Tradition!

 I really do enjoy musicals.  My all-time favorite movie is "The Sound of Music."  In case you were wondering, yes, I did go to Salzburg and, courtesy of Bob's Special Tours, do the full "Sound of Music" experience.  And yes, I was in geeked-out bliss the entire time.  Despite my love of musicals, I know there are many people who can't stand them.  Why would a person just randomly break into song in the middle of conversation, start dancing, stop singing, and continue on with the spoken conversation as if nothing out-of-the-ordinary just happened?  My response: why wouldn't they?  I very literally just made up a song that I am currently singing to my dog, Buddy Lee.  There will more than likely be dance moves later, but they will be Scandinavian Baptist dance moves.  In other words, it will look like awkward hip sways and jumps, but trust me, according to my people, it would get me kicked out of some churches.  Anyway...

From the very beginning of our relationship, Andrew and I set out to create traditions for our little family.  We went apple picking in September.  October brought pumpkin picking at the pumpkin patch, and our annual weekend in Duluth.  In November, our family made shoeboxes for Operation Christmas Child, and cut down our own Christmas tree on the day after Thanksgiving.  December meant a visit to Santa Claus, putting up decorations, blasting "Little Drummer Boy" (For King & Country version) throughout the house, and celebrating the holidays with family.  We pretty much hibernated for winter (we do live in Minnesota), but then came Easter.  At Easter, we made an egg hunt in our backyard.  In May, I would strong-arm Andrew into taking professional family photos, and then the summer months were spent going to Comotown, to the lake, and having bonfires.

Andrew died in November, a little less than 2 weeks before Thanksgiving.  Only now am I beginning to realize how little I recall from this period in time.  I remember distinctly the moments and events of that last week.  I can recall in excruciating detail the final moments of Andrew's life.  Telling my children, a mere 12 hours later, that their dad had died is permanently etched in my brain.  After that?  It's fuzzy.  Really, really fuzzy.  For a person with a nearly photographic memory, this has been a new experience.  I mean, I can tell you the name of the girl who threw up in the middle of the carpet in first grade (her name was Jessica, and the carpet was orange).  I can't really tell you what Thanksgiving weekend was like this last year, or the weeks leading up to Christmas.  The parts that I do recall center around our traditions, because they hurt so much.  

Our family didn't cut down our Christmas tree this year.  Originally, I had asked my parents to go with us to cut down our tree.  When the day came, I couldn't go.  I couldn't face the reality of Andrew not being there, so we just didn't go.  I didn't decorate for Christmas this last year.  The boxes of decorations sat unopened in the crawl space.  My parents bought us an artificial tree, but there were barely any ornaments on it.  We almost didn't make it to see Santa Claus.  With the help of a dear friend, we managed to make it out on the last day he was there.  There was no Christmas shopping, or wrapping presents.  I did remember to get a stocking-stuffer for each kid, but I couldn't tell you what it was.  

In my fuzzy mind, I resigned myself to never do a single one of our traditions ever again.  It hurt too much.  These were things that we created together.  This was part of our family together.  I looked forward to these things together.  It seemed too wrong, too real, too insulting to keep doing these things without Andrew.  I didn't want to do any of this without him.  If I said nothing, and did nothing, perhaps our little family could just move away from these traditions and let them be a casualty of Andrew's death.  We hibernated the winter away, and quarantined in Spring.  Then, in April, Easter happened.  I did get each of my kids an Easter basket (thank you pre-made baskets from Wal-Mart), and in my mind, this was sufficient.  At the end of the day, my almost-5-year-old, Mr. M, came up to me with tears in his eyes.  We hadn't had an egg hunt.  Where was our egg hunt?  I tried to explain to him that Mommy just didn't get an egg hunt done this year; there was so much to do.  With tears, my son asked me why I hadn't asked Grandma for help, because we have an egg hunt at Easter.  Next year, I should ask Grandma for help so we can have an egg hunt.

Now, Covid provided me with a pretty easy out for most of the summer traditions.  We couldn't do family pictures; we were under stay-at-home orders.  Comotown was closed this year.  We still went to the lake, but we didn't have any firewood, so very few bonfires.  Fireworks were cancelled on the 4th of July, and, in my effort to pacify my children, I did buy the tame box of fireworks.  All the while, there was this internal wrestling match happening inside my head and my heart.  We weren't the same family we once were, so it shouldn't matter if we do the same traditions every year.  Nothing is the same anymore, why should we operate as we always did?  I don't know that my heart can handle the ache of what was, and, what fun is doing all our traditions if it only makes me sad?  Yet, we are still a family.  We may be missing a member, but we are still here, still alive, still together.  What will my children remember from this time?  They both appear to have memories like mine, and, as they grow, will they remember that we used to do these things, then Dad died, and we stopped?  Dad died, so everything stopped.  Here's the thing though, life didn't stop.

In July, I received a message from the couple we have rented the cottage from in Duluth.  They were letting me know that our usual cabin was reserved for the fall break weekend.  I hemmed and hawed for a long time about whether or not to keep the reservation.  Mind you, this weekend away is one of my favorites of the year.  The leaves, the fall mornings alongside Lake Superior, hiking in my favorite state park, walking along the canal; I look forward to this every year.  As much as my grief wanted me to cancel, my joy prompted me to confirm.  Yes, my joy.  In the midst of the sadness and heartbreak of these last 10 months, there has been so much joy.  Spending time with my little family (and a good friend who is coming with us) will be a source of joy and healing for me, I know it will.  Keeping my family together through traditions will bring joy, healing, and it will communicate a powerful truth to my precious babies: we are still alive.  Yes, Daddy is gone.  There will not be a day that goes by for the rest of my earthly life that I will not miss him, love him, or remember him.  But we are still alive, and we are still a family.  The traditions that defined our family before Daddy died will strengthen and solidify us now that he is gone.  Our world changed dramatically on November 15, 2019.  We will never be the same family we were before Andrew died.  That doesn't mean that everything must change.  If I'm being honest with myself, we need our family traditions more now than ever before.

So, last weekend, we went apple picking.  We got our bag, and the kids filled it with probably 15lbs of apples.  They played on the playground, petted the goats, and ate...a lot.  I laughed, I cried, I thanked God for the strength to do this.  When we got home, the kids settled in front of a movie with some apples, and I baked.  As I baked, I thought back to one of my favorite movie-musicals, "The Fiddler on the Roof".  Tevye, the main character, is a Jewish man who begins his story by sharing all the traditions that make him who he is.  After he breaks out into song about these traditions, he stops, looks at the camera and says, "Without our traditions, our lives would be as shaky as...as a fiddler on the roof!"  Mid-recipe, I marveled at how true this really is.  As one of my favorite old hymns says, "when all around my soul gives way, He then is all my hope and stay".   What Andrew and I created will hold our family together as we navigate this life without him.  It will not be without sorrow, tears, or grief.  One thing I know for sure, though, there will be great joy.