*The Best Christmas Eve Ever--Part Two"

The Christmas Eve house tour ended up back in the kitchen. “So every room has a fireplace and a Christmas tree?”
            “Just about.”
            “And nativities,” I said. “Do you collect them?”
            “We do.” She picked up a carved manger scene and placed it in my hand. “This one’s from Israel, like Jesus.”
            I held it up to the light and examined it this way and that. “It’s gorgeous.”
            “Sit,” she said, gesturing to a bench in front of the fireplace. “I’ll make coffee.”

            I leaned close to the fire until my cheeks burned. I pressed my palms to my face. Hot. Dry.
            “Come here,” Mom said.
            I joined her at the island in the middle of the kitchen.
            She patted the marble surface. “Put your face here.”
            The coolness instantly soothed. I turned my head to relieve the other side. Caressed the chilly counter.
            “Let me guess. Italian?”
            She smiled and nodded.
            I peered at the soaring ceiling with its tic, tac, toe beams. “I feel like I’ve been here before.”
            Her eyes followed my gaze. “Do you get Metropolitan Home magazine?”
            My mouth fell open. “Whoa!”
            She pulled a stool out from under the island and I did the same. We sat. Neither of us spoke for awhile but it was fine.
            “When I grow up, I wanna be just like you.”
            I peeked at her from under my lashes. One side of her mouth was higher.
            I bit my lip. “Did I say that out loud?”
            The other corner rose.
            I returned my face to the marble. “Sometimes I think I have Tourette's.”
             She reached across the island and rested her hand on my hair. “You’re so much like your brother.”
            I sat up when Amy, followed by John, burst into the room, in song. “Here we come a-caroling . . .”
            Amy looked at Mom, then me. “C'mon. It’s time! To the music room.”
             “You didn’t show me that one,” I said to Mom.
             She shrugged. “I knew we’d end up there eventually.”
             Suddenly the side door to the kitchen opened and a sparkly wind whooshed a man inside. The crown of his fedora brushed the doorframe as he entered. His cheeks were ruddy from the cold.
             His eyes swept the room and  came to rest on me. “John's sister, no doubt," he said. "You’ve got your brother’s eyes. Welcome. And Merry Christmas.”
             He turned to John. “The fireplaces are hungry,” he said. “We must appease them.”

            “I’ll get my coat,” my brother said.
            Amy and Mom led me down a back hall. I hung back so I could gawk to my heart’s content. You know you’re in a rich person’s house when there’s a music room. And, when just about every wall is glass and you’re not cold, even in the dead of winter.
            In the music room we gathered around the grand-not-baby piano and sang all the Christmas carols in the hymnal. Mom played beautifully. Her fingers had perfect piano playing posture, all high and curved. Amy’s voice was a sweet, clear soprano. When she hit the high note in O Holy Night, I almost wept. At some point I heard male voices behind me. I grinned at my song sheet. 
            “It’s time,” Dad said when there were no more songs to sing.
            My eyes darted from face to face. “For what?”
            No one answered. Instead they followed him into the room with the biggest fireplace of all. The tallest tree. It shimmered with silver and gold pinecones and opalescent garland. The room was furnished with Shaker pieces—elegant but not soft. I opted for a floor cushion almost the size of my car.
            When everyone was seated and quiet, Dad spoke. “And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed.” He recited the whole thing from memory—no notes, no Bible.
            The fire warmed my cheeks. The story heated my heart. After he said, “But Mary kept all these things and pondered them in her heart,” he reached into one of the baskets beside the hearth. He brought out a candle and lit it from the fire. I held out my hand. He repeated the action four more times, one for each of us.
            My cheeks ached. Because I couldn’t stop smiling. It’s perfect, I thought. I didn’t think this night could get any better, but it did.
            We sat there in our little circle for the longest time, each of us mesmerized by the moment. We watched as our flames flickered and bowed. I allowed a drop of hot wax to splash onto my palm. Pressed my thumb into it to make a print. I chuckled.
            Somewhere in the house, a clock struck. I closed my eyes and counted the chimes. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. A contented sigh escaped me. I opened my eyes to see if anyone heard. Saw Amy’s lips moving around the lyrics of “Silent Night.” One by one, we joined in. I lifted my gaze to the ceiling. Steepled my fingers. Adopt me. Please.
           
When I got out of the Toyota back at my apartment, I noticed a basket on the back seat. They gave me presents? My eyes stung and I sniffed as I carried the basket inside and put the packages under our little tree. Tonight, or tomorrow? After a few minutes I unplugged the lights and headed back to my bedroom.
            Five minutes later, I ran back out. Lit the tree and sat cross-legged beside it in my pajamas and robe. One by one I opened the presents. They’d given me the slippers I’d worn. And a pair of  polka-dotted mittens. Nestled in a fist-sized box was the nativity from Israel. I stroked the smooth wood and shook my head in wonder.
            The shine of the aluminum foil star on top of the tree caught my eye. I spoke to it. “Star light. Star bright.” I stopped. Picked up the little manger scene and held it against my heart. “Actually, I don’t need to make a wish. I want to say thanks. No one should be alone on Christmas Eve, and I wasn’t. And Christmas in the country? It was different . . . and better."

*The Worst Christmas Ever*

I knew I was in trouble when my husband questioned the pile of packages by the front door.

            “I have a good excuse,” I said.

            One of his eyebrows arched. “Really?”

            Both of my eyebrows went up. “Really,” I said. “These are the Christmas presents I bought and wrapped for your mother to give the kids.”

            “She already did that .”

            My heart hiccupped. I squinted. “She did? Why?”

            “’Cause she wanted to.”

            “But, this is how we always do things. She buys. I fly.”

            “Not this year.”

            Inside me, my holiday spirit engine gasped. Shimmied. Chugged, then stopped. The Christmas carol soundtrack in my head ceased. The skippy spring to my step flattened.

And then it happened again. We stepped into my mom’s house less than a week later and her hearth was smothered with red and green packages adorned with smooshed and pointy pre-tied bows.

            My breath caught. My eyes widened. The two shopping bags of packages I was carrying dropped to the floor with a thunk and a rattle.

            “Uh . . . Mom? Did you forget how we do things—you buy, I fly?”

            She beamed from her lavender recliner. “I don’t know what got into me. One day I felt a burst of energy. And there was this great sale at the mall and . . . “

            For the second time in seven days my holiday spirit engine faltered. I stared at the fireplace for a few minutes—almost hypnotized by the blueish yellow flames that danced around the fake logs.

            “They got double presents,” I said, without moving my lips.

            “Excuse me?” Mom said.

            I walked down the hall to the bathroom and washed my hands. Put on sweet pea-scented hand lotion. Tried on every shade of lipstick on Mom’s vanity. I lowered the toilet lid and took a seat. I counted on my fingers. They got presents from my mom. They got gifts from his mom. They got stuff that I bought them from my mom. They got stuff that I bought them from his mom. They got presents from us. They got toys from Santa.

            I stood and surveyed my reflection in the mirror. Leaned forward and tugged my eyeskin to make the wrinkles disappear. I sighed. My mom was happy. Mother-in-law was too. The kids were ecstatic. And he was thrilled. Husband adores giving and receiving gifts. “Can’t take it with you when you die.” That’s one of his favorite sayings.
            I grinned at myself. "Faker," I hissed. Everyone was giddy with holiday joy but me. All the stress I’d put myself through—making the lists, checking them twice. Shopping all over hell’s half acre and the Internet. Wrapping, hiding. I didn’t need to do any of it. Well, I didn’t need to do half of it. I’d put myself out, way out, for nothing.  All that Advil gone to waste.

            And that’s not all. The double presents thing? It fed the fear inside me. The fear that all the gifts, the mile high stack of gadgets and sweaters that no one really needs, would make Christmas Day into Stuff Day. I worried that the intense focus on buying, giving, getting, repeat, would take the attention off little Lord Jesus asleep on the hay.

            Back in the living room, I sank into the sofa beside husband. He shushed me as I mumbled, “It’s gonna be Stuff Day, not Christmas Day.”  He stroked my back. Massaged my shoulders. Murmured, “There, there. Everything’ll be all right.”

A few nights later we gathered in the foyer. Donned hats and coats, mittens and gloves. Prepared to go to the last holiday party of the season—Christmas Eve at my mother-in law's. One of our children dawdled. Or whined. I don’t remember which. I snapped at her. A little too loud, a little too mean.

            All of a sudden the front door whooshed open. Frigid night air rushed the room. Husband slammed the door and turned to me, his eyes squinty and small.

            “Shut. Up,” he said. “You’re going to ruin Christmas Eve for everyone.”

            All three kids gawked at me, my husband, each other, then the floor. I winced and inspected my boots. I knew I deserved it. Not in front of the kids, but still . . .

            Husband stomped out into the night to start the car. After a few minutes, the kids followed. I locked the front door and slunk down the steps. It was bitter cold with no snow. There would be though. Eventually. I could smell it.

            I climbed into the SUV. Flipped my seat warmer on. The silence was too quiet, even on the Silent Night, so I pushed the stereo knob. Charlie Dodrill sang. To me. “I am under the impression that it’s all for me.” I rubbed my thighs with my Granny Smith apple green gloves and waited.  For someone to say, “Hey, he’s singing your song.”

            At husband's mother’s house, the kids raced up the sidewalk to get at the warmth, the seven fishes, and the gifts inside.  Husband gathered my sour green apple gloves into his black ones. I lifted my chin cautiously. Noticed the solidness of my breathless diaphragm. His mouth pulled to one side. “Sorry,” he whispered. I blinked slowly. “Me too.”

I realized something. A few days later. That particular Christmas Day was not Stuff Day. It was Grace Day. The day three kids received way more than they expected, way more than they needed. And they rejoiced. With hoots and hollers and declarations that this indeed had been the best Christmas ever.

O Holy Night

When Joseph disappeared inside the inn, Mary slid off the little donkey.  Her legs trembled violently.  She leaned against the beast for a few moments to keep from falling.  She straightened and reached behind her to push her fingers into her lower back.  Oh, how she ached from the journey to Bethlehem!  Had it only been three days?  It seemed more like three months, or three years. 

She looked at the stars and wondered when Joseph would return.  Joseph.   She thought back to the myriad conversations they had shared on the road.  A warmth spread through her.  He was such a good man.  The Lord had chosen well.

She stood by the donkey's head, reins in her left hand, a scruff of mane in her right.

"Rest, Hannah," she told the creature.  "We can rest now.  I think.  I hope."

Joseph came through the doorway, a man behind him.  Mary brightened.  A bed, she thought.  And a meal.  And women, in case . . .

Joseph did not return her smile.  Mary's brow furrowed.

"This is my wife, Mary," he told the innkeeper.

"Shalom," the older man said.

Mary nodded slightly.  "Shalom, sir."

Joseph put his hand in the small of Mary's back and whispered into her ear.

"There are no rooms to be had, beloved.  Here, or in all of Bethlehem.  The census has brought--"

Mary covered her mouth, but not before a sob escaped.

Joseph placed his other hand on Mary's swollen belly.  "I'm so sorry, my love."

Mary brushed her tears away and lifted her chin.  "I'll be fine," she said.  "The Lord will provide."

The innkeeper led them on a path behind the inn.  In the moonlight Mary saw a bit of pasture with a low stone wall around it.  Beyond it, the terrain became hilly and rocky.

"How much farther, sir?" Mary said.

The man pointed.  Mary's sharp intake of breath was loud in the silent night.

"A cave?"

"It's roomy inside," the man said.  "I'll put more hay down for you.  We use it as a stable.  See?  I built a wall with a door across the opening."

The innkeeper held up the lantern.  Inside, cattle and sheep responded.

"The heat from the animals will warm you." 

He handed the light to Joseph.  "Put it on the ledge by the opening."

Joseph took the lamp in one hand and shook the man's hand with his other. 

"Thank you, sir.   This is far better than bedding down alongside the road."

The man produced a loaf of bread and a wineskin from a sack Mary had not seen.

"It's not much, but my wife--"

Mary's eyes watered.  She sniffed.  "How kind of her.  Please thank her on my behalf."

The man glanced at Mary's stomach.  "Your time?" he said.  "Is it--"

Mary rested her hands on either side of the bulge.  "Soon," Mary said.  "Very soon."


The insistent opening of the place between her legs left Mary breathless.  She longed to tell Joseph to stop the endless stroking of her hair, but she didn't want to hurt his feelings.  He was such a kind man.  A good man.  He would make a wonderful husband.  And father.

She thought of these things when she wasn't delirious with birth pain.  He didn't divorce me, she thought.  Praise be to the Most High God for that.  Everyone had told him to.  Oh, she hadn't heard their words, but she didn't need to.  Their actions, their eyes, their avoidance of her and her family, said everything.

She spoke over her shoulder.  "Thank you again."

Joseph rested his hands on her hips.  "For what, love?"

Mary felt her insides quicken with the endearment.  She put her hands over his.

"For convincing Mother and Father not to pronounce me dead to them."

"The angel should have spoken with them also."


The white hot heat in her loins returned.  Mary panted, like Elizabeth had told her to.  She swatted at the imaginary creature in front of her.  It breathed her air so she couldn't.  Joseph paced left and right.  She pointed to her pack.  Joseph eyed her shaking finger.

Her intake of breath sounded ragged.  "Inside," she said.  "Olive branch."

He rooted through the bag.  Took out a piece of wood as thick as his thumb.  He held it out. 

"This?"

She nodded. He placed it in her hand.  She put it in her mouth.  Bit down hard, like Elizabeth had advised.  She squeezed her eyes shut.  A moan rose from a  place deep within her.  Tears soaked her cheeks.  Out in the night, someone, some thing, hissed, "You will fail."


At the beginning of the third watch, the splitting inside her waned.  She was able to catch her breath.  She leaned back against the cave wall.  Turned her cheek to the cool stone.  As chilly as the Bethlehem night was, she felt as if she were on fire.  She wiped the sweat mist from her brow into her thick, almost black hair.

"Water.  Please."

Joseph held the wineskin to her lips.  Let a few drops trickle out.  Her eyes begged for more.

Joseph shook his head.  "My mother said you should just have a little.  Too much might make you sick."

Mary's eyes widened.  "You asked your mother?" 

She looked down between her legs.  "About this?"

"I knew it was possible we'd be alone," Joseph said.  "When the baby came.  With no women to help you.  I had to know what to do."

Mary touched her chest.  Such a wise man.  A very good man.


The pains became more frequent.  Joseph counted between them--100, 75, 60.

Mary sobbed.  "Joseph, my husband.  Please pray for me.  For our son."

She cried out in the night, a keening announcement of despair.  Somewhere in Bethlehem, a lone dog answered.

Mary's head turned side to side.  "Pray I don't die here in this place."

"Oh, Sovereign Lord," Joseph said.  "Instill in my young wife's heart your truth.  That weeping may stay for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning."

In that moment, the pain seemed to recede, and Mary slept.


When Mary opened her eyes, she saw Joseph with the babe in his arms.  She shook her head and rubbed her eyes.  

"When?  How?"

Joseph didn't hear her.  He'd removed his headcovering and used it to wrap the boy.  Mary's eyes stung as she watched Joseph walk with the child.  He bounced the infant gently as he moved about the cave.  She heard his murmured prayers and words of love.

Mary whimpered and held out her arms.  "Here," she said.  "Let me."

Joseph looked over at her and smiled tenderly.  He knelt beside her and carefully placed the babe in her arms.  She buried her face in the boy.  Breathed his smell.  Her smell.  She gently laid him on her lap.  She unwrapped him, but kept her chest near his so he would not be chilled.  She examined him thoroughly.  She touched him here and there.  Counted his fingers, his toes.  She turned to Joseph.

"He looks like any baby.  Any boy.  No different."

Joseph smiled and nodded.  He didn't take his eyes off the child.  Mary ran her fingers through the baby's damp, dark hair. 

"I thought he would be handsome, maybe even glorious, like Moses when he came down from the mountain of God, but he has no beauty or majesty to identify him, nothing in his appearance to tell people who he is."

"Remember, my love," Joseph said.  "Man looks at the outward appearance, but God looks at the heart."

Mary pressed her middle finger into the center of the baby's chest.

"You, dear one, are not flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone.  You are like another Adam.  You, are made by God alone."

Mary rested a hand on her now soft belly.

"I am--  I was, but a temporary home for you these past months.  Me, no other woman.  My body held you, nurtured you.  I pushed and moaned and brought you forth."

She held the baby up as if to offer him back to his heavenly father.  "Lord God over all, here is your son, your one and only son, a holy and living sacrifice."

When she opened her eyes,  she saw Joseph at the cave's entrance.

"Mary, darling.  You must come."

Mary shook her head.  "Why?  What is it?"

Joseph pointed out into the inky night.  "There is a marvelous light," he said. "Behind this hill.  Here, I will take you."

He waited while Mary wrapped the child in linen strips, then she swaddled him again in Joseph's headcovering.  Joseph lifted Mary with the babe in her arms and carried them out into the night.  Mary nestled her head against Joseph's shoulder.  His arms are strong, she thought.  And his profile too.  Under different circumstances, he would have been a king.  Of the house of David.

Outside the cave, Mary squinted at the sky.  A star shone in the east, bright as the sun it seemed.  She tried to stare into the center of it, but her eyes burned, and she had to look away.  She went to cover the baby's eyes, but somehow he had no problem gazing into the center of the glory in the sky.  In fact, she thought she saw the corners of his mouth turn up.

Joseph laid an arm across Mary's shoulders.  "Listen," he said.

It sounded as if there was a chorus of hundreds upon thousands.   Their voices seemed to come out of the brightness.  How had she not heard it before?

"Who sings?" Mary said.  "Is it angels?"

Joseph shook his head and spoke near her ear.  "I have no idea.  All of creation maybe?  It is that loud."

Joseph carried Mary and the babe back inside the cave.

"Joseph," Mary said.  "Put more hay in the manger please."

"Why?" he said, as he complied. 

Mary laid the bundled boy on top of the soft, golden straw.  She knelt beside him. 

"Shalom, my baby," she said.  "Shalom, my son.  Born of my body and my pain.  In your lifetime, you will be loved, even worshipped.  And one day you will save all men.  "

She held her hand over her mouth and whispered so only she could hear. 

"Between the two--the being loved and the saving--you will be hated.  Despised.  The very ones you came to rescue will kill you."

She picked up the baby and pressed him to her heart.  "But not yet," she said into his ear.  "For now, you are mine."

She reached out her hand for Joseph's.  "Mine and my husband's.  Jesus, this is your abba, your daddy, Joseph.  He will be your father here on earth.  He's a kind man, a good man."

The Worst Christmas (Eve) Ever

I knew I was in trouble when my husband questioned the pile of packages by the front door.

"I have a good excuse," I said.

One of his eyebrows went up.  "Really?"

Both of my eyebrows went up.  "Really," I said.  "These are the Christmas presents I bought and wrapped for your mother to give to the kids."

 "My mom got them stuff already."

Something in me twitched.  "She did?  Why?"

"'Cause she wanted to."

"But . . . this is how we always do things.  She buys.  I fly."

"Not this year."

Something broke inside me.  My holiday spirit engine gasped.  It shimmied.  And then its chugging stopped.  The Christmas carol soundtrack stopped playing in my head.  The skippy spring to my step flattened.  My shoulders descended a good two inches.  Ah man!


And then, it happened again.  We walked into my mom's house less than a week later and her hearth was covered in red and green packages with smooshed, pointy, pre-tied bows.  Furrows plowed themselves into my forehead.  The two shopping bags of packages I was carrying fell to the floor with a thunk and a rattle.

"Uh . . . Mom?  Did you forget how we do things--you buy, I fly?"

She smiled.  "I don't know what got into me.  One day I got a burst of energy and there was this great sale at the mall . . . "

For the second time in a week, my holiday spirit engine went boom.

I stared at the fireplace for a few minutes--almost hypnotized by the blueish yellow flames licking out of the fake logs.

"They got double presents," I said, without moving my lips.

"Excuse me?" Mom said.

I went into the bathroom and washed my hands.  And put on lotion.  And tried on every shade of lipstick on Mom's vanity.  I put the toilet lid down and had a seat.  I counted on my fingers.  "They got presents from my mom.  They got presents from his mom.  They got presents that I bought them from my mom.  They got presents that I bought them from his mom.  They got presents from us.  They got presents from Santa."

My mom was happy.  His mom was happy.  He was happy.   The kids were ecstatic.  Everyone was high on holiday spirit but me.  All the stress I'd put myself through--making the lists, checking them twice, shopping all over hell's half acre and the Internet, wrapping, hiding.  And I didn't need to do any of it.  Well, I didn't need to do half of it.  I'd put myself out, way out, for nothing.  All that Advil, for nothing.

And that's not all.  The double presents thing?  It fed the fear inside me.  You see, I have this fear that all the stuff, the mile high stack of stuff that no one really needs, makes Christmas Day into Stuff Day.  It seemed to me that all the focus on buying, giving, getting, repeat takes all the focus off the little Lord Jesus asleep in the hay.

My husband had compassion on me.  He patted my back.  He rubbed my shoulders.  He murmured, "There, there, everything will be all right," as I shuffled around mumbling, "It's going to be Stuff Day, not Christmas."  Resentment etched frown lines around my mouth.

A few days later, we headed out for a holiday party.  One of our children dawdled and I growled at her, a little too loud, a little too mean.  We stood in our foyer, the front door open, the cold night air coming in around the storm door frame.  Then my husband said two of the words that are forbidden in our house, and then some. 

"Shut . . . up!" he said.  "You're going to ruin Christmas Eve for everyone!"

The kids looked at me, then my husband, then each other.    I winced and looked at my feet.  I knew I deserved it.  Not in front of the kids, but still . . .  My husband went out to start the car.

I slunk out into the freezing night.  Bitter cold but no snow.  Yet another reason to be a sadsack. 

I climbed into the SUV.  The silence was too quiet, even on the Silent Night.  I turned the stereo on.  Charlie Dodrill sang to me.  "I am under the impression that it's all for me."  I looked at my Granny Smith apple green gloves and waited for someone to say, "Hey, they're singing your song." 

Before we got out of the car to go into the party, my husband put his hand on my sour green apple gloves.  I looked at him cautiously, like a whipped dog.  He looked sad.  "Sorry."  He mouthed the word.  I blinked slowly.


As I remembered that night just now, I figured out something.  That Christmas Day was not Stuff Day.  That Christmas Day was Grace Day.  Three kids got way more than they expected, way more than they deserved.  The half-empty glass person might call it gluttony.  The half-full glass person would call it grace.