A merry little Christmas. Now

There is much to tell and there are many stories. It was just an amazing Christmas.

There was much hype and anticipation about Santa and if Frosty really
did come to life and about knowing every single word to "Rudolph" this
year. There was a little boy in fleece footie pajamas who ran right past his presents from Santa to first check to see if he ate all of the giant cookie (he did, mostly) he promised he'd leave and if Santa left him a note in return (he did, happily).

Earlier, that same boy in the same jammies lay sprawled across my lap and the pew while Widor's Toccata played and the tears came just as easily for me as they do every year. It was my favorite moment of my favorite day with my favorite person with eyes pressed tightly and trying to sleep while the organ filled up every corner of the sanctuary met only by the light of hundreds of candles. 

Days before, that boy stared wide-eyed and in complete awe as he hugged Santa, handed him a list, and was told after a long and thoughtful pause while Santa reviewed the letter, "I had an idea this is what you wanted since I've been keeping an eye on you and so I've already packaged most of it up and packed it into my sled." Then Santa made the cookie requested (noted) and promised to leave a bell by Lil E's pillow so he'd know Santa had been there in the night (frantically noted), that boy nodded seriously, joyously, as if he had been handed the mission of a lifetime.

When Christmas morning arrived, after much precise sticker-placing on Star Wars ships late into the night, that small child with the big eyes emerged from his room with his mouth open, breathing deeply himself.

"There is a reindeer stuffed animal on my bed," he explained slowly, a smile pushing its way out from the corners of his mouth, "and...a jingle bell necklace. Just like he said."

"Did you even HEAR Santa?" I looked down at him in the darkness of my room.

"NO!," he couldn't keep that smile in any longer. "I DIDN'T EVEN HEAR HIM!"

Oh, that boy, that boy. His belief and wonder was pulsing through him and as soon as I gave the signal, he tore through the hallway and toward the little table next to our tree where we'd left the goodies and note. He was thrilled about every little detail of the day, just as he has been for weeks.

It was just the best thing to watch, such a blessing to be a part of for those hours.

The intensity has been turned down and some of the presents have been put away. This evening, while he carefully put Lego snow troopers into their blaster mobiles on the table where the cookie crumbs have been wiped and the notes were propped up on Christmas plates, he sang "Rudolph" quietly to himself. The lights from the tree haloed around him and a few of the notes of the holiday echoed around our home.

My parents keep telling me this could be the year, the one with the most pure excitement, brimming full of all that belief. If that's true, I want to hold on to it as long as I can. 

That thought came to mind late tonight. I peeked in his room, let my eyes adjust to the darkness with my hand on his chest to be sure, as I have every night he's been with me, that he is breathing safely and soundly. Sometimes I find him restless or dreaming or wrapped up tight in a ball of blankets and Star Wars sheets and stuffed animals. But this evening, he was still and peaceful and stretched out just like he used to lay in his crib years ago.

It struck me that his face looked exactly the same as the baby's with the button-up pajamas and same crazy bedhead hair and puckered, pink lips. He's leggier now and lankier. He's quickly reading many, many words and even some books on his shelf. His jokes are starting to be funny (sometimes) and his sense of sarcasm more developed. He's brave and defiant and hasn't stopped talking. He's cuddly and kissy and curious about everything. Still, for one small moment, he looked the same as he did before all of those developmental milestones.

One day, I will look at a man and see the footy-pajama-ed five year old in his face. If we are both lucky, some of that belief and amazement and complete bliss will still be there, too.

Just as I will then I am sure, just as I did in the days when I could scoop him up out of the crib and press him close to me, tonight I will hold on to that image and this holiday.

Things will change. Christmases will come. This, I know. This one, though, had the gasps and the tears and the squeals. It had the Legos and lights and music that speaks to my soul. I am not sure if all of that makes it the year or the kind of Christmas we got lucky enough to have around here.

A few more things:  In these final days of 2009, I hope you've found some peace, some thrills and some sentimental moments of your own. You've made this journey much brighter, Sassafriends, and you are definitely one of the stars on my tree. Merry, happy.

We've come a long way, friends. Here was Christmas last year. And the year before that. And what feels like a gazillion years before that.

Comments

[Mat]

Thanks Jess! Thanks for sharing...