Where are you Christmas?

It's 10:30pm on Christmas Eve. I'm standing in the kitchen staring down a massive pile of dishes. The remains of a delicious Mexican dinner intermingle with the congealing leftover icing from the sugar cookies. Not the cookies my mom used to make, but a dairy-free modified version. I sneeze, for the thousandth time, and wash my hands again. Ugh, this mess, this cold, and I still have to fill the stockings. Some part of me wishes I could just jump into bed and wake up in the morning to the smell of frying bacon and wander into a room full of gifts that someone else wrapped.

Late at night on Christmas Eve my dad used to slip over to my grandparents' house to visit them after midnight service. Sometimes we went to church with them. As I got older I sometimes got to go on the late night excursion. This year I will have to make due with a visit to a headstone tomorrow afternoon. I'll have no gift to deliver, but I know that being in their presence will still be a gift to me.

In the morning my children will bound down the stairs, eyes aglow and eager to open the gifts we have for them. My sweet in-laws have contributed to the pile of goodies and the kids have even brought a few things. We will have fun tearing off wrapping paper and wearing bows on our heads, but this year I will be the one piling the trash into a sack when the melee ends.

It hit me a few days ago while my phone played Christmas songs and I shoved gifts into shiny paper with too much tape. Christmas has changed. I yearned for the warm glow of the past with my old Reba McIntyre Christmas CD and the little tree in my bedroom. The warmth of my parents nearby and a full cohort of grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends to share the holiday. Somehow being an adult seems to have lessened the glow of the Magic of Christmas.

Tonight we went to my cousin Melissa's house for Christmas Eve Mexican dinner. The differences were striking - as we sat down to dinner, I had to change poopy pants. My grandparents didn't come, my parents are far away, and no one made Mexican casserole. However through the newness, some things remained - my aunt Cathy's pralines, the group picture of the kids (our kids!), and the love of family. We spoke of Christmases past - of Cindy's cookies, Melissa's piano playing, and funny pageants. The year we played Taboo for hours, the running around in the back yard, the gifts we used to exchange - the memories flooded me. Somehow this gathering replenished my soul on a level I never knew I needed.

I realized that Christmas isn't about Magic that finds you, it's about Magic that you make. Tonight as we ate my Aunt Cindy's old weaving loom leaned against the wall next to our table. Seeing that piece of her past tied some thoughts together for me. Weaving the threads of Christmases past with the new strands of Christmas present produces a kind of beauty all its own that blends nostalgia with a strength that will enable Christmases future to continue to be spliced into the tapestry.

So I'll head back to those dishes with my Pentatonix Christmas playlist and look forward to being the one cooking that Christmas breakfast. Merry Christmas to all the Santa Clauses out there who make their own Christmas Magic.