A Thrill of Hope The Weary World Rejoices

I listened to Josh Grobin's, then Pavarotti's, then Il Divo's version of "O Holy Night" tonight in an effort to find the spirit of Christmas within myself. It wasn't until I heard the Mormon Tabernacle Choir's version accompanied by the Orchestra at Temple Square, during the First Presidency's Christmas Devotional, that I found it. "O Holy Night" is popularly sung with exuberance and power, highlighting the singer's voice training; the Mormon Tabernacle Choir's version tonight was sung like a lullaby, which seems more appropriate. They captured the mood I would be feeling if I were there, in the stable, on that Holy Night.

(I love the orchestra's accompaniment--the strings, specifically the violins and the harp, were beautiful.) (The link above is the closest I could come up with, still good if not the version I heard tonight.)

It's been a rough few weeks, professionally and hence, personally. I have some difficult new cases, difficult new developments in some old cases, and general sense of malaise.

Being a witness to my clients' lives is always an honor, especially when they trust me enough to allow me into their deepest secrets and most painful moments. I marvel over the human spirit's ability to survive in the face of extremely horrific events. But, my marveling doesn't protect my spirit from damage. Hearing that one child has been a victim of so many traumatic events makes me look at the world through a troubled lens at times, like now. I know my spirit will mend, with time--and watching my client(s) heal--just like my body heals. Times like now, however, during holidays where I should feel cheery make tempering being a professional therapist and a human being difficult.

And, most difficult to write about, I am grieving my grandmother this year. She is no longer the woman who will usher in the Christmas season by having us over to decorate her tree and sit on Santa's lap. She will no longer hang mistletoe from the doorway between her front room and dining room. She won't make the most lovely Christmas ham I've ever tasted, or make the crescent almond cookies, or her Chex Party Mix we call 'snacks' in my family. No longer will she sit quietly, and very happily, while her family jibber jabbers about nothing in particular. My cousin, and BFF, will never again try and fit ourselves into her rocker at the same time, or gossip in her back room.

Every time I drink Cranberry juice, which she always served on Christmas, I will be reminded of her. Also, when I smell the yellow Vaseline Intensive Care hand lotion. I like the subtle smell of moth balls, because of her house, and how that smell would linger on my clothes after I'd been there. I will always be reminded of Saturday mornings and eating waffles with Grandma Hazel when I smell or hear brewing coffee. When I see my elongated dimples in the mirror I will continue to feel blessed I look something like her; she's one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen in real life. I remember thinking, when I was a little girl, how lucky I was that God sent me to my family so she could be my grandma. I though, if I hadn't come to this family I wouldn't even know her, and how tragic that would be (I think I cried just thinking that I might not have known her). I consider her one of my life's greatest blessings and an exemplary example of extraordinary humble womanhood.

Finally, the cold that I could feel developing for the past three to four weeks, arrived in full force just as Hippo developed a heinous dry cough. And my house is a pigsty and I don't feel like doing anything about it.

And, there are a lot of events coming up which require a cheerful mood...

This thought, during the devotional, helped: maybe I was in the choir of angels in the field proclaiming glad tidings the first Christmas night. And suddenly, a thrill of hope the weary world rejoices, came over me.

Post Edit: Ending my brief tribute to my grandmother where I did left me feeling unfinished, and she deserves so much more. There are so many other memories, as she was an active member of my life until she developed dementia--which begs the thought of how I can be an active member of her life at a distance of 800 miles and with limited resources? Where is the place to record her legacy?