ArcaMax

On my 11th Christmas, my parents were preparing to divorce. At the time, I didn't know that, of course, though I imagine most children sense, on some level, the rising tension and animosity that can precede separation.

They were certainly fighting more, and I remember hating it, being the only one of us kids who would be awoken by the sounds of their arguments. I was a light sleeper; was afraid I would sleepwalk right out of our apartment and onto the road out front.

My parents must have been worried that I'd wake early on Christmas Day, too, because in the run-up to the holiday, they'd made a rule that we were not allowed to open presents before 6 a.m. Now that I'm a parent myself, that seems more than reasonable, but at the time, it felt scandalously late, the time a French aristocrat might finally get out of bed.

I awoke, instead, at 3 a.m. on Christmas morning. I'd learned the secret of Santa years earlier when my brother and I had surreptitiously watched my parents putting our gifts out, so though it didn't occur to me to break the present-opening rule, I had to get a look.

The sheer volume of wrapped boxes thrilled me, guilty stacks upon stacks of gifts stocked under the tree for my two brothers and me. It was more Christmas presents than I'd ever seen -- ever heard of a kid getting before -- and I could no more have gone back to sleep after seeing them than I could have after drinking a double espresso.

I lay down on the couch, my head positioned where I could see both the silver paper-wrapped presents and the living room clock without moving my body or turning my head. I watched, unblinkingly, as the minute hand moved. For three hours, I stared in the darkness, in agony, willing time to jump forward, as each second ticked by.

Oddly, I don't remember any of the presents I got that year when I was finally allowed to open them. I know my brother was given, by someone who clearly hated my parents, a guitar that was mysteriously lost just a few hours later. But what was under that tree for me? It's lost to the black hole of my history.

It was the unpleasant parts of that day that remained my only vivid memories -- a child's painful anticipation, mixed with an adult's understanding of the subtext of the compensating gifts. Nostalgia is always a little bit tragic.

But that's how the holidays are: Even when they're happy, they're sad.

The stories Christians tell about the first Christmas are no different. What were the three presents the wisemen were said to have brought Jesus that night? Gold to acknowledge him as king, frankincense to honor his sacred leadership and myrrh -- an unguent used for perfuming corpses.

In Christian doctrine, Jesus was born to die -- as we all are, and if that's not depressing, I don't know what is.

As with everything in life, though, the story of Christmas is complicated. There's looming death, sure, but there's also hope, in a baby born, the start of a new life, the arrival of one who might change things.

In the same way, there's hope in each holiday season. No matter how low we are, we can always hope for a fresh beginning, a change in fortune, a small turn in a different direction that might make things a bit better.

And if all else fails, we can deliver on someone else's hope. We're the ones who can forgive. We're the ones who can be kind.

There's nothing special about this time of year in that regard, other than that it's a good reminder of the opportunities we have every day to improve the world around us. It's easy to get sucked deeper and deeper into our little worlds, to retreat further inside our own heads. This is the chance to connect to something bigger.

Even knowing that, this time can still be depressing. The insistent intrusion of family and money and travel and food and booze will do that to a person.

But the bad is the spice that flavors the dish.

My son has been asking for weeks to get one of his Christmas presents early. He doesn't see why he should have to wait. But even if I had already bought it for him and I didn't mind one less present under the tree, I'd still say no.

Because that bit of pain is his only pathway to appreciation. There's no route to gratitude that doesn't go through suffering.

In the same way, the winter season offers the kind of beauty that brings a tear to your eye, and not always one of joy.

So, this year, I won't wish you an unblemished, happy holiday, because sometimes we all need a good cry.

This year, I'll wish that we all discover the rainbow in the storm, the gratitude in the suffering, and the hope in the pain.

To learn more about Georgia Garvey, visit GeorgiaGarvey.com.

----

Copyright 2025 Creators Syndicate Inc.