For this Holiday Season

In the backyard of the home where I grew up, just a short walk from one of the many bayous in Moss Point, stands an old evergreen live oak tree. Its limbs extend out like gangly arms, reaching towards one side of the fence, praising the sky, and touching softly the roof of the house. An imminent danger during a storm, but cool shade in the brutal heat of Mississippi summers. Acorns fall like hard rain drops on the roof. In the autumn seasons of my childhood, squirrels feasted on the mass of acorns that lined the yard. Our feet cracked as we walked.

The evergreen oak with its wide trunk stands silently, weathering storms, hearing cries and laughter, witnessing children grow up and leave home, and adults, once vibrant and quick to anger, now walking a bit slower and weary of the broad and shallow roots that extend far and wide beyond its canopy.

If the tree could tell stories, what would it say? How would it account for time and loss? Does it long for the Spanish moss that once dangled from its limbs? What has it witnessed?

We just buried my uncle. Dementia stole his memories and, eventually, his life. He was called “Candy Man,” because he used to sell candy to children. I have been reaching for memories of him. They come in fits and starts. Some painful. Most are hilarious. Like the first time I got drunk over my Uncle Gerald’s shotgun house on Catalpa Street where the railroad track ran down the middle of the road. Of all the things I remember, I still hear Uncle Mike’s voice, “Lisa, at least get his head out the toilet.”

It has been a difficult time. They say death comes in threes. Not too long ago, we buried two younger cousins, one of whom was Uncle Mike’s oldest son. I wonder if he knew. I wonder what was happening behind my dad’s stoic face when I asked him if he was alright, behind the eyes that glimmer when he smiles and burns when he glares. What is he thinking now? He is the last living son. The only boy, the dark-skinned one who stood out among those with cat eyes, to live this long.

I wonder if that old oak saw my father grieve as it did when Uncle Charles and Uncle Adrian and Uncle Gerald and, even, Uncle Bub died.

This is a difficult season. My mom has been battling throat cancer. On Christmas eve she will find out the results of her pet scan. Anxiety and fear shadow the in-between days. Praying for a blessing—for God’s grace. Worry and grief work like girdling roots, circling and closing in.

My mother is a Christmas baby, born on December 21^st. Her wedding anniversary and Christmas all fall within days of each other. She loves this time of year. As a result, our childhood Christmases were joyful moments. Going to midnight Mass, sneaking eggnog from the grown folks’ pot, and opening presents.

My dad would smile in the shadows. But he would go silent as the day went on, as if a sad memory intruded and dared him to be happy with us. At least that’s what I thought. This year mom worries and prays for a different kind of present. A difficult season.

I suppose this is always the case at this time of year. With its lights and cheer, people are expected to be joyous – to be happy and to be loving. To consume! But so many among us are struggling (the nation struggles), and we should be mindful of that. Mindful of those for whom this time of year is one of sadness, of loss, of memories that grab and claw.

These are difficult days. The holiday season doesn’t change that fact: the drumbeat of war goes on, and the evil of men and women continue to astound. What we must do is love as deeply as we can, despite it all, and take responsibility for the world yet to come. Let’s remind ourselves of that as we pull our loved ones close and tight.

I keep returning to the image of that old oak in our backyard. Steady and defiant. Katrina couldn’t defeat it. What has it seen and heard?

Willian Faulkner’s words interrupt my thoughts: “that when the last dingdong of doom has changed and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound….”

The limbs sway with the gust of winter’s wind. The roots seemingly stretch out and dive deeper into the sandy soil. Laughter and shouts can be heard at the kitchen window. The old man’s eyes glimmer. The Christmas baby smiles her beautiful smile as her children and grandchildren hug and kiss, pray and shout, “Glory to God in the Highest.” The old oak speaks. We will more than endure. We will prevail.

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