Christmas 2017: A Misleading Box.

The box with his name on it under the tree taunted him throughout December. He could see the name of the store through the thin paper. Cosby’s, a famous hockey store in New York City. Each night laying in bed, he wondered what it might be. Skates? Helmet? It didn’t matter. Either way, he would have something to impress the kids at school, something to be like his brother who got things from there all the time.

He tried to get his siblings to hurry through their stockings on Christmas morning so he could get downstairs for the main event. His mother’s torturous requirement that they eat before opening presents almost caused him to go into convulsions.

Finally, his mother “dropped the puck,” as they liked to say, “Ok, you may open it.”

He didn’t wait for the others. He ran to the tree and went straight to the box he’d been waiting to open for a month. The paper didn’t stand a chance against his enthusiasm, and pieces were still floating in the air as he lifted the top of the box. In it was a painting his mother had done in one of her painting classes.

He tried to hide his disappointment. To this day, he can’t recall anything else he received that Christmas. The painting was eventually hung in his room, where he stared at it from his bed. In time, he grew to like the painting, and stopped thinking about what could have been in the box. When he went to college, he took the painting with him, and, when he moved into his first apartment, the painting was the first thing he hung on the wall.

The painting was like having his mother with him. It got him through the time he was laid off, as well as when his daughter was in the hospital. Now, with his gone, the painting increased in significance.The individual brushstrokes looked like her fingerprints which, in a way, they were. The painting was never something he expected, but ended up being all he ever wanted.

"And you shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger."

Letting Christmas In.

People get into Christmas in a variety of ways. Maybe by decorating a home, sending Christmas cards, or observing age-old traditions, but an interesting twist is to ask not how you get into Christmas, but how Christmas gets into you?

The question came to me after running into a friend who I’d not seen in years. I rushed over to greet him after church, and noticed he was unfolding a white cane with a red tip. Despite my enthusiastic greeting, he asked “who’s that?” An eye disease had taken his sight, and I’ve thought about him ever since. Sitting in our den listening to beloved Christmas music by a fire with scented candle nearby, I couldn’t help but think about the gift of sight, and the gift of all our senses, and how they allow Christmas to enter our souls.

Through my eyes, I see a tree with tiny white lights and ornaments made by our children over the years. Driving through town, I see stores decorated, and wreaths hanging from lampposts. I see snow falling, as if on cue, and notice the delight on my daughter’s face as we watch a favorite Christmas movie. If I only had my eyes, it would be enough to know Christmas.

Through my ears, I hear music unique to this time of year (never before Thanksgiving, thank you very much). Traditional and popular, the melodies and words cause my eyes to water like no other. I hear the bells ringing outside selected stores, and hear cries of "Merry Christmas" above the traffic, and notice people greeting one another with new-found enthusiasm and sincerity.

Through my nose, smells can pull me toward the magic of Christmas. Candles strategically placed throughout the house, and food cooking in the other room all lure me into the season each year. (Even brownies smell seasonal at this time of year.) The smell of a real fire makes me what to cook chestnuts, even though I have no idea how one does such a thing.

Through my mouth, Christmas has an easy route within, both literally and figuratively. Treats line the counter and break-room table. Meals become eucharistic. Even the local grocery store plays along by offering peppermint ice cream for a limited time. (Try it with hot fudge, or magic shell chocolate sauce).

My hands, and the rest of my body, get in on the act as well. I reach out and touch the Christmas tree needles, bend over, make a snowball, and throw it before holding my hands up to my mouth for much-needed warm breadth. I reach out an touch a friend’s mole hair sweater that’s simply irresistible, and pull a handmade scarf knitted by a friend who recently died tightly around my neck. I tend to hold hands and hug more at Christmas.

Like a master teacher I know who teaches through all her students’ senses, Christmas surrounds us and longs to come inside . . . if we have eyes to see, ears to hear, noses to smell, mouths to taste, and hands to touch.

Advent

Everyone took their places, audience and orchestra members alike. The woman in the second row struggled with her mink, while the man four rows back placed a handkerchief to his mouth as he coughed. Acquaintances waved across the performance hall to one another, while the first violin adjusted the tension of her bow. A second bass player adjusted his music stand, which caused the oboist to slide her chair slightly forward. The conductor enters from off stage, with white tie glistening and tails flapping. The orchestra rises, and audience applauds. After a modest bow, he turns to his fellow musicians, and, with his baton, strikes his music stand. Silence fills the room. Both orchestra and audience are still. The performance is about to begin.

There’s no moment like it, and although it has been years since my father took me out of school to attend the New York Philharmonic, I remember it vividly. I can’t recall what pieces were performed, but can't forget the way I felt. More than any other, it was that moment after the conductor struck his music stand I remember most. The sudden quiet only accentuated what was to come. I sat up in my chair because I didn’t want to miss a thing.

I’m writing this early in the morning in a New Hampshire farmhouse. From my seat, I know I will be able to see the sun rise, but right now it's dark and cold. I know the light will come, perhaps later than I’d like, but it will come nevertheless, bringing color configurations that have never been before, and much needed warmth. It’s like that moment at Lincoln Center long ago. The conductor of another day is standing at his stand, striking the stand with baton, and lifting his arms. The stillness only points to what is to come. Like long ago, I sit up in my chair.

Advent is also such a moment. Although we’re surrounded by a culture that seeks to begin the performance earlier each year, there is much to be gained by the moments before. Silence has a melody of its own. It's a time to take our seats, greet those around us, and then, in reverent silence, wait as the conductor takes his place and strikes the music stand.

The performance is about to begin. Another day, unlike any other, is about to begin. The silence fills our souls, as we sit up in our chairs, eager not to miss a thing.