I believe it’s a universal truth that the holidays are the time that everyone misses their parents the most. It’s certainly true for me, and I find daily reminders that transport me back to childhood Christmases. For instance, my dad had the most beautiful voice; if he was singing in the other room, you would swear you were listening to Bing Crosby: that buttery soft, lilting quality. As I’m driving along listening to Bing’s Christmas album, it’s as if my dad is in my passenger seat.
I miss grandparents and cousins and aunts and uncles—those elders who formed me—and decorations flood me with memories of that extended family. I have a reindeer that has been passed down through the years. Due to arthritis, he no longer stands so well, and his aluminum foil antlers are a bit misshapen. Probably he cost a dime when he was originally purchased. My grandmother used to joke that he had been around so long he survived the Civil War.
About five years ago, I called my college boyfriend to wish him Merry Christmas. This was a few years before his untimely death, when he was still reeling from his mother’s struggle with and passing from cancer. Obviously alone and depressed, he was watching “When Harry Met Sally” on a constant loop; it turns out that was his mom’s favorite movie. Hearing the horrible news about Rob Reiner last week, I immediately thought of David and his mom. Undoubtedly, Reiner’s loss is felt more harshly in our world that seems to have lost hope, to have forgotten to celebrate love and laughter.
David said the movie was a poor substitute for being able to talk to his mom. And that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? We miss those conversations—fleeting, trivial, significant—that were such a part of our daily lives.
I miss talking to my mom.
Recently, as I’ve undergone highs and lows in my life, I’ve wished I could vent to her ad nauseum. Yes, I’m blessed with friends, children, and a husband to talk to. But no one listens like your mom. It’s as if mothers take a silent oath during childbirth to always take your calls. Perhaps epidurals don’t just deaden the pain of contractions; maybe they force your ears permanently open.
Last week I had to run an errand 45 minutes away. On a whim, I called one of my mother’s best friends, a second mom to me, who lives in that same town. Although I had kept in touch with her by phone and cards, I had not seen her in the four years since she moved away. It was a stormy, miserably frigid morning, but her house was warm and her hug strong enough to compensate for the four years apart. Because she’s still razor sharp at 87, she was able to remind me of things I had forgotten—to retrace events from my childhood I needed to revisit.
At several points in our conversation, as she let me drone on about the joys and sorrows I was experiencing, she would interrupt me and say, “Now you know what your mom would say!” I wonder if she knew that was exactly what I needed to hear. Perhaps intuitively she did, because she is a mother. The two-hour visit reminded me of the goodness in the world, of the fact we are surrounded by love, upheld and undergirded by people from whom distance can never separate us.
We all need those reminders. Perhaps especially at Christmas, we need visits like that to make us believe everything will be okay.
And that, I believe, is where the joy of the season is to be found: not in the delicious food and beloved traditions, or the inspiring music, not in the gifts and decorations. The light of Christmas shines not in the trappings of the season but in our ability to sit with someone we treasure and be seen and heard: reminded that we are not alone, that we are loved.
Christmas magic lies in our ability to believe in that which we feel but cannot see.
The other night, when I awakened at 3:00 AM and couldn’t go back to sleep, I watched part of “When Harry Met Sally.” Supposedly Rob Reiner changed the ending when he fell in love while filming. Evidently that experience made him believe again in happy endings and everlasting love.
As we march toward 2026, in a world sorely in need of love and kindness, may we find more opportunities to sit across a sofa from someone we love—to listen and to be heard.
To believe again and be reminded that happy endings are possible.
Merry Christmas!
IN THE MIDDLE 