The Joy of Christmas

by Amy Newmark

  So Happy Birthday this December 16th to Paul Davis wherever you are. I’ll bet you never knew that your old friend, neighbor and classmate would perpetuate the cookie tradition for nearly a half-century. Thanks to you and your mother and with the help of some dear women in both Oklahoma and Texas, we’ll be enjoying our very special Santa face cookies for many years to come.

  ~Tracy Moeller Cary

  Just the Ticket!

  Man’s mind, once stretched by a new idea, never regains its original dimensions.

  ~Oliver Wendell Holmes

  “Merry Christmas to us!” Norm tossed two tickets onto the kitchen table.

  I picked them up. “Really? The Barnum & Bailey Circus?”

  My husband nodded, a boyish grin spreading from ear to ear. Bringing home freebies was the unexpected perk of being a reporter-photographer for one of the local television stations. As newlyweds on a limited budget, we appreciated these free dates, opportunities to attend a variety of events. But… the circus? During Christmas week?

  I shrugged. Why not?

  The following December, his twinkling eyes rivaled Santa’s as Norm handed me another set of tickets and waited for my reaction.

  “You’re kidding…” I was at a loss for words.

  “The pickins are slim this year, sweetie. Do we go?” He waggled his bushy brows.

  Female mud wrestling? For Christmas?

  I accepted the dare. “Why not!” I shot back.

  And so it all began, the most un-traditional of Christmas traditions: to do something each holiday season that we’ve never done before, perhaps unexpected or challenging. As our family grew to include four children, we hauled them along for the memory-making moments.

  One year, I read an article about a performance at a local church, a musical of some sort with a hometown, homegrown cast that included kids. Best of all, admittance was free.

  We bundled up and headed out in a raging blizzard. The six of us joined a total of seven others scattered throughout the church’s cavernous, pine-swagged sanctuary. We picked a pew right up front, close to the action, where our children could have an unobstructed view. The “concert” turned out to be Amahl and the Night Visitors — an… opera. An opera?

  Norm perused the program. He glanced down the length of the bench at our kids, his black brows inching upward. “Really?”

  “They’ll love it,” I assured him as the lights dimmed and the show began.

  The sound system squawked. The performers fumbled their words. The storyline dragged.

  This family needs a growth experience, I reasoned as I shushed my restless four-year-old.

  The songs increased in pitch. And vibrato.

  This family could use some culture, I determined as I shook my head in warning at our ten-year-old, who was rolling his eyes and barely stifling his giggles.

  The music got louder. More dramatic. More, uh, operatic.

  I grabbed at the flailing arms of my daughters, aged nine and seven, as they silently mimicked, “A-maaaa-ahl, A-maaaa-ahl, A-MAAAA-ahl!” and gestured broadly in wicked imitation of the actors.

  This family needs to… leave, I decided, mortified at the way our youngsters carried on. But our departure would be a huge distraction and, well, we comprised half the audience. I sighed, did my best to control my manic monsters, and suffered through the remainder of the musical.

  I’m certain the cast suffered through us.

  In the decades since, our yuletides have yielded a long list of un-traditions, a list that includes memorable, Christmas-flavored firsts such as sledding at midnight under a brilliant blue moon, hosting a break-the-gingerbread-house party, and researching and cooking a traditional Bethlehem meal.

  We’ve shivered through an ice sculpture competition, hummed along during a Cranberry Pops concert, built an igloo after an epic snowstorm, strolled through a beggarly Dickens village, ridden a jingling sleigh through snow-hushed streets, watched the scenes of a live nativity — complete with aromatic camels and braying donkeys.

  We’ve witnessed the twinkling festivity of The Plaza in Kansas City, the rollicking pageantry at Dolly Parton’s Dixie Stampede in Branson, and the solemn sanctity of Temple Square in Salt Lake City.

  We’ve celebrated Hanukkah with Jewish friends and — most recently — sat spellbound with four young granddaughters during The Nutcracker ballet.

  Some of these once-in-a-lifetime opportunities were growth experiences. Others exposed us to culture. And, admittedly, there have been a few we’ve suffered through. But all of them have enriched our holiday celebrations by broadening our horizons and deepening our memories.

  Rarely do we search out these occasions. Most seem to find us. This year, kind friends offered us tickets to a holiday benefit for Opera Fort Collins. The evening’s entertainment will be a shortened version of their most popular Christmas production: Amahl and the Night Visitors.

  We’ve accepted. Maybe we’ll invite our children — and their kids.

  ~Carol McAdoo Rehme

  Luminaria

  The darkness of the whole world cannot swallow the glowing of a candle.

  ~Robert Altinger

  White paper bags and candles arrived in a bundle and lay on our front porch. I stared at them, and then read the accompanying note. “Oh,” I said, smiling as I thrust them toward my husband. “Look what the city gave us. All we have to do is add sand to the bags, place the candles inside and line our sidewalk and driveway with them on Christmas Eve.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, it says here that it’s a traditional custom of lighting the way for the Holy Family called Luminaria. Everyone lights the candles at 7:00 p.m. and turns off their porch lights for an hour.”

  He nodded. “Sounds nice. Let’s do it.”

  So, in the midst of preparing for our first Christmas with twin baby girls in our new Southern California home, we added Luminaria to our list.

  Christmas Eve arrived and so did high winds. As fast as we set the sand-filled bags down, the wind blew them over. We added extra sand to no avail. Our newly landscaped yard had bushes that were barely as tall as the lunch-size bags. As the time to light them approached, we worried that the winds would cause them to turn into torches, burning our new plants.

  “We’ll just have to stand out there with them,” Bill said.

  I could see he was right. So we bundled up the babies, put them in their strollers, and went out to light the Luminaria. We discovered that our neighbors up and down the street had made the same decision.

  “I’m going to bring out some coffee and cookies,” I told Bill.

  “Good idea,” he agreed. “Bring some of that cider, too.”

  I piled Christmas cookies on a paper plate, poured coffee into a Thermos and cider into a pitcher, grabbed some festive napkins and cups and put it all on a large tray. We stood by our mailbox and offered the goodies to our new neighbors, who gradually congregated in our driveway to talk between rescuing flaming paper bags.

  The next year we put a card table in our driveway and our neighbors, now friends, brought goodies to add to our treats. And the following year we set up a long table with a red paper cloth and a large urn of “Farmer’s Bishop,” my mother’s recipe for hot cider steeped with clove-studded oranges and cinnamon sticks. It drew raves, and so did her sausage balls.

  Through the years our evening festivities grew. One family placed large red candles in a huge, elaborate candelabra and ceremoniously marched down the middle of the street carrying it high before placing it on our table. The first time was such a hit they continued the ritual each year. We set up outdoor speakers to play Christmas carols and many sang along, some even wandering down the neighboring streets to invite others to join us. Our next-door neighbor won the city’s home decorating contest and we laughed when some of those who drove by to see the lights stopped for a cup of cider and a cookie, as if it were part of the lighting display. It was a fun way to meet other members of our small town.

  A
s our children grew and our community friendships broadened, so did our invitations. Folks from school and church stopped by on their way to or from church or dinner, bringing their out-of-town guests with them and a plate of something for the table.

  “It’s the perfect way to have a party,” I reflected. “Because we’re outside, the house stays neat and clean, ready for Christmas tomorrow.”

  That statement was true until our girls became teenagers and their friends made our Luminaria part of their Christmas Eve celebration, too. As my mother went through the house one year on her way to refill a tray, she returned to the chilly night and pulled her coat around her, murmuring, “Why do the kids have enough sense to go inside while we stand out here in the cold?”

  I stepped inside to check. Sure enough, there they were, sprawled on the floor in front of the blazing fireplace, laughing and enjoying the time free from adults and younger children. “Smart,” I thought, and quietly slipped back outside.

  It had to happen; one year it rained. The Luminaria bags were soggy messes along the driveways. We pulled our hat tree to the front door for wet raincoats and added a bucket for umbrellas. Everyone piled into our not-too-large house, bringing their Christmas cheer with them.

  Each year when 10:00 chimed we cleared the table and invited any of those still present to join us for 11:00 p.m. Christmas Eve church service. It was always special to end our party that way, later stepping out of the sanctuary at midnight singing “Silent Night,” and wishing each other a Merry Christmas.

  With time our guest list dwindled as children grew and families began to travel to be together. Our daughters left for college, and then married and moved away from home. We now attend our grandchildren’s church nativity pageant instead of serving cider in our driveway, although cider and sausage balls remain part of our family’s Christmas Eve traditions.

  Life is full of changes but memories remain and we still receive Christmas cards that mention those happy times at our driveway Luminaria. And today when we leave the house on Christmas Eve we turn on our new electric Luminaria to light the way for the Holy Family.

  ~Jean Haynie Stewart

  The Sounds of Christmas

  In the night of death, hope sees a star, and listening love can hear the rustle of a wing.

  ~Robert Ingersoll

  I was an eager ten-year-old the night I led the way up the worn old sidewalk, excited it was finally my turn to summon our audience. I took the steps up to the porch two at a time and rang the doorbell. There was a stirring in the house and in an instant I was back on the front lawn with my fellow Christmas carolers. The porch light flickered on and an elderly woman who had once taught me Sunday school made her way carefully out of the house, steadying herself against the porch railing. I can still remember the smile that illuminated her face as twenty voices came together to serenade her with “Silent Night.”

  The magic of that night and the joy of the Christmas season stayed with me well into adulthood. A Christmas caroling hayride through the streets of our small town seemed the perfect way to carry on one of my favorite holiday traditions while creating wonderful new memories with my tribe.

  The men of the family didn’t quite share my enthusiasm for riding on a bumpy trailer while singing songs to strangers in the cold. My son, Josh, opted to ride alongside his dad in the cab of the truck as they pulled a flatbed loaded with hay and cackling Christmas carolers.

  As luck would have it, Josh and my husband Joey were the only two musically gifted members of our family. When my daughter Kyley and I joined voices in a heartfelt attempt at “Silent Night,” it didn’t sound like the magical rendition I remembered from my childhood. The most melodious sound that escaped our lips was our laughter following each song. Our lack of vocal talent didn’t keep Kyley and me from making a joyful noise. Our family did, after all, believe laughter to be the sweetest music of all. Oh, the precious memories that were being made!

  Our Christmas caroling capers became well known in the area. Each year as the holiday season approached, I would receive phone calls from family and friends eager to join in the fun. While it wasn’t our only December tradition, it had become the one that Kyley and I most looked forward to. Well, that and Ky’s birthday party.

  Born on December 23, Kyley was my “almost” Christmas baby. Every year, despite a full schedule of holiday gatherings and a stint as my church’s pageant director, I would brave the throngs of holiday shoppers to buy birthday presents. Two days before Christmas I would go all out decorating our home with balloons and streamers in shades of pink and all of the family would come together to celebrate Kyley.

  I was in full-on birthday shopping mode December 18, 2008, when I called Kyley from a Target parking lot and asked her for a few additional gift ideas. I had checked off each item on her holiday shopping list but it didn’t look like much sitting on the back seat of my car. “I have everything I need, Mom,” she responded. “I’m sure I’ll love whatever y’all give me. You don’t need to buy me anything else.”

  I told Kyley that she was a good girl and I was proud of her. We exchanged “I love yous” and I hung up the phone.

  It would be our last conversation. That night, exactly one week before Christmas, Kyley died in a car accident just down the street from our home. She was buried on December 23rd, her seventeenth birthday.

  There was no Christmas caroling or birthday party that year, or the year after. Our home, which had always been filled with the laughter of friends and loved ones during the holiday season, was now quiet.

  I found I could not bring myself to carry on the traditions of our family when one of our members was no longer with us. I did not want to betray my daughter by making new memories without her. Kyley was now in my past and I feared that if I attempted to live the life I had before she left us, I would be moving further away from her.

  “You believe in Heaven don’t you?” a friend asked me one day. I nodded in response. “Then you have to believe that Kyley is waiting for you in your future. Every day you live brings you one day closer to her.” It was a life-changing revelation. This new perspective would allow me to move forward guilt-free.

  That December 23rd, for the first time since Kyley left us, I hosted a Christmas caroling hayride for family and friends. I spent hours preparing food, making hot chocolate, and binding homemade songbooks containing what had once been some of our favorite holiday hymns.

  As the guests began to arrive, I said a hurried prayer asking God to give me the strength to remember Kyley that evening with more smiles than tears. I thanked Him for the true miracle of Christmas — the gift of His Son, and I asked for one small favor… a sign that Kyley was still with us. I made a quick mental note of all the things that would qualify, in my mind, as divine assurance of Ky’s presence. Ladybugs and fireworks rounded out the list as I closed with a heartfelt, “Amen.”

  Loved ones sat side-by-side on bales of hay, songbooks in hand. We were a more somber group than years before and I felt a responsibility to lighten the mood. I managed a joke about my singing and a few friends joined in with some good-natured ribbing. There were a few chuckles and everyone seemed to relax. As we prepared to sing our first hymn, I realized I hadn’t thought to bring flashlights. It was dark and for those without cell phones it was nearly impossible to read the words to the songs. I yelled for my husband to pull up under a nearby streetlight. I took a deep breath as we joined together to sing “Silent Night.” The first note to escape our lips was drowned out by a deafening boom. A shower of sparks rained down upon our party as people instinctively scrambled over the sides of the trailer to escape the barrage. And then… silence.

  “What just happened?” someone asked.

  People turned their illuminated cell phone screens toward the now dark streetlight. Something had caused it to blow at the exact moment we’d started our song.

  “Wow! That was crazy! Sounded like someone set off fireworks right above our heads!” Someone else added, “Looked l
ike it, too!”

  Fireworks? I thought. Yes, of course! My sign!

  A rumble tickled my throat and before I realized what was happening I heard a familiar sound — laughter… heartfelt, sidesplitting laughter. And it was coming from me! The joyful noise grew as family and friends joined in. It was sweet music… the sound of old traditions and new memories being made. It was the sound of healing hearts. It was the sound of Christmas.

  ~Melissa Wootan

  Wishing for a Silent Night

  You can learn many things from children. How much patience you have, for instance.

  ~Franklin P. Jones

  I should start mentally preparing after Thanksgiving, but, like a root canal or gynecological appointment, I prefer not to think about it until I absolutely have to. Sometime during the second week of December, Derek and I will have to attend at least one school Christmas concert.

  We’re bad parents. We loathe school concerts. It wasn’t always this way. When our eldest child was four, we attended our first holiday concert at his preschool. It was delightful. The children were adorable, but none as precious as our own darling boy.

  That was eleven years ago. We’d probably still be enjoying holiday concerts except that we’ve added three more sons since that first experience. Consequently, we’ve attended about thirty school concerts. We’ve endured recorder recitals, choir competitions and spring solo extravaganzas, but the bane of our existence remains the Christmas concert.

  Have you ever tried to force a twelve-year-old skateboarding “dude” into a jacket and tie? Have you ever spent hard-earned dollars on choir outfits worn only twice? Have you ever shopped for dress shoes with a child who doesn’t believe in shoelaces? If you can answer yes to one of these questions, then you’ll know why the glitter has worn off the whole holiday concert experience.

  The cherub who was sweet as an angel at five becomes an embarrassment at eleven as he scowls from the back row of the choir, with his tie flung behind his neck so as to announce to the world, “You can make me wear it, but you can’t make me like it!”