Finding Christmas During A Year When Everything Is Different

December 30 marks one year since I've seen my son, who is in Los Angeles and quarantining. It's been a long, hard year for so many of us, with so much unthinkable loss and pain. So many people I care about are now home with the coronavirus. So many are struggling, months after, with lingering symptoms. This Christmas, so many people I know and love will be alone. I'll be alone.

But I had a conversation with my son last night about someone who passed away, so close to Christmas, of the coronavirus. In that instant, something shifted in my mind and heart. I may not have him home, with our big, decorated tree, with the usual gifts and stocking and laughter. I may not have a group gathered around my table for turkey and my mashed potato souffle or my Nanny's krumkaker. But I do have a magical little tree. And although I've been too sad to decorate it, my son has pushed me every day to go get the box of decorations and just do it. He made me send him a photo of the tree and said, "Mom, five ornaments? That's it? You've got three million. Decorate it."

He asked where my Christmas village was, and said if it's not set up there will be no Christmas Zoom.

"When we Zoom, Mom, I want to see our decorations. I want to see our Christmas houses."

Then he told me he had ordered the supplies so he could make my Nanny's Norwegian krumkaker and had the gifts I'd sent under his tree.

Sometimes, it's our children that lead us. On my most sad and gray day, my son burst in like a beam of proverbial light, as bright as that Christmas star we all looked to find this week, and reminded me that yes, it may all be different, but we still have each other. Things may be different but we still are together, even across miles. The love, the memories that make Christmas, are all still so real. So today, yes, I decorated. I set up my village, albeit just a tiny one. I decided to try.

That's what we all have to do, in this time like no other. We have to try.

We have to try to continue, but do it safely. So yes, I'll be Zooming. And hopefully next year, we'll all be hugging and laughing together like the most beautiful reunion scene ever written for a holiday film — except it will be real, the most beautiful scene in our collective, rich lives.

What I found, this Christmas Eve, is that somehow, when we think nothing will ever feel right again, something new and wonderful happens. New memories are made. My son called me from Los Angeles on Christmas Eve and we FaceTimed, baking our Norwegian krumkaker together from start to finish, in our respective homes. Alone, but together. And even though we weren't in the same room, it was even more special because he made such an effort to make that moment happen. To keep our traditions alive and reshape them during a time when the world has shifted.

Together, we try.

And always, always, we will remember those we've lost, those empty chairs that will stand as a stark reminder that love, and life, it doesn't last forever. The pain of those missing the ones they've had to say good-bye to, it's so very real, such a heavy mantle of grief. And every time we are blessed enough to be with the ones we love, even if it's on a Zoom or a FaceTime call, then yes, that's the Christmas miracle.