In “Meet Me in St. Louis,” Judy Garland sings Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. It is perhaps one of the most melancholy Christmas songs ever, although other Christmas songs written during World War II are just as depressing (I’ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams…)
Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas,
Let your heart be light
Next year,
All our troubles will be out of sight
Have yourself a merry little Christmas
Make the yuletide gay
Next year all our troubles will be miles away
Once again as in olden days
Happy golden days of yore
Faithful friends who are dear to us
Will near to us once more
In a year we all will be together
If the fates allow.
Until then, we’ll have to muddle through somehow
And have yourself a merry little Christmas now.
Muddling. Our Christmas will be a fumbling, slapped-together, strained, reminder-ducking affair. We talk of Baby Jesus and Emmanuel, manger scenes and the book of Luke. We speculate whether Christmas will be white, we plan to make sugar cookies sometime this week, we list off last-minute presents to buy and wrap, forgetting they will be forgotten by June.
I got out the things I bought at Target when they had their Christmas clearance last year. I knew I was pregnant (very few others knew) so when I bought cute gingerbread-men-shaped childrens’ placemats, I bought six. I muddled through counting those out and shook my head at how presumptuous I was on December 26th, 2005. I was crazy to think being pregnant actually meant I was going to have a new baby this Christmas. Six gingerbread placemats. Five children. Muddle.
The Christmas cards were another thing to tackle. Usually, our newsletter is fun, somewhat creative, and I am told people look forward to receiving it. This year, it was somber and reflective, as expected. I wrote of my Grandma Mary’s death on December 1st and our pregnancy losses. When we addressed the envelopes and we got to the page with Grandma Mary’s address…you know. Muddle.
My other grandma is home from the hospital, not because she has improved but because she has chosen to die in her bed. I saw her yesterday. Christmas music lilted around the two of us in her bedroom. It was John Denver, singing about having a Blue Christmas. I held her hand. She slept. The Christmas tree she purchased from the Optimist Club stood in her living room, decorated by her not long ago.
In a year we all will be together, if the fates allow. Until then we’ll have to muddle through somehow.
So have yourself a Merry Little Christmas now. Just in case Judy Garland was lying.
