Over Christmas, 1999, I was lucky to share the peace I’d long sought with my dad, among the spectacular beauty of the Maine coast. As we both worked hard to heal old, painful family wounds, that visit was a gift that still brings me comfort, peace and hope — my wish for you.
Just south of Bath, Maine, the road leads out from town and trees to an opening of big blue sky and water as it makes a sweeping curve over a bridge, around an ample cove on the western shore of the mighty Kennebec River. When I lived alone in an in-law apartment near the bridge, the spectacular beauty of that teeny place called Winnegance brought me peace every day.
Great blue herons fish the cove’s exposed mud flats at low tide on the salty, river side of the bridge. On its other side, a small freshwater lake. Two men who lived across the cove from each other raced every year to be the first to light a small Christmas tree on the edge of the cove.
My mornings began with a short walk, cup of coffee in hand, down the lane, past the captain’s house, and an old rusty shed to the shore of the river. I would settle on an overturned skiff — a small wooden rowboat — and watch the tide move in or out a bit more with every small wave, looking up to take in the full expanse of blue sky and blue water stretching out to the pines across the river.
Watch. Think. Breathe.
Not a bad way to start the day. Then a longer walk along a path through the woods beside the river, across the road toward the lake to the woods, all threaded with trails. I had a favorite little spot on a log beside the lake. Brisk walk home, then off to work.
The Hard Work of Rebuilding
Over Christmas 1999, I shared that peaceful place with my dad. In the years to come, we would draw on those powerful moments when we needed quiet comfort. I still do.
We were rebuilding our relationship then, both working hard toward a place of peace that had long eluded us. I was angry with him for a long time for hurting our family. Our conversations were few, far-between and strained. To his credit, over those 10 years my dad never let go or stopped calling. Then it was time for me to begin to forgive, and focus on the good he had done and could do.
About four years into our rebuilding, as Christmas approached along with the stress of traveling and balancing visits with long-divorced parents, I decided to spend the holiday in Maine. I would see my mom and most of our extended family on an upcoming vacation. Dad had just started visiting me in Maine, where I’d settled after leaving home 10 years prior for college. He decided to drive out from Ohio for Christmas.
The Ice Skater
On that bitter, single-digit cold Christmas Eve, dad and I walked my routine loop over the packed snow, and had almost reached “my” log beside the lake when we saw the ice skater.
A man glided on the lake’s frozen surface with a hand-held power drill, stopping to measure the thickness of the ice, presumably to determine whether skating would be part of the festivities.
The skater looked up from his task and spotted us watching him from among the trees on the shoreline. He waved to us, and called “Merry Christmas.” We returned the greeting. “Merry Christmas,” we called, and waved.
Dad already sounded wistful, his voice registering that the moment held significance though we couldn’t fully understand it then.
Something so wonderful about those intense moments of peace during a good visit stuck with both of us — because years later dad would say: Remember that Christmas in Maine? Remember that ice skater?
There was also a bearable dose of chaos and tension between us.
My apartment was two stacked rooms — living downstairs, where dad slept on a pull-out futon — and my sleeping, laundry and studio space in the room upstairs. From the second-floor, I could spot the herons fishing the river cove or the sunset over the lake.
Making Order
I have never been a neat freak. But I do need a certain order: a clear kitchen counter, dishes done, the sofa blankets folded and pillows arranged. Tidy.
My dad was boyish, charming, funny — and like Pigpen from Peanuts. Messy. He traveled within a certain swirling flotsam of clutter, a challenge to the order in my apartment.
One evening before Christmas Eve, I’d just cleaned up and cleared the kitchen counter, pausing to appreciate that small patch of welcome order when his radar picked up an empty spot. He walked over and dumped his pockets full of crumpled scratch lotto tickets, books of matches, receipts and loose change all over the counter.
I squawked at him — which was a score for him, because he’d riled me up. He was like a little kid, eager for attention, taunting, teasing.
I could ignore him for only so long. Eventually he’d set me off, and then celebrate his small victory. It was tiring.
Better Get Started
When dad arrived a couple of days before Christmas, he’d demanded to know where he could find the apricot, almond, white chocolate biscotti I made for the holidays. Since the blade of my food processor had cracked, I could not make the addictive cookies he loved to dunk in his coffee.
I came home from work one day to find a new food processor on the kitchen counter. Dad had scratched enough lotto tickets to win some cash, and went right to the store.
There, he said. You can make biscotti now.
“Dad,” I reasoned. “That takes several hours. You have to bake it twice, and cool it completely after the first bake.”
“Well, you’d better get started then.”
Sweet Lift
What I most remember of that visit is a sense of peace my dad and I desperately needed together, to help us heal. Walking through the woods. Seeing the ice skater. Cooking Maine lobsters for Christmas dinner.
That Christmas Eve, we drove through the dark night toward those tall pines on the other side of the river, to a candlelight service at my neighbors’ tiny church.
A soprano exquisitely sang O Holy Night, her crystal clear voice perfectly piercing the darkness, rising into the peak of the simple wood ceiling, lifting us all toward the stars.
Every family has a story. They seem to all have some pain, tension and disappointment — all often cutting sharper and deeper over the holidays.
My Peace I Give Unto You
But there is peace, beauty, joy and light, too. All around us. All of it in abundance every day.
My wish for everyone is to fully experience all of that goodness, for the holidays call our attention to it. To take it in may simply require a pause — or perhaps a long road of healing.
Better get started. One step. Then the next. The sweetness and peace will be worth it.
When my dad was sick and dying and I wanted to calm and comfort us both amidst tremendous pain and fear, I’d remind him of the ice skater and our Christmas in Maine. I think it helped some.
Whenever I hear O Holy Night, I’ll pause, listen closely, and tear up. It’s never sounded quite the same as on that Christmas Eve, when it lifted my dad and me, among a small group of people bundled and huddled against the cold.
My peace I give unto you, especially at Christmas.
Wishing you all wonderful, holiday joy. If you liked this post, please consider sharing! ~ Lisa