The wreath on the front door has changed. No longer made of plaid bows and apples and evergreen sprays, now it’s twisted grapevine and tiny silvery blue star lilies. There is nothing any sadder than a Christmas tree with no presents, and so every year on Christmas afternoon I dismantle and pack and before I go to bed that night all the Holiday decorations are snug in their boxes and back in the attic. This year it went much quicker, thanks to my darling man who didn’t gripe at all about climbing the folding stair to take them down on the first and then put them away on the 25th. Guess it just goes to show what a year in Iraq can do to your mindset.
This morning, the calendar says December 26, but I’m not ready for “Christmas” to be over. I’m like my wonderful nephew who wanted to know how come you had to put Jesus in a box and take him out for only one month each year.
I said all the decorations were packed away. But that’s not true, because one remains. On top of the bookcase in the office is a tiny nativity scene. It sits there all year long. Every year. To remind me that it’s not about candy canes and pumpkin pie. It’s not about ham for dinner. Or Kwanzaa candles or Three Kings Day cakes. It's not about Christmas trees or presents with silver paper and golden ribbon. Or what you wanted and didn't get. Or what you got that you wondered oh man what were they thinking. Or what you have to take back today to swap for the right size.
It’s about love. And what we do with the spirit of Christmas in February. And April. And June. And August.
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