From the archives: The Spirit of Christmas

Joy and tragedy Christmas holds many memories for our columnist Mary Hogan who describes in a personal and open way the Triumph of Hope over Adversity

This Christmas column is about The Triumph of Hope over Adversity. It is honest and straight from the heart. Columns like mine frequently prompt the response “Ah! Sure that’s all out of a book. What does she know of real life?”

Christmas is a magical, fairytale, Spiritual time for most people. Let us be truly delighted for those lucky, privileged individuals and pray that Christmas will fulfil all their dreams. Resenting and begrudging the joy that others experience solves nothing for those whose expectations are the direct opposite.

Many people experience an underlying, inexplicable melancholy at Christmas. For others, it can be a time of desperate loneliness, sadness and grief that is beyond words. 

In my weekly column, we are aiming to achieve our maximum potential as individuals in everyday life. But Christmas bears no resemblance to the daily grind. A unique, exceptional season, the flavour cannot be re-captured at any other time. For those of us who are struggling in our own private way, we need to harness all the strength we possess to cope with Jingle Bells, Sleigh Bells and the razzmatazz.
Clichés are a pain. Undoubtedly, though, putting other peoples’ happiness before our own is a sure-fire winner. Each of us needs to figure out how to transform that cliché into the best reality we can create.  

Now to my personal Christmases.

I was the only “kid on the block” who received a letter from Santa every year. His address was “Snowball Cottage, The North Pole”. Loads of foreign stamps festooned it, evidently saved up from American letters. Santa’s letters described how the reindeers – Rudolph, Swiftfoot and Lightfoot – were prepared for the long journey, with all the presents wrapped. 

Ours was the only house where Santa came early on Christmas Eve. At precisely 7.00pm, three huge knocks announced his arrival. Wow! Resplendent in full ceremonial dress he entered, bearing two enormous sacks. Having distributed the presents, we performed our party pieces. Mine was invariably a jig, a reel, or a horn-pipe. Applauding our efforts enthusiastically, refreshed with a glass of stout, he departed. My dad always missed Santa, resting in bed before night-duty. Strange how he was always on nights Christmas Eve! In I’d dash, to display all Santa had brought. Tom – my Dad – would sit up, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

“Well, great heavens!” he’d exclaim, admiring each present in awe. 
One year, reality dawned. Three massive knocks preceded Santa’s entry. Gifts were presented, party pieces performed, the glass of stout enjoyed – whilst I, in my new-found cleverness, scrutinised the details of Santa’s face that were visible between the beard, the glasses and red nose. Upon his departure, I rushed to Tom’s bedroom, where he sleepily struggled awake to appreciate Santa’s gifts. And there they were, before my eyes - every crevice, crease and laughter-line – exactly the same as Santa’s!    

One snowy, romantic St. Stephen’s Day was spent in the magical, winter wonderland of The Phoenix Park with the boy who became my husband.

A highlight was our New Year’s Eve party. Family, friends and neighbours played music, sang and danced – three times round the floor and mind the dresser!  Throwing open the front door to welcome the chiming of the New Year Bells, we sang Auld Lang Syne, hands joined.
That little girl became a teenager. Family was replaced by girl-friends, boys and discos. Several brilliant Christmases are a blur of make-up, hair-spray, mini-skirts, thigh-high boots, chasing some fellas, being chased by others and hiding from geeks! “To Be or not to Be” was most certainly not the question.  The vital query was: “Are you a Mod or a Rocker?” (Ask your parents or grandparents!) One snowy, romantic St. Stephen’s Day was spent in the magical, winter wonderland of The Phoenix Park with the boy who became my husband. 

On New Year’s Eve morning, she woke at 7.00am to find Áine dead – a cot death

For years, that girl, husband and children, joined her parents for Christmas. Áine, baby sister for three little boys, was born on December 1st, the best Christmas present ever. For the first time, they stayed in their own home. Her husband raving from a dreadful ‘flu, she determinedly assembled electric train tracks alone on Christmas morning, hiding her loneliness for her mother. Her children would be happy, no matter what. And they were!

The New Year’s Party was by then held in her house. On New Year’s Eve morning, she woke at 7.00am to find Áine dead – a cot death. Describing feelings is superfluous.

That night the front door was opened as always to hear the joyful, pealing bells and welcome the New Year. Family, friends and neighbours joined hands and sang Auld Lang Syne outside, tears mingling.
Two weeks later, the family were at Funderland, an annual treat. Why burden her boys with her broken heart?  

December 1st. that year – the 1st.anniversary - brought a degree of peace. Her boys would be happy for Christmas. She was adamant about that. Christmas would be at her mother’s and they’d stay for the entire holiday.

December 23rd., her mother attended morning Mass. Later, she literally closed her eyes and went quietly to her eternal reward. Áine’s death had had a detrimental effect on her, plus the fact that she hadn’t seen her on her only Christmas Day.

Lying in repose until St. Stephen’s evening, her mother’s Spirit was ever-present and felt by those even outside the family. The boys – young men now - have absolutely no memory of that being an unhappy Christmas in the slightest. They popped in and out of Nana’s room all day, as we all did, in the most natural way.

Into that mix of my Christmases, add major illness, redundancy and a car-full of presents stolen from outside the Church whilst we were celebrating Mass on my mother’s 1st.anniversary. Indeed, include other events that are “too sacred to impart”.

And yet, year after year, despite all my Christmas “events”, I am blessed with entering wholeheartedly into The Spirit of Christmas, with its attendant joy and peace. The many memorable, excellent, wonderful Christmases are the ones we recall most clearly and continue to enjoy. And my sons are exactly the same. I do not know why it should be so - I think it springs from within. That is why I say I am blessed. 

To close, an inspiring thought for every day:

1. Give thanks for all we have had in life
2. Give thanks for all we have lost
3. Give thanks for all we have left

© Mary Hogan 

This story was published in the Ireland’s Big Issue Christmas 2008. Mary Hogan wrote a very popular column in the Big Issue at that time titled Personal Development.