Christmas touches all the sentimental spots on my memory card, the memories oozing from the deep like the chocolate from a lava cake. Even though Karen and I have been married 36 years—even though we have three adult sons and have lived in our own home for 25 of those—most of my Christmas memories are framed in the deep reds and warm browns of my childhood home.
That’s where I fidgeted my way to sleep as a five-year-old after the late-night candlelight service at Calvary Presbyterian, lying in bed, listening for sounds on the roof and concerned for the future of the cookies I’d left on the mantle. That’s where my brothers and I knelt in the hallway like runners at the starting gun, waiting for my dad to say it was okay to come out. That’s where I brought my girlfriend— then fiance’—eventually wife—then children, pulling the minivan into the driveway late at night, the snow just starting to fall. That’s where we unloaded our suitcases and bags of gifts, and exclaimed how good it was to be home before taking over the place like holiday travelers stuck at the airport.
That’s where my parents created the Christmas wonderland known as 355 Poplar Avenue.
The tree in the corner by the knotty pine bookcase, filled with ornaments from family travels. The village of figurines, teeming with leaden life collected over decades from antique shops and set for display on the table my dad built just for the season. The unduluating wave of smells emanating from the kitchen, where most of the maple rolls didn’t survive the opening salvo but the rest of Christmas dinner was making our bellies believe there is always room for more.
The family would spread around the living room in the usual spots; Mom and Dad on the sofa, the rest of us on the floor or the red chair or the lounge by the TV. I can see us clear as day. Me and my brothers in our polyester outfits from the 70s; my own boys in their elementary years, their infectious smiles and bright-eyed anticipation giving forth that itchy Christmas energy. Then began the passing of the presents – the main event for those under 12. The sequence, youngest to oldest. The tearing open of packages. The inevitable appearance of my dad’s pocket knife for the stubborn boxes. The oohs and aahs of the spectators, the sweaters held up for sizing, the books passed around for perusing, the wooden puzzles aggrieved at their solving. A particular favorite for me were the instrument years – a drum set, a banjo, a guitar.
Afterwards, the fireplace would be bright with a wrapping-paper infused flame (at least, before the gas insert was installed) as we stacked our loot and began the migration to the dining room table. Later, after the food was devoured, the table cleared, and the dishes done, we’d set up Monopoly or Trivial Pursuit or Risk while mom fell asleep on the couch, her selfless efforts finally taking their toll.
I treasure those memories. They bring forth a rich channel of emotions from deep within– joy and sadness, gratitude and grief, satisfaction and longing–all mixed together like clothes in a laundry basket at the end of the day. I don’t think about it until it makes itself known. And that’s what happened this morning the minute I woke up on Christmas Eve.
The poetic Welsh have the perfect word for these feelings.
Hiraeth (Welsh pronunciation: [hɪraɨ̯θ, hiːrai̯θ][1]) a homesickness tinged with grief and sadness; a mixture of longing, yearning, nostalgia, wistfulness or an earnest desire for the past.
It’s a Hiraeth kind of day today, Christmas Eve, 2024.
Don’t misunderstand. I’m happy. In a few hours, we’ll celebrate together with two thirds of our sons. Karen has been busy baking. The house smells great. The presents are wrapped. We’ll go to church, and as soon as possible, hurry home to open presents and eat wings we ordered from the local deli.
Still, there’s a longing in me that I’m trying hard to describe. I’m not ungrateful in the least. Quite the opposite. But I am by nature a person haunted by Hiraeth.
The Christmas I described above last took place in 2014. My parents' decline, followed by the sale of the house and their eventual passing, brought an end to those gatherings. Most days I’m fine with it. Some days I feel like my car broke down on the turnpike and it’s cold and the wind is blowing and I’ve locked my keys inside and I don’t know how I’m going to get home.
It makes me wonder: Those feelings must come from somewhere. Surely they can’t be the random ignition of synapses in an animal brain. No, they must be a hint of something else, of a place yet to be discovered, a truth still being told and a time beyond time. They are a compass, a token, a clue, a crumb dropped on the trail.
We have two daughters-in-law now, Alli and Skye. They never got to experience those Christmas moments with us. Alli and Jon began dating in high school. Alli met my parents, though never at their full strength. I still have a voicemail from my dad expressing his best wishes for their wedding day in 2017. “My grandfather told me to love her well,” Jon would later write in a song. Tom’s wife Skye joined our family a little over a year ago, a beautiful soul and a story with a twist so remarkable it could only have been written by the divine. They are both answers to prayer. My parents would have adored them.
But Alli and Skye have never gotten the whole picture. I wish I could take them back—like a benevolent version of the Ghost of Christmas Past—to Indiana and our home on Christmas Day. I wish my parents could welcome them at the door, hug them, and enjoy more female presence for a change. I wish Alli and Skye could see and smell the house, sit by the fire, play ping-pong in the basement, laugh at our family banter, and feel the warmth of those moments that made us all who we are, Andersons at Christmas, in the house painted red.
It occurred to me, as I woke up today, immediately encased in Hiraeth, that perhaps they will. Perhaps that’s what Hiraeth is—a teaser of what is to come. Perhaps the afterlife is the languid passing of time as it circles back on itself, reconnecting and reliving our best moments in a circle of joy and satisfaction, bringing everything and everyone together as only God can. Perhaps someday all the dots connect, and we get to experience the fullness of every moment that made us who we are, all at once, with everyone we love, in the perpetuity and permanence of God’s presence, as he smiles at us with the warmth of a father who has all his children home for the holiday.
Perhaps Hiraeth is the trailer, and the show is about to start.
That’s what I’m feeling today. Maybe you feel that way, too. If so, it’s okay if we disappear for a while. We have someplace to go.