Christmas Eve Eve, 2009
“The best part about making a gingerbread house is eating the candy as you go,” I said as I licked a dripping glob of icing from my thumb.
Gideon’s eyes grew wide with delight and he popped a handful of M&Ms in his mouth, clearly wanting to take advantage of this rare permission to indulge in sugary luxury before I had a chance to revert to my normal Mom-mode of rationing all confections.
He needn’t worry his cotton-topped little head. He had no idea how much I’d anticipated this milestone. Introducing my firstborn to a classic candy-centric Christmas tradition. I could practically see the moment replaying on a future Hallmark commercial.
What I didn’t anticipate, however, was the unsettling, tumultuous rumbling I felt in my stomach a few minutes after the last gum drop was secure on our candy cane roof. Was it possible to overdose on peppermints? Should I call the doctor or the Sugar Plum Fairy?
It soon became clear that the Grinch had hijacked our magical Christmas memory and replaced it with visions of stomach bugs dancing in our heads. First me, then Gideon, then Jason. All taken down by the foulest of foul ailments as our cheeks morphed from Rudolph red to Frosty white to Grinchy green in a few hours’ time. (Thankfully baby Canaan managed to escape the curse.)
The next day, instead of spending all of Christmas Eve at church like we do every year, we spent the day curled up on the couch, still, silent, and spent, hoping that Santa would stuff our stockings with Saltines and flat Sprite while we slept.
It wasn’t until the next morning, Christmas Day, that we had enough energy to mourn all we’d missed the day before. A day of Christmas Eve services at church was how we calibrated the season every year. It was our traditional, intentional way of aligning our hearts with the true celebration of Christmas. The birth of Jesus. The gift of Emmanuel. The hope of salvation.
And for the first time ever, we’d missed it.
We bundled up the boys to drive over the freeway and through the ‘hoods, to grandparents’ house we go (went), where cousins, laughter, food, and fun were waiting for us to join in. Christmas chaos in all its twinkling glory.
But first, Jason took us on a detour. He passed the grandparents’ houses and kept driving until we pulled into the church parking lot. Using his key, we slipped in the back door and made our way into the empty auditorium.
Slowly, we walked to the front, carrying our boys and our burdens to the altar where we paused and imagined the life and energy that had been there the day before. Now the stage was sleeping, the choir loft silent, the piano tucked in tight, and the Christmas trees unlit. Even the manger lay still and serene.
We climbed on stage and the four of us sang Happy Birthday to Jesus into the void of the room. And somehow, even without the drums or the lights or the fog machines they’d had the day before, that moment became one of my favorite Christmas Eve services ever.
It’s no secret that expectations will be big and bold over the next few days. The potential for presents or plans or potlucks to run amok is almost guaranteed. But if that happens, when it happens, remember that there is power in simplicity. Slip away. Find a corner, a car, or a closet. Sing Happy Birthday to Jesus loud and proud or silently in your soul, and recapture the reason for the season.
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