Christmas Vigil

Since Thanksgiving, Christmas tunes have drifted with me down Interstate 95 each morning and serenaded me through the jumpstarts on the Baltimore beltway. Inescapable as these tunes have been, one cannot help but pay attention to their lyrics once the seasonal novelty of the music has worn thin.

And, I've noticed, many lyrics are filled with deep searching for the "true" meaning of Christmas. Whether secular or religious, the theme of searching for truth is a popular one. And, as probability would have it, such a searching song accompanied the drive to my mother's home.

Tagging along with me and my songs were my luggage, my laptop, and several unwrapped presents -- all staples of a long stay. Mom's hospice nurse had rendered his opinion at his last visit: we had reached the point where mom would be with us for days; no more, but maybe less. And so, my sisters and I dropped our plans, packed our bags, and congregated once again at our childhood home to wait out this long winter's night. It was on this once in a lifetime drive that I found myself in perfect phase with these lyrics as I searched for some non-trite meaning of Christmas.

And that is how I have spent these many days, for that drive was many days ago. My wife and daughter and I have taken to camping out in my childhood bedroom. My sister sleeps on the couch. My other sister, and husband and children, have taken the master bedroom. My aunt and uncle take couches as they can find them. This house, so overwhelmed with the expectation of death, has been bulging at the seams with life. Good food. Good wine. Board games, card games, and piles of wrapped Christmas boxes arranged exquisitely to hide the oxygen tanks.

Mom wakes several times each day, but each day she wakes up fewer times and stays awake for shorter durations. We have, as a family, been slowly peeling back the layers of her life. First, she received her gifts from friends. Then she read their letters, absorbed their poems. She has had all the visitors of friends and family that she could stand -- still too few. She has slowly unwound the thread of her friendships until only we remain, the four strands of her children and brother.

And this dear woman goes to sleep so many times, each time, with the hope of rising again -- in one way or another. She knows that, so far, she has woken surrounded by her children. Apprehensive that, the next time, she will wake up and be surrounded by something entirely different.

And between the laughter, and the manipulating of wrapping paper, and of food preparation, and carols there are tears, there is exhaustion, there is constant physical care. And each of us go to sleep, when we can, knowing that, so far, we have woken to a house that this woman still calls a home. Apprehensive that, the next time, we will wake and be surrounded by something entirely different.

We both wait in expectation of that sublime event that will change our lives forever. And we are caught in the maelstrom of fear and faith.

Such is the nature of vigil.

Such is the true nature of Christmas.

-Ed