Tradition

Jonah was a tradition super fan. Not only did he love all the long-established traditions in our family, but he loved declaring something a new tradition. In recent years, our new traditions began to include a Christmas movie each night in December, Christmas music from the day after Thanksgiving on, binging the Great British Baking Show together, and subsequent Christmas baking projects with mom (cookies, treats, even a yule log - he had already been talking about doing that one again this year).

We had traditions around the Christmas tree selection, the night we decorated the tree, when and how we decorated the house, what movies we watched and when, what music we listened to and when. He kept them. He insisted upon them. He loved them. His joy was a wave that swept through us all, carrying us through this season in such a state of gratitude and laughter and love. 

And Christmas morning was the zenith of our family expression of Christmas tradition. Just the four of us, matching jammies, opening stockings first, then gifts, sipping coffee and munching on Swedish almond kringle (no raisins, please), laughing and telling each other how much we loved each other. We bought gifts for each other that were either practical and desired, or truly funny. Each of us would look all year for gifts that would make each other laugh, even custom making some around our own inside jokes. Jonah had grown into an exceptional gift giver. Every year he would give me the most thoughtful things. An engraved necklace or an etched coffee mug with a Mama Bear and two baby bears. I would open them, truly touched. I would look over to him and there he would be, face gentle, soft eyes filled with such love, smiling in delight. 

“I love you, Momma,” he would say with such tenderness. 

“Love you too, Jojo.” 

The very last gifts under the tree were always from me to all three of the men in the house. Nerf guns. In our basement we have an arsenal of nerf weapons, bullets, and cartridges of every shape and size imaginable. Christmas evidence of 20 years. As Jonah, Christian and Eli ripped open the last gifts, you could see the strategy beginning to take shape in their minds. While I settled in on the couch, coffee in hand, basking in the glow of a completed, successful Christmas and filled to the absolute brim with love for my men, the epic annual nerf battle would begin. For an hour, the three of them would battle throughout the house, darts flying. Laughing, shouting with surprise, utter delight, and playfulness ringing through the rooms. It was the very best thing. By the end they were all sweating, red-faced, laughing, and satisfied. The perfect punctuation to our little family Christmas before getting dressed and heading to a day of big family Christmas. 

He loved it all so much. He would talk about how fun it would be to one day introduce his wife to our special thing. Like a gift he would give her. The very best thing in his dowry. This, this is my family. This is how we love each other. I couldn’t wait either. I was ready to welcome her in, whoever that would be. I was ready for grandchildren to come. I was ready for the years to unfold, where Christmas morning would find me curled on the couch, sipping coffee, and watching the legacy of joy grow larger around me. 

And now the beautiful thing we made has been unmade. 

This year I am slow. I don’t know how we will do this yet. Not this year. Not in the 50 years yet to come without him. The pain will be exquisite every year, I know. But that’s the bargain, isn’t it? When you love deeply, you hurt deeply. I will spend the rest of my lifetime coming to realize the true depth, breadth and endlessness of my love for my Jonah as sorrow burrows into every cell, memory, and breath I carry. 

I am actually glad there is no snow yet because it lets me pretend Christmas is still far away. We have no lights up yet. No tree yet. No Christmas music is playing. No Christmas movies have been watched. I almost would prefer to cut myself off from it, cold turkey, than wade through these memories and try to recreate again this year what will be impossible to recreate. A disturbing paint by numbers, attempting to mimic a masterpiece. A holiday deformed by the horrible realization I cannot have the beautiful thing anymore.

But then there is Elijah. He deserves to have stability and memory and traditions. And as his mom, I will willingly absorb all the pain to give it to him. We will begin to try and make something new because we must. There will forever be a before and after now. There are things we will likely never do again, or maybe just once more before letting it float away. I just don’t know. 

But I do have faith. I have already seen beauty come from this pain. New beauty that I would have never seen otherwise. And there are so many people praying for us, supporting us, making us laugh, weeping with us. Such mercy. And I know Jonah is here and will be here sitting right next to me on Christmas morning, wherever that finds me. 

And I know he will never let me go, because love like ours cannot be separated.