We do not mean the theatrical, frivolous and hyperbolic panic of those who curse this holiday in order to show how genuinely intelligent they are compared to others. There are no words for those whose advent calendar only feeds cynicism. For this guitar-crushing profile, garnished with aristocratic rationalism, the compassion that always deserves sadness is enough. We pardon this group, of course, the iconoclastic monologist who amuses us at the expense of the Christmas clichés that we ourselves play and that his wit has turned into a hilarious nightmare.
But there is real panic. A real terror born of the same respect that instills Christmas and what it represents. And it is suffered equally by those who enjoy the shelter of faith and those who, without joining any religion, keep their feet firmly planted in this part of the world and in the fact of being historically and culturally Christian.
This panic is disturbing. It is rooted in the fear of the empty chair and the impossible hug, in the fear of the gift that cannot be given or received or in the anger at the words that will not be spoken. It is the panic at Christmas of absence.
This panic can come suddenly or fall patiently like a fog over the years. It stands on those who long for their years of wine and roses, when they did not yet count irreparable losses among theirs. And now, with the liturgical return to the time of the year when warmth must be sought from the nearest, a stab of cold pierces them from head to toe because their life has been hollowed out by the irreplaceable absence of loved ones
Nothing will ever be the same again, they think, and even less Christmas. And they are absolutely right, why deceive us. They are only wrong if that conviction leads them to give up and deny themselves the greatest celebration of life and humanity on earth, even if it includes brothers-in-law, sisters-in-law, in-laws and other domestic animals of similar status.
This nothing will be the same as we know is a torture from which it is difficult to escape. How can it be the same if the one who misses us so much is no longer there? But it is enough to take a look at a Christmas table to realize that in reality there has always been someone missing. Even in those times that each of us remembers as happiest and most fulfilling. And that this has never prevented the celebration and revelry born of loving and knowing that one is loved by family and friends.
As children, when the illusion of gifts disturbed our sleep, weren’t our grandparents’ parents missing from the table? Didn’t our parents miss theirs when the grandparents left? Hasn’t misfortune crossed countless times to take away those who, neither by age nor by position in the chain of life, did not belong to him yet? Feels like this, when have we all been around a Christmas table? Only magic provides the correct answer: never and always.
Because in this endless rotation someone has always been missing. But at the same time, this someone has always been there. Those who leave remain not only in the memory, but also and above all, in the roles that those of us continue to reassign and hoard throughout our lives. And this is where Christmas becomes a giant. And for this very reason the empty chair can also become a reason for hope and celebration.
At every Christmas table, more than a family or a few friends, it is all humanity with its faults and virtues that sits there. Each dining room is a small-scale representation of the whole earth. And in each home with the smell of soup there is an entire planet rejoicing in its existence through the symbol of a rebirth repeated year after year.
A ritual of hope that, believers or not, we have no right to steal. Neither ourselves nor those who sit at the table with us. And even less to those who still see the world through the eyes of a child or to whom fortune has not yet made them taste the unattainable source of bitter flavors that pain and extreme sorrow can acquire.
Panic at these parties is inevitable in certain circumstances: How will it be without him, without her? The Christmas table is not a fixed photo in time and there are revelations that will always satisfy us more than others. But we must make room for the idea that in gathering to share food and drink, and many also deep beliefs, we continue to be all of us. Without any exception. What we were, what we are and what we will be. Merry Christmas, reader. Especially if you also miss and mourn recent or distant losses. On Monday, those you miss will also be at your table. It’s Christmas Don’t let it be stolen from you, but especially don’t steal it from yourself by wallowing in sadness.
