As I sit writing this, it is Christmas night—that time when the world grows still and quiet as the celebrations of the day fade into memories. The children and grands have all departed for home, the remnants of wrapping paper have been stuffed into garbage bags (which will not be taken to the dump until everyone confirms all small pieces, gift cards, etc. made it to their appointed places), any leftovers (of which there were very few) have been safely stored, and the dishwasher has been filled to overflowing with everything that doesn’t require individual attention due to composition or size. The rest of it can wait until morning. And now, after a joyously hectic day of preparation and partying, I can sit. And be still. And listen.
I can listen to the silence that has descended upon this house . . . to the gentle roaring of the fire that has warmed us all day and into the night . . . to the voices from the past that speak to me in moments such as these.
Those voices seem to gather strength as the holidays approach, their volume increasing with each passing day. As I decorate the tree with the ornaments of my childhood, the voices whisper gently of the memories they hold. As I hang our stockings on the mantle, they remind me of the sweet spirit who lovingly crafted the first two as a wedding gift and added others as our family expanded. There is the arrangement that graces the piano in the living room—the peach and gold one with frosted greenery. It doesn’t really match our home or my style, but it appeared each Christmas in my parents’ apartment, earning it a place of honor now. The meal we shared is steeped in tradition, begun by my mother when I first married . . . a Christmas Eve feast that now takes place a few days earlier so those of the family with small children don’t have to drive back home that night only to return the following day.
As I sit and count my blessings—and fight the sleep that is rapidly approaching—I realize there are many tonight who have dreaded this day. Who may have acknowledged it surrounded by family and friends but who felt so very much alone because of circumstances they would give almost anything to change. Their voices from days gone by did not quietly invade their thoughts; they screamed at the most unexpected moments. And I’m sure sometimes it seemed they would never stop. Even though the memories are cherished and treasured, they also bring Grief as their plus one—a most unwelcome guest when joy is supposed to be on the list instead.
In less than a week we will begin a new chapter in this book we call Life, filled with the hope and promise of all that can be. Hope and promise . . . and fear and dread. Hope and promise for all we can achieve and the wonderful events the future holds. Fear and dread because of who is missing and all the memories that will never be made.
As we approach this new year, my wish for you is that it be one of peace. Peace within your heart and mind. Peace within your life and the lives of those you love. May you be filled with the hope and promise found in new beginnings. And may they gradually banish the fear and dread, leaving the sweet memories of love in their place.
About the author: Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth-generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926 and has worked with Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 45 years. Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.
