I wish I had some lovely picture to attach to this blog, something that was stunning in its composition and was the perfect blend of joy and nostalgia and confusion and sadness that I feel. But all that's on my camera are pics of the intersection of Western and Pratt Avenues, and a couple pictures of my husband poking himself in the nose.
I'm writing this from San Jose, California. Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker Suite has been set to animation of Tom and Jerry, and my mother-in-law is slouching in a fashion reminiscent of my husband's watching it silently, rapt. Northern Cali is temperate for December; I am without my family, a family that would be trying their best to enjoy the holiday with me but I'd be struggling with our special brand of dysfunction. Instead I'm struggling with the Chang brand of dysfunction.
As a child I used to love Christmas. I was so excited by the darkness and the lights, the joy of opening amazingly gorgeously wrapped presents, the moving mystery of celebrating the birth of Christ. I used to get so excited about Christmas cookies and crackers and fresh fir trees. There was just so much magic in the season.
Now, all the magic is gone. I reminisced today about the day I found out there was no Santa Claus. There are no cookies, there are few around me who feel the way I do about the mysterious, spiritual nature of this holiday.
Tonight my Favorite and I are going to a late-night Christmas service. It's the first time I've done something like that. I pray for candles and carols and contemplation, and a remembrance of Christ. I pray that He still has the power to remind me of what I love about Christmas.