Close Together, Far Away

I keep hoping that one of these days I’ll be able to post a link to something that I’ve written and someone else has published, but until then, here’s an essay I wrote for the Deseret News annual Christmas contest . . .

I was about to commit treason. Lying on my makeshift bed of blankets and ratty foam pad, I waited for my sisters to fall asleep. The elves had finished their work downstairs, and I stole from the bedroom that hosted the annual sibling slumber party to the secret delights below. I had some elfing of my own to do.

****

The Christmas of 1997 marked a season of change for my family. With our oldest brother Adam on his mission in Ecuador, it was the first time we would not all be together to celebrate the holidays. And while I would come home from my first semester at BYU for a few weeks, my cinderblock dorm room was a lonely place to build up Christmas cheer.

So I was delighted one snowy afternoon in late November when my oft-checked mailbox revealed the notice I had two packages waiting at the Cannon Center main desk. The giant eggs I received in exchange for my notice could only be from Adam. They were wrapped in his signature duct tape and tagged with pictures of the Virgin Mary for safe passage.

Tearing open the accompanying letter I read, “You should get 2 packages, hold on to them and don’t tell the family. Open them. My idea is phantom gifts from Adam under the tree.” The gifts were simple and beautiful—native bags, belts, and blankets. Dutifully I wrapped them in brown paper and stowed them in my closet. As accomplices in this Christmas surprise, I felt my brother and I were close together, both far away.

****

Never before had I trespassed the tree’s territory on Christmas morning until after my parents had been roused, a fire built, and prayers said. Only then could we line up in age order, march into the family room, and search out our stockings and pile of gifts. Now alone in the quiet family room, I took Adam’s solitary stocking from the mantle and placed it on top of the gifts he’d sent.

That morning, my parents were unprepared for a surprise of their own: “When did you?” “How did you?” “Why won’t you tell me?” As surprise veered towards frustration, I piped in with the explanation. Only when I saw my mom’s tears and heard my dad’s voice catch did I realize what Adam’s gifts would mean. I glimpsed my parents’ love and anxiety and faith for their children near and far, long symbolized by the elves’ quiet deliveries.

The Christmas of 1997 was merely a prologue to the changes the next decade would bring to our family. Many have joined us, some have moved away, and a few have passed on. Were we to reenact the annual Christmas Eve slumber party, we would need more foam mattresses, several baby cribs, and a bedroom spanning the continent. Distance also comes in the varied pursuits filling our time--some are academic, some professional, some domestic.

We’re still trying to stay close together, far away, learning to gently mold our traditions to the family’s changing shape. This year my parents are playing Grandpa and Grandma, hosting Christmas dinner. My married sisters and I are playing Mom, hanging Advent calendars and filling stockings of our own. My sister in college is planning a nephew’s party for while she’s in town. And what my youngest brother wants most for Christmas is for his oldest brother Adam to fly home. These gifts aren’t wrapped in duct tape, but for me the accompanying message is the same.