As we age, our perceptions and expectations of Christmas — at least the secular Christmas — change.
I'm decades beyond making a list and judging the holiday's success based on how closely my actual gifts match the list.
I've moved past the idea of creating a picture-perfect Christmas, as defined by magazines and social media as an expertly decked-out house, exquisitely decorated (and homemade, of course) cookies, children in coordinating clothes every day of December, and annual visits to at least one parade, one performance of The Nutcracker, one breakfast with Santa and one nighttime tour of a fabulous neighborhood.
I'm still attempting to make Christmas magic happen for my children, though they themselves are less consumed by the magic and more interested in time with friends and family, hot cocoa as often as possible and Christmas movies in the family room.
I have officially reached the stage where Christmas means community.
Two days after Thanksgiving, my sister's family and my family jumped into the holiday season with a free outdoor concert in McKinney. Ray Benson and his stalwart band, Asleep at the Wheel, crooned Christmas songs and some favorite Western swing tunes. The crowd sang along, with rousing renditions of "Route 66" and "Miles and Miles of Texas."
Most of the fans were strangers, but we felt like a community, joined together by admiration for the same artists, singing the same lyrics, creating similar memories to pile atop our own individual memories of live music and Christmas festivals and cool nights under the stars.
A couple of weeks later, Cooper, Katie and I attended the Christmas Spectacular at the Star, a glitzy outdoor show at the Ford Center in Frisco, repeated every Friday and Saturday night this month. This production wasn't exactly my style, with synthesized music, dancing Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders, fireworks and animated lights creating images on the towering Christmas tree.
But the crowd loved it.
The appeal for me was not so much the over-the-top production but instead folks gathering to celebrate and children looking in awe in every direction — a gathered community of neighbors near and far.
The next night we gathered in our church sanctuary, singing carols and listening to meaningful arrangements from choirs and instrumentalists.
The service ended with "Silent Night," the quintessential Christmas hymn that celebrates 200 years this season. The sanctuary lights dimmed, and each of us held a candle, lit by our neighbor, and sang the cherished lyrics with hushed wonder.
We were surrounded by our chosen community.
Those candles in the darkness, lit by one flame and then spread among hundreds, offer hope. It's the kind of comfort I'm especially seeking these days, following the suicide of a young man in our neighborhood, a senior in high school and classmate of my son.
He played in the orchestra.
He was loved and adored by family members, friends and teachers.
He was a member of a community that misses him dearly.
On the last Monday night in November, about 200 people huddled in a park pavilion to remember him. We heard stories about his life, we listened to his favorite classic rock song, and we lit candles in his memory.
We were reminded that each of us are a light in the darkness.
That we need one another.
That we are never alone.
My Christmas wish is that everyone takes stock and gives thanks for the community that they have — and that everyone reaches out to someone who feels like they have no one.
Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.
No comments:
Post a Comment