Sweet Christmas Eve

The news wasn’t good. I could tell from the tone of his voice asking that my husband come to the hospital at 2 p.m. so he could meet with both of us. Dr. Wong had been working diligently for some time to diagnosis our son’s serious illness. It had brought us to the hospital on December 10 and kept us there almost continuously for 14 days. Christmas signs were everywhere as the hospital staff attempted to cheer up the pediatric patients. Lights, trees, snowflakes on the windows, and even a Santa hat or two perched on their cheerful faces when they came to give shots, draw blood, or check vitals.

But this afternoon the hospital floor was quieter than usual. Yes, the machines hummed and the sounds of walking were still occasionally heard, but all of the children who could go home for Christmas had left and the lonely quiet was beginning to seep around me. Evan was too sick to know it was Christmas Eve and too young at 13 months to understand.

Jim arrived shortly before Dr. Wong, our pediatric oncologist, and when we looked at each other, the mirrors of fear jumped back and forth between our eyes. The verdict was dire: Leukemia, the worst kind -- Not found often in children and not kind when it came.

Jim left to retrieve our other four sons from home, bring them to see Evan, and lead the sad discussion about what we had learned and what it would mean to our family. We had to decide whether to start chemotherapy immediately or wait until after a short Christmas morning together.

Somehow our former bishop and his wife sensed they were needed. So they came. The tears were everywhere, but the invitation to eat out at Taco Bell sent the boys’ minds to kinder, more immediate needs. Soon they were gone and Jim and I sat alone wondering at the pain we felt and the possibility of saying goodbye to a son we were just barely getting to know.

When the bishop, his wife, and our sons returned, they were carrying new pajamas for all, including a fuzzy blue set of coverall pajamas, the kind with the zipper, for Evan. Our hearts lifted. We would not be alone to carry this burden. Someone else cared and our hope was renewed. With such love, Christmas Eve suddenly and completely turned sweeter to our taste.

My next Christmas Eve was poignant, too. Evan had relapsed and although we were able to return home for the special evening, we would be needed back in the hospital the next morning. It was a Christmas Eve of saying goodbye to one we loved, but somehow in the midst of that sadness our sure knowledge of eternal life was renewed and rekindled. We would laugh with Evan again, play in the Christmas wrapping paper and bows with him again, and hold him close to our hearts again. The next Christmas Eve we would spend with him would be an event so special as to delight our hearts forever. We would never have to be separated from him ever again for our hope of the resurrection was sure.

The following Christmas Eve my mother was dying from a brain tumor. Her legs had failed her and she talked to me on the phone from a chair she could not rise from herself. But her voice was cheerful and optimistic. Christmas Eve was here and although she knew it to be her last on earth, she had done as she always did, make the very best of it that she knew how. The children still at home had decorated the tree according to her instructions, and, as always, she had a list of widows and orphans, single parents and poorer families who needed of her bounteous heart. And so she gave away freely from her stock of flannel blankets, personally knitted sweaters and slippers, frozen bread and cookies which she had prepared when her health was still good. She taught me to always find the sweetness in the midst of the bitter, especially on Christmas Eve.

Another Christmas Eve, this one not so bright, either. Unemployment had drawn down our savings and our Christmas spirit. I had done what I could to decorate the house as usual and we were following our traditional pattern of watching “It’s a Wonderful Life” (with Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed) in the early evening. Just at the end of the movie when friends and family are gathering in the front room bringing dollar bills and change to relieve despair from hopeless hearts, our own doorbell rang. We were late to answer it because we wanted to see the part when the Christmas tree bell rings and the angel gets his wings. When we did go, our porch was full and down the stairs too, with canned goods, treasured Christmas treats, and fresh produce left by anonymous givers who presence was only evidenced by foot prints fading away in the falling snow. Oh, Christmas Eve can be so sweet at times.

And so this Christmas Eve approaches again. I have seen the light in the eyes of a poor man given cash at the stop sign of a freeway exit and watched delight, excitement, and appreciation flood his lined face. Someone cared. I have seen missionaries for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints talk of where they will be spending their Christmas Eve. For some, it will be at the Missionary Training Center where they will make humanitarian aid kits for children and families they will never see. For others, it will be spent as their first week in the mission field. They will teach of Christ and invite others to come until Him for the first time as full-time missionaries.

For me and mine, this time will be a Christmas Eve of anticipation. There are presents under the tree for a new child, a son. My daughter-in-law is to bring forth her firstborn shortly after the first of the year. This time I will be an observer instead of a participant in the sweetest of gifts from God: a child. And, next year we will have children at our Christmas Eve’s again. Oh, sweet, sweet Christmas Eve.

And so Christmas Eves come and go in my life. Some Eves are of learning, others Eves of yearning. All are Eves of knowing. He lives, He loves, and He always keeps His promises. Christmas Eve can always be sweet when we believe. I do. I hope you will always believe, too.

©2009 Marie Calder Ricks/www.houseoforder.com