A Theory on Christmas: Or the Evolutionary Nature of Sacred Things

from 02.10.19

I’ve been listening to this song lately. It’s sort of a haunting ode to the people we used to be as children and the things we’ve lost while growing. There’s a portion of the chorus that takes my breath away like a needle prick.

“Nothing lasts forever, hmm;
You can’t hold on, no.
Nothing lasts forever
So, what’s done is done.”

I stumbled across this song right before Christmas, and it lingered with me, pretending to be a carol. It was half-prophetic, half-fulfilled, almost like a real carol, and it met me in a moment when I was feeling increasingly estranged from the past and very vulnerable to the future. Perhaps this is the kind of song you remove from your playlist, especially around the holidays, but the closer Christmas came, the more I found myself drawn to it.

Christmas was complicated this year. Though it proved every bit as warm and delightful as it has always been, a heavy anticipation underscored the festivities like a somber baseline. The moments were charged with a fleeting quality, as though a voice was whispering, “This is the last time. It will never be this way again.”

I found myself trying to wrap my heart and my memory around each moment before it slipped away. I remember wondering, as I often have, how to best capture the time I want to keep—how to become a reservoir for everything that matters.

. . . . .

The afternoon my family arrived at my Granna and Pop-pop’s farmhouse, the sunlight was falling so beautifully through the windows, and the ambiance of Christmas overwhelmed my senses in a warm rush of comfort and nostalgia. Everything felt the way I remembered it, the way I always imagine it throughout the year.

Someone said, “This might be the last Weaver family Christmas in this house.” Suddenly, I was overwhelmed with fear that I would never see my grandparents’ home adorned for Christmas again. I grabbed my camera and began photographing every niche of the house—every warm corner and every bit of light that lingered throughout its rooms. After half an hour of frantically taking pictures, I gave into my frustration and put my camera away. There was no way to capture everything as it truly was. No way to distill a feeling into an image.

I was thoroughly disheartened that I could not preserve the intangible aspect of Christmas at my Granna and Pop-pop’s home. “How? How will I possibly be able to remember everything?” I wondered. This beleaguering question continued to baffle me over the rest of the holiday, and I became even more distressed when my mind wondered to all the priceless gifts I had simply allowed to slip into the past. It occurred to me that I had never truly noticed all the time and energy each of my grandparents sacrifice to make Christmas as magical as it is. That on so many occasions I had wondered off after dinner instead of staying to enjoy the company of cleaning up. I regretted that I had answered hundreds of questions about myself but rarely returned a question to the person who asked. And I realized almost fearfully that I hadn’t memorized the way loved ones look when they cry. I suddenly understood that for my whole life, I had been enjoying people and places and feelings, never aware that one day Time would test my memory of them all.

. . . . .

On New Year’s Day, my parents and my brothers left for their new life in South Africa. We stood at the terminal saying our goodbyes, and everything felt insufficient. We could only give so many hugs and say so many “I love you”s. Then they had to leave, and I had to walk back through an invisible veil and accept my own existence.

For almost two years, I had anticipated that day, but no amount of preparation made me ready. I had begun to let go of things slowly. First it personal belongings that had been saved for too many years. Then it was our house. Eventually, I moved out on my own. All of these farewells hurt in their own way, but the final relinquishing felt akin to something dying.

I had felt it coming even as the holidays blossomed into their full splendor. Christmas sustained a magical quality, as though it held all endings at bay, but it was the only bastion standing between me and those impossible goodbyes and once it was over, the world seemed harsher than it was before.

Loved ones said their farewells incrementally. First my Grandma and Grandpa and my Dad’s sister and her family. Then my mom’s sisters and their families. During the last few days of December, a steady stream of friends passed through the church’s small missions apartment, finding ways to prolong conversation, lingering as they hugged my parents, and crying as they departed. Finally, it was time for my sister and I to send them off.

It felt almost sacrilegious that they left on New Year’s Day. In my mind it had always been a holiday, a day reserved entirely for celebrating beginnings. But holidays are just arbitrary. New Year’s Day is also the day the credit card bill and rent check are due, and there is no rule that says seasons can’t end on January 1st. And so, while everyone else was sleeping off their New Year’s Eve celebrations, my Granna and Pop-pop drove us all to the airport, and we said our miserable goodbyes.

I had to return to Greenville as the holidays were over and work began again the next morning. Thankfully, several barriers to loneliness had been positioned throughout the rest of the day.

After we left Mom, Dad, Drew, and Grant at JFK, my Granna and Pop-pop took Carissa and me to breakfast. McDonald’s was the only place close to the airport that was open, but it was comforting to be together. My Granna and Pop-pop were as strong as ever, perhaps for our sake. Once we had finished breakfast, they drove me to Newark airport, where I cried again as I hugged my sister goodbye. The first barrier had fallen.

I spent several listless hours waiting for my flight, trying pointlessly to distract myself. Nothing on Netflix seemed remotely interesting, and writing proved nearly impossible. I bought pretzel nuggets from Auntie Anne’s and sat by a large window looking at the Manhattan skyline, which failed to inspire for the very first time. For a while I was consoled knowing my family was sitting only a few miles away at JFK. Finally, my mom texted and said they were boarding. The second barrier crumbled.

When I arrived in Greenville, it was dark. My Grandma and Grandpa picked me up at the airport, and we shared a quiet meal at Fuddruckers. After dinner, I stopped by their home to collect some left-behind presents and some fresh groceries they had bought for me. The vestiges of our extended family Christmas still lingered around the house. I wanted nothing more than to stay with my grandparents, but I needed to go back to my apartment and prepare for the workweek. “Honey, if you ever need anything—any time of the day or night—we are here,” my Grandma said. Starting to cry, I pulled out of their driveway and made my way across town. The final barrier collapsed. Sitting in the dark parking lot outside my building, I wept aloud like a child, more alone than I had ever been.

“One time I said goodbye to somebody
Who taught me how to tie my shoes.
If it was not for him I would not have been,
And my laces would still be loose”

. . . . .

As a child I learned life in absolutes. My mom and dad were always by my side. My family was always together at Christmas. Everyone belonged to a certain place. Discovering the world that way was beautiful because it taught me to trust, but at some point, change must confront this naïve understanding of reality.

In college I had a reckoning with change and decided to embrace it as an opportunity rather than a loss. (I think I had listened to someone romanticize new beginnings). I recognized that I was changing and that the world around me was constantly doing the same. However, I think I still believed sub-consciously that certain precious belongings were exempt from the law of the universe — that if they were important enough or loved enough, they were immutable. I was forced to admit this Christmas that I was wrong. Nothing is so sacred it cannot be asked to change.

“Nothing lasts forever.”

This little line followed me around all through the holidays and into the new year. I found myself repeating it over and over to myself as though it simplified everything I was feeling.

The melancholy notes flooded my mind when my dad hugged my aunt goodbye. It was one of those moments I consciously remembered they are siblings and have a whole lifetime of memories together — memories that were being abruptly interrupted.

I heard these words when I realized I was likely enjoying the last Christmas in my Granna and Pop-pop’s beloved home. They looped through my mind as I helped my dad finish packing up his office. I asked if he was sad to leave it, and he said, “Yeah, I’ve spent a long time here. I’m trying not to think too much about it.”

The song echoed over and over as I sat trying to write letters to my parents and my brothers before they left. It surrounded me that horrible night I hid in my car crying. I hear it often when my mom’s voice comes to mind: “Everything has its seasons, and that’s okay.”

. . . . .

I’m still wondering how to capture time. Wondering if it’s possible to counteract the force of change. I haven’t decided if it’s best to record my life—to document the days and catalog the feelings until I have a personal museum—or if it’s better to partake of every moment—to guzzle every drop out of fear that it won’t be conjured again. Both seem inadequate somehow. Trying to hold everything in my memory against the threat of change or forgetfulness is like trying to keep the ocean from carving away the sand. It is a burden no one should take upon himself. Our moments are not relics; they are gifts. And feeling obligated to perfectly preserve every one steals just as much joy as taking them for granted. Perhaps all we’re meant to do is accept the blessing.

Simply experiencing life’s gifts without trying to immortalize them goes against every instinct I have to protect what I love. And the hard truth is that I very well may lose things I treasure. Throughout life, there will be many days when even the things I hold most dear will begin to change. Nothing I can do or say makes that fact any easier. But I’m learning to accept it and to believe that every phase of life’s evolution can be just as beautiful as the last. My family separated is capable of just as much love as my family together. Our next Christmas will be just as special whether it is in the same house or not. The moments that have fallen from remembrance will leave room for new memories to be born. The things that we mourn now will not be able to diminish our joy tomorrow.

“Nothing lasts forever;
You can’t hold on, no.
Nothing lasts forever
So, what’s done is done.
First you die (die, feel), then you feel.
Then you cry (cry, heal), then you heal.”