The Christmas Letter

The infamous “Christmas Letter” is something that has always eluded me. I don’t come from a family that sent out Christmas cards or letters with any degree of regularity. But, we did receive them on a consistent basis.

As a kid, it seemed that most of the letters to come to our home were from people I vaguely knew and that my parents only tangentially cared about keeping up with. My family was on their list for all of eternity given that we had lived down the street from them 16 years earlier, but otherwise, we had no interaction with these people. Hence, their annual letters created a unique vantage point from which to create an mental image of their family.

We received letters from some of the most nauseatingly perfect people on the planet. They must have been – you should have seen the pictures. Their kids were geniuses, excelling at everything they ever attempted, from sports to arts to academics to music. Their fathers had the Midas touch: the wealthy business man, still available for his kids’ activities and single-handedly running the local branch of the church in which he served. The mothers vacationed to exotic locations, participated in civic organizations, canned and read, home-schooled and fed many children and still found time to write and distribute to far-flung friends these annual lists of their accomplishments in rhyme.

In 2000, Jeffrey wrote a Christmas letter for my family. It spoke in glowing terms of all we had done that year: my parents’ trip to a private castle in France, my sister, Erin, bringing home an African Native from her trip to Kenya -- who was living in a tent in our backyard -- and Jeffrey and I traveling to Florida to single-handedly resolve the issues posed by hanging chads. It was a beauty. It had all the elements of a terrific Christmas letter, and my mom sent it out on time. Only, it wasn’t completely true.

As Jeffrey and I have settled in to fully-functioning adult life, with kids and a mortgage, a steady job and a mini-van, I have wondered how to navigate the Christmas letter situation for myself.

Do I just send a card, a nice picture of Santa, a tree, a manger, or some other holiday implement on the front and write “Love, The Merchants” on the inside?

Do I tackle a Christmas picture to include? Do I just do the kids? What about the whole family?

I have traditionally left the adults out, but then, I wonder when I get those cards – what do the parents look like? Are they really still around? They are the people I really know anyway, and while I now have proof of their fertility, I wonder about them. So maybe I need the whole family. Then, again, I would rather include a picture of my adorable children and leave up to the imagination how well Jeffrey and I are aging.

And, that does not even begin to contemplate the famous letter insert.

Do I need to include a letter? Should it rhyme? Should it have a theme? Should it be just a list or actual text? How long is too long? How much do people really want to know? Maybe, I should try out the old satire route again.

Aaaa! So many decisions.

And now, in the digital age, there is a whole other conundrum. What about the e-letter or e-card? Does it count the same if you send a digital picture and email greeting?

It is definitely cheaper, but is it cheap?

And, then, what happens to empty card holders and the inability to flaunt all the cards your family has received this year from all the friends that you have.

With all these questions bouncing around in my head, with traditions and etiquette, propriety and a desire to put my best foot forward all weighing down my mind, I assembled a Christmas card for this year. It is simple. It has a picture of the whole family (since I have one I like this year). It says “Merry Christmas Love, The Merchants” and it refers people here, to our blog, if they are curious for more information.

The perfect balance? A tacky choice? The lazy approach to just getting it done? I don’t know. But, if you are finding yourself here for the first time, or the hundredth, as a result of receiving our Christmas card, then here is my rationale.

I figure this way you can get as much or as little information about our family as you want. Where two years ago we sent out a card sharing our new contact information and the news that we had moved across the country and last year we sent out birth announcements with our Christmas card introducing our little Elisabeth Jane, this year we have just held steady.

We still live in Virginia, outside of Washington, DC. We still have three little girls, as you can tell from the picture. Jeffrey still works as an attorney doing appeals for the US Department of Agriculture. The kids go to school, dance, play soccer, ice skate, eat everything they touch (at least the one year old), love to visit family in Utah, and keep us on our toes. Life is plugging along. That’s it. Not very Christmas card worthy, huh? But, if you want to know more about how it really works, about what we think and feel and say and do every day at the Merchants, then you can find it here.

If you want to send a note to us, you can do that here. If you hardly remember us and don’t want to receive any more of the Christmas cards, you can leave that information here too. If you want to keep up more regularly on all that is happening with us, or just read the random items I choose to write, then you can do that here too (usually about once a week).

In sum, this is the means I have created to keep friends and family apprised of all we are doing. And, so, I am trying it out as the venue for the Christmas letter. The ideal blend of tangible paper sent by the postal service to your home and digital access to more information than you ever really wanted.

In the meantime, every day, I go to my mailbox and receive another Christmas card, or two, or three. I open it with excitement. It is a friend, a cousin, a former co-worker, a sibling. It really doesn’t matter; I read it with anticipation. I hang the card or picture in the entry-way of my home. My hall fills with guests, with warm, smiling faces. I am visited by friends and family, old acquaintances and new.

Unlike my childhood recollections, these cards don’t seem to come from near-strangers, or people I barely recall, they come from loved ones, who often I never hear from the rest of the year. And, as their messages of family, of hope and faith, as their tales of accomplishment or adventures from the year, as the details of their lives cram the walls near my door, my home seems to fill with just a little more love, with the comfort and joy of friendship. And, I feel less alone, less forgotten and far away from dear ones as I celebrate Christmas here in Virginia.

I can only hope my card and message helps you to feel that in your homes too.

Sincerely wishing you all the merriest of holiday seasons, the joy of family and friends, and the brightest of hopes for a new year,

The Merchants.


PS- We love real visitors just as much as the paper ones we get at Christmas.

Thanks living

I learned yesterday that my dear friend Giny passed away on Thanksgiving Day.

How vulnerable is the human condition. While I believe in the immortality of the human spirit, I still stand aghast at the stark end that death represents. Afterlife aside, the truth is that today, she is gone. And today, I am so very sad. I mourn the loss of someone I loved -- someone who enriched my life.

I met Giny over six years ago when her family moved into the house two doors down from ours on Browning Avenue. I walked over with Mia in her stroller on a late summer evening and presented a paper bag filled with peaches from our tree. Giny smiled and laughed remarking how, "Peaches are so much better than cookies at this house," while Peter and Cristina, then four and two, peeked around her legs.

Giny was older than me, her dark, curly hair was graying, and sometimes she would joke that she should dye it, but she never did. She had grown up in Guatemala, coming to the US in her youth, and had helped her parents and siblings adjust. She served as a missionary, went to college, worked, and later in life than I think she would have expected, married and had two children. Her husband, Andrei is quiet, but one of the kindest men I have known, and she would have agreed. He did not share her faith, but he supported her fully in her religious observance. While expecting and welcoming the birth of their second child, a daughter, Giny and Andrei were devastated with the discovery of their son's autism. But, two more devoted parents may not exist in this world. Peter's progress, the hope of his development and even recovery, consumed much of their lives.

Giny's life demonstrated conviction and dedication to the things that mattered the most to her, even when it would have been easy to retreat. She was devoted to her religious beliefs; she studied and she governed her life based on a firm testimony in Jesus Christ. She found comfort and purpose in prayer, even for the things that seemed beyond reason or explanation.

She was a mother I longed to emulate in so many ways. Giny knew how to clear her life and make time for her children. She played with them; she explored with them; she talked to them and listened to them; she taught them. Feeling that her son consumed a lot of family resources, she kept her daughter home for school to develop a one-on-one relationship with her. On days when I would be stressed about cleaning and tasks, Giny would be taking her kids on a great outing. I still want to be more like her.

Giny was unencumbered by so many of the things of this world. She was one of the least materialistic people I have known. She put time, thought, and energy into what mattered most.

Giny was a ready friend, to everyone, but especially to me. I knew that all I needed to do was walk out my door and I would find a friend. And, my children knew it too. Her door, her gate, and her heart were always wide open to our family. Mia would invite herself regularly into the backyard to dig in the sand or swing on the swings. She and Maggie were always generously welcomed at Giny's home.

I treasure the times we spent watching the kids play, talking and laughing into the evening.

The thing about Giny was she was always totally honest. It is hard to find friends willing to just tell you what they think, but she did. She didn't hide or pretend to be something she wasn't, and so neither did I. We could talk about our struggles with children, our hopes and disappointments, and even our fears. We could build up our faith and share our thoughts.

Of any attribute, I think I loved Giny's laugh the most. It just came to her so easily. She knew how to delight in simple things and found joy in them. Her laughter was contagious. Even now, the thought of it, brings a smile.

Giny watched my girls when I had to work, helped me pick peaches, and made me soup when I was sick. The Sunday before we left Salt Lake for Virginia, Giny gave the prayer in church. With tears she asked that our family would be watched over and blessed and thanked the Lord for the times we had shared.

I have longed for many things that we left behind in Salt Lake. I have missed my walkable neighborhood and the sense of community. I have fondly remembered snowy days and tree-lined streets, the proximity to the city and the mountains. I have wished I could send Mia and Maggie to dance classes and art programs at the University and longed to be close to family. But, of all I left behind, I wonder if I have missed Giny the most.

I have missed having someone to watch my kids, who I never doubted really loved them. I have wished so often to walk out my door and see her up the street, or for Cristina to come over to play and to sit on the front porch and talk to my sweet friend, as our two daughters, with imaginations as big as the universe, run and laugh.

Giny and her family visited with us for a week here in Virginia, and we have gone back to see them in Utah too. Each time it was as though no time had passed, no awkwardness over getting reacquainted. I would find myself imagining for a few moments that we had never left, that we still lived just up the street and visited like this every day.

Then, this summer when I contacted her to see about visiting, I discovered she had cancer. She was too sick to see us during her one weekend back in Utah from her treatments. Andrei was hopeful; the kids were happy, and as I left I tried to convince myself she was going to be fine. I thought and prayed, and I think even somewhat denied Giny's illness. It is easy to do that from so far away. I felt guilty I wasn't closer that I could not help her, care for the kids, do something to act on all I felt, but in the end I just went on with my life.

When I heard that her treatments were not working, I tried to still hope that she would survive. I kept trying to think what I could do to help, how I could offer something to Giny and her family. But, it is hard to know what to do, what to say to a friend who is dying. Finally, I penned a short card and put it in the mail. Somehow, deep inside, I knew it would be the last thing I sent.

I am not certain I said all I felt, that I told Giny how much she really has meant to me, that I mourned enough, as I'm sure she must have in the end, for her husband and children. I don't know that I offered comfort, because I was struggling a bit to find the comfort and purpose myself.

I wonder about the last few months, if she had insights or fears or regrets. We never talked after she got sick, never had a conversation about why it was happening or how it felt. I wish we had. I would have liked to know how she saw it, what she experienced knowing that she would be leaving soon. But, I never will.

Her death causes me to feel for a short moment just how much all of mortality is a balancing act atop a great precipice, a condition so temporary and so fleeting that it can be gone in just an instant. I am struck by the fact that I cannot go back, cannot ever again relive those moments that we shared, or any others in my life.

As I try to take in Giny's death, allow myself the space to grieve the loss of true friend, I am in awe of how mortal we all are. It seems that time should stop, that the world should let up, that daily demands should pause long enough to mark this event to set it apart as the day the world loss a great soul. But, it doesn't. Life goes on, time keeps marching, keeps passing. I can't hold it, no matter how hard I try to clutch it this moment will pass just as soon as I have thought to realize that it is here.

Such is the human condition. In life I will keep losing the times and the people and the moments that I treasure. All I have is the present. This moment to determine what will make up the past I will carry with me whereever the future takes me.

I have wept for my own loss, but even more as I have thought of Andrei and Peter, and especially Cristina. I think of Giny's daughter, Mia's best friend, just eight years old approaching her life without her mother, and I grieve.

But, then I think of this little girl, who is so tall now with dark, curly hair and bright eyes. I think of Cristina's love of colors and nature, her strong will and compassionate spirit. I remember all the times Giny spent with her and the days that did not pass without paying attention to Cristina, and I know that her mother is already within her, in the only thing that can ever remain, the knowledge and the memories collected in life.

So Giny will go on living in Cristina and our past together will go on living in me, and I will forever be thankful for a dear friend who taught me so much about thankful living. About seeing the good in life and valuing the moment, about putting first the things that really matter, about telling the truth and being eager to laugh, about playing with children and turning problems over to God.

I wipe my tears; I say a prayer for the soul of a dear friend and for the family she left behind, and I look out on my life with a more thankful perspective. I am thankful for this day, for this moment, for all of mortality that I get to live and share, whatever it may contain, because each moment, each day will soon be lost. May I always make it a moment of thanks.