My grandmother was a formidable woman.
She spoke with authority: If you asked her a question, she gave you an answer. Definitively. Did it matter if she knew the answer? Of course not. She never allowed such trivialities to stand in her way. She was aware of herself: her hair was just so; her house spotless; her food prepared as God intended. If she raised both of her eyebrows at you, you knew you were in trouble. Otherwise, stay for dinner.
I offer this brief description for two reasons. One, it’s nearly Christmas Eve, and I can’t help but think of my grandmother. We all find memories of loved ones who have left us bubbling to the surface at this time of year—if not every day.
But two, it’s nearly Christmas Eve, and I can’t help but think of my grandmother. There’s a classic Christmas Eve story in which she plays a pivotal part, and you have to have some understanding of the kind of person she was to appreciate it.
We had just left church after Christmas Eve Mass. It was cold and rainy and dark, and we’d sent my grandfather to fetch the car. It was just me and Nana huddled on that curb, bumped and jostled by all the other faceless bundles of winter weather gear stumbling out of the warmth and into the December frost.
“There he is,” she’d said, grabbing my arm. “Let’s go, Eric.”
And so, I went. Got right into the backseat, buckled my seatbelt. Nana slid into the passenger side. And the strange man in the driver’s seat turned to us with a confused, “Hello, there.”
As it turns out, this was not my grandfather’s car, and this was not my grandfather. My grandmother was not pleased. “Well,” she scowled, hustling back out into the cold air. “Let’s go, Eric.”
It’s a delightful tale—for me, at least—because you have to know my grandmother: Everything in its place except for us in a stranger’s car on Christmas. The startled look of outrage—at herself, perhaps but mostly at the strange man who had the audacity to be there in the first place.
At least, that’s how I saw it. How I remember it. How I tell the story.
There is only one hero in this story—and it’s certainly not my grandfather, two cars behind and in the dark. You might say it’s my grandmother: after all, she did manage to keep me safe, even if it was a bit touch and go there for a moment.
No—the hero of this story is that strange man in the driver’s seat who was likely not very strange at all, not a stranger to someone. But to us? Forever a shadowy figure who we barely got a good look at.
I think of me and my grandmother just getting in his car, confident, assured of ourselves, ready to hit the gas. And I think of that man, calm, cool and probably a bit confused. But still, a bit of kindness. A word of greeting. No expletives or shouting or “Who do the hell are you? Get out!”
An unforced collision of lives in the dark on Christmas. The literal manifestation of allowing someone to come in and out of your life.
I wonder about that guy sometimes. A lady mistook my car for hers at the grocery store last week, and I just about honked the horn at her. But that guy? We were buckled in.
There’s something very Christmas-y about that image of strangers colliding in the dark, a moment of uncertainty and tension and lives intersecting one another for just a short time. Strangers given grace, given time. Certainty shattered and pride laid low and everything decidedly not in its place.
I don’t think we should necessarily let strangers strap into our passenger seats. But I do wonder if there’s some opportunity this season in which we will be invited to collide into another’s life, to share the space in an intimate, uncomfortable way—if just for a moment in the cold and dark and magic of Christmas.
And another thing. Need a little more Christmas cheer in your weekend? Listen to this excellent episode of “AMDG: A Jesuit Podcast” featuring
& . We drafted our favorite Christmas characters. It was a little wild.
I loved this so much. I wish I could have met your grandmother.
Perfect read for this morning. Merry Christmas!