Christmas Day of 2011 finds me with some moments to reflect upon the events of the past year, events which have brought hardship and, indeed, death to my family, events which have also brought new life. For purposes of such reflection, I have taken a seat in a guest bedroom of my wife’s parent’s house, my position allowing me to gaze out at the winter branches of the woods behind their North Georgia home. An intermittent rain spits from a grey sky, forming droplets, which cling temporarily to the bare branches before completing their journey to the cold, adhesive Georgia clay. There is, in this scenery, a beauty best enjoyed from indoors, and it is evident from the sounds elsewhere in the house that the other family members who have gathered for the holiday have contented themselves with indoor pursuits.
This pilgrimage to my in-law’s home has become a Christmas tradition in the twenty years my wife and I have been married. To be precise, I believe 18 of our 21 married Christmases have been spent with them. Though the city and state of my in-laws’ residence has changed and though the cast of characters who gather in their home has evolved, the fun of spending Christmas in a big house surrounded by the smell of food, the laughter of games, and the thump of excited little feet on the stairs is a Christmas tradition that continues to call us back year after year. So it is that this view of the bare winter branches upon North Georgia hillsides is familiar to me. It is a part of who I am, and the life I have led, the familiar curse of Interstate 75, followed by the blessing of family.
My family, however, is more than those who gather in this house, for a marriage joins together two distinct families, and today, this view of the cold, wet woods also calls to mind the other side, the Julin side, of my family. One year ago, I stared out at the same woods and the same heavy laden sky. It was, however, a few degrees colder, and so it was to a white winter-scape of woods filling silently with snow. A white Christmas in Georgia is a big deal, especially to those who have journeyed north from Florida, and so it was that, one year ago today, as I stood gazing upon these same woods, I decided to telephone Florida that I might share with my mother news of the unexpected pleasure of a Georgia White Christmas.
The phone call, however, was not a pleasant one, for I discovered that my mother was at that moment trying to figure out what to do with my father. His Alzheimer’s Disease having progressed to the point that it was becoming difficult for her to care for him, he had, on this Christmas Day, decided to run away from home. Into this situation, my phone call came, and I could hear the strain in my mother’s voice. It was the strain of a situation she could no longer handle alone, the strain of realization that he might even be a threat to her safety, the strain that I was 500 miles away when she needed me. I hung up the phone aware that the time had come. Upon our return to Florida, my parents would be moving in with us.
So I sit here. I sit and gaze out upon the barren limbs of a cold, grey-cast forest, and I contemplate the many events of a single year. The memories come in quick succession. I remember my father, his mind stripped by the cold winter of Alzheimer’s Disease. I remember him weeping, his shoulders heaving in great sobs on that first morning he awakened in my house. He did not know where he was, and thought he was surrounded by strangers. I remember awakening at four o’clock in the morning to find him standing on a bathroom counter, attempting to escape through my ceiling. I remember working to “Alzheimer’s Proof” our house. And how could I forget hours spent following him at times when he ran away from home?
A year ago, it was becoming apparent that my father’s time had come. The fullness of his life lived, there remained only the passage into eternity, and we prayed that God might deliver him from his suffering, but one year ago, as I watched these woods fill with snow, I did not know all that soon would follow. I did not know that my son, in the midst of the toughest year of a tough school would be studying for final exams at his grandfather’s deathbed. I did not know that, on June 3 of 2011, my father would pass through heaven’s gates.
From North Georgia woods to North Georgia woods, what a year it has been, but it has been significant for more reasons than simply the passage of my father. A few days ago, I held for the first time Heath Cabot Julin, my new nephew. The Julin family, it turns out is finishing the year with the same number of people as it had last Christmas, for even as Stanley Cabot Julin was passing into eternity, another Cabot was being meticulously woven together by our great Creator.
My father never met his little namesake, but I know he would have loved him, not just for the soft feel of his warm head or his innocent baby scent, but also because little Heath is adopted. Not having been raised in a Christian home, my dad, I think, always acutely felt his adoption into the family of God and frequently commented at the wonder of having been chosen, and so, as we say goodbye to him who is –by right of birth- the father of our family, it seems fitting that we welcome, by an act of choice a new member of our family.
It is fitting too that I sit here, staring at the forest and thinking about birth and adoption, death and the passage of time, for such contemplations are at the root of the Christmas Story. As it says in Galatians:
But when the fullness of the time came, God sent forth His Son, born of a woman, born under the Law, so that He might redeem those who were under the Law, that we might receive the adoption as sons. Because you are sons, God has sent forth the Spirit of His Son into our hearts, crying, “Abba! Father!” Therefore you are no longer a slave, but a son; and if a son, then an heir through God.
So welcome to the world, little Heath Cabot Julin, and Merry Christmas! I know not what life holds in store for you, but you are blessed by parents who chose you
…and by extended family who now chooses you,
…and by a savior who, from the beginning of the world, has chosen you
…and by the legacy of a grandfather who never lost his amazement that he was chosen into the family of God.
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