Star of Wonder

By Carol Tokar Pavliska

THE DARKNESS, though encompassing, was anything but quiet and still. Three little figures bounced along in front of me, flashlight beams jerking spastically around, revealing split-second images: fencepost, pasture, dirt, packed clay, yellow coat, green cap. My husband reached over and held my cold hand in his large, warm one. He squeezed once to let me know he was aware of my gloomy mood.

I stepped up my pace, determined to outdistance the shadow of sadness that followed me, so as to share in the joy of my family’s winter ritual. This was the night of our “cold walk.”

It was a perfect night, really. Rarely in our South Texas climate does the first cold night of the season happen to hit on the night we first turn on our Christmas lights. But on this night it had happened. We were able to take our cold walk with the added bonus of viewing our Christmas lights from a distance.

After a long, extremely hot summer and a short indistinguishable fall, the first cold front to blast across Texas is a noticeable event. There are some who say we don’t have a true change of seasons in South Texas, but with or without leaves in various shades of red, when an icy wind slaps you in the face immediately on the tail of a warm southern breeze, you’d better believe you notice it.

When I was a child, my father had celebrated this exciting change in the weather with a cold walk. After a summer and fall spent in shorts and sandals, my sister and I were awkwardly bundled up in our somewhat foreign coats and hats. We then headed out into the darkness, leaving our mother behind to stir up some hot cocoa with which to welcome us home.

We’d walk with our dad, basking in the shocking chill that we knew could very well be gone by the next day, replaced again by balmy air. Over the years, we spent many a Christmas Eve with our windows open and fans whirring, so we cherished this bit of winter and secretly hoped for a Christmas where we wouldn’t wilt beneath our brand-new sweaters.

As we took our cold walk with Dad, my sister and I would watch our long shadows and puff our frosty breath. It was a little bit scary out there in the dark, and a whole lot of fun. We’d walk until our noses stung and our fingers grew numb and slipped from the mittens grasped by our father’s strong hands. We wanted the walk to last forever, and at the same time, we couldn’t wait for it to end so we could rush back to the warmth of our house and our mother’s arms.

I let my mind linger on the sweet memories of my childhood as I walked down our farm’s dirt lane with my husband and children, walking briskly to warm myself in the bracing air. Yet, I found myself trying to shake off more than the chill. I was trying to shake off the overwhelming feeling of sadness I had carried home from a visit with my parents, earlier in the day.

The usual excitement of the Christmas season was painfully absent from their house. There had been no tree. There had been no lights. My dad had tried to welcome me with a hug, but his fatigue was so great that he could barely manage a smile. His shoulders were as full as my mother’s eyes were empty. Rather than Christmas cheer filling the air, it was shrouded in the darkness and gloom of Alzheimer’s disease.

I had hoped that, somehow, the magic of Christmas would have found its way into my childhood home. But it had not. Christmas had forgotten my parents. My parents had forgotten Christmas. I felt forgotten, as well. Forgotten by my mother who didn’t remember my name, and worse, forgotten by God.

I had stayed and helped my dad, who suffered the very hard work of being a lone caregiver. I had done the best I could to lighten his load, but as I left I had the usual feeling that nothing had changed. Nothing I had been able to do during my visit seemed to matter much in the grander scheme of things. I could not bring the light back to my mother’s eyes, and I missed the warmth of her arms.

Now, outside in the cold, surrounded by my elated children, I gave my shoulders one last shake and quickened my step. I was determined to take my own youngsters on a cold walk they’d always remember.

The sky was bright with stars, crisp and clear, and little voices cut through the air with shrieks of delight. The children watched their breath and gazed in delight from beneath knit caps at the frigid night world while trying to hold on to flashlights with mitten-clad hands.

As I walked, I felt the shadow of sadness falling farther behind. The bite of the cold air against my face woke me up to the joy of the night, and of the moment. As we arrived at the very end of our long dirt lane, right where it meets up with a longer dirt road, we prepared to turn around and head back. But just before we could, we saw a spectacular thing: A beautiful falling star, red and flaming with a huge sparkling tail, blazed across the sky.

We stood speechless as it lit up our night — and literally shot from end to end of the sky, staying visible for several seconds. Shocked silence quickly gave way to hoops and hollers of excitement as the children realized what they’d seen: their first falling star. What a sign!

As we headed home, I felt my burden lift and a sense of peace envelop me. My husband was equally excited, intrigued by how close we’d come to missing it completely. Could I believe that they were all three looking? Could I believe it happened just before we turned around? The timing, he thought, was accidentally perfect.

But I felt there was no way we would have missed that star. It was our star, meant especially for us. I could almost hear a voice say, I haven’t forgotten you. I see you down there in the darkness. I hear your joyful cries. And I hear your painful pleas. I was just waiting until you were looking to answer.

We walked home quietly, the shadow of sadness replaced with something else. Not hope, really. More like … reassurance.

The comforting feeling followed us back down our dark country lane, made crisp and cold by a burst of wind from the north. Back to our small and plain house, made somehow spectacular by a row of colored lights, shining bright in a dark pasture. Back to warmth, our hearts renewed by a falling star that carried a very special Christmas message:

We are not forgotten.

Carol Tokar Pavliska lives with her husband and four children on a farm in Floresville, Texas, where she writes a family humor column for the local newspaper. Raising and homeschooling her children is her primary occupation and focus.