Celebrating the Small Beauties of Christmas

And holding loosely the rest

{Chapel at Our Lady of Guadalupe Trappist Abbey; photo by author}

For decades, I have not been precious about Christmas. This stems from years of having to share my daughter (an only child who’s now a wonderful 33-year-old) with several family gatherings on her father’s side, a gathering with her godfather’s family, and sometimes, her job, and from being a single-mom for many intervening years. Throughout the holiday, my daughter would be so exhausted trying to please everyone that I removed expectations for myself and any notions of an idyllic family holiday. I’d say, Honey, we’ll have a sweet time when it’s over and you’re rested. And we always did. But not in the days immediately surrounding Christmas. Because her extended family resides close to the Trappist Abbey where my best friend, Brother Martin, was a monk until his death in 2021, for several years, I checked in to the abbey for a solo retreat over Christmas. At the abbey, I was near to my daughter, but not with her. I liked to think I was getting out of her way.

But the fact is, the arrangement was never ideal for her; and she, a people-pleaser, felt pulled in too many directions, most of which did not feel entirely comfortable. I, for my part, often felt guilty for this; guilty that I could not or did not give my child the experience one wants for one’s child. At Christmas, she longed to be snug at home with mom, and this wasn’t an option.

On the other hand, memories of my Christmas-time retreats with the monks are tinged with a rare and enchanting glow. Rather than feel lonely, I mostly felt reflective and loved at that place—with Martin so close by. Often, I was roped into helping him put lights on the abbey’s outdoor Christmas tree—which was raised, along with the huge tree in the chapel, on Christmas Eve. As an early-to-bedder, I couldn’t stay awake until vigils and midnight mass, so I’d set an alarm and wake just before midnight. I’d pull on a sweater and boots and walk in the twinkle-light darkness to the abbey’s chapel, dark but for hundreds of colorful Christmas-tree lights. I would sing carols with the abbey’s guests and the monks and then go back to bed. Christmas morning meant mass followed by hot chocolate and cookies, served up by Brother Martin in the guesthouse reception area.

At Christmas, I don’t feel wistful or sad. But I do miss Martin especially.

{Brother Martin Gonzales, year unknown}

Often at Christmas, people feel nostalgic for special Christmases. While I do not feel nostalgic, I enjoy remembering my daughter’s favorite Christmas’, when we, along with my then-husband, lived in Scotland and she had nowhere to go for the holiday. She simply stayed home. One of the years, we took an excursion shortly before Christmas to York—a Dickins-esque place if ever there was one, and London. Both places were Christmas decked-out. And we decked-out our own apartment. Having no ornaments or decorations, we made our own.

{My daughter, Christmas 1998, St. Andrews, Scotland}

{The two of us in London, December 1998}

So too, I enjoy memories of special childhood Christmas’, as my mother was spectacularly gifted at creating seasonal ambiance (and gifts) for her children. Holidays that stand out most prominently were when Mom and Dad gave me a nice guitar, or the year they made me an elaborate wooden dollhouse fully furnished and decorated. The eight hours leading up to Christmas morning were the longest hours of my childhood, as my sister and I could not sleep—so taut with anticipation were those hours.

Since 2010, I have not been at the abbey for Christmas, and I have tended to feel it’s a day like many other days. This is not regretful. I have little attachment to the day. Throughout the season of Advent, many things do I love. Twinkle lights on a tree in the front room; picking out gifts for my daughter and husband; singing some Christmas songs in church; reflecting on the barn-burner narratives that are the Christmas narratives in scripture; praying more for peace; practicing generosity. I am so grateful for the Christmas memories I have, and for the people who made those memories with and for me. Mostly, I am grateful for the grace of my daughter, who never seemed to hold it against me that Christmas was hard.

I wish all of you, my dear readers, a meaningful holiday season—however you celebrate. I know that for many of you, Christmas comes with hard realities and many disappointments. I also know that many of us feel the darkness of winter in a metaphorical way this winter, as we look around and see/anticipate difficulty, even fear. What I wish for you—in light of all of these things—are sweet memories, grace and compassion for and from those you love, unexpected generosity in filling a need for somebody, and the ability to hold things loosely, cherishing the tiny beauties of the season.

Love, Tricia

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Wren, winner of a 2022 Independent Publishers Award Bronze Medal

Winner of the 2022 Independent Publisher Awards Bronze Medal for Regional Fiction; Finalist for the 2022 National Indie Excellence Awards. (2021) Paperback publication of Wren , a novel. “Insightful novel tackles questions of parenthood, marriage, and friendship with finesse and empathy … with striking descriptions of Oregon topography.” —Kirkus Reviews (2018) Audiobook publication of Wren.