~ Miracles, Blessings, Merry Christmas ~

In this, the season of giving, I am finding myself less than interested in the contents of the parcels and packages under our tree. While my children are searching for their own names among the ribbons and bows, being careful not to actually touch anything (no shaking or rattling or smelling of presents until Christmas morning), I sit watching them, entranced by the miracle of their very existence. I have always marvelled at my children, completely in awe of the fact that I carried these beings within me, once upon a time. I find myself smiling, pleased with the knowledge that their personalities are no different now than they were before they were born—anyone who has spent long hours talking to The Great Bulge will understand what I mean. It is still fascinating that the songs I crooned to my ungainly belly had the power to calm a restless baby when I sang them after birth. The fussiness would cease and I would, look down at my child’s (eventually) sleeping face, aware of the tremendous responsibility I was holding in my arms.

During a discussion many years ago, an acquaintance challenged me to provide my own proof that God exists. Without hesitation, I told him of looking into the enormously knowing eyes of my own newborn children. In doing so, I had glimpsed the face of God. I told him of burying my nose in the nape of my babies’ necks, breathing in the intoxicating perfume which could only be described as the scent of God. Prove God exists? How could I doubt it?

These same Wonder Children are poking at the name tags on their gifts, aware of the rules, but itching to break them. They are good children (for the most part) and they check their desire to rip away the paper to reveal the treasure inside. My brother was not always so patient…

Our house was three stories tall, with a claw foot tub and a fire escape and a back staircase leading to the kitchen and dressers built into some of the bedrooms and not so much as a closet in others. It was a magical house, full of all the creaks and shadows that make life interesting for small children. The year the celebration of Christmas was to be held at our place, relations began arriving early (there’s a lot of cooking to be done for four generations of people), each depositing a tantalizing armload of bundles under our tree. My brother may have been three or four that year, certainly no older, and the temptation proved overwhelming for him. He appeared suddenly in the kitchen, thrilled with a magical telescope, chattering animatedly about it, filled with perfect glee...until my Great Aunt scooped it from his hands with a stifled shriek and announced to all assembled that it was a gift meant, not for him, but for me. My own delight was tainted by the supreme disappointment on the face of the little boy who had unwrapped the kaleidoscope. Until it disappeared in one of our many moves, in my mind the kaleidoscope was as much his as it was mine, perhaps more so.

My children draw names each year, so each of them are to buy for only one of their siblings. This is a great game for them and they take the responsibility of choosing the perfect gift very seriously. My middle son once chose the gift for his younger brother and was beside himself with excitement as we fixed the paper in place with ridiculous lengths of cellophane tape. At last the gift (a uniformed fireman which crawls and hollers instructions to his buddies when the button on his back is pushed) needed only to be decorated with a bow. The ears of a five year old are more sensitive than even a nine year old boy can imagine. When my middle son stuck the bow to the top of the present, he stuck it right on top of the button that made our fireman friend go. We stared at one another in horror, my middle son and I, as fireman noises emanated from the red box on the table before us. From the depths of the house, we heard the unwelcome voice of the one for whom the noisy fireman was intended crying, “I got a fire guy! I got a fire guy!” The disappointment on the face of the gift-giver was heartbreaking.

In this world, there are people without a place to sleep, people who are without warmth, without food, without safety. I am painfully aware of this as I sit in the glow of thousands of faerie lights, my hands wrapped around a mug of fragrant, steaming coffee, a plate of frozen shortbread stars on the table beside me. Someone of great faith once explained to me about counting my blessings instead of feeling guilty about having them. She also stressed that it was not enough to simply count my blessings, but to share what I can, as well. I do that, sharing more some times than at others, and I am teaching my children that when you have, for example, an allowance, you must save some and give some away before you can spend any at all. The money they save goes into their piggy banks, the money they give away goes into a jar and once a month they decide where it will be given (this month, they have chosen Santa’s Anonymous). They weren’t sure about the idea at first, but when they understood that they could make a difference, they were sold on it.

So I count my blessings. I handle each of them with reverence, I turn them over in my hands, admiring them from all angles, and I give thanks. The mountain of gifts under the tree is nothing compared to the brilliance of my life—the innumerable joys I experience each day, the faces of those whom I love best, the miracle of good health (I have decided to look upon my rotting knees as God’s reminder to me that I need to slow down), the blessing of hot running water, the abundance of humour and laughter in our home, the positive excess of books (though, really...can there ever be enough books?), both good and bad, to read.

Many bright blessings...

Merry Christmas.