“Now we are nearing the beautiful Christmas time when we shall pause and see our Christ as the little child who came to save us. May we be as children and accept Him in our hearts, to dwell there through the years that may come for us. Christmas always means more to children than to grownups, so I guess we should all be children again for a day or two in order to receive the true Christmas gift.”
Sixty-five years after he mailed that, I mailed the following to Mom, now 85 years old in 1990:
My Christmas Memories are made of many things.
Turkey and all the trimmings making the house smell so good on the afternoon of Christmas Eve. Waiting for Dad to finish chores early, since we knew nothing special could happen until the chores were finished and he got cleaned up.
If there was to be company for Christmas Eve dinner, waiting for the arrival of the first relatives’ cars. Then waiting impatiently for the arrival of the last relative’s car, so we could get down to business!
Singing the carols, listening to Dad read the Christmas story from Luke 2 and waiting anxiously for that last line, “and the shepherds went on their way, glorifying and praising God for all they had seen and heard.”
Singing the last carol, “Silent Night,” and opening the wonderful presents. “Wonderful” never meant expensive or huge~~they were wonderful because they represented family, tradition, provision, love, predictability (and how many families are there where nothing is predictable–there’s security in that predictability) and very often, the packages included a new pair of flannel pajamas. In a way, the pajamas were my favorite present, because I could literally wrap myself in a Christmas present when I went to bed that night.
Even when we didn’t have company, Christmas Eve was like this–always very special whether there were four of us or 16 of us.
Christmas Day afternoon, wherever we were, often included sliding and tobogganing until we were about frozen stiff and in desperate need of that wonderful made-from-scratch real cocoa (the kind nobody knows how to make any more) full of melting marshmellows, best enjoyed with a slice of homemade bread with home-churned butter on it, to dip in the cocoa.
With gratitude, Sharon
I wanted her to know that her efforts over the years made an impact.
I wanted her to know that I remembered.