That was the moment the Christmas excitement started to build for my three big brothers, two little sisters, and me. There was something about the colored lights that put smiles on our faces.
My brothers would help Dad attach the bulbs to the tree branches with the clips on the bases of the bulbs. It was probably one of those rare times when I sat still, absorbed in watching the boys do their job.
The next step was placing the decorations on the tree. Because we kids were about half as tall as the tree, the bulk of the ornaments hoarded the lower branches. When Mom brought out the bag of crinkled-up tinsel, she gave instructions to place one strand on each branch. That lasted about, well, one branch, and next thing you knew the giggles took over and the tinsel was tossed toward the top of the tree.
The final touch, the star, was set on top by Dad.
I didn’t know there was a difference in Christmas lights until I went to a friend’s house for her birthday party. Sue’s family had a white flocked tree. It was stunning the way the branches gleamed with the red twinkle lights. I had never seen anything so elegant.
Another of my friends had an aluminum tree. I was pulled toward the shimmering branches with the perfectly placed ornaments. Instead of the string of lights, an electric rotating color wheel was placed under the tree, and I remember being mesmerized by the change of brilliant colors from red to blue to green. I remember thinking it was one of the most beautiful trees I had ever seen.
Grandma and Grandpa Anderson’s tree was probably still my favorite. They had bubble lights. I remember sitting on the couch next to their tree, my head resting on my crossed arms, watching the colored water bubble up from the bowls at the bases of the bulbs.
Waiting to open presents had to be the worst part about Christmas. I knew which packages under the tree were mine long before it was time to open them. There wasn’t really much to do except watch the pretty colored water bubble up to the tops of bulbs and dream about what toy might have been bought special for me.
Christmas looked very much the same until I was 8 years old. Grandpa Anderson died on Oct. 3, 1969. It was my first experience with death, and I didn’t like watching Mom and Grandma cry. I don’t remember much about that Christmas, without Grandpa, but I’m sure the adults did their best to make it as normal as possible for us kids. Grandma still put up her bubble lights.
During my teen years, I was too busy to help with the tree. I had a job. Friends. Christmas was different. At that point, I didn’t even know who put the lights on the tree. But I was glad someone did.
The next time I noticed the tree lights I was in my 20s and in the hospital playroom with my 4-year-old son Ryan. He had woken that morning with swollen eyelids. After a battery of tests, the doctor diagnosed him with nephrotic syndrome. I didn’t know what that was, but I felt safe under the care of the doctor. When he advised we admit Ryan in the hospital, I figured he knew best, and I went home to pack an overnight bag. I also grabbed my craft bag. I was in the midst of finishing up a Christmas craft project.
Sitting in the waiting room, cutting felt and hand-sewing decorations gave me joy. I embellished each one with beads and sequins. When one was finished, I’d dangle it near the side-table lamp with a childlike delight in watching the ornament twinkle.
It took me days to realize the seriousness of my son’s disease. When I did, I found myself in the darkest place I’d ever known. I felt ashamed of my behavior. I was crafting while my son was fighting for his life.
An appointment was made with a specialist in Duluth on Christmas Eve. The doctor visit was brief but calming. The doctor assured me my son was already getting the best care possible; he wouldn’t have done anything differently. He also explained how the medicine, prednisone, was supposed to work on the kidneys, and that it was working. Even though it was likely that Ryan would need another round of treatment, it was probable he would outgrow the illness.
I remember thinking that I had just witnessed a miracle.
When we brought Ryan home from the hospital that night, I remember the thankfulness I felt when we decorated our Christmas tree. I pulled my craft bag from the pile of luggage and took out those all-important ornaments that were finished. I watched my son with a new understanding of how precious his life was, not to be taken for granted.
That night, after Ryan went to bed, I took a moment alone to appreciate the Christmas tree. The colorful lights took me back to the beginning of the journey that started only a week before. The beauty I imagined for those handmade ornaments, with their sequins twinkling in the light, was there. But it was different. Just like me. When I reached over to touch the soft fabric, the shame I was carrying for days was replaced. A forgiveness passed over me.
When I settled on the floor and looked toward the star, I was reminded that Christmas was truly about Jesus’ birth, love, and forgiveness. For the first time in a very long time, I could smile and let the twinkles, colors, and designs find the childlike joy and wonder inside of me.
Doris Rauschenbach is a writer in Ashland and a regular contributor to the News Tribune Opinion page. Her website is doriswrites.com and she can be followed at facebook.com/DorisWrites. She can be contacted at doris.author@gmail.com or at P.O. Box 1024, Ashland WI 54806.
2019-12-22 12:02:54Z
https://www.duluthnewstribune.com/opinion/columns/4831954-Local-View-Column-The-lights-never-twinkled-brighter-than-the-year-of-the-hospital-visit
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