At this stage of the Christmas season, it would be easy to sit
back, put up my feet and breathe a sigh of relief that my Christmas
tasks are done. I even
– miraculously – escaped the gift of another of Aunt Minerva’s
non-trendy yet traditional 12 1/2-foot-long neck mufflers hand
crocheted in circa 1970s brown and orange yarn.
At this stage of the Christmas season, it would be easy to sit back, put up my feet and breathe a sigh of relief that my Christmas tasks are done. I even – miraculously – escaped the gift of another of Aunt Minerva’s non-trendy yet traditional 12 1/2-foot-long neck mufflers hand crocheted in circa 1970s brown and orange yarn. Sadly, Aunt Minerva’s crocheting efforts stalled out when she met her new beau, Mr. Emerson, at the senior center mixer last spring. Last I heard they were on the cross-country Christmas RV tour with the Silver Vixen Vacation Vikings. Fa-la-la-la-la.
Yes, it would be easy to sit idly by were it not for tatters of discarded Christmas wrap, burnt out tree lights and a Wassail bowl left in the fridge way beyond its expiration date, never mind that I’ve been feeding it extra rum since approximately Labor Day just to keep my waning energies from disappearing altogether.
That’s right; by working my fingers to mere nubs, I performed a few miracles of my own this holiday season. I decorated the house in the finest Martha Stewart-type manner. Our Christmas village, locatable by Google Earth, now harbors signs of urban sprawl with a couple of new suburbs sprouting up on random end tables in the living room.
Talk about miracles! Cards were written and mailed, gifts were wrapped and under the tree by Christmas Eve, holiday goodies were baked and OK, the gingerbread mansion in the likeness of the Obama White House will simply have to wait ’til next year.
Menus were planned, groceries procured, bathroom floors mopped, our four-legged child bathed and groomed by yours truly. Dangerous parking lots were traversed on foot, being forced at an inopportune time to dodge a gargantuan SUV, its bumper sticker proclaiming “Give Peace a Chance.” Yeah, that was me you almost hit, buster!
There were parties to go to, good friends to meet for a quick Christmas coffee, calls to make to loved ones who live far away. So much to do, so little time. But it got done. Just like last year and the year before that. Yep, it was a miracle, I’ll tell you!
And all of this doing and fussing and prepping and wearing myself to a perfect holiday frazzle made me think back to small miracles in a simpler time. When we bundled up and made our traditional trek on Christmas Eve to rejoice in the season with family who lived nearby. Where my aunt served up holiday cookies on her pretty glass plates and we drank eggnog in her pretty glass cups, when we sang much-loved Christmas carols a little off-key, and in his deep, rich baritone, my grandpa read and then read again “The Night Before Christmas” until finally, despite my childish anticipation of Christmas, my eyelids grew heavy.
Whereupon my dad carried me off to my aunt and uncle’s room, depositing me on their high iron bed where I snuggled beneath my mother’s good winter coat, drawing in the fresh scent of her favorite perfume. And to the lullaby of my family chatting softly nearby, I fell peacefully asleep until my father shook me lightly awake and my mother wrapped me in my wool coat and mittens for the cold journey home.
Sleepily I crunched through fresh fallen snow, glancing heavenward at the black Christmas sky, gazing at stars that appeared as a million frozen diamonds cast over the cold winter heavens. Because I believed in that colossal kid-centric miracle of Santa and eight tiny reindeer and I knew – I just KNEW – if I searched extra hard, I would find that peculiar ensemble of Christmas dashing across the sky.
Yes, I knew the real story of Christmas. The simple, quiet wonder of His birth. The star in the East, the Nativity, the joy. That the miracle of the Baby Jesus was and is still the greatest miracle of all.
And today I know that the joy we felt as children may be restored by something so simple as Christmas lights mirrored in store windows or, for me, by the shining faces of two precious granddaughters. That’s another miracle of the season: grandchildren that help us let go of the frenzy and find again the wonder of Christmas.
Today our family is getting ready for yet one more miracle of the Christmas season. At this most remarkable time of year we are preparing to soon meet a new grandson. And there is no question that this little one is a bit of a miracle since, on my side of the family, he’ll be the first baby boy born to us in more than 50 years. And I know, unlike that of the Baby Jesus, his approaching birth will almost certainly not change the world. But it certainly will change mine.
Wishing you a world of peace, joy and miracles this holiday season.
