I was encouraging my husband to bring the boxes of Christmas décor down from the attic. It was a week before Thanksgiving, and I was determined to get them all done early this year. I loved Christmas, and putting up all the beautiful things set my heart soaring!
Not so much for him….
“Why do you have to have all this stuff every year? I bet you have 20 boxes! You’ve got too much! Why do you have to do this? Why can’t we just celebrate the real reason for Christmas, the birth of the Savior? Christmas is just too commercial! People are racking up credit cards bills with gifts they can’t afford, and the stores only care about money money money. It seems like it’s a competition – who can have the most lights on their house. Who can spend the most on presents!”
Year after year, he would drag all the boxes down the narrow ladder. The dishes that weighed too much for the box, the lighted reindeer, the snowman, and all those boxes! I know he dreaded the task, but every year he diligently would love me by doing it. And normally with only a groan or two. Why is this year different?
How could anyone not love Christmas? I responded, hurt and confused. A small tear trickled down my cheek as I pondered what would cause him to say something so harsh. It was true, I did have a lot. But when you love Christmas as much as I do, and have the curse of creativity, you end up having a lot of Christmas. Besides, I had all of our home Christmas décor, and all of the previously owned gallery décor, and all the Christmas treasures from my Mother who is now in heaven. And I bet there is a lot bigger and better Christmas décor up there!
I stopped my mental argument and decided to find out what was really bothering Les.
“Babe, what was Christmas like for you growing up?” I inquired.
“Well, we had a tree. And some presents. It was very quiet and just my sister and I, parents and Pops and Grandma“ he responded.
“Is that it? Did you do anything else?”
He looked at me like I was from another planet, blissfully content in his own memory.
The poor man. He just didn’t know what he was missing. I set out to enlighten him.
I came from a dysfunctional family. Dad was an alcoholic, and we never knew if he’d be ready to break out into a song and dance, or to beat someone up. But at Christmas, he tried to be on his best behavior – I think because he knew Grandma wouldn’t put up with his antics at her house. Grandma’s house was my haven, and Christmas was the best time of the year.
The first Saturday of December was decorating day. We would go to Grandma’s house and carefully bring her artificial tree upstairs from the basement. My Grandma was very smart. She had the whole tree decorated and just covered it with a sheet to keep it clean. It was carefully brought up and down the basement stairs each year. Of course, we made a few new ornaments to add to it each year, and remove some that were embarrassingly childish to me. I was in charge of the decorations. It was a big job that I took most seriously.
When the tree was perfectly in place, and the candy jars filled with candy canes and jellied Christmas treats, the village was ready to be built. Grandma’s house had a built in buffet in the dining room, and each year the Christmas village was carefully placed. I changed the layout each year, to keep things fresh and exciting. The bakery would be on the right, next to the toy store. Each family had their own house, complete with a chimney and sled. The ice skating rink had sparley glitter, and a lighted tree was in the center of the town square. I would save the snow for last, sprinkling tiny pieces on each and every rooftop, tree and all over the ground. I imagined what it must have been like for Grandma, growing up in a wonderful place like this very village. Singing carols, ice skating in long dresses, wearing furry hats and muffs to keep their hands warm. One Christmas, I actually got my very own muff – it was made of rabbit fur one the outside and satin on the inside. I thought I was a princess to have such a fine thing to wear!
We would add twinkling lights that encircled the village. It took hours to get every piece in just exactly the right place. But when it was completed, it was perfect.
The next Saturday would be baking day. Mom, her sisters and all the kids would be at Grandma’s baking hundreds and hundreds of cookies. Everyone we knew would receive a plate of these most delectable cookies, so we needed a lot. We didn’t even think to buy people gifts. We always made them. Grandma would let us pick out any flannel fabric we wanted, and would make pajamas for all her Grandchildren every year. The adults got cookies. And everyone wanted Grandma’s cookies! Grandma was the head cook for the whole Milwaukee school system, and her cooking and baking skills were much sought after!
On baking day, some would mix the dough. Some would spoon it onto cookie sheets. Some would watch the timer and the oven. And some would decorate. Decorating was my job. My cousins would help as well, but didn’t take it as seriously as I. It took me a long time to make sure every cookie looked wonderful, but Grandma trusted me to do my very best, and I couldn’t think of disappointing her. The weight of Christmas gifts was on my shoulders, and I vowed to rise to the test!
Grandma always had Christmas music playing, and stopped long enough through the preparations to give us each a nice long hug, and tell us what a wonderful job we were doing. My brothers would sometimes throw a piece of cookie or be very messy – but Grandma would still love on them just the same.
On Christmas eve, we’d all arrive in our Christmas dresses – made of velvet or satin… and most often the girls would all wear the same dress that Grandma had found in Gimbels basement on sale. I would find out years later that many of my cousins, were actually friends of the family, that Grandma adopted. The table would be set with Grandma’s good silver, which was my job, and everyone would help with the dinner.
After dinner was finished and the dishes were washed, we’d sit around the tree and pass out the gifts. Every person got at least one present. It was very exciting! Grandpa would fall asleep on the rocker, usually with the youngest grandchild asleep on his lap. Everyone chose to be happy, and thankful. But the best of Christmas was yet to come!
All the kids got to stay up late, and we bundled up to go to the midnight Christmas eve service at church. We sang the best Christmas carols, and got to hold lighted candles all by ourselves. We would hear anew, about the baby Jesus who left heaven to be born in a manger, who had come to save us from our sins. The wise men would bring beautiful gifts. The angels would sing Alleluia! The king is born! It was the finest finish to the most amazing day of the year!
I told my husband, “Christmas isn’t about shopping and presents and credit cards. It’s about doing kind things for people – like Grandma giving away dozens and dozens of cookies to everyone she knew. It’s about showing lovingkindness to people you may not get along with, about honoring God who gave His only Son to us.
And that, I told him, is what Christmas means to me.
The poor guy sat slumped in his chair, surely overwhelmed by his wife’s well defined and elaborate idea of Christmas.” Honey, I’m sorry. I had no idea that this is what Christmas meant to you. He got up, gave me a long loving hug and climbed the attic stairs for a few more boxes.
I didn’t want to tell him there were actually 26 boxes. Sometimes he doesn’t need to know everything!
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