I don't think we ever truly regain the sense of wonder we experience on Christmas morning as children.
That is, if we have had the good fortune of growing up in a household where Christmas morning was filled with magical moments and a treasure trove of gifts, we always long to return to those times.
My childhood was filled with Christmas mornings such as these, and I do not take for granted that this is not the case for everyone. I can remember grieving the loss of my childhood as I grew older, and the five a.m. races to the living room gave way to sleeping in and accepting the reality that, well-- maybe Mom had more to do with the gift buying than we had once known.
Then I became a mother myself, and I became positively driven--nearly on a divine mission-- to make those Christmas mornings as magical for my own children as they had been for me.
I was now the Magic Maker, and the spirit had returned; it was almost more fun as a mom than it had been as a child. We are still in the middle of this season, as our youngest child is nine; we do early wake-ups, hot cocoa in pajamas, driving across town to see the house with 10,000 twinkle lights, and the Elf on the Shelf is still a frequent flier here!
As Advent begins each year. however, I find myself pondering if I am truly ready for the birth of Christ. That magic I felt as a child is still deep within, and a tradition I never lost--will never lose-- is admiring the hand-painted ceramic Nativity scene my mother made the Christmas my parents were waiting to adopt me.
It is my favorite decoration by far. It is simple and beautiful and still brings tears to my eyes. It reminds me each year that this poignant scene of expectation, hope, and sacrificial love is the reason for it all.
Grief can be extraordinarily painful around the holidays. My family has experienced more than its share of loss, and I long for the days of happy Christmas mornings without the sting of empty chairs at the table. While visiting my mother over Thanksgiving, I found an old photograph of my father (the "Dad" character in my book, Hoppin' John Soup) opening a gift on Christmas.
"That was before he got sick," she sighed. Before.
I can barely remember the times "before," it's been so long now. Those were the best Christmases ... before. I suppose for this year, that was a small gift; a memory of a Christmas morning when he was still with us and not in pain. And it healed something inside me that needed healing.
As this Christmas season begins, let's ask ourselves if we are truly ready. Are we ready for Christ to bring us peace and healing? Are we ready to embrace the joy of the season, regardless of our current circumstances?
The magic is still there-- and sometimes we find it in places we least expect.
