Kizzie Marie (8) and Levi (9) have a sing-along while Kizzie Elizabeth plays the piano.
Larry Jones, my husband, and the father of my two children, died in a helicopter crash, July 1983. Larry was alive one day and gone the next. For me, the passage of time came to an abrupt stop. I could not eat. I could not sleep. I could not watch TV or read. Had the children not needed my care, I could have gladly laid myself down in the hallway and never gotten back up. Relief from my pain evaded me. Others had found their way through grief, certainly, I could, too?
Christmas had always been my most cherished holiday and Christmas songs my favorite music. Was it possible the melodies that had given me joy all my life might now give me peace and solace? I dug out a cassette tape of traditional German Christmas songs. The recording began with the deep resonance of the church bells followed by the beloved Weihnachtslieder (Christmas carols) of my childhood. I felt a wave of comfort flow through me. I relaxed. I hummed. I could finally bear the passage of moments as the musical notation, note by note, passed through the dimension of time.
Since 1983 I have listened to Christmas Music every July in myriad forms: playing the piano myself, 33½ rpm vinyl records, cassette tapes, 8-tracks, CDs, iPod, radio, and Spotify! All month, and then some.
In July 1988, five years after Larry’s death, Levi, my 14-year-old son, died of heart disease. Already in the ritual of playing Christmas music in July, I now increased the time, as months went by before I could function or venture out in public. July Christmas Carols extended until well after Christmas that year. And the tradition has continued each July over the past 37 years, until 2020 brought a new twist.
On Thursday, March 5th, while having coffee with friends, they asked if I was concerned about “the virus.” I casually replied, as if commenting on the common cold. I reflected on my experience as a chaplain serving in healthcare during the H1N1 flu epidemic. By using universal precautions—consider everyone contagious, avoid physical contact, wear a face mask, wash my hands—I thought the COVID-19 would pass and the greater population would be unaffected. As the COVID-19 March 14, 2020 lockdown in Washington State extended into April due to the spread of infection and the mounting death toll, the immensity and ramifications of the pandemic became apparent: the rampant spread of infection, the ravaging of thousands of lives with no cure, and the understanding that all of humanity was at risk.
Gradually, it became apparent this virus would not be merely an interruption in travel plans, weddings, funerals, graduations, and group gatherings for the summer. The “sheltering in place” necessitated to protect life was unprecedented since the 1918 flu pandemic. To save humanity, the world had to come to a stop. Being retired, I already had a much smaller public exposure, but being an “at-risk elder with health issues,” the necessity to avoid contact—with family, children, grandchildren, and friends—took an emotional toll: the thought of not holding loved ones for many months or years until a vaccine was developed and distributed; the concern, even with adhering to all the recommended precautions, one could acquire and succumb to the virus; the incredulity at seeing that some are politicizing the pandemic instead of banding together with science against a common enemy; and the tragic brutality of racism giving rise to valid protest marches, that sadly also provided an opportunity for those who would instigate violence and destruction. All of this tumbled me back into the deep well of grief.
My normal tendency with grief is to withdraw and try to escape the pain. Yet, this time, as I retreated into my shell of self-care, I chose to name and face my grief and fears. My soul hurt. I cried. I listened to audio books and poet David Whyte. I slept. I watched movies. I walked the dogs. I watched with wonder as Spring appeared as if for the first time, and smiled at newly blossomed flowers. And yes, I listened to my beloved Christmas music.
It is now late June as I write this essay. Four months into our lives being turned upside down. March, April, May, June, and the Christmas melodies continue. In a few days, it will once again be time for my July Christmas music ritual. Thankfully, I am feeling calmer and more grounded and less burdened with despair and calamity. I have been able to broaden my life by writing again, cleaning up my office, Zooming with friends, and—while safely distanced and masked—seeing family and friends. I think that for July this year, it may be time to also add a new genre of music. I think it may be time for Gloria Gaynor’s song, “I Will Survive!”
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