It’s two days before Christmas and it’s raining. The intermittent islands of snow leftover from last week’s storm have turned into mush and mud. Street lights spotlight the falling drizzle; tear drops of water cling to the leafless tree branches. This is not the white, Santa-sleigh landscape for which I was hoping. I’m standing outside in the dark, trying to lift a rented wheelchair out of the car trunk. “Let me help,” said my daughter Olivia. She lifts one side and I lift the other. We set it down on the wet parking lot and I ready the chair by meticulously covering the seat and arm rests with thick fleece blankets. I smooth away any wrinkles.
Olivia holds the chair in place as I open the passenger door. “Your chariot awaits you,” I say with a wink. “Great,” said Kevin.
He gingerly moves from the car to the chair. I cover him with a downy blanket and tuck in the edges around his legs, hips, and shoulders. I pull his hat firmly down over his ears.
“What do you think?” I ask “Are you up for this?”
“I think so,” he said.
We cross the street and meet the rest of the family at the entrance. It’s a mile walk through thousands of sparkling lights that illuminate rows of towering trees, waving snowmen, and flying reindeer. There are quaint bridges to cross, a glowing gazebo to sit in, and a lighted tunnel to walk through. A bit magical. Along the way we warm our hands with cups of hot chocolate. It’s a tradition we’ve adopted every Christmas and this year I wanted Kevin to come, to live away from cancer for just a moment; to leave the house, see the lights, and feel the festivity of the season. So, I prepared. I rented a wheelchair from a medical supply store. I gathered wool socks, ski gloves, a fitted beanie, sherpa lined jacket, snow coat, and an arm full of plush fleece blankets. (The chemo made Kevin sensitive to cold.) I packed three umbrellas. I wanted everything to go flawlessly.
We show our tickets and start down the paved walkway. The holiday music plays as the programmed luminaries dance over the rolling hills. We pause to watch, then continue on. The rain is strengthening; I see water starting to bead on Kevin’s blankets. I open an umbrella and hold it over Kevin’s head, but quickly discover the impossibility of holding the umbrella, grasping the push grip, and steering the wheelchair at the same time. I try to wedge the umbrella handle down through the blankets tucked behind Kevin’s back, hoping it will stay upright. Instead, I poke Kevin’s head and drop the umbrella in the dirt.
“Mom,” said Brennan, my oldest child. “Let me help. I can hold it.”
I’m grateful but frustrated. Why does it have to rain?
A canopy of umbrellas now dot the pathway and we continue on with the congregation through imaginary retreats like “Snowflake Lane.” Ahead there’s a fork in the road. A staff member stops us and explains that the wheelchair should be taken to the left, on a paved detour. Those who don’t want to take the detour can go to the right, on a gravel footpath. The two paths meet a short distance ahead. I notice the paved detour is hidden away from the lights and displays.
“I think I can manage the wheelchair on the gravel,” I said. I don’t want Kevin to miss out on anything. It might be a little bumpy but I’m confident.
I grip the handles, push off with my legs, and lean forward. I move the chair about two feet on the gravel footpath before I feel the wheels sink. The rain has turned the ground into clinging muck. I push harder, thinking if I could just get the chair on top of the small pebbles I could maneuver it down the path. Yet the more I push, the deeper it settles into the sludge. I change my strategy and try pulling Kevin backwards.
He doesn’t move.
“Mom,” said Olivia. “Let me help. Get in front and try and lift, I’ll get the back and pull.” We lifted, tugged, and dragged until our shoes were covered with mud and the chair was back on the paved walkway.
I’m disheartened. Why did I choose this wheelchair? I should’ve gotten a sturdier one. We walk the detour then join a crowd in a framed village with fire pits, strings of lights, and decorated gingerbread houses where refreshments are sold.
“How ya doing?” I ask Kevin as I try to park his wheelchair by the fire. “Are you staying warm?” The rain had stopped, but the thick wintry air remained and stealthily tried to weave its way inside layers and cloaks.
“Yeah, good. I’m doing good.”
I squat down and check the covers around his legs and body. Although I had tucked and wrapped Kevin meticulously, I notice the blankets have shifted and are dragging on the ground. I try to adjust the fleece cocoon and get the muddy and soaked edges out of the dirt. “You’re sure you’re not cold?”
“Maybe a little. My legs are getting chilled. But the fire feels nice,” Kevin replied.
“Mom,” said Hunter, my youngest son, “I’ll get dad some hot chocolate.”
Kevin and I sit by the fire talking while Hunter and the rest of the family search for hot chocolate, mini donuts, and stroop waffles. A few minutes later they return with their hands full. “It’s pretty hot,” said Hunter as he gives Kevin an insulated cup topped with a lid and a thin straw. Kevin holds out his hands, but keeps them under the warm blanket. He grasps the cup, takes a sip, but somehow, as he tries to balance it on his leg, loses his grip and the drink tumbles. The lid pops off as it hits the ground and the hot chocolate steams and slithers into the dirt.
“Oh no,” I said. “Let’s get another one.”
Kevin pulls his blanket up to his chin and says, “No.” His shoulders slump. His voice turns quiet. “I’m good. Let’s just go.”
Recently Kevin had started asking me to button his shirts, take off his shoes, cut his fingernails – a chemo side effect – the loss of feeling in his fingertips and toes. He hated it. Hated that he had to ask. I knew the spilled chocolate etched the feeling of uselessness inside him.
“Sure,” I said, “We can go. Do you mean go home or finish seeing the lights?”
“Let’s stay and finish. I want to see the statues.”
“Okay. Sounds good.” I add an extra bit of cheer to my voice trying to smooth away the loss of what was.
We make our way through the remaining light arrays then arrive at the last section, a large garden area with monument-sized statues of Jesus Christ. Hundreds of lit lanterns hanging from hooks on grounded stakes illuminate the stone walkway through recognizable New Testament scenes: the woman reaching for the hem of Christ’s robe, Mary and Martha sitting with Jesus, the woman taught by the Savior at the well. As I linger and admire the details sculpted in the faces, I let myself wonder what it would be like if Jesus sat with me. Maybe on my front porch steps, and I could see His face and tell Him all my heartaches and He would look at me and know just what to say. The idea left me wistful for something I feared would never be. Sure, I believed in prayer and in answers from God, I prayed daily, but ultimately, I was the one left alone to pick up the spilled hot chocolate lying in the dirt.
Ahead of us, also winding through the sculptures, is a mother, father and three young children. The toddler is in a stroller and the older two girls, dressed in puffy coats and snow boots, skitter and laugh down the path towards a walking Jesus. As we approach, I watch the two girls silently circle the statue and bend their necks to look up at His face. “Alright,” said the mom after a few moments, “let’s go see the next one.” Mom turns the stroller towards the walkway and the family follows behind, except the oldest daughter, who appears to be about 7-years-old. She quickly climbs the statue’s pedestal and stands side by side next to Jesus. She pulls off her glove, reaches up, and puts her small hand into the open hand of Jesus. She stands quiet, her fingers holding His, then jumps off the foundation and yells to her family as she joyfully skips to catch up, “I held His hand! Daddy, I held His hand!”
It’s a cold statue standing in the rain. It wasn’t really a warm hand she held and He never looked at her with eyes that see. Nonetheless, she skipped. She skipped because she believed.
I can’t remember the last time I skipped.
I have too many worries and duties demanding my attention; too many people counting on me. I have to make it all okay. But it’s getting harder. I’m failing. No matter my preparation, there are things I can’t fix; hurts I can’t heal. I don’t know how. And the one person who can mend all wounds and will never forsake me, seems so far away. I don’t know how to take His hand. Yet….if a 7-year-old child knows, certainly I can learn too.
Tomorrow, when the rain stops, I’ll wrap myself in a warm blanket and sit on my front porch steps. I’ll share some of my hurts and fears, my dreams and wishes, and I’ll ask Him to teach me how to take His hand.
Step, hop, step hop – I think that’s how you learn to skip.
