From the Bench
BUILDING MEMORIES OF CHRISTMAS
Years ago I had a friend who told me about a tradition he and his wife had developed late in life. He said that they had begun making a conscious effort to do things that would impress on them more meaning and more vivid memories of life and relationships. He called it "Building Memories."
Recently I was reminded of my late friend’s comments when I asked my three children for their most lasting memories of our earlier Christmases as a family. All of them mentioned food. Most of us probably would. But that was not at the top of their lists. Neither were those special toys (or fads) which we sweated blood to find and pay for.
(I know it’s too late this Christmas, but maybe my children and other parents of young ones should remember that during next year’s Christmas shopping.)
One thing my son remembered was the artificial tree which I purchased as an after-Christmas bargain. (It’s hard to beat half price.) When I put up the tree the following year, he moaned and complained about the fake tree. His complaints fell on deaf ears, since he was not the one who had to go with Mama on those cold, dark, after-work nights and dive into a forest of prickly, wet firs and pines. She looked at every one, the same way she always shops, slowly and deliberately. It is a Christmas memory I would as soon forget.
He reminded me of something else about the artificial tree. I had purchased a can of pine scent and sprayed the tree to add a sense of realism. Our dachshund, Fritz, came into the living room, sniffed, and promptly sprayed the tree again.
While my wife frantically, and angrily, cleaned up the mess, I observed, "See, it even fooled Fritz."
Not to be outdone, my son replied, "That’s not it. He’s just trying to tell you what he thinks of your artificial tree."
I can’t win.
But what they remembered most was more serious and meaningful. A common memory to all three, without prompting from me or each other, was the Christmas eve candlelight service at church. It’s a memory which I am sure they share with many others…..the Christmas story from Luke…the Lord’s Supper…the hundreds of lighted candles in the darkened sanctuary, with "Silent Night" leading us out softly. Best of all were the hugs and best wishes from friends before departing.
And they remembered going home to the ritual of opening "just one" present as we sipped hot cider and munched the cheese ball before turning in.
One of my daughters remembered the Christmas eve when we had run out of Mama’s homemade cookies. None were left for the traditional "Santa’s snack." I suggested that, rather than store-bought cookies, I thought that he would prefer a piece of hot apple pie, with cheese, cinnamon, and sugar melted on top.
I was right. He didn’t leave even a smell.
Reminiscing can cause a chain reaction. When we talked about Christmas eve at church, it brought back memories of another Christmas eve, long ago….1951, to be exact...a young serviceman's first Christmas far from home. It was also his first without a father who he had unexpectedly seen for the last time the previous Christmas. A truly lonely time.
That Christmas eve was dark, and gloomy, and wet....the usual for that time of year in England. By early afternoon, the airbase was already awash with drunken young men who, perhaps just as lonely, were trying to hide or forget it.
For a young man, loneliness, like crying, is a "weakness" to be hidden, especially from other young men. "Real" men don’t get lonely or cry.
Three of us decided to find a better way to celebrate Christmas. We took a bus to the train station, and spent a long time surveying the long wall of travel posters at the depot. Finally we decided to go to York, an ancient Roman-walled city in the midlands, famous for its centuries- old cathedral.
We were not disappointed…..the old hotel where we checked in, with the quiet dignity of its lobby and dining room…..the cobblestone side streets of the old city, smoothed by centuries of wear. It was right out of Dickens.
After dinner, two young ladies who worked the desk at the hotel asked if we would like to accompany them to midnight mass. The Baptist country boy from east Tennessee didn’t know what to expect, but we all accepted their invitation.
There were many things we didn’t understand….the ritual, the continual ups and downs (thank the Lord for kneeling rails), the liturgy. But one thing I did understand…the bread and the cup. I especially remember the cup, which was "common", meaning that everyone shared the same cup, held by the priest. And unlike the Baptists, they served real wine.
A pastor friend later cautioned me about "transubstantiation", the belief of some denominations that the bread and wine are literally transformed into flesh and blood. Baptists, needless to say, do not share that belief.
But it didn’t matter. Still doesn’t. Christmas transcends denomination, time, or place…Episcopal or Baptist; 1951 or 2000; York, England or Avondale Estates, Georgia.
What about the young men I shared Christmas, 1951, with? I don't even remember their names. The young ladies? Same story.
I wonder if either of the young men remembered? And I wonder if the young ladies not only remembered but also realized the memory that their thoughtfulness built that night?
But it did, and fifty years later it remains in a warm corner of the mind, reminding me of the loneliness that was softened by the common thread of what the Christmas season is all about.
Christmas is about memories. This Christmas, may you share not only memories of the past, but may you also build new ones for the future, remembering that when you build them for yourself, you are also building them for others.