Ever since I graduated from college, Christmases have changed. At this point, it’s kind of interesting to try to figure out what’s going to happen this years.

For the longest time, my Christmases went like this: Christmas Eve was a delicious dinner of Boston Market with all the fixings followed by a late night church service. We would get all dressed up in reds, golds, and greens.

One of the years my dad was on the worship team, the worship team sang the Christmas songs with their family members gathered behind them. I remember singing on stage with other kids and other adults while the regular team members played as usual or sang into the mics. No rehearsals, just singing the carols that night. It’s one of those memories that’s fuzzy but very warm to my heart.

Then after the Christmas Eve service, we would come back home, light these fragile angel chimes carousel. It was the neatest thing to see the heat from the candles turn the angels round and round. I could watch it all night. My mom would put out cookie tin and various little desserts. My dad worked in a school plus was a part-time pastor. People liked to give him and his family gifts. As a kid, I looked forward to seeing what new sugar infused gift he would come home with next. Those were a fun surprise because you wanted to know what he would come home with on the last day before the Christmas break. It made Christmas Eve all the more exciting with new desserts on our dining table.

On Christmas Eve, we would open one gift, which was most likely Christmas pajamas or something similarly cozy to use that night. It was a cozy evening that usually went late and then we would head off to bed to wake in the morning.

Now, contrary to most Americans, I did not grow up believing in Santa Claus. For a little bit, one of my cousins talked me into believing that he only came to houses that had fireplaces. She was older, cooler, and clearly wiser than me, so I believed her… or at least nodded along until we left her fire-place house. But oddly enough, it didn’t really stick and I kind of forgot about it. However, contrary to popular belief that Santa adds “magic” to your childhood, I still feel like I had a magical childhood.

The Christmas mornings before I was seven have a sparkly and yet fuzzy magic to them. We still lived at the Ronald Road ranch and I remember walking out to presents spread out under the glowing tree. One year we each got a leopard stuffed animal. My little sister and I got the baby leopards and my older sister got the beautiful mama leopard. I might have been jealous at the time, but I don’t think so now. I loved my little leopard.

The oldest and fuzziest Christmas morning memory is one where it’s still dark outside. It was hard to even see the tree except for the colorful lights on it. I would have to ask my mom to verify this, but I remember each of us had a small stuffed animal that was not wrapped on top of the presents. I think they were little grey bunnies that had “water” in them so they seemed “real,” according to the marketing team. Either way, I loved mine until the soft fur felt more like steel wool.

After the presents were opened in the morning, we would have a scrumpious breakfast of varying sorts. Those teacher/pastor gifts my dad received would come in handy on Christmas morning as well. We had assorted sausage, or cheese, or jam gift boxes that added to the morning festiveness. It was quite nice.

Around noon or so, we would head out for a day full of extended family. Showered and dressed for the festivities, but not too fancy, I would look forward to crawling around the floor of my grandma’s house with my cousins as part of the wolf pack. But before the wolf pack adventures, we would stop at my grandparents farmhouse in Jackson, NJ.

I will have to continue another time. This is too long for one blog post.