For the first three years after my Father died, my Mother refused to put up a Christmas tree. Christmas had been a beloved holiday for both my parents, and my Father spent countless hours each year setting up the Snow Village, outdoor lights and other decorations.
Only after we moved Mother from Albuquerque to Dallas to be nearer us for care did she consent to put up a small Christmas tree in her retirement community apartment. The only problem: None of her Christmas tree ornaments could be found. For the next six years. We had to assume that the box of ornaments had been misplaced, perhaps given away, in one of a series of moves and downsizings.
The loss pained Mother every Christmas for the rest of her life, and we heard about it frequently. Despite searching high and low, we never solved the mystery of the missing Christmas ornaments. Another insult in the indignity of aging and failing health, both mental and physical.
A few months after Mother died, we were having some work done at our house that required me to clear a path in the attic. That day, as I climbed the attic stairs and pulled the chain for the light, a box caught my eye. It was labeled in the distinctive handwriting of my Father: “Christmas Ornaments.” My heart sank. I had searched the attic before, years before, and didn’t see this box. Yet here it was, mystery solved.
Only it was too late.
I’m a fixer, and of all the things I wished I could have solved for Mother, these lost Christmas ornaments symbolized my inability to set things straight. I’m still not sure why this small matter continues to hold such sway over my emotions. In every other respect, I have no guilt about the extensive care both my wife and I gave Mother as she suffered from vascular dementia, congestive heart failure and kidney failure. It is fair to say that we did everything we possibly could to make her last years safe and dignified.
And yet we couldn’t find the Christmas ornaments. Now, I wish I never had found them. I wish they really had been given away accidentally. Because finding them in the attic pounded home the painful truth that not even a fixer like me can fix every pain of the past.
Last night, I sat at the kitchen table and unpacked all the found ornaments, placing them all out in an array. I also filled about a fourth of a trash bag with broken and crumbling ornaments, victims of spending more than a decade in hot attic.
The verdict: No great treasures. Yes, I unearthed a few nicer keepsakes that we’ll add to our tree this year, but nothing worth the years of frustration we had endured. So why did I continue to beat myself up for not finding the ornaments earlier?
To borrow a phrase from Disney, maybe it’s time to “let it go.” And isn’t that what we all need in this Advent season? Don’t we all need to acknowledge that none of us can solve every problem? Rather than tying ourselves in emotional knots about family and friends, fears and inadequacies, give yourself the gift of freedom: “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”