He Is Tradition

Some would say they grew up without traditions. I'm convinced we all grew up with traditions: the problem is that we don't label our recurring recollections as such. Instead, we see them in clippings - segmented, cataloged happenings that were caught in the shafts of light we call memory. But if we take a step back and try to loop those segments into a running reel of childhood film, we'd see that some of them are, in fact, traditions that visited us time and again. Certainly, they may not all be happy. But they're probably not all bad, either. And good or bad, they're valuable. They've marked us as who we are, stamped us in some recognizable if not irresistable way.

My brother recently posted on his Facebook wall, "Reflecting on the memories of Christmases past. Some good. Some not so good. Ah, the balance of life." I like his summation not only because its succinctly accurate, but also because it prompted the realization that, though we shared the Christmases of our childhood and all the traditions they entailed, our sense of good and not so good may not be the same. This only goes to show how the components of our childhood -- and the traditions entrenched within them -- are individual and personal like tattoos of the same shape from a different artist's hand.

Some of my childhood traditions I practice today and, in light of the approaching Christmas holiday, I find myself recalling most those surrounding the season of giving. I recall how my mom and I decorated the house the day after Thanksgiving while my brother and dad went deer hunting: my family, which began with just me and my husband, deck the halls and dress the tree the day after Thanksgiving. The only hunting I do is for the best deals on Black Friday: however, I do liken some radicals' behaviors to the crazy wildlife rabidly lurking in the backwoods. As a child, we opened presents on Christmas Eve, not Day, and went to midnight mass in the brittle Midwestern cold. And, point of interest, Craig's family did the same. We still open presents on the Eve, stockings on the Day, and I still hold back the giant, post hectic-day yawns and go to 10:30 pm mass with my mother-in-law. I'm sure you could recite similar lists of memories past and present.

But new life has also made way for new traditions - which is as it should be. As we've had children, we've made room for their joys and imaginations: we build gingerbread houses and frost sugar cookies.  Candy canes go in dark chocolate cocoa and the musical tinklings of snow globes herald bedtimes in bedrooms. There's mistletoe at the front door and a jingly snowman on the back, and one candlelight flickers in every window facing front. And we read Luke throughout December, teaching the story of Christ's birth anew to each little one who asks, "What is Christmas about?" We see Grace and Elijah telling the story to Judsen now,  and we quietly contemplate the blessing of the best tradition of all: family.

Family is the tradition that weaves the tatters of our memories together, whether they be whimsical or bittersweet; raw or raucous; mundane or miraculous. Family is what forms us, whether yours is two or 20 or 200 in number. God isn't keeping stats: He's storing tears in bottles with thoughts that outnumber the sand. That's family. He's family...the best Family of all with the best Father there is. He's the New Year, Easter, Independence Day, and Thanksgiving. He offers fresh starts and new births: He sets us free and inspires gratitude.

And He is Christmas. He is family. He is tradition.

(left, Gingerbread House 2009. Right, wraparound banister's garland)

 

And, this year, it was Elijah's turn to put the angel atop the tree. By the way...Craig made that angel as a gift for me our first Christmas married. Yep, tradition.