Christmastime

Each year we would put up the Christmas tree and listen to Kathy Mattea and argue about which ornaments should go where.

It was a method. Nice ornaments on top of the tree. Less important ones at the bottom where the dogs could reach. Our least favorites in the back against the wall. Fill the holes. Spread out the branches. Find a tree-topper. Turn off the lights. Go out onto the porch. Admire. In that order. Every year.

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Cinnamon rolls.

Wake up too early. Force Dad out of bed. Wait for him to get out of the bathroom.

Wait some more.

He would pad into the living room in his socks.

I remember one Christmas waking up to presents piled up to the mantelpiece.

And we would take turns opening presents until they were all gone.

Then we would pile up our stuff, take it all to our respective rooms, and then fight for the showers and hot water.

Dad would warm up the car.

And we would always take the long way to Severn Way. Dressed in new clothes. Sitting in the middle and back seats of the van, cringing at Dad's choice of music.

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The house at Severn would be full. With boys that weren't usually there. An uncle who knew exactly where to tickle and a beautiful aunt with lots of questions.

We would guess how long it would take Marty to show up.

And roll up our sleeves to make sausage balls and cheese balls. Enough food to feed an army. No nuts for Carter. Rationed caffeine and chocolate.

Adult conversations we couldn't be a part of.

Two tables set. Little salt and pepper shakers. Unnecessary butter knives.

Steaks grilled in the snow.

Piano playing.

Oh, piano playing.

As the years would pass, more players begin to develop in our family. We would sit in the kitchen and listen, guessing which boy was at the keys. You knew not to interrupt or to make too much noise or they would stop.

And we never wanted them to stop.

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Presents would be opened. Hugs and kisses. The boys would open their gifts and start playing immediately, but the four of us would have to wait. Wait until we got home so we didn't lose pieces, Dad always said.

We would eat dinner.

And feel sleepy.

Some years we would watch the snow fall outside.

One year it stormed. Thunder and lightening on Christmas.

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Then Dad would put his hand on our shoulders and squeeze. Or clap his hands. " About time to head out" meant time to go now...

We would pile back into the van. Pack the presents in.

I would fall asleep on the drive home. Warmed by the heater, lulled by the sound of grown up whispering and the distinct, deep voice on NPR.

And we would be home.

Christmas would be over.

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I wouldn't get it until much later.

Get why we cried on Christmas.

Why, when the van pulled up in front of the Long Avenue house, tears would begin to pool.

Why organizing all my new stuff and crawling into bed would make me want to cry.

We call them the Christmas blues.

They're hereditary.

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Christmas is nineteen days away.

I haven't bought a single gift.

Put up a single light.

Decorated a single tree.

But it is snowing this morning and I have a strange itch to try my hand at an apple stack cake.

To thieve a Kathy Mattea album from my mother and put in the Charlie Brown VHS.

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The presents will not be stacked up to the mantel this year.

This year, there will be no forcing Dad out of bed. No arguing about the holes in the Christmas tree. No fighting for hot water in showers.

This year it is different.

Because things change. And so does Christmas.

People grow up. And traditions change.

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Last year, I opened a card and cried on Christmas. Not because of the blues. But because something suddenly made sense.

I like it when things make sense.

For the past two Christmases I have come home to my own house to spend Christmas night. And Christmas has spread further than biological family to spiritual brothers and sisters. Christmas would not be Christmas without them, the new family.

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This year I will wake up in my own bed on Christmas morning and put a few homemade and thrift store gifts for my beautiful family in my little corolla and drive to Winchester.

Find my sisters and my mother and our Steve at the Long Avenue house. Cinnamon rolls and all.

And then find myself at Severn Way. Sadly, with a few less boys. But a new beautiful aunt to spend Christmas with. And a new beautiful set of fingers to play the piano (a girl this time... we're making progress).

I hope to spend time with my dad and our Emily and three beautiful, little girls.

I am scheming.

Planning to conjure some Christmas magic.

Because magic has nothing to do with Santa Claus.

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Christmastime is magical.

And no matter how much we loathe consumerism, commercialism (or any "ism" so often tacked onto the season of Advent), you cannot deny it.

In the twinkling lights and the horse drawn carriages and the soft, white snow. In sledding and days off of work and childrens' giggles. In Christmas love and mistletoe. In Christmas movies and snow angels and ice skating.

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Now, while your children are still young, teach them that Christmas is not about presents stacked up to the mantelpiece.

But about making it make sense.

The ultimate gift of a Divine life.

Christmas is about awe.

And simplicity.

The revolution is found, clearly, in Charlie Brown's story.

About making broken things beautiful.

Christmas is about that.

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It is that truth that makes the changes bearable.

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So whether you choose to conspire, to anticipate, to participate...

make this Christmas make sense.

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