The Magic of Christmas

I remember one cold, December morning, before the sun had thought about rising, my dad came up to the bedroom that I shared with my sister in the attic. He woke me up and asked me if I wanted to see something really pretty. I nodded my still-fuzzy head. Really pretty is good.

Dad scooped me up and carried me down stairs (ducking, as usual, so we didn't hit our heads on the door frame), through the blindingly-bright kitchen (where mom, clad in her housecoat and slippers was groggily fixing some tea) and into the living room.

It was dark but for the beautiful Christmas tree, twinkling cheerfully from the other side of the room. Even though I had helped decorate the tree just the night before, my 3 or 4 year old brain had totally forgotten the tree overnight. Resting there, safe in Dad's arms, I stared in silence; awed by the simple beauty.

I remember how the branches threw pointy, scratchy shadows on the ceiling. I remember the fresh piny scent. I remember the riot of colors; lights and tinsel and ornaments made of pipe-cleaners and glue and love. I remember feeling safe and secure, leaning on Morning-Dad, who smelled like toothpaste and aftershave; hearing Morning-Mom in the kitchen, still a good twenty minutes from being really awake; knowing Josh and Britt were sleeping in their beds. And soaking in the joy of the season- Baby Jesus would be born soon!

I remember the magic of Christmas.