I recently gathered with a dozen other women in my dear friend's kitchen on a Friday night for a wood sign painting party. The general consensus of those in attendance was that while none of us really knew how to paint, with enough wine, it wouldn’t really matter. It was like “A Bad Moms Christmas,” if the Hallmark Channel did a wholesome, family-friendly knock-off called, “A Mostly Appropriate, Well-Behaved Moms Christmas.”
The concept for the party is fun: You preorder the design of your choice in advance and an instructor arrives at your home with custom stencils for each guest, a salvaged wood sign, and paint. As we snacked and chatted, the instructor quickly and efficiently set up our materials and laid out all the custom designs we had preordered. Once everything was ready to go, we set our wine glasses aside and looked for our personal stencils so we could start on our masterpieces. Like a game of musical chairs, the other guests quickly found their spots—signs that displayed their passion for running, reminders to live lives filled with gratitude, the importance of choosing positivity, etc. As the instructor began, I found myself awkwardly standing between tables, waiting awkwardly for my own sign.
A couple of weeks before the party, I had chosen a cheery holiday picture with a vintage truck carrying a Christmas tree and the words, “We Wish You A Merry Christmas, The Deters.” I spotted several stencils with the iconic truck and the Merry Christmas greeting…but none with my name. A quick headcount revealed that the stencil intended for me had been matched to the name of another guest.
It was a relatively simple fix: I could simply cut the other name off the stencil and position the rest of the picture and greeting in the center of the sign. The instructor, who was professional and detail-oriented, apologized repeatedly, and offered to have a separate stencil with my name delivered to my home. I assured her that it wasn’t necessary.
Looking around the room at all the other supplies, boards and stencils, it was clear that everything else had gone perfectly. The only thing that was missing was my name. A guest next to me whispered, “If it were me, I’d be in tears right now.” But I wasn’t.
I had struggled to choose that design. Like many, I adore the idea of the cute old pickup with the Christmas tree in the back, though why remains a mystery. Perhaps it reminds me of that time I crammed a cardboard box containing an artificial tree I purchased at Target into the back of my old, beat-up mini-van? Who knows. The point is, I loved the tree. I loved the old truck. I loved the words, “We Wish You A Merry Christmas.” I was conflicted about “The Deters.”
I was a McDonald by birth and a Deters by marriage. To be honest, in spite of being a total bad ass feminist even back then, I had no reservations about taking my husband’s name; after years of enduring “Ronald McDonald” taunts, I was more than ready. But now, 15 months after my husband’s death, I found myself wondering, “What if one day you’re sharing your home with another family at Christmas?”
I felt a sharp stab of guilt for even considering the notion.
My children will always be Deters, even if they grow up, get married and change their names, just as I did. And after nearly two decades, a part of me will always be a Deters, too. I know that some would view me as cold or ungrateful for even entertaining the possibility of “writing a new book,” as my late husband once told me to do, with someone else. Others, perhaps, would think I was weak; a self-sufficient woman really shouldn’t need to get married again. Case in point: the “Golden Girls.”
It’s true that I’ve proven myself mostly capable of handling the responsibilities of maintaining a home, paying the bills and raising my kids on my own this past year — like a boss, I might add. But there are moments when I watch my family laughing and playing together and think, “Maybe someone out there deserves to be part of this.”
All of these thoughts rampaged through my mind as I was trying to decide whether to order that sign. I considered asking to leave the name off entirely, but felt that by showing a willingness to let go of that part of my own personal identity, even in a small way, I was denying the existence of 20 years of memories. So I ordered a sign bearing the name “The Deters.”
Most are aware that the holidays can be an especially painful time for those of us who have lost a loved one, but while the heartache of loss is so much deeper and more complex at the holidays than most realize, so is the potential for hope. As I looked around my friend’s kitchen and saw that our family’s name was missing, I realized that God had given me, in the truest and most literal sense possible, a sign. Yes, this year, we are “The Deters.” We always will be. But perhaps one day we will be more; perhaps one day our “squad” will be a little bigger. If we choose to remain in Christmas past, we put Christmas present at risk, and we will almost certainly miss the peace and joy promised by Christmases yet to come.
Kathy Deters
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