The “old chapel” of the Moravians, was built in 1751.
My sister Heidi died.
She was a very private person, so this post is not about her, or her loving children and adorable grandchild. Her life is their story to tell, or not tell, not mine.
“What is it about December?” a dear family friend asked me. My brother died of AIDS on December 23rd, 1985. My mother died on December 19th, 2009. And now my sister, another December death.
“It’s the deadline for the year,” I responded dryly. Trauma humor is a specialty of mine, honed by decades of experience. It’s my coping mechanism.
As I was sitting in the quiet darkness of early morning thinking about death, I remembered how two years ago, on December 19th, I was in New York City about to get a cab to meet my newborn granddaughter in the hospital when I got a text from my long-time nanny that her son had just been killed in a car accident. I thought back to my father’s funeral (he died September 20, 1990, which coincidentally is my long-time nanny’s birthday) and what a Rabbi said…that while death is filled with sorrow, it also brings with it the joy of birth and new life. Sorrow. Joy. Two sides of the coin of life.
Right before I learned of my sister’s death, I was attending my daughter’s final Christmas Vespers service in the Moravian Church in Bethlehem, PA. Yes, we live in the Christmas City—scene of a recent Hallmark movie and Hallmark channel live cam. As we were holding our candles and singing carols about Bethlehem in Bethlehem, I thought about how my first night out after my brother died was a Christmas Eve candlelight service. Ever since then, I have had a hard time singing Christmas carols and hymns without crying.
“How many times did you cry tonight?” my daughter asked afterward.
“Six,” I replied, but then started crying.
“Seven,” she smiled.
But still, I sang through my aging, creaky, and tear-filled voice. I sang because even while crying, it brings me joy. I sang because the sound of a church filled with voices and bells and organs comforts me. I sang because the vibration that goes through my body when I sing feels healing.
As my ex-husband and I walked back to his house, where I had parked, and before I heard about my sister. I took a photo of the old Moravian chapel, where Washington, Jefferson, Franklin, Lafayette, Indigenous people, and African Americans all worshipped together. I thought about an Instagram Reel I recently saw about how 100 years from now no one will be alive that remembers us. We will all be forgotten, or remembered for relics of our lives, a plaque somewhere, or a Wikipedia page. How much do you know of your great-great-grandparents? That’s why it matters that we live fully and with love and joy now, in this present moment, despite what life sometimes brutally throws at us — the deaths, the betrayals, the setbacks, the sorrows.
I also thought about how the original Bethlehem is in the West Bank of Palestine. In Palestine, Christmas celebrations in Bethlehem have been canceled. Not “canceled” like the modern use of the term, usually by Republicans to insult others. But literally canceled for the protection of its own vulnerable citizens, who are of many faiths, and in solidarity with the people of Gaza, who have lost everything. In fact, a Lutheran church in Bethlehem, Palestine, changed its nativity scene this year to show the baby Jesus in a pile of rubble.
Birth, death, and resurrection are recurring themes in all our lives. Death in December makes the holiday season bittersweet for many of us. So this December, the season of holidays and light and gift-giving and joy, remember the children. Consider that every child might be the baby Jesus, whether born in Palestine or Pennsylvania. And consider the true spirit of Christmas, which is that the light of God is inside each of us, no matter our race, religion, sexual preferences, or nationality, and must be protected from the winds, kept burning through the dark nights, and shared with others. Do not hide your light under a bushel, let it glow and warm those around you.
Tis the season. Hug your loved ones. Forgive your enemies. Give the gift that really matters, the gift of love. Be gentle with yourself and with others, because many people are suffering — some suffering we can see, some we can’t.
And sing. Singing is our power to create the world, even if we do it poorly. Singing, I think, releases the grief, the sorrow, and the sadness of death and replaces it with an open space where the light of hope can grow and glow.
Here’s a video of my favorite Moravian Vespers song, Morning Star. It’s usually sung with children holding candles doing the solo parts and the congregation joining in. I can’t find a video that captures the magic of Morning Star in the Bethlehem Moravian Church, but if you ever get a chance to witness and sing along with it, you are fortunate indeed. And yes, I cry through the whole thing.
May all those who pass — all through the year and all over the world — find peace, rest, and reunion with the divine. And may the living find solace in the comfort of friends and family.
Maria- I am so sorry for the loss of your sister, and brother, and father in the months of December. I took care of your brother as my patient at LVH. I will never forget that I refused to “gown up” to spend time with him and hold his hand. I don’t know if you knew that. Losing parents is expected as life goes on, but losing siblings reminds us of our own mortality.
Peace and love to you.
This is the moment I started to cry reading this: "Consider that every child might be the baby Jesus, whether born in Palestine or Pennsylvania. And consider the true spirit of Christmas, which is that the light of God is inside each of us. . ."
Thank you Maria for writing this.