EPIPHANY
1: January 6 observed as a church festival in commemoration of the coming of the Magi as the first manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles or in
the Eastern Church in commemoration of the baptism of Christ
2: an appearance or manifestation especially of a
divine being
3a (1) : a usually
sudden manifestation or perception of the essential nature or meaning of something (2) : an intuitive
grasp of reality through something (as an event) usually simple and striking (3) : an
illuminating discovery, realization, or disclosure
b: a revealing
scene or moment
(merriam-webster.com)
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Today is
Epiphany. The 12th day of
Christmas. The day also called “Three
Kings Day” representing the day that the wise men visited the baby Jesus.
I shine my outside Christmas lights until
Epiphany.
Once, someone told me
that it was entirely inappropriate to burn my outside lights past New Year’s Eve.
I remember just
smiling. I remember thinking how the
world is so skewed over some things. To
many, it’s okay to have Christmas decorations out in the stores before
Halloween even rolls around (60 days before
Christmas) but it’s not okay to leave the lights burning for 12 days after Christmas to celebrate His
birth.
I also remember not
bothering to explain that, to me, the symbolism that the lights would light the
way for the Wise Men to find our Lord Jesus in the darkness of the world just
as Jesus is now our Light to find our way in the darkness of the world is why
my lights still burn that “late” into the new year.
Not to mention that I just love seeing
Christmas lights.
Last night, “Epiphany
Eve” was the last night our outside Christmas lights would shine.
And tonight, I will
miss seeing them.
Today, weather
permitting, I will take down the outside lights and decorations.
But to use the
definition of the word itself, I had an epiphany of sorts last night.
One that was quick.
One that wasn’t
planned.
One that was
striking.
One that was
simple.
One that only lasted
a minute.
One that only God and
I processed in thought.
And that thought was
that in my new “normal,”
it’s amazing that the
still absolutely unbelievable reality of what is now my life
has become
commonplace.
There was a ski trip
meeting at church last night. The kids
didn’t go with me. Wesley and Luke are
always up for staying home instead of sitting in a meeting and Anna was at the
end of the last of the 3 book Divergent series she got for Christmas and she did
not want to stop reading (she did finish
last night) so I went to the meeting alone.
And that was fine. I’m the one
with the checkbook anyway.
(totally off subject but the fact
that Anna doesn’t want to stop reading,
after we spent so many of her
younger years struggling with dyslexia,
is still enough to make me be
happy for days – and the fact that this
child of mine devourers books
this large
in an 11 day period is enough to
make me want to throw a
party!!!!!!!!!!)
After the meeting, I
got in my van and backed out of the parking spot. I was facing the cemetery at this point and
the thought occurred to me that the next day would be Epiphany and I decided on
the spur of the moment to drive down to Rob’s grave and take off the Christmas
wreath. It was dark and foggy and had
been raining some and the last person there was driving away so it was perfect
for a scary scene in a movie but that thought never even occurred to me.
As a pastor’s kid and
a pastor’s wife, we lived in churches almost as much as our parsonages so we
were always near the cemeteries. I’ve
really just never been afraid of them.
They were almost like history lessons for me. After moving to a new place, I would roam the
cemeteries trying to learn the family lines of the church. It’s amazing how much information and
understanding one can glean from a tombstone or a set of them.
For example, I
learned that one really old lady (or at
the time, I thought she was really old) in one of the churches had given
birth to many babies whose tombstones were lined up like soldiers in the
cemetery. So, as a young child who
didn’t know any better, I asked this lady about her babies because I knew she
had one living child. I just wondered
what happened to the others. I remember
her eyes lighting up as she told me about her pregnancies and her babies who
didn’t live. And she thanked me for
asking about them. It was from that
experience that I learned what a mother’s blood type being Rh negative meant.
And it would be much
later in my life when I would know and understand exactly why she thanked me
for asking – why asking about and caring about the dead who were once living
matters to a person.
(And, by the way, I am Rh negative but Rob was also negative so I would
have been one of the lucky Rh negative ladies in that time period who would
have never even known how closely death loomed over my babies and Wesley and
Luke would have lived and would not have had little tombstones lined
up like little soldiers).
But I digress…
Back to my epiphany.
“In my new ‘normal,’
it’s amazing that the still
absolutely unbelievable reality of what is now my life
has become commonplace.”
That’s big.
The fact that going
to my dead husband’s grave to start the process of
Christmas 2013
“un-decorating” was just a
spur of the moment thought and
spur of the moment action
is big.
As I stepped out of
the van, totally alone in this very rural church cemetery to go to Rob’s grave
in the complete darkness, it was the stillness of the night and the hovering of
the fog over the cemetery that spoke volumes to me as I quietly walked to his
grave and removed the Christmas wreath.
Such a simple act –
that lasted all of one 1 minute.
Removing something
that was placed there with love from his children and from me as we had symbolically
offered him all we could for Christmas.
Such a simple act.
Removing his
Christmas wreath.
Such a simple act.
Done on the spur of
the moment.
Such a simple act.
Done at that moment
because it was convenient.
Such a simple act.
Done just as
ordinarily as I would stop and get gas
because I was driving
by the gas station.
Such a simple act.
And as I was walking
back to my van with the wreath in my hands and as I placed it in the van,
I silently thanked God that it was
just that.
A simple act…
…and not the heavy
undertaking that it had been the previous 2 Christmases.
I was thankful that,
in my new “normal,” it all just felt commonplace.
And I was thankful
that I did not feel the pain that I have not forgotten feeling –
the heart ripping,
searing pain that felt like a jagged edge knife
tearing at me –
inside and out.
I am thankful, as my
dad always says, that “it’s as good as it is.”
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It’s a moment that
came and went last night.
But the urge to write
it down has been strong all morning.
So I am writing it.
Maybe I will want to
read it later. Maybe I won’t.
But I have a strong
urging that someone out there who is not as far down the pathway as I am
needs
to read it now.
And that someone
might need to know that, at least for me,
small semblances of
healing do come…
…in simple acts…
…that will and do become
commonplace.
