The True Meaning (I Remember)

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I remember snowflakes, as big as goose feathers, falling from a sky so blue. Clouds so white and pillow like, I was sure they were big balls of cotton thrown by handfuls into the crisp, winter air.

The smell of Grandma’s cornbread and sugar cookies filled the air around our house. An intoxicating aroma, that even to this day if I think hard enough, I’m transported back to another time, another age. I remember Grandma’s big, down comforter, lying on the overstuffed sofa, dreaming of that magic moment when Santa would arrive.

Grandpa would be softly cursing the Christmas lights as they caused static on the radio every time they blinked and danced across the Christmas tree. I remember sitting on his lap in the big armchair he called home, sipping his eggnog and transporting me to Christmas’s gone by with the stories that he told.

Mom’s Christmas dinner with all the trimmings it was always enough to feed us for a full year in one sitting. All the love she baked into every pie, making at least one of every body’s favorite. Mom taught us all the words to our favorite Christmas carol, but we would still only sing the first verse over and over again. I remember Mom’s patience.

I remember Dad and our new house and how he always filled it with joy. His excitement seemed to take him back to his own childhood right before our eyes. Dad’s frustration as he tried to get the Christmas tree straight enough for Mom’s eagle eye.

My brothers, sisters and myself, with our ears glued to the radio and eyes to the window. Listening for Santa’s whereabouts and watching for Rudolph’s red nose glowing in the nighttime sky.

I remember staring at our Christmas tree for hours on end until I could see every light long after my eyes were closed and my head was laid to rest on my pillow for the night.

Most of all, I remember Christ in all His humbleness. What He gave so that we may receive. I remember His life and death with every breath I take. Everyday, when I put pen to paper, I remember His gift to me.

Looking back, I can’t seem to remember the Christmas toys I received. Although always appreciated and enjoyed, somehow they just got lost along the way. Now that I’m older with children of my own, I hope that their memories are of the same fabric from which mine were woven.

With the frailty of life, we lose many things throughout the years. Treasured people become treasured memories.

As broken toys clutter the landfills of the earth, may our untarnished memories fill the recesses of our hearts.

So, as the Yule fire consumes the paper that wrapped the material part of the holiday, may it in turn burn the true meaning of Christmas into our lives for all the years to come.