled and replied, “I love Christmas eve mass and singing”. He was alone. His name was Greg. I may have met my guardian angel that night. A Christmas miracle had arrived for me.
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