Delayed Christmas Letters
Christmas Day three years ago was the day I ceased praying.
Circumstances temporarily afforded us a beatific view from the top, like angels, but hanging in mid-air for so long was tiresome, and eventually, we had to come back down to the ground.
We had to stop pretending we had wings.
It wasn't Immaculate Conception that had you and mama fussing over their newborn child -- the savior -- and had prompted the twenty-year marriage. Growing up, I realized it wasn't love, either.
That Christmas, I had to believe in something other than eternal love, miracles, forgiveness, salvation. I had to anchor my faith on something other than that clump of stars that formed rosary beads in the sky (that I wished upon as a child), other than "A family that prays together, stays together".
That Christmas, I mouthed my last prayer:
Father, forgive us our sins.
Father forgive yourself, for you did not know what you were doing.
In everything, Father, your will be done.
Christmastime years ago was when, after we prayed for a safe drive home, you smashed the car onto the pavement and the five of us nearly plummeted down a ravine.
It wasn't so much a quick swerve that triggered the crash as it was a slow cruise along a curved path. We knew where we were going but we ignored the warning sign saying the road was accident-prone.
I knew then that not every sign of the cross will guarantee security. Not every prayer will be answered.
The day you said you wouldn't be home for Christmas was the day you didn't say you wouldn't be coming home for good.
ellievsbear
