Over the years, the basic rules have stayed the same, but the cast has changed and the celebration has evolved. In the beginning, dinners were simply the bounty of leftovers that always includes shrimp, prime rib, cheesy potatoes and stuffed shells. The only exception to the cooking rule was roasting hotdogs and marshmallows in the fireplace, because that’s just plain fun. At some point I decided that since I love to cook, making a real dinner wasn’t actually work if I kept it simple. Now Pajama Day dinner is always beef stroganoff made with the leftover prime rib, using my mom’s recipe from my childhood.
Our two oldest daughters have grown and moved to cities near and far. Both come home for Christmas and our second daughter is now happy to spend the day relaxing with her family. Best of all, we now have a granddaughter who loves Pajama Day as much as I do. This past year, she pulled me aside on Christmas and whispered in my ear, “Can I sleep over at your house tonight so I can be here for Pajama Day?”
Of course the answer was yes, and the next morning while everyone else slept until long past noon, she and I pulled out the sleeper sofa and built the fire. We snuggled under the covers and I read to her from the mountain of picture books she piled next to us. Later in the day her teenage uncle showed her how to build a fort using the cast-off couch cushions. I set aside the novel I was reading to enjoy the sound of their laughter as the fort collapsed on their heads. As I got up to put another log on the fire, I realized there was nothing better than passing on my favorite tradition to the next generation. May she do the same...
~Laurie Higgins
Gifts of Bloom
At whatever straws we must grasp, there is always a time for gratitude and new beginnings.
~J. Robert Moskin
It had been a tumultuous year for my three sons: new town, new house, new schools, new friends, new life. It was a time filled with adjustment, uncertainty and pockets of deep sadness. As our first Christmas approached, I was determined to give “new” a facelift. We needed a fresh outlook. We needed a new tradition—with an old-fashioned sense of warmth, togetherness, hope and awakening. I devised a plan.
Early Christmas morning, we donned our warmest gear and headed to the beach two miles away. It was cold, but the waking sun was brilliant. We parked our car, grabbed the cooler filled with hot chocolate and sweet rolls, and headed down the beach toward the rock jetty which hugged the entrance to the harbor. My plan was a simple one: to sit together on a rock overlooking the wondrous ocean and acknowledge the stunning gifts we are given—for free—each day.
My middle son, Peter, spotted it first: “Look, Mom, a flower!” he said as he ran down the length of piled rocks. Lying on its side framed in gray speckled granite was a single white lily—the flower of purity, grace and beauty. Peter picked it up and examined it as we all converged. “Where do you think this came from?” he asked. We looked down the length of the beach but saw no one.
We sat down in a circle, placed the lily between us, and marveled at our find. We were full of questions: “Who left it? Why? Were we meant to find it?” As we sipped our hot drinks, we talked of hope and the wonder of new beginnings. When a cold wind forced our departure, we placed the lily back on the rock and headed down beach, pocketing shells and sea glass along the way.
When we got home, we opened our gifts from under the tree. The usual fervor surrounding boxes and bows was quieted, however, by talk of the lily. Late in the afternoon, we surrendered our beach treasures to the center of the kitchen table, and with ribbon and a glue gun, made ornaments for the tree. We marked the back of each creation with the date and an inscription: “Year one. The year of the lily.”
Our beach excursion has become an annual Christmas tradition. Now, however, we bring our own gifts to the jetty. The day before Christmas, we head to the florist and we each pick out our own flower. When we leave the jetty on Christmas morning we find our own special rock on which to lay our blooms. As we amble back along the beach picking treasures for our new ornaments, we wonder who will find—and receive—our gifts of new beginnings.
~Susan Garrard
Caroling
Each day comes bearing its own gifts. Untie the ribbons.
~Ruth Ann Schabacker
Nothing warms the heart quite like Christmas caroling. The holidays can be hectic and the spirit of Christmas can easily become lost in the rush and worry of getting everything “just right.” Eight of us neighbors decided to take a much-needed break and spend an evening Christmas caroling with our children. Setting out with the intention of lifting the spirits of our other neighbors, we spread Christmas cheer until we were tired, cranky and felt like popsicles.
One more house, we decided, and piling into our cars again, spotted the perfect target. The elderly man sitting alone in his kitchen window seemed like he needed us. Pulling over, we parked our cars in front of his house and argued about which songs to sing. Half of the children were either whining or crying about the cold and the Utah snow seemed to have lost its sparkle despite our good intentions.
Finally settling on four songs for the man, we rang the bell and waited for him to open his door. Already thinking about getting the kids to bed and the work I had yet to do, I automatically started in on “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” with the others. But as the man stood in the doorway, his eyes filling with tears, my sidetracked thoughts came to a screeching halt. As we sang, I could hear the tears in many of my friends’ voices and my own voice caught and my singing grew softer as I fought the tears myself.
The elderly gentleman stood in his doorway, the ceiling fixture lighting his soft silver hair like a gentle halo. He clapped with delight as we finished the first song and glided right into the next. Warmth spilled from his home and out the door. He didn’t seem to care, so happy he was with our visit. He seemed to personify the Spirit of Christmas and I felt a guilty twinge at my grouchiness. True joy began to fill my soul as I sang my heart out for this man. No one had greeted us with such enthusiasm and joy all night. No one had made us feel so welcome and so loved. Gratitude filled me like hot cocoa and I was so thankful we were guided to this man.
Finishing up with “Silent Night,” we sang with great love for our neighbor, and I heard his own shaky voice join in with ours. Tears streamed down my cold cheeks and I knew not one of us would forget this man. Our song ended and we all stood on his porch, no one willing to break the spell of this glorious moment. The man stood grinning through his tears as we grinned right back through our own.
Thanking us profusely and wishing us a Merry Christmas, he went back inside his warm home, his big grin and the tears on his cheeks the last things we saw. We slowly and regretfully left the man, whose spirit and tears made all the difference in our night, all the difference in our Christmas. Although he had sat alone in his window, looking as if he needed us, we had no idea how much we needed him, and what a gift to our group of carolers that man would be. In him we found the true spirit of Christmas.
~Susan Farr-Fahncke
My Little Christmas Songbird
He who sings frightens away his ills.
~Miguel de Cervantes
“Oh, the weather outside was frightful” in our sleepy little town in Virginia. We were not accustomed to the arctic air and crystalline icing that was covering our rural community. With twenty-four inches of snow on the ground, icy conditions everywhere and temperatures in the teens, our teeth were chattering and we were already looking forward to spring. Except... Christmas was right around the corner and maybe a winter wonderland would be fun for Santa’s annual trek.
Like many busy mothers, I worked full-time, had a twenty-month-old daughter, and tried to squeeze too much into every day. My husband worked long hours as a high school assistant principal so my daughter, Savannah, and I often spent the weekday evenings running errands, making supper, and keeping up with the day-today activities of life.
On this particularly cold December evening, we had made a quick dash through the grocery store and we raced home to get
settled in for the night. Juggling groceries and a wiggly toddler, I picked my way gingerly across the ice-covered patio and in the kitchen door. Yanking off coat, hat, mittens, and winter boots, I told Savannah that I had to run out to the car to get my purse but I would be right back. Out to the car I went. Literally a twenty-second endeavor. And then I was back. I grabbed the kitchen door handle and... LOCKED! How could this be? Our sliding glass door had a deadbolt and required a key to open or lock it.
I panicked as I watched my little one dancing around the kitchen, humming to herself, completely oblivious to our predicament. I tried two windows, which of course were locked. Gently tapping on the glass, I called Savannah to the door. As she toddled over, she smiled, got up on tiptoes proudly showing me how she was a big girl and could “Yock (lock) it.” Unfortunately, she was too short and did not yet have the dexterity to rotate her wrist counter clockwise to “UNyock” it. We were stuck! And it was cold!
Since this was before the days of cell phones, I began mentally exploring how to break into the house. Savannah, however, spotted our Christmas tree in the living room. The glittering, sparkling tree was a toddler’s delight! I had been fearful of Savannah tugging on the tree and pulling it over on top of her, so we had spent many evenings talking about how pretty it was and how we needed to “look with our eyes instead of our hands.” Now, however, Momma was outside and the tree was there for the touching. As Savannah ambled toward the living room, I quickly began singing Christmas carols through the glass door. There is nothing like a rousing rendition of “Jingle Bells” to attract a toddler’s attention. Savannah quickly ran back to the door, sat on the floor and chimed in loudly at “one horse open sleigh-HEY!” After many, many carols, Savannah peered through the glass and said, “It’s cold, Momma. Come in.” Little did she know that this Christmas adventure was warming my heart even as the cold wind howled around me.
My husband arrived home about thirty minutes later, finding me on the outside of the sliding glass door and Savannah tucked up against the window on the inside, loudly belting, “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.” When I finally got inside and felt the warmth of our cozy home and the hugs of my little songbird, I realized that Christmas had arrived early that year!
~Corinne “Cori” Foley Hill
What Really Matters
Truly wonderful the mind of a child is.
~Yoda
In her eight short years my daughter had attended three different schools in as many countries. We had transferred to Maryland with our government careers and she and her brother were thrilled at the prospect of putting down roots for a little while in one place. We chose a small suburban community outside of Washington, D.C. and settled in. The parish we chose for worship was warm and felt like home. Every Christmas the oldest elementary school students, the sixth graders, presented a Christmas pageant complete with angels, shepherds, wise men, the innkeeper, Mary and Joseph, and a “real” baby volunteered for stardom by one of the trusting parish families.
For three years the nun who was the parish education director promised Jessica that she would make a fine “Mary” if she took her classes seriously and tried to be a role model to younger students. In October of her sixth grade year, the parish began to prepare for the long awaited, cherished presentation that honored the meaning of Christmas. Sister Margie asked me if she might speak to me one evening after religion classes. Amid the excitement of the upcoming spectacle and the measuring of all sixth graders for some role somewhere in the pageant, I detected a note of concern and panic in her voice. I was not the only one to notice and while Sister pulled me aside in the church vestibule, any number of other teachers, parents, and students suddenly quieted in hopes of hearing what could possibly be so important. Sister spoke in her lowest whisper that she was very worried about the fact that Jessica had grown into a lovely, yet tall young girl, and in fact now towered six inches over the boy who had equally had his heart set on being Joseph.
“Mary,” she whispered, “must carry the baby Jesus on one arm and take Joseph’s elbow for support as they walk the length of the aisle and make their entrance accompanied by the choir of the angels. I just don’t know how that will look with her being so much taller than he.” With this she cast a troubled look at me. I joined in her panic and tried not to look at my daughter who was now obviously focused on us. I explained to her that I feared the heart-wrenching anguish of my daughter who might now be denied her honored debut after anticipating it for three years.
Jessica bravely approached us and swallowed hard. She had heard every word of this “secret” meeting. She addressed the dilemma head on. “Excuse me, Sister,” she sweetly said. “If it didn’t make any difference to Joseph if Mary was pregnant when he married her—do you think it mattered to him if she was taller than him?”
Being the wise, warm woman that she was, Sister hugged Jessica and swept the whole company of players into the church for prayers. The pageant went off without a hitch and my husband and I watched proudly as Mary carefully and gently carried her baby with her other hand softly, confidently placed on Joseph’s strong shoulder.
~Julia G. Powell
The Perfect Gift
Love is, above all, the gift of oneself.
~Jean Anouilh
Two weeks before Christmas, I left my suburban neighborhood with a small group of friends, and followed an urban minister through the streets of Los Angeles. “Silver bells, silver bells. It’s Christmas time in the city....” I sang to myself as we walked busy sidewalks. Contrary to the lyrics of the classic carol by Livingston and Evans, I did not see “children laughing and people passing, meeting smile after smile.”
Instead, I saw hundreds of homeless people, shattered by addiction and abuse, crowding the streets of a wealthy city. They carried plastic bags containing their meager possessions, while blocks away, busy shoppers rushed home with treasures from designer boutiques.
The contrast was sobering and did nothing to improve my holiday funk. I longed for God to provide a divine interruption and remind me of the real reason for celebration.
On the second day of our reality tour, the guide invited us to observe a mobile street ministry called Metro Kidz. We followed their lunch wagon, painted with holy graffiti, as it circled poor neighborhoods. Bright music blared from the speakers and drew hundreds of local children to a quiet cul-de-sac. Ranging in age from toddlers to teens, they raced to hug the pastor as if he were the Pied Piper. He opened his arms and braced himself for a wave of energy. Within minutes, volunteers spread plastic tarps on the asphalt and a human huddle formed on the ground.
“Who wants to play some games?” the young pastor yelled to the attentive crowd.
“I do, I do,” said one young boy who popped to his feet with confidence.
“Let me, let me,” a chorus of voices responded.
Their joy was contagious and I started to smile on the inside.
“Okay,” the pastor said. “We’ll play some games and pass out some prizes. Then I want to tell the Christmas story. How many have ever heard the story of baby Jesus?”
Almost every brown arm shot into the air.
I was seated cross-legged between wiggling, giggling children when a small boy crawled into my lap and fell asleep. His candy cane smeared sticky sweetness all over my jeans. A warm weight pressed against my side and I turned to find a pretty young lady with dark curly hair. Her braids were clipped with a rainbow of many colors and framed her large brown eyes.
“Hello, my name is Sandy. What’s your name?” I asked.
“Erika,” she whispered shyly and glanced down.
“How old are you?” I asked, and put my arm around her shoulder.
“Five,” she told me with a smile.
“Do you want to play one of the relay games?” I queried.
She grabbed my arm, shook her head vigorously and said, “No please.”
“That’s okay, we can just sit here and watch together,” I said and felt her relax. Expe
rienced volunteers helped the children have silly fun. Prizes of food, toys, candy and books were given to the competitors for as many categories as the leaders could concoct. Winners snatched the rewards and raised them overhead like victory trophies.
“Look what I got!” they yelled to their peers.
Finally, it was time to hear the Christmas story and to learn a new memory verse.
“Listen up,” the pastor said to hundreds of squirming kids. “We have a few more rewards to give away. Adults will watch the group and pick out eight boys and girls to receive a quiet prize for the best listening skills during the story.”
A sudden hush came over the crowd, but lasted only a few seconds. The harder the kids tried to be quiet, the more they wanted to laugh. A giggle started inside of me and I had to swallow a snort before it escaped.
Seated among poor children in the streets of Los Angeles, I felt joy! I felt celebration. I listened to the story of two parents who were forced to seek shelter in a stable, because there was no room for them at the inn. I felt the sleeping boy in my lap and could picture a child, wrapped in swaddling clothes, embraced at the breast of his mother.
Erika listened carefully to the brief version of Christmas Eve and never moved an inch. She watched, and waited patiently for the memory verse competition.
“Today’s memory verse is from James 1:17. I’ll read the words and you repeat after me,” the pastor instructed. “Every good and perfect gift comes from God the Father,” he said in English and then repeated the verse in Spanish.