Of Cheesecake Pans and Massages

I'm glad the holidays are over.

I hate Christmas. Not the celebration of the most amazing birth in the universe. Not the awesome trembling awareness of a young couple who became parents of the baby who would grow to be savior of the universe. Not the kneeling gratefulness for God sending us His one and only son to redeem us.

Even decades after my divorce from my children's father, even though my children now range in age from 33-25, we are still splitting the holidays. Primarily because we haven't yet mastered the art of being in two places at once and since there's no shortening the distance between Houston and New Orleans.

The last time I spent Christmas Day with my kids was ten years ago. It remains one of the most treasured times I've spent with them. But, in the years since then, my heart slogs its way through the fa-la-la-la-la. Our decorations are a token wreath on the front door, a two-foot artificial sprout of a tree on the foyer chest, and a trio of instrument-playing angels on the fireplace mantel.

As I listen to friends discuss holiday plans and shopping and decking their halls, I craft a smile and hope it displays itself in a way that totally shields my sadness. I mark days off the calendar in anticipation of relief, not gladness. In the meantime, my husband does an emotional tiptoe around me knowing how fragile I am this time of year.

Sometimes Ken and I exchange gifts, sometimes not. Last year we didn't because we had planned a family vacation during Easter. So, this year, I thought I'd try to surprise him with something. Usually, what he wants I can't afford, and what I can afford, he doesn't want. But, I found a gift I thought would please him, double checked with my daughter, and ordered it. It was a bit more than I'd planned to spend, but I thought the investment worthwhile.

I decided not to say anything to him, so he'd actually have a gift to open Christmas morning. The day it was due to arrive, he called me and asked if I'd seen the commercial for what he didn't know was the exact thing I'd ordered for him. He said, "I saw it, and I thought about it. I mean it's not something I'd ever buy because I'm not sure I'd spend that kind of money on it..."

He then followed with, "But you know it might be a good investment, so..." I grunted through the rest of the conversation and, when he hung up, I wanted to throw up(did I mention I couldn't return said gift?). I called him back minutes later because I know my husband. He'd call me later telling me he went ahead and bought one because there weren't many left, and it was something he could always sell later....So, before we ended up with two things he wasn't sure he wanted, I decided to tell him he already had one that would be delivered to the house within the next hour.

Add to my already spiraling depressing holiday season the knowledge that I what I'd anticipated as a Christmas surprise had just fizzled into a pre-Christmas albatross. Even though, once he heard about the gift, he said he meant it wasn't something he'd buy, but that didn't mean he wouldn't have wanted one,
the joy of surprising him had been sucked right out of me. I regretted having made the purchase at all. I tumbled down another flight of stairs into holiday depression.

Two days later, I walked into the kitchen to find him trying to squeeze two large bags through the doorway. He had stopped and bought me a new set of springform pans and containers to tote my finished cheesecakes around. I could tell by his disappointed expression that my face didn't register the reaction he'd expected. Just the fact that he battled pre-Christmas crowds on his way home from work shocked me. It wasn't that I didn't appreciate what he'd done. For years, I've been making at least a dozen or so cheesecakes around the holidays. And, over time, pan bottoms disappeared as did whatever we'd use to cart them to friends' houses. I wondered, though, if this was his way of trying to make up for the disconnect from his gift.

Christmas morning came, and we woke up early because he had to spend a few hours at the Animal Shelter that morning (he works there). I was schlepping along with him because, after all, how could I send him alone?

On the way out, he said I needed to tell our cats "Merry Christmas" which I thought,and didn't hesitate to say, was absolutely ridiculous. But he insisted. I walked in and perched on the sofa was a bag from a local salon that offers spa services. Inside was a gift certificate for a "stress relief" massage.

I wanted to punch myself. No, that's not a typo. I didn't mean pinch. I meant punch.

I knew he had to go to the store, ask questions because he knows absolutely nothing about massages, find the time to go, and all because he knows what a luxury I think it is to have a massage. He truly,truly thought about me and what he knew beyond hesitation would be something I'd treasure.

What I realized was that my motivation for his gift was to make me feel better. Sure, I wanted to give him something he'd appreciate, but I think the greater need was for me to find a way to bring myself relief from my gloominess.

For years, I've been dragging myself through the holidays, disregarding the fact that these are his holidays too. His patience and tolerance are beyond measure. He understood that he couldn't magically make my children appear so we could have a Hallmark holiday. He just did what he could to show that even in my funk, he cared for me and wanted me to feel better.

And this is what I've missed for years. That joy is an inside job, not measured by physical distance from those we love.

That through my husband, God was reaching out to me and trying to teach me that it's not the holiday that matters. What truly matters is how we love one another.