THE SEASON OF LIGHTS

There are a lot of things that I love about the Christmas season.  I love the visiting.  I love the music.  I love the decorations.  I love the concerts and caroling.  And there’s no denying I love the food; that fact is there for all the world to see. 

That’s the public side of my Christmas, though.  I also have a private one. 

Sometime after the tree is up, I get up extra early, pour myself a big old mug of coffee, and sit and bask in the peace and tranquility of the Christmas lights twinkling before me.  I don’t know when this private little tradition on mine began but I do know that my Christmas season isn’t complete without it.

I suppose this quiet time can best be described as a review of my year, or in the grander scheme of things, my life.  Memories of the trees of my childhood – the excitement, the temptations to sneak a peak, the worries of Santa knowing what I’d been up to all year – spill through my mind.  As an adult I shake my head at how these self-focused qualms let me miss the cleaning and baking and sewing and wrapping my mother did to give us all these memories we hold dear now.

Because, of course, being a mom who had to step into those shoes is my next memory.  The presents, the parties, the concert and pageant practices.  The never-enough-hours-in-the-day days.  The I-can’t-wait-till-the-kids-go-back-to-school feelings that hit when the first one said “I’m bored!”  Ah!  Those were the days!

It was all worth it though, because those very children went out into the world and now return with the most wonderful small people on the planet.  In just a few days this house will be full of noise and laughter  (and let’s be honest here, also tears, and stand-offs, and lectures about sharing).  The table will smell of playdough, there will be an ever-present danger of being crippled by Lego, and bedtime will be everyone’s favourite time of day.  Well all the adult’s anyway, but we wouldn’t trade the cousin together time for anything.

It’s this impending invasion that got me up for my Christmas quiet time this morning – it’s not likely to happen after they all get here.  Although there is always the possibility of some small wiggly person to snuggle with when they do arrive … but that’s a different kind of gift.

This year’s tree is exceptionally pretty; the multi coloured lights glowing in its branches, my assortment of angels scattered so I can see at least one from wherever I choose to sit, the breakable heirloom balls at the top where they’re safe, the plastic touchables down where little ones can examine them without nasty consequences, and the newest addition – a flock of silver birds perched down where the kids can all choose one to call their own.  There are even a few strands of tinsel to tie this tree to my childhood.

And as much as I love the light that the tree gives off, four years ago I added a couple of laser lights that are designed to decorate outside.  While they do spray red and green dots of light across the front of the house, it’s the dots that shine through the windows and twinkle on the walls and ceilings inside that make me happy, reminders of the first Christmas we had them when the Australian grandchildren were here to celebrate with us too.  That is the Christmas that every other Christmas will be forever measured against.

Over the years my sacred Christmas tree time has been shared with tiny a newborn niece while her mother tried to sleep.  It has been spent texting with a dear friend suffering a terrible tragedy.  And it’s been a place I have spent numb, dark and desolate with my own despair.  And yet, with the constant presence of a Christmas tree; its lights shining in the darkness, there’s always been comfort and reassurance to be had, and faith that the future has better things in store.

Which brings me inevitably to other promises of light – the Christian promise of the Christ child.  And the pagan promise that the days would soon begin to lengthen out again.  It’s no accident that they all happen at the same time of the year.