Trying to pull off the annual Christmas Norman
Rockwell/Currier & Ives perfect holiday extravaganza, is akin to hoisting a
bag of cement on your shoulders, while simultaneously heaving a box of
Physician Desk References up a steadily increasing steep incline.
The load is inert and weighty, and transfers enormous
amounts of unsustainable strain to one’s pale and quivering, cellulite-laced
thighs, buckling knees, and causing bizarre and aberrant behavior.
This staggering process begins innocently enough around
Labor Day, when the first Christmas trees appear in display windows, directly
adjacent to the zombie-apocalypse costumes, and the occasional Yuletide carol
inserts itself into airtime on the local rock ‘n roll stations. One is easily
deceived into thinking the gradual ascent into “The Holidays” is a stroll in
the park.
But it soon becomes abundantly clear that the load morphs
into one of profound heaviness that can leave you feeling curiously light-headed
in a “not there” sort of way. It’s
like trying to inch up the hill like Sisyphus. The eyes don’t exactly focus, and one takes on that dazed
and vacant look, like the after-effect of a sugar high and a glut of tedious
holiday re-runs smothered in too much sentimentality.
You begin to watch yourself doing things in a somewhat
disturbing, out-of-body perspective, vaguely aware of being slightly out of
synch with the spatial orbit of the world…like we’re one shingle short, devoid
of certifiable cognitive function.
Each year it becomes easier to sink into insipid vapidness
and mutter vulgarisms in a corner, because of stress hormones that have
multiplied exponentially - compromising our analytical reasoning ability.
But this year, the entire Ashton clan re-thought
Christmas. We decided we would not
be chloroformed by the seasonal frenzy.
Perhaps this is the year to imagine the future and remember the past. It is as if we have come through a
storm, and all is calm again.
The holidays become frenetic – empty and cluttered at the
same time…a model of banality. It
would be different this year.
As an extended Family, we decided it would be appropriate to
enter a tree in Dennis’ honor for the Festival of Trees. This, we felt, was particularly
appealing, because it would embody all he held sacred – the care and welfare of
children. All proceeds go directly
to Primary Children’s Hospital, a place Dennis devoted his heart and soul. These children were not just his patients. They were his “Super Troopers,” a term
of endearment and deep respect.
After months of planning, preparation and pride, we
assembled the tree – dedicated to Dr. Ashton’s Super Troopers. We knew the tree would be sincere. We just hadn’t realized it would also
be beautiful.
When it was completed, we gathered around it in dumbfounded
silence.
We looked at the tree in quiet reverie, each of us lost in
our own memories. Trying to speak
with lumpy throats just made us all sound like representatives of the “Lollipop
Guild.”
Soon I noticed my little Asher was rather subdued. Ash is my high-octane, raging ball of
kinetic fur. He is the original
free radical. So anything less
than percussive is noteworthy.
Suddenly, he turned away from the tree, and with a face
contorted with sorrow and mucus, he buried himself in my midsection and wept
without shame or restraint. It
seemed to grant permission for what was inevitable for all of us.
I curled around him, and the family instinctively drew into
a tight circle – The Clot in a knot.
And then, slowly, we all hug-walked from the tree.
In a way, it was liberating. We were no longer casualties of pointless holiday
mania. Our hefty burden of sorrow
became an investment of hope for the children Dennis served and reverenced.
The world knows little of its greatest heroes.
As we wept, a thought occurred to me: What causes us to weep, caused our
Savior to bleed. He understands
our grief, absorbs our despair, and mourns with us. His
love sustains us. Promises were
made, and promises were kept. He
coalesced the vapors, and we are no longer as heavily laden. We have rest and peace, comfort and
joy.
If it is possible to find the true Spirit of Christmas, we
have.
