The missing Christmas Letter
When I was in college, Christmas of 1997, my mom gave me a tiny Christmas tree, only about 12 inches tall, to decorate my room and for good luck on my final exams. I put this little tree up somewhere, decorated in the same dollar store ornaments, every year. I took this little tree with me after graduation and proudly displayed it on my first coffee table in my little one bedroom apartment I had in Richmond, VA. It came with me back to Northern VA where I moved back home after feeling defeated from what felt like a failed attempt at what I always thought I wanted to do for my career. It moved with me into one of my best friends home she bought where I rented a room as I began a new career. It moved with me down to North Carolina as I married Brian and became Mrs. Reynolds. We proudly found a place for it somewhere in our first little home we had together as we celebrated our first Christmas. It moved with us to our new home where we then welcomed Taylor and then Parker. I packed it up with things I cherished the most as we moved again into a larger home to accommodate a new baby we were expecting, Charlotte. I have put it up every single year. But every single New Year’s Day, when I take it down...I have a ritual that began all those years ago. I write myself a small note...a brief Christmas Letter.
Back in my early 20s, the letter would be like a pep talk. I felt lost and confused and heart broken. Aren’t the 20s similar to the years of teen angst?! I was unhappy in my job, had zero nickles to rub together, heart broken over boyfriends or something. They touched on highs and lows of the year. And although I had such great friends and lots of fun in my 20s, I was searching for something more. Then came Brian and this life we created with these three beautiful souls. And those letters became flowing words of love and blessings and cherished moments. No matter where I was in life, these letters to myself always seemed to have a common core about them. They would always end with how excited I was for the next year to come. How I couldn’t wait to see what was in store for the new year. Always hopeful.
This tree stood 12 inches tall decked out in dollar store ornaments through career changes, broken hearts, break ups, our engagement, a new dog Lucy, new homes and jobs, a lost pregnancy that wasn’t meant to be, the birth of Taylor and Parker and Charlotte...and the letters written though short and sweet seemed to always embody gratitude and hope and faith.
Today, something reminded me of my little tree and I stopped in my tracks. I couldn’t remember writing myself a letter last Christmas. I know we decorated, even though we spent Christmas apart as Charlotte was going through her second transplant. I know I put my little tree up where I usually do, on the hall table upstairs. But did I ever write my letter? Surly I must have written something after the year we had been through. But I couldn’t rememer doing so or what I would have said. So, I immediately ran up to the attic. For some reason I had to read what I wrote. I assumed my little shoe box containing my little tree would be hard to find, buried with all the Christmas decorations. But miraculously, it was sitting there in plain view! Right on top of another box. I grabbed it and ran down stairs while Charlotte was taking a nap and opened it up. I looked through my little stack of letters and the last one written was from January 2016. Probably weeks before we started seeing changes in Charlotte. Written before we knew she had cancer. And I didn’t write a letter to myself last Christmas. I guess I couldn’t find the words somehow. If this blog is evidence to Charlotte one day, I usually am not at a loss for words. But I think my heart couldn’t find words last year. And after thinking about where we were at, I can’t blame it. Last Christmas, we were in the thick of it. Charlotte was having such a hard time during that second transplant...we were all just holding on. I think I was afraid it was going to be our last Christmas as we knew it. I was afraid it could be Charlotte’s last. And I thought I could never have read that letter if we lost her. That I could never have opened the little shoe box where my little tree stays with it’s stack of old letters tucked in next to it ever again.
But now I know. I would have been wrong. Now I know this because I am changed. We made it through and so did Charlotte. But we still will never know if this is the last Christmas or birthday or anything as we know it. Really none of us do. I like to think that letter that was never written would have been hopeful. I always felt hopeful although some days we felt shaken and so uncertain. Maybe it would have depended on where my mind was at on that day that never happened. For the first time, I couldn’t write my Christmas letter to myself. So this Christmas, I will put up my little tree like I always do. And after New Years, I will take it down and find a quiet moment to write myself a letter. I don’t know what I will say but I know in my bones, deep in my heart, it will continue the hopeful tone of those in the past. Because if we don’t have hope, what do we have?
Tomorrow is my birthday. I will get to wake up to the 3 little faces that are my true life’s work and wake up next to my husband and best friend. We will get Thanksgiving, and Taylor’s birthday, Christmas Eve and Christmas, New Years Eve and New Year’s Day home. We won’t be inpatient watching our baby suffer and fight. We will be home. What a gift❤️🌈Thank you God.
Back in my early 20s, the letter would be like a pep talk. I felt lost and confused and heart broken. Aren’t the 20s similar to the years of teen angst?! I was unhappy in my job, had zero nickles to rub together, heart broken over boyfriends or something. They touched on highs and lows of the year. And although I had such great friends and lots of fun in my 20s, I was searching for something more. Then came Brian and this life we created with these three beautiful souls. And those letters became flowing words of love and blessings and cherished moments. No matter where I was in life, these letters to myself always seemed to have a common core about them. They would always end with how excited I was for the next year to come. How I couldn’t wait to see what was in store for the new year. Always hopeful.
This tree stood 12 inches tall decked out in dollar store ornaments through career changes, broken hearts, break ups, our engagement, a new dog Lucy, new homes and jobs, a lost pregnancy that wasn’t meant to be, the birth of Taylor and Parker and Charlotte...and the letters written though short and sweet seemed to always embody gratitude and hope and faith.
Today, something reminded me of my little tree and I stopped in my tracks. I couldn’t remember writing myself a letter last Christmas. I know we decorated, even though we spent Christmas apart as Charlotte was going through her second transplant. I know I put my little tree up where I usually do, on the hall table upstairs. But did I ever write my letter? Surly I must have written something after the year we had been through. But I couldn’t rememer doing so or what I would have said. So, I immediately ran up to the attic. For some reason I had to read what I wrote. I assumed my little shoe box containing my little tree would be hard to find, buried with all the Christmas decorations. But miraculously, it was sitting there in plain view! Right on top of another box. I grabbed it and ran down stairs while Charlotte was taking a nap and opened it up. I looked through my little stack of letters and the last one written was from January 2016. Probably weeks before we started seeing changes in Charlotte. Written before we knew she had cancer. And I didn’t write a letter to myself last Christmas. I guess I couldn’t find the words somehow. If this blog is evidence to Charlotte one day, I usually am not at a loss for words. But I think my heart couldn’t find words last year. And after thinking about where we were at, I can’t blame it. Last Christmas, we were in the thick of it. Charlotte was having such a hard time during that second transplant...we were all just holding on. I think I was afraid it was going to be our last Christmas as we knew it. I was afraid it could be Charlotte’s last. And I thought I could never have read that letter if we lost her. That I could never have opened the little shoe box where my little tree stays with it’s stack of old letters tucked in next to it ever again.
But now I know. I would have been wrong. Now I know this because I am changed. We made it through and so did Charlotte. But we still will never know if this is the last Christmas or birthday or anything as we know it. Really none of us do. I like to think that letter that was never written would have been hopeful. I always felt hopeful although some days we felt shaken and so uncertain. Maybe it would have depended on where my mind was at on that day that never happened. For the first time, I couldn’t write my Christmas letter to myself. So this Christmas, I will put up my little tree like I always do. And after New Years, I will take it down and find a quiet moment to write myself a letter. I don’t know what I will say but I know in my bones, deep in my heart, it will continue the hopeful tone of those in the past. Because if we don’t have hope, what do we have?
Tomorrow is my birthday. I will get to wake up to the 3 little faces that are my true life’s work and wake up next to my husband and best friend. We will get Thanksgiving, and Taylor’s birthday, Christmas Eve and Christmas, New Years Eve and New Year’s Day home. We won’t be inpatient watching our baby suffer and fight. We will be home. What a gift❤️🌈Thank you God.
This is your letter for January 2017 and all of the year. Always enjoy reading your words, Jennifer. Happy birthday!
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