Long before I was romantically involved with anyone, I used to stand in front of the Tree on Christmas Eve and I would talk to Jesus. I believed, at the time, that he was an intermediate between myself and the Godhead that history called Yahweh. Quite often, I would attend church with my family on that night. It was an annual tradition. Once I met my first partner, things changed a little. For many years, I still went home on Christmas Eve but I stopped attending those services. It had nothing to do with doubt, or dogma or even the church’s position on homosexuality. Church became irrelevant. There was nothing I couldn’t just stay home and do. I still stood in front of the tree but I stood all alone, at least in my mind. If I was going to pray to Jesus, it would be on my terms, not some dictated requirement for my salvation.

            When Doug died, so did my relationship with God (at least the Christian God). Given time, the result was cumulative. It took a little while for the old man in the sky to die. This was not a literal wish. For me, the God I had been raised to believe in and the God that I knew from scripture no longer worked in my life. They all made things so much worse. God and Jesus and the Holy Spirit all wrecked it for me. I’m not an Atheist. I consider myself an Agnostic Theist. I still believe there is a god but I don’t have a clue that would help me define him. Perhaps, there is no definition. Christmas without the spiritual was a little bit weird at first, but I got used to it. I have always been fully engaged with Yuletide tradition. Putting up a tree (a fresh cut tree), decorating in November and a wreath on the door meet me every year and yes, they still do. I pretty much do the same things I always have at Christmastime. From the outside looking in, you would think I was a good Christian boy. It’s just not true.

            The day itself is what it is but I absolutely love the very North American aspects of the entire season. From Christmas in July (on the 25^th), to cutting down the tree, to New Year wishes, the in between I wait for all the year long. Turkey, parades, spending too much money, it is in all our blood. The mixture of pagan influences, Christian and secular influences, blend together like a Toronto neighbourhood. The star, the wise men and the King of Kings born in a manger all still have great appeal to me. They still hold their place but much like Santa does. I am sorry to say, they are charming but I just do not believe. There are remnants, I suppose. It’s like losing a loved one. The actual person isn’t there but the memory of them always will be. I have Jesus scribbled on my heart and he just won’t go away. He is no comfort, just a constant reminder that I stand alone every Christmas Eve. On December 24^th, I do not go to my parents’ home. I haven’t done that in years. I stand in front of my tree while It’s Wonderful Life plays in the background. I gaze in wonder but it’s no holy night.

            A sad tradition on Christmas Eve started over 23 years ago. Without fail, by darkness, I am at the cemetery. Now, like then, I make sure I go to see him at Christmastime. I went on Christmas Day for many years but it was rather inconvenient. So off we go in the mid-afternoon, December 24^th, up to Stratford, Ontario. Yes, I said we. Every year, Ben goes there with me, he always has if I let him. He knows that grief is like Christmas memories. You may recall some part of them but mostly they are gone. He has never once complained about Doug being everywhere. Doug even has a few ornaments that hang on our Christmas tree. I think Ben realizes how sharing with a ghost goes. I hope Doug does not end up my Marley. On one of those occasions, we travelled in the dark, slowed by the snowstorm before us. We kept going. By the time we got to Stratford, it had stopped snowing but the blanket was dense and very deep. As we rounded the bend near his grave, the snow camouflaged a 2-foot drop to a new drainage grate. They failed to tell anyone and did not put up a sign. The CAA can be such a blessing, even if by your own hand. It was a long and cold wait.

            Every year, I place a miniature wooden Christmas tree in front of his epitaph. My mother gave it to him as a gift, after he passed. I have never forgotten to bring it, not once. It is a part of our Christmas Tradition. A few years ago, I began hanging a lantern on a metal garden hook every Christmas Eve. You have to embed the hook in the ground by early November, before the ground freezes and you can’t. The lantern is black cast iron and dangles with the wind. It holds that wind at bay. The candle lasts and lasts. Come morning and it is a melted mess, a testament to its time spent glowing.  Just before we head back home, I light that candle and I walk away. I always end up feeling the same way. I am somewhat empty, and somewhat lost inside. All the way out of the cemetery I look for its light, a beacon that I was there.

            In my mid-twenties, I worked as an Early Childhood educator. I only lasted 4 months. It wasn’t the responsibility, or other caregivers, that was the problem. It was the kids. I really don’t care for snivelling, whining brats. Unfortunately, most kids these days are just that. There have been a few children I have come to embrace over the years. Before she turned into the Grinch that she is, my niece Jessica held much favour. My favour has always been the same way with my nephew Matthew. I suppose long-term exposure to both simply conditioned me to their presence but I think it was love more than anything else. Almost all of my nephews and nieces are grown now. Jensen, my brother Alan’s new grandchild, is all that remains of any semblance of youth. He is the last boy in a dying lineage, the end of my family history. Even Ben’s cousin Erin has a fully grown son. I met the lad when he was a wee blond pup. He sure has grown. Erin also has three young children that Ben and I seem to adore. The two young boys are unique and happy and funny too. We give them great gifts.

            I have to admit, it is Erin’s daughter that holds my favour. Bella is a lovely, talented and enthusiastic young woman. She is going to be a heart breaker. She has a love of performing I have rarely seen in someone so young. She is a dancer, a gymnast and she gives me hope that not all children in this modern world are connected to a Smartphone. I guess if I am forced to care then I usually end up doing just that. While I worked at St. Luke’s Chapel in London, Ontario, I was the first male to enter the field in the entire city. I didn’t feel special. As Christmas approached, they asked if I would play Santa for the kids at the daycare. I sat for 3 hours, while one demon after another kicked me and jabbed me and crushed my nuts. I loved it (the hugs, not the ballsing). Just for a moment I understood why people have children. Some can be so lovely, so pure. Some can be like a burden that carries through. I am glad to have a few young people in my life. It doesn’t really keep me young but it could one day. It has been fun to play the guy who gives the best gifts. If I had been heterosexual, I believe I would have 47 children. Being Bipolar almost guarantees that.

            The drive home from Stratfordis usually solemn and quiet. Once we get home, on go all the lights. On goes the Christmas Tree. On go the DVDs.  We watch It’s a Wonderful Life every Yule. It was Doug’s favourite and it is one of my favourites. It is then Ben’s turn. We watch A Christmas Carol, the 1951 version starring Alistair Sim. We snack on a smorgasbord of treats: boxes of chocolates, all kinds of nuts and jellies, so many jellies. Christmas Eve has turned from a reverent night into a recreational night, a secular night. I would like to point out that I have never danced naked around the tree. I will admit, there are times while I am entertaining the season that I miss having something ethereal to have faith in. How can you miss something you just don’t believe? Tell that to the Nativity placed carefully on a shelf or the crosses throughout my home. Tell it to the Crèche hanging in the Christmas Tree. Go tell it on the mantel. It’s no wonder I just can’t escape Jesus, he is freaking in my face, he is everywhere. It’s hard to move past something that won’t go away. It does me good to have tinges of the believer I once was. It makes me feel warm inside. We go to bed when the movies are over and we awaken early to exchange our presents. We spend the rest of the day eating, at one place or another. Gifts and celebrating are nice but I think Christmas Eve is my favourite time of the season. It is soothing and retrieves fond memories of the way it used to be. They hold little comfort but they seem to give it anyway. Somewhere in the night, I always end up weeping. It’s the presence of something more that makes me sigh. The tears are not heavy, merely little pools in the corner of my eyes.

            The worst Christmas Eve I have ever known involved my mother and a Giant toy for my sister. It is here that Santa died for me. I spied my Mom, from my bunk bed vantage point, carrying gifts down to the Christmas Tree. Down she would go, then return to take more. At one point, I saw her carrying a rather large box containing one rather large doll. The next morning it was marked from Santa. My relationship with him has never been what it was. My innocence was lost. The same thing sort of happened with Christianity. At one point, I realized that like Santa, it was mostly high myth and fabrication. Yes, the stories hold a message, a lesson one could take from them but that doesn’t mean those things actually happened. Growing up stole my assurance and it stole away my faith. The long cold days of December dance with the most wonderful time of the year. A crisp clean sheet of fallen snow is as pretty as it could be from the living room window. On Christmas Eve, there is a hush. I think it may occur all over the world but I will never know. What I do know is that I find Christmas Eve as charming and as lovely as I always have. I cherish my memories and I cherish my hope. I still believe but the substance of that belief has shifted. It’s like running out of gas on a country road. Eventually, when all other options have run out of juice, you just might have to get out and walk all on your own. Christmas Eve is still my favourite night of the season. It brings me comfort and it brings me joy but it is not the same. 

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