An Imperfectly Perfect Christmas

Although I was heading out of the country for ten days, I determined Christmas 2024 would be stress free—not the usual last-minute mad dash. My sweet potato casserole and other side dishes lay stacked in the freezer. Likewise, the dough for honey-spice ginger snaps, rolled and ready to slide in the oven. Cheery holiday tins filled with fresh-baked anise and almond shortbread adorned the buffet, most of my shopping was complete, and the house clean when I departed.

There’d be plenty of time to complete the few tasks left on my list to prepare for Christmas on Cape Cod when I returned home on December 20th.

Everything in order, I looked forward to relaxing in Canada visiting my mom, stepdad, and my sister Monique, her husband, and their three delightful children who were flying in from New Zealand. I should’ve known better. Life has a way of upending our great expectations with unexpected interruptions.

About midnight, a few hours after their arrival, my niece woke up with a stomach bug. And despite Monique’s and my raw hands from continual scrubbing with disinfectant, each day another one of us took our turn in quarantine as we got sick.

“This isn’t how I envisioned our time together.” Monique said.

“Me neither.”

“I planned on baking cookies and shopping…”

“I thought your kids would put on a concert and we’d watch Christmas movies…”

The best laid plans of mice and men. What then?

Who hung out with whom rotated depending on where we were in the queue of recovery. When eleven-year-old Becca emerged, I enjoyed our focused time together when she shared her writing with me. The deep words that tumbled out of her mouth astonished me last year. I reminded her of our prior conversation.

“That’s wise of you,” I’d said.

“Oh, don’t say that.” She pleaded.

“Why not?”

 “I’d rather people think less of me and be pleasantly surprised than think more of me and be disappointed.” I still marvel at her profound reply.

While sharing her work with me this time, Becca made a negative comment regarding her writing. “Don’t speak disparagingly about your work,” I said. “You’re very hard on yourself.”

“Doesn’t everyone feel that way sometimes?” she said.

 “It’s common. I and many are familiar with the struggles of being an insecure writer. But we must be careful not to discredit the gifts God has given and those who’ve invested in us.”

Humility is important, but we’re not merely the sum of ourselves. Rather, we carry a part of those who’ve poured into us, I explained. While I’ve much to learn, and continue to hone my craft, I realize it’s not prideful to say I’m a good writer or editor. My skill results from years of sitting under the teaching of bestselling authors Jerry B Jenkins in his writers’ guild and as a protégé in Cecil Murphey’s mentoring program. I hoped my words would take root and encourage her.

A snowstorm bore down, causing airlines to cancel flights on Friday night. They rebooked me on the next available flight—scheduled to depart three days later. So much for my planning and preparing to avoid a down-to-the-wire scramble for Christmas.

My turn to be sick came on Saturday. I took comfort that since my flight wouldn’t leave for a couple of days, at least there was no longer a risk of getting sick on the plane or bringing the virus home. Monique came downstairs to check on me that night. She stood in the family room a distance from the doorway to my stepdad’s study where I was staying.

“If these were the circumstances under which we had to see each other, I’m glad, rather than to have not seen each other,” Monique said.

I smiled. “At least now we can say we’ve done real life together.”

Monique and I didn’t get to grow up with each other. I count our few shared times as precious.

Becca handed me a present before she went to bed the night I left and said she hoped it would encourage me.

The extra Uber ride and time at the airport served as another opportunity to hand out promo cards for Lee Weeks’ new book: Sundays at the Track: Inspiring True Stories of Faith, Leadership, and Determination from the World of NASCAR.

I boarded the plane home running on four-and-a-half hours of sleep. We landed, and I went straight to three stores.

My children had done a beautiful job of decorating the house and taking care of their father who’d undergone unplanned surgery in my absence.

Norah, my three-year-old granddaughter, helped bake cookies before bed, then I stayed up until 2:30 a.m. to get ready to host Christmas Eve for twelve of us.

I apologized to my family for dinner running late and escaping for a few minutes to wrap gifts.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t apologize for anything,” my daughter Ariel said. I exhaled, grateful for their gifts of grace and kindness amid the chaos.

Throughout the afternoon, my two-year-old granddaughter, Leilani, fussed because she had a cold. Our attempts to interact and distract her with toys failed to bring comfort. My mother-in-law, Jean, who had been quiet and seemed tired, surprised us when she rose and sat at the piano. She’d played on the radio when she was five and throughout her life, and owned a baby grand piano, but she hadn’t played in years. Like a fire kindled, my 95-year-old mother-in-law, whom we’d almost lost three years ago, came aglow as her fingers pranced along the keys on our out-of-tune piano. Leilani hushed. What joy as four generations joined in song and danced with gusto to “You Are My Sunshine” and “Jingle Bells.”

I saved Becca’s present for last and ripped the brightly wrapped paper to reveal what will remain forever one of my favorite gifts ever received: A handwritten book titled Becca’s Book of Wise Words. The inscription inside read, “This book is dedicated to my aunt Rachael, for showing me my words could be wise.”

Becca has a gift for words and now she’s encouraging me.

It’s wonderful to do fun things with our loved ones. But diamonds are refined in fire, steel forged in the flames. There’s opportunity in adversity. Sometimes there’s treasure in the trials, and it’s a gift to share the tears, to bond as we bear burdens and do real life together. In reflection, it was an imperfectly perfect Christmas.