The Friday entries of "The Powder Room" are currently from a journal which I started when we found out our son was going to be deployed with the United States Marine Corps to Iraq. The journal was not written with the intention that it would ever be read by anyone else, much less published in any way. There are feelings in the journal that are deep and true and I wasn't sure at first I wanted to share them. But there are many sons and daughters still serving in our armed forces and I think it might be good to share "a mother's heart" with you what those other mothers may be facing. The entries are shared as a tribute to my son and his service to our country, and to all those sons and daughters who continue to willingly place themselves in harm's way for the protection and preservation of liberty.
Day 140, October 24, 2004
The very beginning of the Christmas season is in the air. Decorations line the shelves of the stores, supplies for holiday baking have appeared at the grocery store and Emmie is deciding what to give everyone.
Usually this brightens my mood and lifts my spirits. . .but not this year.
I haven't actually dreaded a holiday season since Momma died, but that is exactly how I feel this year. Well, not exactly. The year Momma died, I knew she was in an infinitely more wonderful place and wouldn't have brought her back for even a second. My thoughts, too, were centered around my children and how I could possibly fill the void that the passing of Grandma Dot had left.
This year I feel sad because Noah won't be with us for the holidays, but it is so much more than that -- it is because Noah won't be with us for the holidays, and that is something very different. He is not in an infinitely more wonderful place and I would bring him back at the drop of a hat if I could. No, he is in an infinitely worse place and somewhat like that Christmas in 1997, I am unable to fill the void, unable to make it better.
So when my mind rushes ahead to contemplate the holiday celebrations, I know that part of my heart is on the other side of the world.
As that mythical green creature tries to remind us each year: "It came without ribbons! It came without tags! It came without packages, boxes or bags!" His realization in the snow is something we know in our heart all year through: "Maybe Christmas, doesn't come from a store. Maybe Christmas. . perhaps. . . means a little bit more!"
May this Christmas for Noah -- so unlike any other he has ever known -- draw him so close to the King in the manger -- may the Star of Bethlehem so light his heart -- that he will proclaim this to be his most wonderful, merriest Christmas ever.
And may he have. . .
. . .a "merry little Christmas now."
(I used to sing "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas" to my children at night before they went to sleep.)