Bitter Sweet Christmas

Well it came and left and we are still here. Still here missing our Martha Anne. Still trying to adjust to life without her.

This Christmas was obviously different than any other I have ever experienced. A mixture of emotions that seemed to come and pass at will, with very little control on my part. At times I was joyful and very thankful for my family and most importantly for being a Christ follower. At other times I was overwhelmed by the reality that Martha Anne was missing from all of the fun and festivities.

The four day holiday began with a visit to the cemetery to see her grave marker, which had just been set up that very day. It was hard to stand there and witness the sight of your child's head stone. However, I am glad it is up. She deserves something permanent that will testify of her existence and that she belonged to parents, sisters, grandparents, and friends that loved her. We struggled with what to put on the marker. We wanted something that everyone who loved her could identify with. We settled on "Our Precious Girl" across the top. I think that will aptly represent all who knew and loved her.

So, from the cemetery on to North Georgia to spend the weekend with Zan's family. It was nice to see everyone. Nice to catch up. But always there, at various levels of consciousness was the awareness that M.A. was not with us. At times I even felt the panic a parent feels when they realize their child is missing from where they should be. Only this feeling was not followed by the relief of finding her in the next room, or in the front yard instead of the back yard. It just lingered until another distraction came along.

Sunday found us in Baxley with my family. Same feelings. Same turn of events. Presents were opened, food was eaten. There were even moments of laughter and dare I say fun. But still there was that ominous presence of the void left by her death.

Christmas eve we traveled back home. It was nice to be home, back among our most familiar surroundings. We followed our usual traditions. Supper, riding around town looking at Christmas lights, back home to open presents to each other. Everyone seemed pleased with the gifts they received. Emma presented me with a gift she picked out and paid for with her own money. She told me she bought it because she thought it was something Martha Anne would have bought for me. It was a Willow Tree carving of a father sitting with his long, brown haired daughter. I tried not to cry. I really did. My efforts were in vain.

Christmas morning was more of the same. I never tire of hearing the gasps of my children as they enter the living room to see the gifts "Santa" has left for them. I actually made it through the Santa gifts and even breakfast just fine. Then I remembered. A cold chill ran down my spine. I had forgotten. How could I forget? Rationalizing by blaming all that we have been going through seemed a weak and poor excuse. I forgot to write Christmas letters to my children. A couple of years ago, I made boxes for each of the girls with their initials stained on the top. I told them these boxes were to hold letters I would write them over the years of their lives. Letters for special events, letters to pass on fatherly advice, letters to just say how proud I am of them. I forgot. Totally forgot. I was distraught. The rest of the day just kind of passed by.

Now I am here feeling a bit conflicted. I do not enjoy the pain I am feeling. I did not enjoy the thoughts that entered my head this Christmas. At the same time I am thankful for these feelings. For I am not nearly ready to be "okay" with her not being here. So, I will push on past this bitter sweet Christmas to what I am sure will be many more bitter sweet moments. New Years, her birthday, the first swim in Mamart's pool, Mother's Day, Father's Day, etc., etc., etc.