The older I get, the more I find myself drawn to the Christmas songs that have a touch of melancholy to them. Songs that acknowledge the complexity of Christmas emotions. “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” “Christmastime Is Here.” And, of course, “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”
Sure, it’s the most wonderful time of the year. A time of joy and celebration, holiday parties and family fun. But it’s also a time of prayer and reflection, a time to take stock of where we are and what’s happened in the past year. We’ve all grown a little older. Babies were born. Loved ones have passed away.
My wife lost two of her four older brothers this fall, in quick succession. Both were surprises. Too young. Out of the blue.
Someday soon we all will be together
If the fates allow …
It’s an unusual conditional for a Christmas song — “If the fates allow” — but it’s an acknowledgment of how things change. Some things are beyond our control. You may have everyone together for Christmas one year. And then the next, you may not. People move. Family members have fallings-out. Some people get jobs that require them to work on holidays. Those in the military are deployed overseas.
And in the course of a year, alas, loved ones sometimes pass away.
“Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” first sung by Judy Garland, debuted in the 1944 film “Meet Me in St. Louis.” In the film, Garland’s character sings the song on Christmas Eve to comfort her little sister, who is sad that the family is moving away from its cherished home.
The original lyrics, as sung by Garland, contained the line, “Until then we’ll have to muddle through somehow.” As the story goes, Frank Sinatra later requested that the song be lightened up so it wouldn’t be so morose, so most versions you hear these days substituted that line with “Hang a shining star upon the highest bough.” Some years, though, “muddling through” is an apt description.
My brother-in-law Brian was a mainstay at Christmas family gatherings for years. He had a raspy voice that let you know he’d done some living. He was never afraid to share his opinions on anything from politics to music to movies to the Blackhawks. He could be gruff. He liked to crack jokes. He liked to ruffle feathers.
He also loved Christmas. He loved the boisterous family gatherings. And, above all, he loved his three kids. Loved doing things with them. Going out into the world, seeing things, skiing, hiking, biking, going to concerts. His kids are all young adults now. In fact, he was at his eldest daughter’s wedding this fall, just one week before his heart attack happened. He was 59.
My wife, Joanne, and I hosted a family gathering last Christmas Eve. After dinner, three generations of her family were still talking and laughing around the dinner table, the wine and the Irish coffee flowing. There were Christmas cookies and pies to nibble on.
Here we are as in olden days,
Happy golden days of yore.
While the adults were still chatting, I slipped off to the family room to join my three kids to watch “A Charlie Brown Christmas.” Two teens and a grade schooler. Growing up too fast, as all kids do. We still watch the Charlie Brown special every year on Christmas Eve. We practically know it by heart.
Brian came into the room, whiskey tumbler in hand. For a couple of minutes, he watched us, curled up on the couch under cozy blankets, quoting lines, making quips about the Peanuts gang.
“This,” he said, looking at me, “is the best time in your life.”
It was unusually sincere from him, so it took me aback. But it was spot-on.
Life doesn’t get much better than moments like this. Sitting around with your family, sharing laughs, sharing traditions, sharing the Christmas joy. It is fleeting. It comes but once a year. And things can change. We don’t know what next year will bring.
But when you feel it, the Christmas joy, there’s nothing else quite like it. Cherish it. Hold it tight.
Someday soon we all will be together
If the fates allow
Until then we’ll have to muddle through somehow
So have yourself a merry little Christmas now.
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ABOUT THE WRITER
John Biemer, a physician and former Tribune reporter, lives in Oak Park, Illinois.
