Christmas is just around the corner, and I am so blessed and happy to be among my family again. I feel like, for the first time in a long time, I am here with them, really here, physically and mentally. I don't have any assignments or tests tugging at my consciousness; I don't have to worry about anything except enjoying the holidays with the ones I love the most.
As I've been reflecting on this year and years before, I dug up a piece I wrote years ago that explores the idea of Decembers, and how they change as we get older.
I hope you enjoy, and I hope you remember the real reason we celebrate. Remember that the warmth behind our smiles and light behind our eyes are because of a Son who was born, a baby who would grow to save the world.
Decembers
It is
December, one of the most thrilling months, and I can barely see the end of the
line. I gaze up at my mother forlornly. We’d never make it. Mama catches my
expression and reaches out to take my hand, even though she already holds my little
brother on her hip. Sufficiently comforted, I return my gaze to our
destination, peering around strangers to catch glimpses of red and gold and
green, grinning at each passing of the colorful train.
My
sister stands nearby, almost as excited as I am. My youngest brother snoozes in
the stroller, and the middle child stomps around on the tile, talking and
singing to himself.
We are
close now. I can see the elves greeting children and can count the number of
cars in the train. A few more steps, and we enter the main area, no longer
closed in by a low ceiling or nearby walls. I gasp. There he is.
It is
our turn before I know it, and I eagerly give a friendly elf my name. She takes
my hand and leads me up to Santa, lifting me onto his lap. I gaze shyly at his
black boots until I hear him say my name. Slowly, I look up into the whitest
beard I’d ever seen, with two rosy cheeks and twinkling eyes nestled within. I
smile timidly and say hello. He laughs his belly-laugh and leans in close.
“Now, what would you like for
Christmas?”
It is
December, one of the most beautiful months, and I can see my breath. I inhale
the frigid air and exhale with an exaggerated “Hhhhaaaahhhh,” smiling at the
shapeless puff as it disperses into the night sky.
Mama presses
a cup into my hands with a warning to not drink it yet, it’s too hot. Face
turned upwards, I nod distractedly and begin to spin, slowly at first but with
ever increasing speed, laughing with glee as the lights above blur together
into one great expanse of color.
Suddenly
recalling the beverage in my hand, I stop and look down at the cup. Insignificantly small puddles fill the cracks in the lid, but there should have
been a much greater mess for how fast I had been spinning. I smile at my cup.
Daddy must have already gotten to it.
I raise
my cup to my lips and take a cautious sip. It’s perfect – not scalding but
delightfully warm. I drink greedily, enjoying the feel of the hot chocolate
sliding down my throat and warming my belly.
I join
my family at the exit, looking back over my shoulder at the towering tree of
lights, still dizzy from my spinning, still warm from my cocoa.
It is
December, one of the most reflective months, and I am standing in silence. We
all are. We are all emerging from the bustle of lights and people dressed up as
soldiers and messengers and merchants and feeling the change in the air, the
shift into quiet reverence.
The
crowd stands just behind the fence, some leaning over it to get a better view.
The still night air is broken only by the sound of hushed footsteps and murmurs
of appreciation. I stand with my hands in my jacket pockets, the jacket with
the hot chocolate stains on the sleeves, and smile at the scene before me.
A
little ways from the fence, perched atop a gradual hill, is a stable, complete
with stalls and a manger, filled with straw. A man kneels beside a young woman,
his arm wrapped around her to ward off the cold. The woman slowly rocks the
baby cradled in her arms, soothing the child to sleep. Both gaze down at the infant
with love and wonder, their own little miracle among the hay.
The
crowd echoes the family’s affection, couples gazing first at the stable scene
and then at each other before walking on, hands clasped tightly; children being
still and quiet, watching with wide eyes as they pass the stable, led on only
with persistent urging from their parents.
A quiet
part of my soul warms and swells as music plays through my mind. I slowly break
my gaze from the sweet family and walk away, humming quietly to myself, footsteps
in time with my song.
It is
December, one of the busiest months, and I can feel my eyes closing. Shaking
myself awake, I wearily search for a pencil not worn to a useless stub. Daddy’s
voice echoes through the house, calling the family to prayer.
I
maneuver my way through various piles of things to be done and join my siblings
in the family room. Kneeling by my youngest brother, I glance over at the tree
in the corner, noting a Darth Vader among the decorative orbs and stars. Mom
catches my scrutiny.
“Your
ornaments are in a box over there,” she gestures to the corner. “You can put
them up whenever you get the chance.”
I nod
wearily and bow my head. It is Daddy’s turn tonight and his deep voice
reverberates through the room and swiftly up to heaven.
The
night is dark and cold, icy tendrils of air tapping hungrily at the windows of
our warm house. As Daddy finishes, the family disperses with various “Good
night”s and “Love you”s until I am alone. I sit quietly for a moment,
procrastinating my return to the mountain of homework waiting for me. The icy
wind whistles past the windows, and I grudgingly stand.
On my
way out of the room, I stop to turn off the lights. The Christmas tree provides
the only illumination – bathing the corner in soft yellow light. I pause at the
doorway and stare at the tree, remembering Christmases when things were much
simpler. My gaze drifts to an old shoebox at the base of the tree.
Homework
forgotten, I kneel by the box and gingerly lift the lid. Ballerinas and teddy
bears and stars and nativity scenes crowd the box in an arrangement of ceramic
and glass and clay and glitter. A smile, soft as candlelight, spreads across my
face as I revel in the mementos of years past.
As
tradition dictates, I begin with the teddy bear in pink long johns, clutching a
heart labeled “Baby’s First Christmas.” I gently hang it on a bough, and reach
for the next. I proceed to hang each ornament in chronological order, smiling as
my handmade clay stocking, tiny ballet shoes, and sleeping puppy find their
place among the needles. My first time ice skating, the year I made the dance
team, my favorite family vacation – each finds its way onto the tree.
After
placing the last one, a framed picture of me in my drill team uniform, I sit back
and look, drinking in the sight of my family’s memories hung among the lights. Slowly,
I stand and make my way to the doorway, where I pause, unable to tear my gaze
off of the memories set aglow within the tree.
Something
pulls at me, bringing me back to the excitement of meeting Santa Claus, the
warmth of hot chocolate on a cold winter’s night, the thrill of spinning
underneath thousands of joyous lights. There is something about Decembers that
no amount of time will ever take away, something that will forever be within
our hearts, something that grows as we do.
After
one last glance at our tree, I walk away, a holy infant in mind and a sweet
song on my lips.
