May

Christmas Eve was the most exciting night of the year for us—-growing up in a small German-American village in Western New York. Even though we were poor, we didn't know it. There would be at least one or two packages wrapped and waiting for each of us to open once we returned home from Christmas Eve candlelight church services.

Our little village was the kind of place where everyone knew each other—there were no secrets. Most of us were actually related to each other in some way. This Christmas, 1957, would prove to be a pivotal point in my life. The snow was already on the ground. The holiday wreaths, lit trees, and decorated cookies added to the anticipation. My siblings and I were excited. That is, we were as excited as we could be. Yet we lived in a household where our Mom was mentally and emotionally unstable, and where anything could happen.

Our parochial school classes had been practicing for weeks to present our Christmas Eve program. I was to sing a solo that night, and I was ready! The morning of Christmas Eve Day, however I awoke to pandemonium, including police and ambulance sirens. While we had been sleeping throughout the night, our Mom had slipped out of the house and began knocking on the doors of townspeople, dressed only in her nightgown, and making schizophrenic pronouncements that would still be talked about decades later. Her actions resulted in her being institutionalized that very day. The town was abuzz. Our family was distraught. As kids, we were totally embarrassed; (the stigma around this couldn’t be higher), and we knew how our town's gossips were telling this tale. How could I stand up and sing my solo when all I wanted to do was cry? And hide from it all?

Then Dad called us all together and hugged all of us kids. He gave me an extra hug and said, "Don't worry one bit about what happened today or about what people think, or about unkind things they may be whispering. They aren't choosing to see that Mom has a sickness. We all wish that things could be different. But this is Christmas. The good Lord wants to hear you sing tonight, and he'll be listening and so will I. Stand up, hold your Christmas candle high, and show that special courage you have. Let it shine through your presence there tonight. Be who you are—-you have a song to sing."

I did. I sang my nine-year-old heart out with "O Little Town of Bethlehem."

I found my inner courage that night. It was a precious life gift--a product of circumstance and a compassionate, encouraging father. This gift has served me well. My life's work has been in helping business leaders and organizations deal with tough, tangled workplace issues--all the while lifting up the good, finding coherent and courageous ways through the mire. (www.LightsOnWorkshop.com).

(Note: This article was originally written for and published in The Gratitude Book Project – Favorite Christmas Memories©, 2011; this version has slight revisions).