In college after fall semester tests, I would drive home from Sioux Falls to northeastern South Dakota, hoping to hear a song on the radio that touched my heart.
Each time I’ll Be Home for Christmas crooned over the airwaves, I would crank it up and sing along as if I wanted my Mom to hear me from miles away. It affirmed my excitement to spend the holiday in the warmth, love and comfort of my family. I would get a hug the minute I walked in the door, and I still do.
In our married years, the definition of home expanded. It meant our home where we raised our boys, cut down a carefully selected tree and shared presents, often ones they picked out from “mom’s store,” where I stashed gifts for them to give each other and my husband and me. We celebrated around the get-togethers of our extended families, including the tradition of Christmas Eve with the Schmidts in Flandreau.
This was no ordinary Christmas Eve. It was something kids and grandkids of my in-laws looked forward to every year. My mother-in-law made kettles of the family favorite, Grandma Minnie’s potato soup. Rich with milk and butter and dumplings, no one has perfected the recipe exactly the way she made it. Add in ham sandwiches on buns from the Flandreau Bakery and a banquet table full of homemade assorted sweets, and everyone was full and happy.
Next, she would give instructions on the presents, pointing out where each family’s tub, or often multiple containers, of gifts were located. Family by family, we would open the hundreds of gifts – kids first followed by more patient adults. It was loud. There was chaos. There was plenty of giggles and laughter, sometimes over a silly gift exchanged as a joke.
After a short night of sleep, our Christmas morning tradition was in our car, travelling to my mom’s up north. Christmas at Grandma Sharon’s included a traditional Norwegian meal of kumla and ham, surrounded by lefse, krumkake with spray whipped cream, kringla and more sweets than we could eat. Our present opening was much more tame, one gift from the cousins and money from Grandma. We’ve added in a dollar gift game that goes along with a Christmas story and assorted other games over the years.
This Christmas, I’ve come to realize a couple of things that I’m sure I knew all along. They’ve just been illustrated more.
Christmas changes. And sometimes the best gift is just being present.
It’s the second year without a Flandreau Christmas because Grandma Minnie isn’t here with us anymore. It’s the first year without our brother, Jim Schmidt, which leaves a big lump in our throats and an ache in our hearts. I know we’re not the only family with a loss.
I was reminded of one other gift that is easier to give than we think sometimes. Recently, a group from our church went caroling to elderly members or simply those who needed a visit. Our singing, accompanied by our pastor on his guitar, was fairly robust on songs such as Joy to the World and Hark the Herald, but we slowed it down for those sweet lullabies such as Silent Night and Away in a Manger. Many times, those receiving the songs were touched to tears.
There were lots of hugs and handshakes as we came and went at the nursing home, assisted living, down-sized apartments and sometimes their lifelong homes. “Merry Christmas,” we would call out.
But what each seemed to enjoy most were the hugs, the touch from another human as we navigate this thing called life, from beginning to end.
A hug is quite a gift.
