Sonya Sparks Murdock
Early one December morning, we bundled up the boys and headed out into a blowing New England snowstorm to begin our annual trek home to North Carolina for the holidays.
Besides the snowplow we followed down that dark highway, our minivan was the only vehicle on the road.
We had booked the first flight out, anticipating weather delays and heavy crowds at the airport, which we had grown accustomed to while living in Maine. But a little snow couldn't dampen our spirits. We were going home for Christmas.
When Wade sidled the van up to the curb, a jolly skycap greeted us with more cheer than a crowd of carolers. He joked with the boys and stacked our suitcases on a cart like Santa's sleigh.
The boys were beyond happy. They were giddy. Being military dependents, they had always lived far away from our extended family, which made it difficult to visit often.
Each year, Weston and Wyatt reacquainted themselves with their cousins and, thankfully, 12 months of growth spurts between visits never seemed to change their bonds with one another.
As I waited with the boys and our bags, I noticed that Wade was at the ticket counter longer than usual. I began to get nervous, and the boys were getting antsy. Wade finally made his way over and gave me a quick briefing: There was a problem with our connecting flight from Detroit or Chicago or New York or wherever we were supposed to change planes.
Apparently, the snow had already delayed and canceled flights elsewhere, and ours happened to be one of those "elsewhere" flights. I tried to remain calm and happy so the boys would not sense our holiday was in jeopardy.
Wade went back to the ticket agent while I waited, reassuring the boys, "Daddy is going to work things out," all the while pushing back a sense of dread that had begun to form in my stomach.
Jolly the Skycap passed by with another sleigh full of someone else's bags and noticed us still waiting, the boys parked atop our mountain of bags and blissfully unaware of the frantic search for connecting flights going on at the ticket counter. He stopped to inquire about our predicament, a look of true concern on his face.
The departure time and last call for passengers on our flight came and went, and there we sat, like the Grinch and his little dog with reindeer antlers, atop their mound of stolen gifts and decorations, waiting for the Who's down in Who-ville to wake up and discover Christmas had been snatched right out from under them.
That's when Wade, poor thing, returned to break the awful news that Christmas, or at least our Christmas at home in North Carolina, had indeed been taken away.
There were no seats available on any connecting flights, he announced, and no guarantee that if we flew out of Maine that we'd ever arrive in North Carolina in time for Christmas.
With the likelihood that we might just find ourselves stuck, sleeping on the floor of an airport terminal in a very un-Christmassy place like Wilkes-Barre, Scranton or Cleveland, Wade decided we wouldn't risk the first leg of our trip.
Back to Maine
I couldn't believe that there wasn't one single flight, somewhere, with four seats or even two; Wade and I each could hold one boy in our laps, if need be, to get us home, if not today, tomorrow, or the next day.
We'd come back to the airport in snow, ice or freezing rain for the chance to see our family again.
I suggested we drive. If we started, we could drive all day and through the night to get there in just two short days. The roads were too treacherous, Wade explained.
He obviously already had weighed all our options before leaving the ticket counter, and he had come to the grim conclusion that we had only one: Drive back to our house in Maine and spend our holiday there with just our own little family - no cousins, aunts or uncles, no hugs and kisses from Grandma, no Mom's famous fruitcake, no ripping open presents on Christmas Eve.
The reality sunk in. And it stunk. I knew I shouldn't look over at the boys' faces, for fear I'd burst into sobs myself, but I did it anyway, and my heart broke.
Tears streamed down their once-gleeful faces, their bottom lips quivered uncontrollably; I had to look away to contain myself. I knew I had to stay positive for them. Knowing if I opened my mouth to speak, I'd only cry instead, I chose to stay mute and collect our belongings as Wade left us to retrieve the van from long-term parking.
The now-not-so-Jolly Skycap stood waiting with us at the curb, shaking his head, muttering, "That's not right."
As our Jolly Skycap wished us a Merry Christmas, I think I saw a tear in his eye. It was then that I allowed my own tears to fall, and I sobbed silently all the way home. Of course, we survived that Christmas. It was a beautiful white Christmas, with snow up to the boys' knees.
We spent quiet, lazy days together, just the four of us, and those memories will stay with us forever.
It was that Christmas that I truly learned what all military families know: Christmas is not in a place; it's in your heart.
You can take it with you wherever you go.
Sonya Sparks Murdock can receive messages at military@fayobserver.com or 486-3585. Source: http://fayobserver.com/articles/2011/12/25/1145181
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