A Blue Christmas Story by Sharon Heagy

 

(I have been asked to supply a 'Blue Christmas Story' for an upcoming interdenominational service. What follows is the result. Constructive feedback welcome. Details at the end.)

The world faded away that day and became a foggy jumble of indiscernible voices and blurred vision. People walked around me in the days and hours after the accident but I couldn't tell you who was there or what they said. The odd little snippet would float by my brain like a clip from a movie but I was unable to discern if it was real and or fantasy. 

The exhaustion consumed me as a dark cloak of heaviness descended upon me, making it hard to even put one foot in front of the other. Slowly the house emptied of the shadowy figures of fellow human beings until there was only deafening silence and my own roaring thoughts of confusion. The nights I did sleep I'd awaken thinking it was all a dream. But it was a nightmare that greeted me instead.

Dragging myself through the motions of some semblance of daily routine, I'd brush my teeth and run a comb through the tangled mat of hair on my head and try to have something to eat. Tea and toast, tea and toast. Often I'd just go back to bed and try to remember to breathe.

Friends and family offered well-meaning advice with none of it making sense to my coddled brain. My face forgot how to smile, my spirit could not recall how to laugh, or to live and I didn't care because, really, what was the point without you.

I prayed and cried out to God. I railed and screamed and sobbed. Why, why, why? The word fell like a continuous waterfall from my lips but there was no answer. 

And now it is Christmas, a season I used to embrace but this year I have no energy to celebrate, or decorate....or....anything.

My mind drifts to Christmases past. Feasts with family, beautiful music filling our house, carols sung, candlelight services at church. Wait. What was that? Something stirs inside me briefly. The flicker of a warm glow in the centre of my being and then it's gone again. Snuffed out.

A further journey into the past leads me to ponder that first Christmas. The difficulty for a woman nine months pregnant to travel the 90 miles from Nazareth to the small town of Bethlehem. Did she walk? The Bible doesn't mention her riding on a donkey but it was possible. What an arduous journey either way. And once they arrive there is no place for them to stay. No room in the Inn and Mary is in labour. There's shelter where the animals are kept. A place filled with the mixed odours of hay and straw and dung and the animals too. But it's time for the delivery and the birth of the One sent to deliver us. A holy babe, laid in a manger. I can feel the beat of my own heart as I consider the magnitude of this moment and close my eyes.

As they flutter open again my eyes are drawn to a newsletter published by the town. It came with yesterday's mail. I flip through, absently scanning the pages until I freeze focus on an advert for an evening church service at the local church. A candlelight Christmas service, 7 p.m. Do I have the courage to go? Maybe. Nobody knows me in that congregation and the lights will be dim. I can slip into the back if I arrive just before the service starts, and that is what I do. 

There's a spot right on the end of the pew near the aisle, in case I need to escape, and I slip in. It isn't until the service starts that I realize the back row is reserved for parents with young children. A practical solution for those who may need to leave for a time to quiet an upset or hungry child. Or to take their kids on what seems to be rotating bathroom breaks. 

Beside me sits a young, sandy haired boy about 4 years of age. His dark eyes are alive with adventure and he's got the cheeks of a cherub. His warm smile is infectious and I smile back at him, almost automatically. He is very well behaved and understands what's expected of him. As the service begins I can feel his eyes on me from time to time and it makes me shift uncomfortably in my seat. Those big brown eyes, so honest, uninhibited and full of life are such a contrast to my own downcast gaze. My peripheral vision catches a glimpse of him as the service continues.

After the Christmas story is read from the scriptures, candles are handed out to each person there, young and old alike. A tall, well dressed man lights his own candle from the large candle on the altar, the Christ candle. He goes to the first row and lights the candle of another who turns and now lights the candle of her neighbour. The room begins to glow softly and then more brightly as each shares their flame with another. It will take a minute to get to our row at the back. 

The boy is staring at me now and I meet his gaze. It's like he is peering into the very depths of my soul. He kneels on the pew and then pulls himself up to his feet and stands beside me. Close. Laying his head on my shoulder he wraps his chubby arms around my neck and whispers into my ear, "Everyone needs love." He is in no hurry to let go and snuggles in. With tears brimming in my eyes, I find myself hugging him back with thanksgiving and love. My tears are different than my tears of grief. They are a gift. A gift given by a 4 year old boy, the spark to live, to step out into the faded world and find the colours once more. 

As the candle comes round, he oh so carefully lights my candle with his and for a moment we bask in the hope that came to the world on that very first Christmas night. Hope for life beyond loss, salve for the pain and the courage to live again. All delivered this night by the Christ child and one small boy who let his light shine.

Sharon Heagy writes from the wonderful town of Rockglen, Saskatchewan where she lives with her husband, a big dog and furry cats. Their kids have flown the coop and made lives for themselves and their families, as it should be. She writes to bring hope and humour to a world that needs both. She can be reached @ sharonheagy@gmail.com 

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