Christmas Eve is Magic

For many who celebrate the Holidays, "Christmas" feels synonymous with "tradition". You dust off the good Winterberry plates; test the light strands you bought at K-Mart fifteen years ago to make sure they still work (and surprisingly they do); pilfer mom's old recipe box for that recipe you make only once a year, and hope you can still read the writing on it. Then there's the shopping, and the giftwrapping, and the baking, and the carols. All these little rituals - large and small - are meaningful in their own way, and some have more meaning than others. One in particular, however, has a special place in my heart every Christmas... and it happens before the blessed day ever kicks off.

In my family, Christmas Eve is usually a pretty hectic day. Every year for as long as I can remember, our whole extended family comes together for a meal Christmas Eve night. What that boils down to is a whole lot of cooking and cleaning and planning to make sure everything is just right in time for the party, the bulk of which is done day of. Stress is high, and tempers tend to run hot when too many cooks are sharing one cramped kitchen. Certain dishes don't always come out as prettily as planned, and there's always that last minute scramble to get everything packed in the car while trying our best not to trip over the family dogs in the process. So far, however, we've survived every Christmas Eve party we've ever been to (knock on wood and thank the Lord).

My favorite part, though, comes after the party. After we drag our worn-out carcasses and empty dishes back into the house, and just catch a minute to breathe. About that time every year, something happens that really does feel like magic. My dad gathers mom, all my sisters, and me in the living room with two very important books. The first is the family Bible, dog-eared to Luke Chapter Two; the story of the birth of Christ. I get goosebumps every time I hear him read it, even though he's done it every year since my oldest sister was born. I've heard it so many times, I can recite it by heart without even trying... but it hits different in that moment: with the lights sparkling on the Christmas tree, and the smell of Mama's honey glazed ham still wafting in from the kitchen.

The second book is definitely more secular, but no less important than the first: an illustrated copy of Clement C. Moore's infamous story, "The Night Before Christmas", A.K.A. "A Visit From St. Nicholas". There are no words to describe the feeling that washes over me in that moment, listening at my Daddy's knee as he recites that poem. For a precious few seconds, I'm no longer a grown woman anymore: I'm every bit a child, hanging on every word wide eyed and with rapt attention. The soft, deep timbre of his voice rolls through the air like crushed velvet, deepening the magic of the moment. Sometimes, if I look closely, I'll notice a glimmer of a tear in his eye and a hitch in his gravelly voice. Especially when he gets to the part about St. Nicholas' beard, and strokes the ever-whitening whiskers upon his own chin. I remember a time when those whiskers weren't so white, right before reality comes crashing back down.

I love my dad very much, and that makes the reality that much sadder. As much as it pains me to admit, there will be a first Christmas Eve - hopefully many, many years from now - where he won't be around anymore to recite these beloved stories. It breaks my heart to think about, and reminds me of how precious this tradition - this gift - really is to me. Every Christmas Eve we partake in this little ritual, I realize how incredibly blessed I am to have him around for another year. Every year, I remind myself not to take this tradition for granted, and to revel in the moment for as long as I can.

This little tradition of ours never lasts very long; barely a quarter of an hour, or sometimes up to twenty minutes. Those few minutes, however, are to me the most important few minutes of the entire year. While we're all sitting there as a family, listening to Daddy read, nothing else matters. Not the brightly-wrapped gifts under the tree, the cake that refused to come out of the pan in one piece a few hours prior, or the argument we had the other day over where to put the giant inflatable Snoopy in the yard. All the stress we went through since the first of December feels worth the hassle suddenly, because it led us to this beautiful moment.

Afterwards, Daddy leads us in a prayer; allowing us to reflect on our blessings, and thank the Lord for bestowing so many upon us. Then, before bed, Mama lets us all open one gift. It's no surprise anymore what this gift is, as it's been the same ever since we were little: Christmas pajamas. Now that we're grown, we usually pick them out ourselves while we're shopping with her, but it's still a thrill getting to open that gift every year. Sometimes we stay up late, watching old movies like "A Christmas Story" or Jim Carrey's "The Grinch", usually while helping Mama stuff stockings and wrap a few last-minute gifts. All these traditions are fun, of course, but none of them ever outshine the main event.

Presents are nice, even though I don't much care about receiving them anymore, and carols are usually pleasant. Decorating is exhausting but fun, and baking has its ups and downs as well. And of course, I can never say "no" to a heartwarming classic Christmas movie. All things considered, though, I don't need them to make my holiday. To me, Christmas isn't Christmas until I've heard those stories recited; surrounded by my loved ones in that quiet, peaceful moment. That is what makes it all truly special. Everything else is just icing on the cake.