This is an old piece, slightly revised. Open for comments. I still feel it misses something…
I rise from the pew to mouth along to “What Child is This,” also known as “Greensleeves.” And I think it both brilliant and tragic that someone turned it into a Christmas song. Nonetheless it’s beautiful, and sad–not sad, solemn. I can hear the voices of my Grandparents. My Grandfather is standing to my left and I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He’s here tonight because he believes. He believes in the man pinned above the pulpit on the back wall, or would it be the front? I wonder if He enjoys people staring at his suffering, worshiping the image of His final moments, nailed bleeding and beaten onto a cross. My Grandmother is here because I think she believes. She used to be Catholic.
I lost the silver cross my Grandparents gave to me for Confirmation. I lost it—in a mall. I’m here because they are here, because the candlelight service on Christmas Eve in the small town where my Grandparents live is a tradition I have come to love. We sit back down onto the crimson tweed cushion that covers the hard wood of the pew. The lights begin to dim and I can see the alter boys with the long brass lighters. They will light the candle of the person at the end of each pew; and we all pass on the flame of our candle. Tonight I don’t know if I want to be here.
~~~~~
Two weeks ago he died. Home to Colorado. That’s it, that’s where it ended. We had to fight to get the autopsy results. His sister first said it was a brain aneurysm. The night I found out I fell, crouching with my arms around my stomach. Like that’s where he lay.
~~~~~
I tip my candle toward the flame of my Grandfather’s, then tip it toward my brother’s. He is here because we all are, because it’s tradition.
~~~~~
Two weeks ago I was surrounded by hysteria. There were those in denial. They screamed about how it wasn’t fair. Not to them. How strange that they projected his death onto themselves. It wasn’t fair to them? I was upset because he was dead; he is dead. Max doesn’t just die! But I guess he does just die.
~~~~~
All the candles are lit and we stand to sing “Silent Night.” My favorite Christmas song. Looking out over the dappled candlelight, I’m moved at how beautiful the faces are. They are flawed, and they are beautiful. Why are they here? My uncle is here because he thinks he believes. So is my mother. My father is here–he’s here.
~~~~~
I think how funny it would be to see him now, in this particular moment. I think he would appreciate it. He doesn’t agree with the worship of the man pinned above the pulpit. I could see him holding a green hymn book, wearing his torn suit. The one he ripped up for a prank on his neighbor, telling her that her dog had attacked him. Max. Eccentric and smart, probably too smart.
A week ago, we found out there were high amounts of opium in his blood. He knew what he was doing. I kneeled onto the roots of a very old and large tree by the lake the night I heard about his death, tears running like a cliche down my face. As I tilted my head back to see the moon could feel the wobbling halo start to slip. Twenty-two years old and I’ve lost it already. It didn’t hold innocence, or even faith; I suppose it held the denial that people die, that they leave you forever. The day the autopsy report was released I felt the halo slip right off and clang to the ground.
~~~~~
And as I stand in this church on Christmas Eve, surrounded by hope, I can feel the weight of loss above my head. It bears down on me a little more everyday. I wouldn’t trade it. The friendship–or the pain. Not for all the halos in the world. I almost pray to the man hanging above the pulpit. But end up staring at Him. He didn’t have one either, just a wreath of thorns. And I think of all the suffering of the world. Suffering as a symbol of faith.
~~~~~
It was too much for him. He went out the only way he knew how, the only way he wanted to. Maybe the urge was becoming too much again, and he didn’t want to put anyone through it, put himself through it. Maybe we ignored it. Last time I saw him he was thin, paler than usual. I never saw track marks–or he wore long sleeves. Maybe he was sick.
~~~~~
As the candles are extinguished, I slip mine into my coat pocket after the wax has dried. Tonight I will walk home with my brother, father, and uncle. We will walk under the snowflakes, gliding to earth. Every Christmas Eve we walk to my Grandparents’ house through the snow. Every Christmas. And I wonder–for just a moment–if maybe the snow is a gift from the man hanging behind the pulpit. And I wonder too, if I might even find my halo–or my wreath of thorns–among these people, who are here for a reason.
The last candle is put out and the congregation begins to shuffle out of their pews. As we walk up the aisle, my Grandfather puts his arm around me. I never told them I lost my confirmation cross.
