What is it?

            Two days ago we put away our Christmas decorations. Usually we wait until New Year’s Day, but this year I was ready for Christmas to be over, and my easygoing husband was agreeable. As I said in a previous post, the holiday was pleasant, the gifts and company delightful, but it was time to pack them away.

            Then, too, Mr. Bigelow visited. He takes a jaunt across my thoughts every Christmas or so, even after almost forty years. Although I’ve forgotten most of the lectures he delivered on literature, one class period remains unforgettable.

Around the Christmas holiday my college literature professor spun off topic in a rare moment of reverie about that gloom that descended upon him late in the afternoon on Christmas Day. As he described the queer, unwelcome feeling that crept over him after the presents, the good food, and the enjoyable interaction with family and friends, I was mesmerized. I knew the feeling, anticipated it, and wanted to prevent it. I wasn’t alone. The classroom was as still as the silent and holy night we sing about.  Quiet and measured, Mr. Bigelow explored the idea that our emptiness on Christmas evening is our longing for God. No matter how good or pleasant things are, they aren’t what we’re seeking. We’re searching for our Maker.

Last night I found someone else who I think knew that feeling as well.  In Summer of Hummingbirds, author Christopher Benfey cites a personal recollection of minister/abolitionist Henry Ward Beecher. Almost one hundred and fifty years ago Beecher told of a time when as a boy he sat in the doorway of his home listening to the music of the breeze through branches overhead while the rhythm of the spinning wheel played from the garret above. Beecher said “a tender sadness” filled him, and he cried as if in grief. Then, Beecher asked: “What was it?”

When I read the account late last night, I thought of Mr. Bigelow and Christmas. I thought of Sunday afternoons, which I have, in general, disliked most of my life. I thought of the moments when I feel a odd sense of not fitting in on this earth, of a moment that should be so satisfying but isn’t.

That literature class with Mr. Bigelow didn’t solve my post-Christmas problem. That day did explain, however, why the gloom descends. For some people, knowing why something is the way it is is not helpful, but for me, knowing the reason I itch at least explains my scratching.

So this Christmas, when I wanted to pack up Christmas decorations, when Mr. Bigelow visited me in my thoughts, and when Henry Ward Beecher dropped in last night, I think I knew what was going on. I wanted to remove the trappings of Christmas but not the worth of Christmas. Christmas is ultimately what I’m looking for. I’m looking for God, and Christmas is when his representative showed up. It’s the beginning of the plan where eventually there will be no gloom, no poignant hungering for what we can’t even describe. Eventually, as his child, the longing, the gloom, the whatever-you-want-to call-it will be gone. I can’t wait to be satisfied in his presence!

That’s what it is, Henry Ward Beecher. That’s what it is, Mr. Bigelow. That’s what it is!