It's Not That I Hate It

I care deeply about the meaning of Christmas.  But that has very little to do with the vast majority of how Christmas arrives in every inch of space around me.  Perhaps I am ambivalent toward the actual day, December 25.  But it's not that I hate it.

This was Robb's favorite time of year.  He came alive.  If his favorite season were summertime, then I imagine I would have these flashbacks and waves of emotion attached to warm breezes and the scent of suntan lotion.  But Robb lit up over Christmas.  Everything about it.  That man could stretch one holiday in to a full two months: one-sixth of the year.

How beautiful is the irony that there were Christmas trees at his funeral.  How beautiful the gift that he got to be in heaven for the real Celebration.

In part, Christmas will forever carry the anniversary of the day everything changed.

And in greater part, the Christmas season will be forever sweeter in my heart because of my husband's full embrace of all things red, green, sparkled, snowy, tagged, and wrapped.