I remember when the magic of Christmas was real. It was in that little red brick house on Carrington Road. My younger brother and I got our first bikes that year. We also got chicken pox and were too sick to go out and ride them. But they were magical standing next to our tree.

We had bubble lights, which were newly invented. We had a parakeet named Pekoe that was allowed to fly free in the house. His cage door was usually open. He lit in my hair and nibbled it. He rode my brother’s electric train. He also pecked the ornaments on the tree and broke many of them.

If you ask me what I miss the most about Christmases past, it would be hard to say. I guess it would be how breathlessly we waited for Christmas morning to get up and race to the tree. It would be my grandmother’s gathering on Christmas Eve at her house.

Now I live in another state and in another time. Nothing can replicate those precious memories. Of course we didn’t know how precious they would become.

I haven’t cried in months. It would do me good to let the floodgates open. I would remember a little girl of my own that only had seven Christmases. I would remember how our world got blasted into pieces when she died and how a Salvation Army truck came to get her toys that summer day. The driver knew the gravity of my grief and called me Sister and that somehow helped. I stood in the drive and watched as the truck drove away.

I write these essays easily, but this one has been a bit tricky. I want to say that I have been broken and somewhat healed, but not entirely. I need to say how deeply I have tried to learn what I already know. Some of you get this. Some of you stand at the grave and weep. And somehow we also know that the resurrection and the life is guaranteed. We need no tinsel and garland to realize how deeply we must suffer before our new life can once again spring from the ashes of what used to be. I stand as a witness for this.

Vicki Woodyard