I have thousands of fond memories of Christmas mornings from my childhood. There would always be an orange in the toe of my stocking, a few unwrapped surprise presents under the tree, cookie crumbs and a note from Santa Claus. The video camera would make its once-a-year appearance. A fire would be roaring in the woodstove. I remember those beautiful mornings and treasure them. But as an adult what I treasure even more are the Christmas Eves. They didn’t have the fanfare, I didn’t wait for them with wild eagerness, but they were the most special nights of the year.
Candlelight service was at 6:00 in a small log church the Lutherans and Presbyterians shared. We had a choir that would sing too loud or too soft or out of key, but each member was either married to, or the parent of, or the child of someone in the congregation so their performance was perfect. If we had a pastor that year, we would listen to his or her sermon, and I would try to make sense of it, and sometimes it resonated with me and sometimes it didn’t, but I always loved sitting there on the hard pew with my feet dangling over the starkly clean, plush red carpet feeling the warmth and love and closeness of my family: Mom, Dad, and Brian.
As the service neared conclusion small, white candles haloed with paper disks were handed out by the ushers. Some years I squeezed mine and the warmth from my small hands softened the wax so I could bend it into a J, other years I was careful to keep it straight. I always looked forward to the moment the flame was passed from one parishioner to the next. I felt so responsible and careful holding my candle, so grown up. The lights would be dimmed and the darkness of the Alaskan winter would almost overtake the church, but was conquered by the 100, or so, tiny flames. And then we would sing. Everyone sang and it didn’t matter if you were good or bad or shy because it was dark and the love and togetherness of the moment carried the tune and it sounded magical and angelic and perfect.
Sometimes wax would drip onto my hand through a hole in the disk and the heat stung, but no matter what, the sounds and lyrics of “Silent Night” healed it immediately and I kept singing. At the end of the song the church bell would ring for all to hear. Sometimes it would ring early and sometimes late, I never remember the timing being right, but it didn’t matter because the person outside ringing it was someone’s dad or uncle or grandpa or friend and they had missed the candlelight and braved the cold to ring it and they were proud of their role and it was perfect.
After the service, the children were given a bag of treats, usually a couple of candy canes and a piece of fruit, and I remember these being handed to me by the pastor who had a warm smile because he loved giving them away and seeing the genuine happiness on each child’s face. And the adults would talk and laugh and shake hands because for that moment they weren’t thinking about the stresses of the holidays. Everything was either done or it wasn’t and it would work out either way.
Afterward, we would load into the car, which had been started and warmed and we donned full winter gear a thick coat, hat, mittens, snow pants, and boots and we would take the long way home so we could see all the Christmas lights. The biggest displays were at the same houses every year, but every year we would look at the electric nativities and reindeer and Santa Claus and twinkling lights and I would be awestruck by their magical beauty. Every so often I would scrape some of the ice away from the inside of the car window to sneak a glance into the sky to check for Santa Claus who I never saw, but always wanted to and maybe this would be the year.
Wrapped in warm winter gear with everyone who mattered most close enough to reach out and touch we sang Christmas carols and sometimes Mom or Dad would hum or whistle a tune and Brian and I would guess which one it was. “It’s’ Rudolph’! It’s ‘Frosty’! It’s ‘Away in the Manger’!” I felt the closeness and love for one another as the carols resonated and I watched the Christmas lights twinkling and the stars burning through the otherwise pitch-black sky.
We’d pull into our driveway and our own Christmas lights would be twinkling a little more than they had on previous evenings and we’d go in where it was warm and Brian and I would put on pajamas and nestle onto the couch where Dad would read “’Twas the Night Before Christmas”. The family couldn’t sit close enough as we hugged our way through the poem and the feeling of being loved was so genuine and warm and perfect.
Sometimes, as an adult, the commercialism and competitiveness of Christmas can bring me down. But it is these small moments, these heart-felt Delta Junction Christmas Eves that remind me of what is truly special about the holiday. It is the true love of family and friends and even with great physical distance between us, there is that ever-present powerful feeling of love that will always hold us as close as we were in the car looking at the Christmas lights on those perfect Christmas Eves.
Merry Christmas to everyone and especially to my family, I only hope one day I can give as much as you have given to me.
This story is probably the best Christmas gift you could give to your family and friends! You've captured the essence of this magical time of year! Thank you!
ReplyDeleteWonderful story, Jason. You brought back many fond memories of Christmases past. This is the best Christmas gift you could give to us. It is very touching to me to know that you remember and hold dear a childhood memory. Thank you.
ReplyDeleteI was going through my drafts of Faux Social in an attempt to get some easy posts. A decent post was inspired by this, but I did not publish it right away because no one was going to write, "you've captured the essence of this magical time of year," or "this is the best Christmas gift you could give to us." Not that people really post comments on Faux Social, but if they did, they would probably be something like, "didn't you like anything about Christmas"? And "I hope you don't hate everything in your childhood."
ReplyDeleteI may well post it, because rereading it almost a year after first reading this post, it really isn't that negative. The contrast is strong though, and in many ways, it is the contrast between you and I, or the narrator of this story and myself. I remember the excitement, which I talk about in the post. I remember feeling close to you, and Mom and Dad. I liked turning the lights out, and just looking at the tree. All these things, as good as they were, have never been good enough in my memory to remember anything as "magical," which is what people want on the holidays. I am not sure why I finally decided to comment, maybe this is just a warning that when you cook up writing that is so genuine, warm, and perfect, your brother pulls out the gazpacho.
I think one of the big things for me is that I remember life like a Wes Anderson movie, mostly disappointing.