I rarely looked forward to Christmas. The season’s sentiments never suited my disposition. And it had already been a difficult year, so I took my solace where I could find it — even in a dream.
And I knew I was dreaming, because I sat across the kitchen table from John Linsenmeier.
John was the father of one of my best friends who had died 18 months ago. Before that, he was our church’s elder and tenured Common Sense Advocate.
“Is the holiday annoying you?” he asked.
“How did you know?”
“You’re dreaming about ghosts before Christmas,” he said.
“Ugh, so are there going to be three of you?”
“You could always wake up,” he offered. He lifted his eyebrow — a tic I remembered well, even after Parkinson’s took it away from him.
“What’s bothering you?” he asked.
“The same thing that bothers me every year. The meaningless superstition. The crass capitalism with a thin frosting of ‘peace on earth’ to make it palatable.”
“Well, we could discuss apologetics but that won’t make you feel any better,” John said. “If you find the traditions meaningless, then create a new one. People are always adding their gifts to Christmas. Lutherans decorated evergreens. Handel wrote a mass. What do you do with your family during the holiday?”
“We go to Waffle House on Christmas Eve every year,” I admitted sheepishly.
“Is it special to your family?”
I nodded.
“Then go there with the spirit of Christmas, and it’ll be meaningful.”
John’s wisdom worked on me, as it always did. I wanted to chat more, but the second ghost had already replaced him. I now sat in a wood-paneled Town & Country minivan. Bob Jones held the steering wheel.
Bob — another close friend’s father — had died in February. He’d had a bad heart, but only in the literal sense. The irony was you never knew a kinder man.
“Why the long face?” he asked.
“I don’t have a long face,” I pouted.
Bob playfully imitated my expression. He stretched a sneer and flashed his teeth, but on his face it still looked cheerful. He was fishing for smiles, but I didn’t bite.
“I don’t understand why everyone pretends to be happy this time of year,” I griped. “It’s so dark — literally and figuratively. People are mired in credit card debt…”
Bob reached for the radio knob, and Bing answered.
I’m dreaming of a White Christmas…
Bob sang along while I listed grievances. He didn’t raise his voice. He rarely depended on volume to make his point.
Cynicism never stood a chance against Bob, especially when he sang. I forgot my next quibble when Bob gestured for me to join in.
“May your days be merry and bright…” I sang sharp, but Bob encouraged me.
“And may all your Christmases be white!”
Bob waited until the last notes faded away.
“How do you feel now?” he asked.
“Pretty good,” I said, wearing a Bob-sized smile. “Want to sing another?”
But when I turned, Bob had disappeared. Instead, my mother sat in her sewing chair.
“What do you want for Christmas this year?” she asked.
My eyes watered, and the words clumped in my throat. I hadn’t heard my mother’s voice since cancer took her tongue five years ago. It returned and took the rest of her in June.
“You,” I admitted. “It’s not Christmas without you.”
Mom paused her sewing and rested her hands on mine.
“There’s always an empty seat at the table on Christmas, even if you’re too young to notice it,” she said.
A tear dove down my cheek.
“If you miss me so much, what would I do at Christmas?” she asked.
“Take care of a stranger who needs it. Make sure they have food and that their kids have something to open on Christmas morning,” I replied. “Oh, and buy us batteries.”
“Do that, and it’ll feel like I’m there,” she said.
I tried to hug her but only caught the wind.
I woke up in my bed. My tossing had jostled my wife awake.
“Are you OK?” she asked.
“Yes,” I answered, wiping my cheek. “Best I’ve been in a while. Merry Christmas.