THERE

THERE’S A FIRST TIME
FOR EVERYTHING

By Mary Koch
Dec. 23, 2007

“Oh, those firsts,” she murmured with remembrance in her eyes and a sigh of sympathy. We’d parallel-parked our grocery carts at the end of the meat case and paused to chat. We don’t run in the same social circles but see each other occasionally by chance, as people do in small towns.

She lost her husband, whom I and many admired greatly, several years ago. Of course she was referring to those significant occasions when, for the first time, one must go it alone—anniversaries, trips, birthdays, holidays.

I get a double whammy for my big “first:” John’s birthday falls on Christmas day.

I’m planning a minimalist Christmas. No tree, but a front porch wreath John chose last year. As many candles as I dare without burning down the house. A lot of music.

I’ll send cards as soon as I get a round tewit, as John would have said. Incoming cards are piling up, unopened. That is a “first” I cannot bear to face right away. One of our most significant Christmas rituals in recent years was opening the cards each evening. I would show John the art work, then read to him the messages that connected us with people we loved all over the world. Now I feel only half-connected.

I am reminded of the flood of cards and letters that arrived after John’s stroke those many years ago. The messages were so emotionally powerful that before long, he couldn’t bear to hear them. He asked that I read just the name on each card. He would think about those people, and he would be strengthened. The love that embraced and supported him didn’t require words.

Now as Christmas cards arrive, I look at return addresses and give a silent thanksgiving for each friendship before putting the envelopes in a basket. I will read them some quiet evening when I’m feeling more like “me” instead of the surviving half of “us.”

Christmas day we plan to lay a blanket of greens on John’s grave. Visiting a cemetery on what is considered a most joyous day may sound gloomy. But if you’re a believer in the “Christ” part of Christmas, it seems to me that we’ll be going right to the heart of the matter. These many centuries later, we wouldn’t care one twit about that sweet little baby if it hadn’t been for his ultimate, horrible death—and the mystery of his resurrection.

I am religious about observing the four-week Advent season before Christmas. I need that time to wait, reflect and prepare. Advent literally means “coming,” and if I’m willing to wait, I inevitably “come” to a discovery.

Here it is for this year: Even in grief, every day—every, single day—brings you at least one reason to laugh and one reason to marvel. You can’t force it. You can’t manufacture the laughter nor the awe. You can only wait and notice when it happens

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