By Steve Brawner, © 2024 by Steve Brawner Communications, Inc.
My side of the family gathered in Wynne for our Christmas celebration Dec. 23. It was a wonderful time of gift exchanging, Papaw’s grilled steaks and Grandma’s cakes and pies. Five years ago, my wife, Melissa, and I had to skip it.
That was the year she was big and pregnant with our daughter, Hope, originally due around Christmas and ultimately greeting the world on January 10, 2020. We couldn’t risk traveling that Christmas, so we sent our older daughters, Mattie, then 18, and Abigail, then 15.
Hope was an unexpected blessing at an unexpected time. I was 50, and Melissa was 44. Our new daughter came into the world only a couple of weeks after my college roommate became a grandfather. In fact, many of my high school and college classmates have reached that stage. A few people who have seen Hope and me in public have commented about my “granddaughter” before I joyfully set them straight. It’s a great ice-breaker when I tell people that my daughters are 23, 20 and … four. I like adding that little pause.
People often tell me that raising a little one in my 50s “will keep you young.” I don’t know if that’s so. It does add a forward-thinking perspective to life. At the same time, we don’t have the same energy that we did in our 30s. Melissa’s nighttime sleep is often interrupted by the pitter-patter of little feet. She does not mind one bit. (Dad often doesn’t wake up, and even then, not for long.)
Hope definitely is growing up in unusual circumstances in a home with middle-aged parents and two sisters in their 20s. She is smart, independent-minded and exuberant. She loves to hold a flashlight or the end of a jump rope like it’s a microphone and sing with all of her might. Surrounded by adults, she says things that one would expect to come from an older person’s mouth. When she unwrapped one of her gifts at the grandparents’ Monday, she exclaimed, “Now I’m official!” I don’t even know where she got that.
Hope started her life during an uncertain time. Not long after she was born, COVID-19 cases began occurring in the United States. While the pandemic is over, the country remains divided politically and culturally. Congress is clearly broken. Wars are being fought in Israel, Ukraine and elsewhere. Solutions seem far away for long-term challenges like the national debt, climate change and plastics pollution, the latter of which doesn’t get talked about nearly enough. There are enough nuclear weapons to end life as we know it, and some bad people have them. It’s enough to question why you would want to bring a child into the world.
But if you take that view, when were times ever certain? On Dec. 6, 1941, Americans were going about their business knowing much of the rest of the world was at war but hoping the country would remain at peace. The next day, Pearl Harbor happened.
At no time in history has life been perfectly peaceful, prosperous and risk free. Suffering has always been with us, and if a crisis is not occurring, one soon will. COVID was hardly our first pandemic, and it won’t be the last.
But amidst all of the unrest is also great joy. On Dec. 8, 1941, children were being born, too. All we can do is take joy in the moment, appreciate each breath we take, and never lose hope.
A few nights ago, Melissa and I were embracing each other in the kitchen when Hope approached and said, “I want to be a part!” Without really waiting, she wriggled her way inside our circle. Our twosome became a happier threesome.
“Yes!” I told her. “You absolutely can be a part! I’m so glad you are a part!”
I’m so thankful Hope has been a part of our Christmas every year since that first one five years ago, when Melissa was pregnant and the two of us – actually, the three of us – skipped going to the grandparents’.
May hope be a part of your Christmas season as well, regardless of what challenges you have faced this past year, what losses you have incurred, or what lies ahead. May you invite hope into your circle, and if for some reason you feel unable, may it nevertheless wriggle its way inside.
Steve Brawner is a syndicated columnist published in 17 outlets in Arkansas. Email him at brawnersteve@mac.com.
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That is a beautiful tribute to your family. Love you all
Thank you, Aunt Jo. All these years, I never knew your first name was Frances.