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It may not be conventional, but my holiday decorating includes a treasured picture of home plate over my fireplace. Perhaps you don't think of baseball after the World Series, and certainly not at Christmas, but for me it's a year-round source of inspiration.

The large black and white photograph is a reminder of what's important during the holidays. For me, it symbolizes a beautiful revelation that came at a pivotal time in my marriage. It's a time I refer to as the Crash and Burn Christmas.

My husband, Gary, and I had only one child then. Our now oldest son, Sam, was just four years old. We were a young couple, each wanting to please our families, and each with parents who wanted us as guests for the holiday.

What made the demand tricky was not just that they lived in different states. It was compounded because my husband had recently lost a job, we were relocating to a new city, we were living in temporary housing, we were trying to sell a house in a bad market, and to be honest, we were losing site of the dreams we had for our future. It was a time filled with so much stress that I passed over anything joyful.

Our nerves were raw, the budget was tight, and our families seemed oblivious to our worries. The issues that start family wars were in play: Who would get us for Christmas Eve? Where were we going to spend Christmas Day? And should we eat ham or turkey for Christmas dinner?

The thought of packing up our son again, stuffing the car with gifts of obligation, driving hundreds of miles, and feigning holiday cheer in homes full of tipsy people was making me sad. I just wanted to go to bed, pull the covers over my head, and wait for the season to pass.

But my maternal instinct always reminded me to be brave for Sam. I didn't want him to feel the pressures that were building steam in our home. But of course, I knew he did.

I recall sitting at the kitchen table with him one cold day that December and playing cards, his scared eyes glancing up at me through his mop of hair. He was just hoping to catch me smiling.

Upstairs, however, we could hear Gary. He was walking around with tension in his step, yelling to himself.

That's when rock bottom sounded: the phone rang.

My husband sat quietly on the stairs and looked stunned. His brother was on the other end of the phone questioning why we weren't in Baltimore with the rest of the family. "Mom is really upset that you aren't here," Jim warned. But my husband wasn't responding. He was numb.

I could see tears in his eyes. I knew they were tears of frustration as he tried to figure out his role in life. Was he a son? Was he a husband? Was he a father? Could he be all three at the same time?

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