The Forgotten Christmas 

She wrote her Christmas cards that afternoon, looking out at the cold, drab December garden.  The wind tormented the last of the russet leaves, teasing them into small piles around the stone steps.  She had performed this task, at the same time, as regular as clockwork, for the past 44 years; and the simple pattern of this routine gave her a strange sense of comfort and security. 

She lived alone now, and as she thumbed through her aged address book she noted that many of the old names had been crossed out and new ones were scribbled in, in odd corners or under the crossings out.  She really must write out a new address book in the New Year, and yet there was something nostalgic about the old one, which would be hard to part with.  Strange, she thought, just like life really - old things gently disappearing, though not forgotten, just crossed out; and new things emerging to fill in the gaps. 

Perhaps after all Christmas was a kind of “stocktaking” event, when people could reassess the progress of their lives, whilst they wrote their Christmas cards. She had done her Christmas shopping, such as it was, early this year, in order to avoid the predicted “rush”.  There still seemed to be a lot of people about - perhaps they were all doing the same thing. 

There had been a time when she had revelled in frantic last minute Christmas shopping, thrilling to the sound of festive music in all the shops and carol singers on street corners.  She had loved the happy, excited faces of all around her.  Now it was a necessary chore and it was becoming more and more of a burden as she got older.  Where was the magic of the Yuletide season?  Even seeing her Grandchildren opening their presents no longer gave her joy.  

How could she hope to recapture a lost dream?  Had she simply grown out of Christmas? She wandered into the kitchen to make a cup of tea, turning on the television as she did so.  To her absolute horror she saw scenes of utter devastation, as mudslides and torrential rain in the Italian Alps annihilated an entire village; and helpless people, belongings, buildings and cars were deluged by the water and swept along in the fierce currents of the swollen river. 

There poor people would not be celebrating Christmas this year, and here was she, lamenting the loss of her enthusiasm and excitement.  She was lucky to be alive! She turned again to her recently arranged decorations and cards and they now looked quite beautiful.  It would be fun to be with her family for a few days.  She would enjoy the Sunday School Christmas Party and going to Midnight Mass and singing her favourite carols. 

The turkey and mince pies were always a great success and she could escape to her bedroom and read one of her new books if she didn’t want to watch endless television.  Best of all she had a future, and God willing she would be writing her cards again next year.  She was still healthy and strong and she loved life with a passion, if she allowed herself to do so.  She had new friends and interests and her world was still a beautiful place. 

Like Ebenezer Scrooge she had been given a glimpse of what Christmas would be like for millions of less fortunate people throughout the world, and it had reminded her of the valuable lessons of love and thankfulness.  

After all, wasn’t this what Christmas was all about anyway? 

Written by Elizabeth Hooley - December 2006