Ghosts at Christmas
My friend and hero when I was a little boy was my grandfather. Not only was he married to my grandmother — the sweetest and warmest woman in the world, and the best cook — he was a magician. He could do things like repair plumbing and electrical problems. In the days of lead pipes and bare copper wires, that was no mean feat. He was unfailingly kind and loving with his grandchildren. With the world in general he had a reputation of being generous to a fault.
It came as an absolute shock that he became fatally ill and died within sa matter of a few months. The bigger shock was that, no one else seemed to be able to see him or speak with him after his death.
Before his illness Grandpa had been a big, burly Irishman. Disease took that away. A few days after his funeral it was the big Irishman who said my name while I was sitting on my bed reading and feeling sad. I looked up to see my grandfather standing beside my bed.
Everything is fine, he said without words. I am fine.
Even though I have always heard his deep rich baritone when he communicates with me, his lips never move. He never speaks as living humans speak. Spirits don’t. Like God and the angels, they communicate with us via telepathy.
Who am I to complain? For me that has meant a lifetime of my grandfather being in my life. There are the kind smiles. The sparkling blue Irish eyes. The deep rumbling chuckle when he is amused and the big laugh when he is filled with happiness.
The first time Grandpa stopped by was a short visit. He told me he came to say hello and that he loved us all. Most importantly, he said, his visit was to be a secret. I must tell no one. Not my mother, not even my grandmother.
They would not understand, Grandpa said. They might think you are making it up to hurt them. You must promise to keep it a secret.
I promised. After all, what boy is going to say no to his hero?
Several weeks later it was time to return to grade school. About then Grandpa began to show up each morning as I was dressing for school. He would remind me to study hard, listen to the sisters and behave myself.
As Thanksgiving and Christmas approached we studied various traditions in religion class. Sister taught us about the Jewish tradition of setting a place at the table for the prophet Elijah. By this time Elijah and I were old pals. I thought it would be a great idea.
When I presented it to my mother, she told me we couldn’t do it. It would hurt my grandmother too much, reminding her of the absence of Grandpa.
As Mother said this to me, I was looking over her shoulder at Grandpa. He shook his head and put a finger to his lips.
Don’t tell your mother I’m here, he said. Don’t tell her you can see me. She doesn’t understand.
I didn’t understand, but I did as I was told. After all, he was and remains the grandfather who continues to show up for me.
Yes, I know that his soul returns from heaven, not the man. That is fine by me. For many years now he has returned with the soul of my grandmother.
The souls — or ghosts, if you prefer — of those we love return to us. December is always a good time to look for them. Not just because of Christmas, the winter solstice, Hannukah or whatever you may celebrate. It’s because heaven comes closer to earth this time of year.
The spirits of those we love and are no longer physically with us continue to animate our lives. They are present in our hearts. It is our love for them and their love for us that brings them close to us.
Ghosts were in my life before Grandpa. Many, many more have been around since.
But knowing that on Christmas morning I will wake up and see my grandparents’ souls again always makes the day better. The Christmas feast could be hot dogs and beans or a ten course meal.
So long as we open ourselves up to blessings, we are blessed.
