I can’t tell you how many Christmas Eve’s I stood in the dark in a church or on the lawn at our outdoor amphitheater and quietly cried, while holding a burning candle during the singing of Silent Night, my body radiating with terror or grief or a mixture of both. There was the Christmas my mom had breast cancer. The one post divorce. The two where my daughter’s best friend was being treated for brain cancer. The one after my parents passed away, just three months apart. The two after my son’s two best friends passed away in separate car accidents at 18 (unrelated to substances). All the ones after that where my son was deep in addiction and almost impossible to reach, especially the one where the sermon was a true story about a mother losing her son to addiction and the empty seat at her table. That’s the one where I felt sanctuary-less. Where there was no safe place for me to “just be” without addiction. The one where all was not calm. All was not bright. The one where I sat trembling in the dark for almost an hour while someone poked my wounds, activated my trauma, my deepest fear, without my knowing that’s what was coming. While my son in the throes of substance use disorder sat next to me oblivious from what was going on around him. It was brutal. Seven years later, in sustained recovery, he doesn’t remember that night but I do. Of all the stories one could tell of hope, of light, of faith, of birth, of peace, generosity, sanctuary, that was the story the minister decided would be best to tell on Christmas Eve. Had I known I would be subjected to this horror story I would have stayed home.
I’ve never been back.
I needed a moment. A moment where the blanket of addiction and the threat of death or the depth of my grief wasn’t consuming me. A moment, time suspended, where I could really feel with my body that all was calm, that all was bright or it even maybe could be. There in the darkness with my kids flanking me, holding the light in their hands, I needed to feel at least an inkling that we’d all be ok. Life was so dark then, wave after wave of challenging circumstance crashing over our family. I was earnestly searching for glimmers of light and they were hard to come by.
I’d gone there for a dose of hope.
I wish I’d walked out that night, taken care of my very fragile spirit and the hearts of my younger daughters who I imagine were being forced to face a possibility I’d long been a firewall for. They should have been able to just hear the angels singing and track Santa on NORAD.
Life is hard. Life with addiction is harder. Life with loss, harder still.
May you find the light in this season of darkness.
May you find your moments of calm and bright.
May dawn bring redeeming grace.
May you find sanctuary from addiction when you need it most.
And should you need to walk out of something to protect your peace, please, by all means, do it.
Much Love,
Shelly
Wow! Thanks for being so vulnerable and for sharing this. I have been wondering how I would sit through Christmas Eve service this year. Our 24 year old just checked out of after care after 11 months..... a few months shy of graduating. We are now faced with following implementing our boundaries which will certainly cause her severe consequences. Not my idea of merry, peaceful, or bright. Thank you for the important reminder that self care is so important for our entire family while dealing with the incredibly sad and exhausting barbs of addiction. I was picturing myself losing it in front of my family and friends in church.......it's nice to give myself permission to take a break from something I normally adore. Wishing you and your family peace.