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I remember it like it was yesterday: Christmas Eve 1999. I was 29 years old, in the prime of my life, and slowly watching life as I knew it unravel. Because this holiday season I was being processed into prison. No eggnog, no caroling, no laughter from the people I love, just thousands of angry men making sure they don’t show signs of weakness and the cold unrelenting realization that I, a small-town kid who once had a bright future, was now serving time in the Missouri Department of Corrections.
“Peace on earth, good will to men” were hollow, meaningless words that Christmas because my mind was occupied with learning the new rules, the new code to live by, as I painfully accepted the fact that I was beginning a 9-year sentence. No do overs. No mulligans. Just hard time and all the goodbyes that accompany a life like this.
Goodbye innocence. Goodbye togetherness. Goodbye everything I ever knew about Christmas because I was stuck in prison.
The impossible thoughts.
Words can’t begin to explain how impossible your thoughts become. How sorry you are with no one to tell, how confused you are with no one who gets it, and how concerned you are that you are never going to be that boy from your small town again. It’s like on this side of my prison sentence, I’m still me, still care deeply, still see right from wrong, but what happens on the other side? Who will I become? Is that where the human mind gets distorted, or the heart loses all trust? Is that where hope is severed, and darkness closes in because that is all you have to protect yourself? And how did I get there? Who was I destined to become? How did a simple drug bender spiral into something so… permanent?
The scene was bleak: drug addicts, murderers and thieves playing their role in an ecosystem of hate and power and vigilance. A vision where ugly sweaters and silver ornaments were replaced with orange jumpsuits and gold teeth. It was my first stop before entering a world of predator versus prey, and all I could think about was how many of my holidays were going to look like this.
Christmas would be the loneliest day of my life.
Somewhere in the suburbs of Kansas City, an eight-year-old version of me was missing his daddy. Somewhere out there my mother was vacillating between the open wound of knowing her son is locked away for Christmas and the sheer relief that at least he’s alive.
My memory was vivid, rich, and cruel–Grandma’s ham, sparkling lights strung across the porch, and a house full of neighbors singing around the piano. But the only gift I could possibly give on that Christmas, in honor of everyone who ever loved me, was to make the solemn vow that I would never let prison become familiar. No matter how many lonely holidays I spent inside.
And you promise yourself you’ll never take any of it for granted again. Like some distorted Charles Dickens Christmas Carol, you see the beauty in everything, you yearn for the things in life that are important, that are free, that are always there. Correction: WERE always there. How beautiful it all was in that different place and time but while I was in prison, waking up on Christmas day was going to be the loneliest day of my entire life.
The good news.
My life has come full circle. The gift of that horrible episode in my life is the incredible attachment I have to my loved ones now–to all their beautiful quirks and faults–because I see the thing most people overlook. That it can all be stripped away.
See, I know that when freedom is severed from your life, when you’re lying on a metal slab with a lump in your throat getting your fill of the ghost of Christmas past, you’d give anything to hear your uncle snoring on the couch. You’d do anything to feel the warmth of your grandmother’s hugs one last time or the smell of the house as she fries chicken. When you’re locked up on Christmas, especially for the first time, you’d not only give your life just to have one glimpse of your child’s face when they see their presents around the tree but you plan, in great detail, the way you want to spend every Christmas for the rest of your life: with children’s laughter, with family, with love, with people who will miss you if you ever have to leave.
The takeaway.
It’s a gift I wouldn’t change for the world: to live and love like there is no tomorrow. Most people who know me, know I put a high premium on connection and outward displays of affection. Can you blame me? I’ve experienced a reality where the greatest unknown is, in fact, tomorrow.
So this Christmas take it from a person who isn’t just regurgitating some overused cliché. This is the time of year to slow down, notice the small things, and build lots of lifelong memories. Because God forbid someday those memories might just be all you have.
Just keep in mind this story isn’t about my prison sentence or even me. This story isn’t about mistakes or consequences or Christmas Eve 1999. This story is about you, about your memories. This story is about no regrets and living life like it truly is borrowed time.
Nothing lasts forever except for love.
And no matter what happens in life, love is survived through the memories we create in the moments we are given.
So live your memories. Live them openly and fully for some faceless, nameless person locked away from the ones they love. Or the child who would give anything to feel his daddy’s arms around him. Or the mommies who were taken too soon. Because so many people don’t have what we have: the ability to build new memories or carry on traditions. Don’t take it for granted.
For all those people who would trade in a lifetime of tomorrows for one more moment with the person they’ve lost, give everything you have to Christmas, and see it for what it is: a miracle, a gift, a fleeting moment that you can hold in your heart forever…
Because I know I will.