The magic of the season

I read somewhere that while Thanksgiving is a day, Christmas is a season. That was all I needed to jump-start the celebration. The tree went up over Thanksgiving weekend despite looking weary on Christmas morning. Brittany & Robbie, Donovan, Ryder, and Tasha were living with us while their house was under renovation, so holiday cheer among the piles of boxes was welcome.
My sister-in-law favors the simplicity of Thanksgiving, but Christmas Day is my holiday. This year the magic came through the eyes of the little ones, and I took every advantage of the view. We trekked to the Christmas village and rode the train through a million lights, watched Santa arrive by boat in LBI, danced with the Elf at the holiday party, and even fist-pumped the big man. Calla was baby Jesus in the live nativity play, and Dylan fed a donkey. We introduced Elf on the Shelf and caught the Santa ride by the first aid squad. For the first time in decades, I sent cards. We baked cookies and set up the Mickey train under the children’s tree. Decorating was a challenge with the little ones resulting in a “Christmas threw up” look. Every three feet, there was a different theme, with their delight erasing my desire for professional polish. Wisdom comes with age, and I slowed down to take it all in.
We host the day, and everyone is welcome. No one should be alone on Christmas unless it is their personal choice. We have broken bread with a cast of characters who add color to the memories. This Christmas, I wanted to celebrate like we did before Covid. The pandemic and my mother’s hobby of pitting her children against each other kept us apart. The only way this would happen is if I extended the invitation. One of the unspoken joys of being the oldest child. My sister enjoyed her holiday at a luxury hotel in Vermont while her adult sons hit the slopes. The rest of us came together under one roof to write a new Christmas story.
The house was crowded, loud, and glorious. I took a leap of faith, letting Rich make a deep-fried Prime rib, and he delivered in spades. I baked Grandma Johnson’s butter cookies, and each guest left with Grandmother Hooper’s hot fudge in hand. There is something heartwarming about tradition, yet always room for new ones. As we gathered in a circle, grasping hands, we looked for the primary singer for the doxology, our traditional grace. Hearing “song,” Donovan suggested the happy birthday song, and just like that, a new tradition was born. “Happy Birthday to Jesus” will now be the Christmas grace.
I am grateful that I embraced my vulnerability, pushed aside my hurt, and reunited our family. There is no promise of “next year’; all we have is now. Begrudgingly, I will tackle putting the good china away until next year and will likely find remnants of cookies under the couch later this week. Despite the chaos and work, I would not change a thing. Once again, Christmas proved to be a season of miracles.