I look down from the plane window and see the neatly blocked streets of Milwaukee far below. They are covered with snow like a Christmas card picture. I think about all the people in the houses celebrating Christmas. I picture them opening packages, laughing at funny gifts, and watching their childrens' delight as they unwrap their special presents.
Some of the houses have cars parked in front of them and in their driveways - evidence of happy gatherings inside. I imagine the smells of platters filled with turkey and ham wafting through the rooms. Every year I cook too - pies, brownie bars, whatever my family likes. It gives me great joy. But not this year. That has been suddenly snatched away.
As I stare down, I wonder how the families in each house celebrate Christmas Eve? We always dim the lights and read the Christmas story. Everytime the word angel appears, the grandchildren take turns lighting candles symbolizing the verse, "The people who sat in darkness have seen a great light." Pretty soon the dark room is aflame with light. But not this year.
Charlie and I didn't open any presents this morning. We were packing hastily - rushing to catch the 12:30 pm flight to Dallas. Our one thought - get to our family whose loss is so great! As we hurried out the door, I glanced back at our darkened kitchen. No good smells, no Christmas dishes, no decorated table waiting for friends. This year our house was a way station on Christmas Eve. We thought we were going to celebrate two weeks with our Alaska family. That's what we thought until Thursday, December 23rd at 5:30 pm when we got the telephone call that said - not this year.
My thoughts go back to that evening - grieving and phoning - grieving and phoning. Family to call, loved ones calling back. "My son, my son, how can we be so far away at such a time?" Hearing the grief and pain in his voice and my Texas daughter-in-love's sobs, intensifies the already indescribable pain in my heart.
Miraculously we are booked on a 6 am flight Christmas Eve day from Anchorage to Minneapolis. Two hours sleep and it is 1:30 am. Time to dress and have our son drive us to the airport. For an hour and a half we talk - we share rambling thoughts. We watch four moose passing us in the cold Alaskan night. I remember that seeing them used to excite me. But not this year. I am too numb to register more emotion.
At 3:45 we arrive at the airport and are told that we can have seats together if we sit in the very last row. We don't care, we don't want to be separated at such a time. We both search our bibles for the comfort of the Scriptures. Lord, give us strength - special verses for Nick-anything that will help us get through this agony. As we read, the peace that passes all understanding begins to descend. We write the verses down. I look up to see the man in the window seat next to Charlie watching us. Charlie and he start talking. He is a ship's captain in charge of huge boats that carry cargo from Alaska to Japan. He tells us that he was at sea when he got a telephone call that his sister had died. He said, "What do you do when you are in the middle of the ocean and you get such a call?" We told him that the telephone also rang for us and that's why we were leaving Alaska the day before Christmas. After we had talked, we gave him the Four Spiritual Laws. He took it and read it from cover to cover then carefully zipped it into his leather seaman's jacket pocket. He wasn't supposed to be in that seat - someone had asked him to trade. We weren't supposed to be in our seats. Or were we all three supposed to be there? Was his possible conversion a good fruit from Nick's physical death? Maybe this year he will come to know Jesus. I wonder at God's grace shining in the midst of our darkness.
We arrive in Minneapolis at 2:30 pm. The van from the Country Suites picks us up. "Why are you traveling so late on Christmas Eve Day?" the driver askes us. We tell him and he shares that his son has cancer. He says, "You told me your trouble, I tell you mine." We knew what he was saying. The glitter of Christmas was all around us, but each of our hearts had great needs that tinsel could never fill. Not this year.
We drive the five hours from Minneapolis to home. Christmas Eve - snow falling, slippery roads, wrecker trucks pulling people out of the ditches, but my mind sees one wrecker truck pulling a black Mazda off of a Texas highway. We stop at McD's for a bite. Who are all these people standing in line for fast food on Christmas Eve? Are they traveling for dreadful reasons too? My mind is frozen like the landscape around us. I cannot smile at them - certainly not ask a personal question.
We get home and unpack our Alaska suitcases and make flight arrangements to Dallas for the next day, Christmas Day. Sleeping in my own bed for one night, my last thought is "No candles being lit tonight. No Nick laughing and striking a match as he hears the word 'angel.' But wait! Isn't he seeing the angels as he spends his first Christmas in heaven? Are they the angels who appeared to the shepherds when the Savior was born in Bethlehem? Is he asking them? Ah, Nick, Nick, what are you doing right now?"
My mind returns to the present. Soon I will see the neighborhoods of Dallas-Fort Worth - not snow covered and cold like in Milwaukee - but each house will be celebrating Christmas. My eyes will search for only one - a home where they opened gifts this morning and tried to continue on. A home with unopened presents under the tree labeled "To Nick." A home that now has three teenagers instead of four. How sad can life get?
The plane flies on to our destination. We are nearly there but I can't see the activity below. We are above the clouds and the sun is shining blindingly bright all around us. "Is this how bright the Shekinah Glory shines in heaven, Nick?" I wonder. "Jesus, the angels, God on His great throne. You are seeing and experiencing it all this year."
For an instant, looking out at the brilliant sun, I am there with him. The wonder of eternal life surrounds me. Then I hear the sound of the wheels going down and our plane descends to land. The clouds swirl around us and all is grey again. The trials and afflictions of this present world encumber us as before. But I have seen the upperside and God has reminded me that my grandson is truly alive. "He is not dead for He has risen!" Nick is above the clouds looking down at God's great canvas of eternity. He has fought the good fight, he has finished the race - this year.
We rent our car and drive toward Crowley. Our family is there.
Other Christmases may come and go with new joys and sorrows but we wont forget this year of our Lord 2010. We do not know what future Christmases will bring but we do know that we shall never be the same - not after this year.
