Driving to a 9 p.m. Christmas Eve service and seeing the steady stream of cars along the streets, I was struck by how incredulous I would have been to see such a scene when I was a small child. Surely, no one worked Christmas Eve night. No one had places to go or things to do. Christmas Eve was a magical evening when a jolly old elf would fly through the sky and drop in at every house around the world to leave gifts. This annual miracle would defy laws of physics and economics, which only served to prove just how magical this night was.
We were always in bed early and up long before dawn the next morning. The morning dark was always cold and almost always clear and bright, the heavens reflecting the magical nature of the night. A fire would roar in the fireplace in a living room redolent with the smells of cedar and citrus and chocolate. An excitement that was too much to bear filled the house and its five children who had awaited this moment breathlessly for months. We would all pile into a car and travel through the still-dark morning to my grandparents for breakfast, where cousins and aunts and uncles would greet us and share our excitement and joy.
A living room filled with toys and treats for five children could only be achieved by magic, a magic mixed with religion and love, so the entire night and following morning, it seemed to me, was a magical moment, the most magical time of my childhood. Everyone I knew celebrated Christmas, and it seemed beyond comprehension that some children somewhere might not awaken Christmas morning to treats and toys. We lived a homogeneous life and were all white Protestants, and most of the people we knew were devout church members. All of us participated in church Christmas pageants and hung lights on Christmas trees and wrapped presents and sat down to Christmas feasts, and we were sure that life had been this way since 1 A.D., or at least since St. Nicholas filled his first stocking.
A world where there are gifts enough for every child and time enough to deliver them to every home around the globe was a magical world. And we never doubted the magic, for we had seen it happen. So this year, when I went to bed about the time Santa should have been finishing his Eastern Time Zone deliveries and arose just at dawn, I missed the wonder and the magic of a simpler, more trusting time.
Showing posts with label Christmas Eve. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Christmas Eve. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Friday, December 24, 2010
Christmas delights for every age
People like to say that Christmas is for the children, but I'm not so sure. The breathless excitement and wonder that our grandchildren (ages 1-5) feel this night are not shared by those of us of a more mature age and disposition. We've seen this show before, and so our sense of anticipation is not so keen.
I can remembering shivering, not from cold but from explosive excitement as I waited at the living room door before dawn on Christmas morning, but even that happiness does not match the satisfaction and pure pleasure of seeing that same excitement on the faces of your own children — or grandchildren. When I was growing up, I became convinced that 8 was the perfect age: You were old enough to eat on your own, big enough to play independently with others and too young to have very much expected of you in terms of household chores, academic success and responsibilities. As a young parent, I decided that 3 must be the perfect age — a time past potty training but still delightfully innocent and so full of wonder about every little experience.
Now, with the reflections of six decades, I realize that no age is better than any other. In every age there are wonderful experiences, opportunities and responsibilities. In every age there are disappointments and burdens. All of us face the curse of living in "interesting times." Life, as John Lennon said, is what happens while you're busy doing other things. Seize the day or enjoy the moment.
On this Christmas Eve night, full of uncertainty about whether best-laid plans will be canceled by the often-desired and -envied "white Christmas," we can revel in the memories of Christmases past when we did clutch all of our brood in the warm blanket of our home and intoxicated ourselves on the sweet nectar of family love. If this is to be remembered as the Christmas of altered plans, we will look forward to future opportunities to gather all together, for every age has its delights.
I can remembering shivering, not from cold but from explosive excitement as I waited at the living room door before dawn on Christmas morning, but even that happiness does not match the satisfaction and pure pleasure of seeing that same excitement on the faces of your own children — or grandchildren. When I was growing up, I became convinced that 8 was the perfect age: You were old enough to eat on your own, big enough to play independently with others and too young to have very much expected of you in terms of household chores, academic success and responsibilities. As a young parent, I decided that 3 must be the perfect age — a time past potty training but still delightfully innocent and so full of wonder about every little experience.
Now, with the reflections of six decades, I realize that no age is better than any other. In every age there are wonderful experiences, opportunities and responsibilities. In every age there are disappointments and burdens. All of us face the curse of living in "interesting times." Life, as John Lennon said, is what happens while you're busy doing other things. Seize the day or enjoy the moment.
On this Christmas Eve night, full of uncertainty about whether best-laid plans will be canceled by the often-desired and -envied "white Christmas," we can revel in the memories of Christmases past when we did clutch all of our brood in the warm blanket of our home and intoxicated ourselves on the sweet nectar of family love. If this is to be remembered as the Christmas of altered plans, we will look forward to future opportunities to gather all together, for every age has its delights.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Remembering the magic of Christmas
This Christmas Eve has been a day of chores, and it will end with, perhaps, a favorite Christmas movie and a candlelight church service. How different this is from the Christmas Eves of my youth, and how different Christmas is from the Christmases of my youth.
The primary missing element is magic. Christmas was the most magical time of the year, a time when even a family like mine, with seven mouths to feed (not counting a cow and a dog), could experience the miracle of Christmas bounty. Fresh citrus fruit that seemed not to exist at any other time on the calendar. Candy bars and chewing gum and whole nuts that, with some self-discipline (but not much), might last the remainder of the week.
And then there were the toys. Christmas provided a trove of toys, not just one or two that might come on your birthday but a whole universe of toys designed to fulfill your most outlandish desire. I never got the pony or horse that I asked for each Christmas for several years and which I imagined would be tied to the front porch columns, but I received so many other things, that disappointment never entered my mind.
And how did this happen? It had to be magic. My hard-working, Depression-weaned parents could not have fulfilled such grand wishes year after year. It had to be magic, and the whole day was wrapped in a magical aura. I never imagined in my naivete that some people worked on Christmas Day. The whole month of December was a waiting time, and we were an audience sitting restlessly in our seats anticipating the opening of the greatest show of the year. "You're slow as Christmas!" I remember one of my cousins telling another cousin. The remark was made in mid-summer, but the meaning was clear. Christmas was the most anticipated day of the year, the day that it seemed would never arrive, the slowest item on any calendar.
By Christmas morning, sitting on the cedar chest, waiting to be admitted to the living room where an aromatic cedar tree, a crackling fire, sweet chocolate candy and boundless toys awaited us, I shivered with excitement, unable to control my shaking. Christmas magic had transformed the living room — the room that was closed off from the rest of the house, that room where children were forbidden entry — into a magic land where wishes do come true and the inexplicable occurs.
Even the night was different. The sky seemed darker, the stars closer as the world awaited Christmas morning, a time when, I thought, the whole world stood still, no one worked and miracles happened.
I will enjoy the remainder of this Christmas Eve and the gathering of loved ones on Christmas Day. I will share the thrill of wide-eyed pre-schoolers as they open presents and marvel at all there is. But I will miss the magic, the naive belief that this day is miraculously different, a day when the whole world pauses and no one works or worries.
The primary missing element is magic. Christmas was the most magical time of the year, a time when even a family like mine, with seven mouths to feed (not counting a cow and a dog), could experience the miracle of Christmas bounty. Fresh citrus fruit that seemed not to exist at any other time on the calendar. Candy bars and chewing gum and whole nuts that, with some self-discipline (but not much), might last the remainder of the week.
And then there were the toys. Christmas provided a trove of toys, not just one or two that might come on your birthday but a whole universe of toys designed to fulfill your most outlandish desire. I never got the pony or horse that I asked for each Christmas for several years and which I imagined would be tied to the front porch columns, but I received so many other things, that disappointment never entered my mind.
And how did this happen? It had to be magic. My hard-working, Depression-weaned parents could not have fulfilled such grand wishes year after year. It had to be magic, and the whole day was wrapped in a magical aura. I never imagined in my naivete that some people worked on Christmas Day. The whole month of December was a waiting time, and we were an audience sitting restlessly in our seats anticipating the opening of the greatest show of the year. "You're slow as Christmas!" I remember one of my cousins telling another cousin. The remark was made in mid-summer, but the meaning was clear. Christmas was the most anticipated day of the year, the day that it seemed would never arrive, the slowest item on any calendar.
By Christmas morning, sitting on the cedar chest, waiting to be admitted to the living room where an aromatic cedar tree, a crackling fire, sweet chocolate candy and boundless toys awaited us, I shivered with excitement, unable to control my shaking. Christmas magic had transformed the living room — the room that was closed off from the rest of the house, that room where children were forbidden entry — into a magic land where wishes do come true and the inexplicable occurs.
Even the night was different. The sky seemed darker, the stars closer as the world awaited Christmas morning, a time when, I thought, the whole world stood still, no one worked and miracles happened.
I will enjoy the remainder of this Christmas Eve and the gathering of loved ones on Christmas Day. I will share the thrill of wide-eyed pre-schoolers as they open presents and marvel at all there is. But I will miss the magic, the naive belief that this day is miraculously different, a day when the whole world pauses and no one works or worries.
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