Christmas Doesn't Come From a Store

“Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before! What if Christmas, he thought, doesn't come from a store? What if Christmas...perhaps...means a little bit more!” ~ Dr. Seuss

For the month of December I’m writing blogs about Christmas celebrations of the heart. Today’s post is a look back at Christmas’ past that illustrate the Grinch’s realization, that Christmas doesn’t come from a store. As always, I look forward to hearing your comments.

One Christmas when I was a young girl, my family spent the holidays at our home in Coaldale, Alberta, just the four of us. On Christmas morning I woke up and ran to my parents’ bedroom with my brother, eager to open our gifts. They told us it was far too early to start the day, and to go back to bed. We insisted we couldn’t sleep, we were just too excited to see what Santa had brought, so our parents conceded that we could open our stockings if we promised to leave them be for another hour. It took the snap of two fingers for my brother and I to jump off their bed, squealing with glee as we ran to the living room. Our stockings were laid out on the couch, no fireplace mantle in our home to hang them from, and from the doorway I could glimpse something blue and furry sticking out from the top of mine. I was curious what it could be. I tugged on the tuft of fur and out popped a puppet. It was Grover, a character from the children’s television series, Sesame Street. I hadn’t asked for the toy. In fact, I’m quite sure I wanted Barbie’s dream house. I felt a tug of disappointment beginning to form in my heart. But then my brother, perhaps sensing my dismay (we very close, my brother and I), plucked the puppet from my hands and put it on his own. He started talking in a voice that sounded exactly like Grover’s, making up hilarious little skits, completely impromptu, that had me laughing so hard my cheeks hurt. We played with that puppet for longer than the hour our parents had requested, and Grover ended up becoming one of my favourite toys.

One Christmas when I was a teenager, my family took the train from where we lived in Dawson Creek, BC to Winnipeg, Manitoba. My grandparents on my father’s side lived in Macgregor, a small town just an hour from the city. I can’t remember a single gift I received that year. What I remember is the smell of my Grandma’s Christmas baking and the taste of her butter tarts melting in my mouth. I remember cross-country skiing at my Aunt and Uncle’s house in Pinawa, the feel of the bitter cold on my cheeks as the wind blew against them, the bright white snow glistening and crunching beneath my skis, and the beauty of the winter wonderland that filled my spirit. I remember sipping hot chocolate with marshmallows melted on top while Grandma played Christmas carols on the organ and my whole family sang along, our spirits bright.

One Christmas when I was a young, single mother, I remember taking my daughter to my parents’ house on Christmas Eve. I was a student at University, on a very low, fixed income, and I didn’t have money for decorations, nor much for presents either. I remember feeling sad, that I couldn’t spoil my little girl in the way I felt she deserved, because of course I believed she deserved everything the world had to offer. But as we were packing up to go, I couldn’t help but forget to be sad because she was so excited about every little thing. She clapped her hands with glee when I placed the shiny new black patent shoes her grandma had bought her in her overnight bag, so excited to dress up for church and the party Mom and Dad were hosting at their house after. The Christmas lights twinkled on the tree and Mom had a big spread of baking and savory treats for everyone to enjoy. Mom sat down at the piano to play Christmas carols and everyone joined in. My little girl was so excited about Santa and insisted we put out some cookies and milk for him, plus carrots for the reindeer. She didn’t want to go to bed, she was having so much fun, but her eyelids were heavy so I tucked her into bed and read her The Night Before Christmas before turning out the light. I stood in the doorway a few moments and stared in wonder and awe, that I had such a perfect little girl, and I knew in my heart Christmas wasn’t about presents, but about love.

One Christmas when I was a little older, now married with three children, my husband made a classroom sized blackboard by hand for my oldest daughter. One of her favourite things to do was to play imaginary games like school, or veterinarian office, or grocery cashier. She especially loved pretending to be a teacher (like her mom) while her younger sister was the student. When she saw the massive gift, wrapped and tied with a bow, leaning against the living room wall on Christmas morning, she was so curious as to what it could be. When she opened it and saw the blackboard, complete with a pack of chalk and brush, she let out a scream of pure joy. Her younger sister looked at her in amazement, considered for half a second, then joined in on the screaming, the two of them dancing jigs and clapping their hands and whooping like a pair of chimpanzees for at least five solid minutes, while their toddler brother looked on, absolutely confounded about what all the fuss was about.

One Christmas when my children were a bit older, my son asked Santa for a Foosball table. I think perhaps it was a test, to see if Santa really was real, because he was at the age when children stop believing, and some of his friends definitely had. We bought the Foosball table, which required a great deal of assembly and had us up past midnight on Christmas Eve. The next morning, when my son saw the Foosball table underneath his stocking, his reaction was similar to his sisters with the blackboard, but his glee only lasted a few seconds. He stopped mid-whoop and looked, first to the fireplace opening, then to the table, and back and forth for a few eternal minutes, a quizzical look upon his face. Then he said quite matter-of-factly, “There’s no way Santa could have brought that down the chimney.” He had a tear in his eye, threatening to fall any moment, and I knew I had to think of something quickly to save the day. I’ll never quite understand how I was able to concoct an explanation on the spot like that, because I’m assuredly one of the world’s absolute worst liars, but when I opened my mouth, the words were right there. “Don’t you remember about Santa’s magic green mittens? How they have the ability to shrink things and then enlarge them again?” He stood there a second and considered what I said. Perhaps he decided in that moment that he wanted to believe, to set aside all his misgivings, so that he could hold onto the magic of Christmas just a little bit longer. But his face broke out in a huge smile and he said something like, “Oh right, I remember now!”

Many, many years later, when my three children were all grown and moved from home and their father and I had divorced and I’d met Mister, I was living with him and his then step-daughter (we ended up adopting her a few years later) during her final year of high school in a rental house in Victoria, BC. Our first Christmas together my oldest daughter was with her in-laws, my second was travelling abroad, and my son was at residence at the University. I was in a place of transition, questioning all my usual ways of doing things, including our Christmas traditions. We invited my mom, who had recently moved to Victoria too, to sleep over on Christmas Eve. Christmas morning we opened stockings that we’d each put a gift in that wasn’t expensive, but from the heart. We had a lazy morning, no fuss with a huge brunch like in days of old, just a simple breakfast of Mister’s famous egg-wraps. We went to see the movie, Les Miserable, in the afternoon, which had all four of us in tears. My son joined us for Christmas dinner, and he was a vegetarian, so I made tofu Pad Thai and papaya salad for Christmas dinner instead of turkey and all the fixings. There was no stress or expectations, just heart-felt connections of people trying to figure out how to become a crazy new blended family.

A few years later, Mister and I moved to Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. His employer had a set-up where there were three block holidays a year at set times, with no ability to negotiate. We couldn’t travel home to Canada to spend Christmas with our families, and Saudi Arabia is a one hundred percent Muslim country that doesn’t allow for Christmas celebrations. At the last minute, his employer decided to grant them an extra day for a three-day weekend and we decided on an impulse to drive the five hours to the island of Bahrain, where things were more relaxed because there is a mix of different cultures and religions there. We stayed in nice Western style hotel where there was a Christmas Day brunch. It was absolutely magical! An entire room of baked goods including a huge chocolate fountain and gingerbread houses and a ten-foot Christmas tree in the lobby. Champagne was flowing, a duo of entertainers including a singer and a guitarist performed Christmas carols, and Filipino Santa showed up for the children, his black hair conspicuously sticking out from beneath his white wig. The children didn’t seem to notice, and the man was really such a jolly character, even us adults were infected with the Christmas spirit as he strolled about the room giving everyone a candy cane from his big red sack and wishing us a Happy Holiday. Mister and I didn’t have gifts for one another under a tree, but I had put a few little things in stockings. We had video chats with our families throughout the day and into the next, and my heart was full of gratitude and good cheer for all our blessings.

At the end of November this year, Mister and I had a video chat with our son and his partner and our grandson, who live in Brazil. His partner shared the story of how she surprised him when he came home from work that Friday with the tree all assembled and ready for decorating, Christmas music playing in the background, their son dressed up as a candy cane, and herself as the Ghost of Tropical Christmas. My son and I had been holding onto some story that it was too early to begin the Christmas festivities, but she was having none of that, she was so excited to pass on all her family traditions to her baby boy. Her enthusiasm was contagious, and we both realized we were behaving a bit like the Grinch. Why couldn’t we celebrate the magic of the holidays any day, every day, if we wished?

Recently someone asked me what Christmas traditions Mister and I hold dear. I pondered for a minute before replying, “Our only tradition is that we don’t have any! We’ve lived abroad for so long, and our family is so spread out across the planet, every year is different.” But as I write this, I recognize that isn’t quite true. Our Christmas tradition is an attitude we foster all year, of being present every moment to the preciousness of life. We celebrate a lot. Almost any little excuse will do. We express love and gratitude to the people we love, often. We don’t wait for holidays or special occasions, but we include them too. Christmas really doesn’t come from a store, and life, my dear reader, means a whole lot more.

Merry Christmas and may joy and peace find their way into your heart all year.COMING UP…

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