Month: December 2016

The Hall-elujah

It started on Christmas Eve some 10 or so years ago, when we were gathered around the fireplace listening to music after celebrating the day with mom’s side of the family. 

A few minutes shy of midnight, we were sipping cocktails and telling stories when Handel’s Messiah came over the speaker – or what may be better known as the Hallelujah.

Dad’s eyes lit up. “I love this song!” as he started to get up from his seat. “Let’s go out on the deck and toast to Christmas!”

So we bundled in our coats and filled our glasses, filing outside as Dad cranked the music up on the outdoor speakers. I’m sure we gave the neighbors a startle that first year – as Hallelujah echoed through the quiet of night. We laughed and toasted one another watching the neighborhood lights flick on and blinds separate in curiosity. It was one of those beautiful moments that can only happen when you don’t plan it – and so beautiful that it’s become a tradition year-over-year.

And, my, how it’s grown. We get upwards of 30 visitors, and friends and family that can’t be here join us at midnight in a toast from other corners of the world. The Hallelujah has become a party itself. Each year there are more people, and even funnier santa hats for them to wear. It’s such an amazing way to welcome the holiday and was dad’s absolute favorite tradition. I think it’s all of ours too.

It was hard last year doing it without him, but I’d have it no other way. And this year – we’ll march out on the deck again and blare the Hallelujah across the canal, celebrating Christmas and saluting dad. 

It’s a rather lovely way to keep him a part of the day – by doing what he loved. 

So if you find yourselves awake when midnight melts into Christmas, pick up a glass from wherever you are and cheers to the holiday, the loved ones you’re with, and the loved ones who are always in our hearts.

And with that, I leave this toast. Merry Christmas.

Take to the night and rejoice, in winter’s weary hold

And when the music hums, raise your voice to what’s beyond life’s fold

As midnight tolls make a toast, as the Hallelujahs rise

For those we lost but loved the most, their love within us never dies

The Holiday March

It didn’t quite register until we surveyed the table and saw the chair. That’s how holidays are now – a maze of triggers.

Holidays are tricky because they carry the sobering weight of memories and traditions. But being our second go-around without dad, I’ve learned a few things. That the anticipation is usually what sounds an emotional alarm. That it’s actually the preceding days or weeks that unearth a fresh sensitivity. That when you actually get to that day – there’s a sense of a relief that you made it and are soldiering through.

That’s how Thanksgiving was this year. It came like a normal Thursday, surprisingly unmarked by tears. We spent the day with dad’s side of the family in our home. The afternoon swelled with stories of him and us all laughing and remembering. Dad was with us all day, until we sat down to eat and he wasn’t.

We’ve hosted Thanksgiving at our house for years now and as everyone would fill their plates, dad would take his place at the head of the table. It was his spot where he’d lean back with a knowing smile, taking in the joy of being around his family. So when mom, my brother and I approached the table, we took a reflective pause. Mom and I traded glances in understanding as I put an encouraging hand to my brother’s back – it was his chair now. I know it’s an unfair position for him to become the man of the family, and it adds such a complicated layer to an already astounding grief – but there’s no one else dad would want in his chair than the son he raised lovingly in his image.

It’s moments like these that are the hardest and most unexpected. That simple things like picking a seat can cause the hurt to claw out from deep inside. We so often view the holidays through a lens of remembrance, and it can be hard to start anew. When you’ve lost a loved one, the holidays can be full of pain.

But they are also so full of joy.

Last year – I couldn’t stomach putting up my decorations. I begrudgingly braved the mall to find presents. I avoided holiday music. I just couldn’t find it in my heart to celebrate times that bring family together when I’d be without such a huge part of my own.

But this year, something shifted. I’m more resolute than ever in embracing the Christmas spirit. I decorated mom’s tree and put up my own, and while tears did come – it filled me with peace.

I think a lot about one of the last conversations dad had with a lifelong friend. My dad told him that he wasn’t worried about his kids. That we were strong and we’d find a way to be OK. And as usual, I think dad had the foresight to know me better than I knew myself.

I will not let him down. I can not. If there’s anything I do, I will be the person he thought me to be – and he will be my constant source of strength.

And oddly, it’s him who is inciting this thirst for joy and to appreciate the small moments that are actually really big moments.

It keeps me going – and I like to think of him maybe looking down and smiling, saying something simple yet profound.

“I’m proud of you, Toots. I know life can be hard, but isn’t it beautiful too?”

Memory is a Funny Thing

I remember silly things. Not so much the big, sweeping stories that embody dad in a cozy narrative.

And there are many of those. Stories that I have been audience to, and ones I’ve heard many times over the years. Like when he barreled through the hallways of his high school on his motorcycle, or when he accidentally burned down his parents’ garage when he was young, or the funny yet insightful exchange we shared driving to my college graduation ceremony. But when I think of dad, I trip up on the small moments – his mannerisms, his expressions, his sounds.

Sometimes it’s frustrating. The memories blur as if they’re treading just beyond my purview. It’s ushered unsettling questions forward: How much have I already lost of my father? How much more is to come? Is forgetfulness the punishment of time? And am I actively creating this distance? There are times I knowingly keep him from my mind, understanding that when I stop to think of him it can unlock a place of pain. Maybe it’s unhealthy avoidance, maybe my attention is redirecting to aid in moving forward. I’m not sure.

See when I close my eyes to think of dad, I hear him. The clap of the shallow garage door when he’d come home from work and sit at the step to take off his shoes. The jingle of too many keys when he’d open his small drawer in the kitchen to grab his phone. The moan of the office chair when he’d lean back to study his next move playing games on the computer. The crisp clink of ice cubes when he’d sip his whiskey. His clever quips and the funny, jovial mocking voices he’d make – particularly when he was teasing or when people were driving too damn slow in front of him.

I smell him. The soft hints of oil and grease from working in garages, fixing cars and machines. Fresh bar soap and the richness of a few cups of coffee.

I see him. I see him turning his skis backward and tilting his head as if asleep, playfully taunting us to keep up. I see him bouncing his hips up against mom when she stood at the kitchen sink to lovingly annoy her. I see him covering his face in laughter when we’d joke over dinner. The reflective gaze he’d survey the backyard with when sitting on the deck. And the quiet, telling smirk he’d get when all four of us were curled up by the fire on Christmas Eve and he was truly happy.

It’s these little threads of so many every days weaving together. It’s not what he’s done or where he’s been. It’s simply him, and in a way maybe that’s the purest way to remember.