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Season’s Greetings

RugAs my husband and I were throwing the football up into the tree yesterday, casting up the fishing line that would pull up the rope that would pull up the string of lights, it hit me that Christmas isn’t just for the kids anymore. It’s for me, and for my husband and me as a team. These signs of the holiday—the decorated tree, the wreath, the outside lights—they make it feel “right,” like we’ve pulled off a magic trick, and I’m half surprised that it works on me. I see all the machinations behind the wrapped gifts and the feasting, but the crafting of the holiday only makes me feel more like I’m part of my family system.

I used to feel that Christmas was a pay off, a reward day for being a decent parent all year long. It was as if Christian society had picked a day, collectively, for indulgence and magic, and we belonged. The plastic toy years came and mercifully went, and now we choose gifts that have more to do with heritage, home, nostalgia, future, whimsy, delight. We cherish those who can come, whenever they get here, and then we toddle around together, trying new recipes and a new time for Christmas Mass.  Tonight we’ll cuddle up around the fire to read old stories aloud, stories with pictures.

It’s sweet, but this year, I’m also keenly aware of our larger family outside our home, those in Ferguson, in Brooklyn, in North Korea, in Sandy Hook, with all the confusion, loss, and threats that mark our time. I think of my friend who’s supporting her unemployed husband and two kids, with a third on the way, and the writers of Journey House, imprisoned teens who won’t be home for the holidays. I think of my cousin’s beautiful daughter facing cancer for the second time. I belong in this larger, more complicated family, too, and when I recall the quiet courage of regular people, despite all our hardships, I remember to hope. 

Happy Holidays to you.  May your special time find you with the ones you love. May your heart be light. 

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Caragh's Latest Favorite Reads

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