Of Christmas Past, Of Christmas Present, & Of Christmas Future

Christmas Present

The flame hisses to life when I hold the flickering match to its base. The light shines through the green glass of the pine-scented candle. I shake the match, run it under a quick stream of cold water. It sits, black and burnt, reduced to quiet. I toss it into the trash receptacle in repeated motion. Frost tinges the grass this morning and the thermometer registers twenty-eight. The cozy glow of the twinkle lights warm me and I head for the basement to sip my coffee beside the logs burning red and orange inside the soapstone. 

I pull up the Quiet Collection on my app and tap, tap, tap to navigate to the next track in Peace:for Advent. Number five titled Room. One more tap and soft music filters next to the fire. Emily P. Freeman’s soothing voice begins the reflection. I listen. Wrap my hands snugly around my mug. My fingers find the lines along the bottom of the hand-built pottery. I trace the design. I love the tactile texture, the sensory impressions left by the potter when he cut the piece. I linger with these words as Emily speaks them into my space. “Could it be true that God arrived not in a barn or a cave or a stable, but in the warm embrace of a multi-generational community? That this baby was welcomed in on his very first night, surrounded by decades of love?” I smile. Think about the children’s story I penned a couple of years back that followed this same line of research. Unlike our modern Western definition of an inn, in those days of shepherds abiding in fields, the inn actually translated to guest room. It’s likely logic that as he traveled home to the town of his birth, Joseph brought Mary to stay with his family. It’s also pretty probable the house was filled with other family members. Someone else arrived earlier, thus the guest room was already filled. Who knows? Could it be an elderly uncle and aunt? An older brother? Cousins? We don’t know. There are a minutiae of details no one recorded. We’ve filled in with idealism, supposition, and definitions that seem to make sense for us in our twenty-first century lives. When we ask about a different version and think about the way of life then, when we dig into historical definitions, look at historical layouts of homes and contemplate the communal way of living, a different depiction makes much more sense to me. 

The advent reading draws to a close, plays piano music notes to carry us to the finish. I think about that first Christmas past as I sit in 2024 in my Christmas Present. A log shifts in the fire as orange flames burn higher. I sip the cappucino and wander in my memory. 

Christmas Past

My nine-year old self bounces with excitement. I place the plates on the table carefully and line up the forks exactly so. Each light blue glass goblet finds its spot above the china dinner plates and a Christmas napkin graces each plate’s face. I love making the table beautiful with my mother’s dishes. My dad will be home soon to broil the steaks as we prepare our Christmas dinner. Tapers await a match and I can’t wait to open the festively wrapped presents with my name on them. My older sister pops open home-canned jars of green beans. I finish the table and bound off to find my brother. We have a program planned and of course, as the program planner, I’m sure we need to go over some final details. The grind of the curly french fry cutter recedes behind me as I exit the kitchen and scramble down the basement stairs. 

I smile to myself as these gentle fairies from Christmas Past wander the corridors of days gone by. Time ticks right by in rapid Nutcracker march and it’s so easy to miss the motion. I lift a log and add it to the ever-seeking flames. The flames waver into a ripple dissolve and transform into my parents’ basement hearth, fire snapping and cracking and popping. 

Happy chatter fills the room and bustle ensues as a bevy of children and adults pluck torn wrappings from the floor. A bit of it goes into the flames, the rest stuffed into the large black trashbag Grandpa is circulating. “Make sure nothing is lost in the paper! You don’t want it gathered up with the trash.” Mothers and Grandma alike issue the warning. For years ago, alas, a brand-new baby doll dress was swept up in the mess and melee and flung into the fire without realization or rescue. 

The floor is soon swept clean; boxes tucked inside of boxes and stacked in the corner. The eldest grandchildren begin to distribute the gifts to the adults while the younger ones run off to play and pretend, build and begin, with new toys and dolls and Legos.

Someone passes out red solo cups with ice while another person pulls two-liters from the fridge. Party mix appears with foam bowls to heap up high. A few children bundle into coats and scarves; disappear outside to explore and romp. Old family jokes surface; laughter ensues. This family holds long memories of silly banter and long-running jests. 

My memory train flash-forwards. Old green carpet, our woodstove humming, gifts piled around a vintage trunk. My four-year old and seven-year old beam excited exuberance. We have the table ready. My white china plates and Candlewick glasses with Christmas napkins and forks carefully placed. Daddy’s coming in soon and we’ll eat steak and baked potatoes and green beans. My little people can’t wait to open the gifts with their names on them.

My lips curve as I contemplate how Christmas Past influences Christmas Future and becomes Christmas Present. Then the Nutcracker march of Time pulls Christmas Present on to be renamed as Christmas Past.

Legos and new pajamas, a small stuffed puppy for each, bubbles and colored soap for the bath, American Girl doll clothes, tiny John Deere tractors and implements, movies on dvds. My kiddos are surrounded and only the delight surmounts the tangle of torn paper and bags and bows. I’ve one large giftbag left for the both of them. They dig in eagerly. New friends await. A tossle-headed boy doll named Landon, destined for many a game of football and all manner of boyish adventures and a brown-headed, pigtailed girl doll named Addy ready to be dressed and hugged and hair brushed. These new friends are squeezed and exclaimed over and I join in the welcome. When I settle back in my chair, I drift into Christmas Past. 

I tear open the paper as hurriedly as I am able. And there she is!!! A longed-for, a long awaited, longing-to-be-held-in-my-arms My Child. Her big blue eyes look like she’s been waiting for me in the very same manner. I hug her soft body; smooth her ponytails. Her bangs curl onto her forehead. She’s wearing a pink dress trimmed with lace and her soft cloth diaper velcros in place. I pull her white plastic Mary Jane shoes off of her feet. Her socks are trimmed in lace too. I fuss over her until it’s my turn to open another gift. It’s a large package. A bit unwieldy. The revelation brings forth a wooden A-frame on each end and in between a rod hung with a swing. Exactly the right size for a My Child. I’m elated! I brush my fingers over the red seat, the chains it’s hung by, and the wooden dowel rods creating the arms of the swing. I settle Andrea into the chair. She fits in an exact snuggly hold. A small push let’s her soar on her first ride. Her pink-painted lips smile out of her felt-fabric face.

I pop back to the present. In my basement. December of 2024 slowly whisking away the days. The days burn away, become Christmas Past like the fire consumes the logs. I swallow, savor the flavor in the espresso drink. 

Christmas Future

I feel the tug of Christmas Future. She beckons my attention. I resist a bit. I’m bumping nearer to fifty in the next few years and Christmas Future holds a different range of colors and emotions than it did when I was nine. Watercolor images arise splashed with the imagination of what could be. Etched in each design, no matter the scene it depicts I see the letters linked together to spell out Bittersweet. I feel I’m standing in the middle, arms outstretched from east to west. I’m anchored in the Present, yet Past and Future pull at me. I miss those little people. I rage against the aging steps I see my parents take. I dream of possibilities and drip tears for days gone by. I’m happy for hardships we’ve left behind and hopeful for what could be ahead. The BOTH/AND of life stares fiercely at me in the unknown outlines of Christmas Future. More watercolors drift by and I see more letters forming up this reminder I’ve carried with me for years now. “Life will not always be as it is today.” Christmas Past carries the confirmation of this. Christmas Present shares the gift of presence in the details of my days today. Christmas Future hails the assurance of change, the essence of yesterday become tomorrow. 

I trace the threads. Reach back for them. Notice the texture and color as they weave through the tapestry that’s shaping. 

In Christmas Past, love, life, laughter. Family, friends and food. Peace and joy and cheer and goodwill. Hope ever springing.

In Christmas Present, love, life, and laughter. Repeated rhythms. Emerged traditions. Memories and photos. Hope, ongoing.

In Christmas Future, love, life, and laughter. A fond recalling. A tear or three. A gathering in.  Hope, set steadfast.

The mug is empty. The day has dawned. The fire crackles steadily on. I climb the stairs, step into the rhythm of the quotidian, place palm on the presence of the life that is today, and Christmas on.