this christmas

this would be 
the Christmas 
that our children
gave us our past
in DVD without
our even asking.

we sat,
watching our 
younger selves
at just the ages 
the kids are now
maveling at 
how young we looked
and how rested,
at a time when 
we were not.

i had triangular hair
and I thought myself 
beautiful
though now 
it's questionable. 
at least i was thin.

it is also 
the Christmas
that the soul of
our family 
didn't make it.
and that happens
when december 
feels more like july,
when weather 
and flight schedules
rule our plans.
our Christmas morning 
was not nearly as punny,
with him not here,
we just did not feel
complete.

it was the Christmas
that i was reminded
that my father 
once jumped rope
to please (maybe impress)
his grandchildren,
and it was a joy
to rewitness
his conversations
with me
from so many 
years ago.

it was a Christmas, 
when my boy brought
his bride-to-be
home 
and he gave me 
the gift of time
with him,
which is so rare.

and it was the one
when my mother
told the story of
how she met 
my father, and
of the dress she wore
on their first date,
and my daughter found 
the dress
in her closet and
brought it 
down for 
show and tell.

it was also 
the Christmas
when i was 
so busy cooking
i forgot to 
take a picture
of my kids.

so.

it is like
every Christmas:
some sadness.
some joy.
some Christmas.
yes.







and writemuch.blogspot is the original work of author susan byrum rountree. all written work and photography is copyright protected and can only be used with written permission of the author.

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Of Sons

This morning, my heart was heavy as I headed to church. A former neighbor of mine, I learned yesterday, was mourning the loss of her 19-year-old nephew, killed the night before in a car crash near his home. The son of one of my best friends from childhood is in his seventh week at boot camp at Parris Island. He wants to drive a tank. Another friend tries to work through her son's drug addiction. My own son just turned 21 a few weeks ago; already he's lost two friends, one to a wreck, the other to drugs. Good boys, good families all, families who have brought their sons up to have faith in God and  hope for making a mark on the world.

I knelt in prayer for all of these sons of ours, some whose lives are so filled with promise, others cut short of knowing what that promise could be. Praying that God wrap his arms around all of these parents, comforting them in their losses, in their worries, and providing them with hope for their sons in the middle of all their uncertainties.

Then I sat, opening the bulletin to find that for our prelude, we would have guest bell ringers, a group of moms and dads, all of whom have lost children, but who have used their commonality to seek solace in the music, and in reaching others as they perform.

Among them was a member of our parish who lost her son 11 years ago at 21, in a college fire that is now legendary in North Carolina. She has channeled her grief into a crusade for sprinkler systems in college residences, traveling around the country, speaking before Congress. And she rings the bells.

I wept as she and the other parents rang their beautiful notes, their arrangement of "Lord, Make Me an Instrument of Thy Peace," filling them — and the church — with such joy, as they honored the children who no longer sit at their supper tables. Two families who had lost two children each — two — a situation incomprehensible to me. My friend — pregnant with her third child due in a month — sat next to me and wept, too, the quiet grief of mothers who know that our tether to our children is so tenuous. We watched, as the mothers and fathers in our midst drew themselves through their grief and into that joy that surpasses all understanding, drawing us with them, until our hearts felt full, too.

Later, when my son called home for his weekly check-in, I found myself wanting to reach through the phone, tighten the tether, as close as he would allow. wtmch

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