a home for all

What’s all this fuss about the home during the holidays? If you ask me, it is just one more “thing” on my very long to-do list.

I mean, I am grateful that we, in fact, have a home, but transforming it into a magical winter wonderland - with no snow in the forecast - or creating a replica of Santa’s North Pole workshop, replete with elves and reindeer - live reindeer - is just too much.

All of the garnishing and trimming and decking and draping sends my jolly self right back to bed. Not to mention the pressure I feel to keep up with our neighbors, who had their trees (an entire orchard) professionally wrapped with strings of lights that twinkle and glow and shine a big bright spotlight on a much increased, already high electric bill (this is Connecticut, after all). Bah humbug.

And if crumbling like a gingerbread cookie under the pressure to decorate our home isn’t enough, every time I turn on my radio, all I hear is I’ll Be Home For Christmas, There’s No Place Like Home For The Holidays, Coming Home For Christmas. Then factor in the added expectation this time of year for home cooked feasts - roasted goose, Yorkshire pudding, chocolate yule log - none of which I have ever attempted, mind you.

All of it makes me want to grab my Santa sack, walk out our wreath-less front door, get in my car that is definitely not pimped out with Rudolph’s red shiny nose and skinny brown antlers, and drive far, far away from home.

Breathe.

Truth is, I actually love this time of year, even if our home will never be photographed for its creative use of magnolia leaves on our mantles, or the fact that our trees look like they were manhandled by an army of toddlers strung out on candy canes.

And by the way, starting December 1st, I have an exclusive with radio stations that play holiday and Christmas songs 24/7 (especially the ones about coming home), and I don’t count the days still left for shopping, only the ones until our home will be full again.

I adore seeing lights and other people’s efforts - have you driven through Cos Cob at night or paraded down Greenwich Avenue? The lights are stunning. And I have come to know and rely on the homes in our neighborhood that are decorated with incredible care and they make me happy. I even appreciate the orchard; I especially appreciate that orchard.

And all of the beautiful decorations, the perfectly lit trees, the homemade treats, the big velvet bows on tightly wrapped gifts beneath the branches in our homes, the music and caroling, the incredible attention to so many details and the exhausting energy and time that everyone I know puts into making the Christmas season beyond spectacular, not just in this town (although we do it so well), but all over the world, makes me STOP.

Because I don’t really feel the pressure, I try not to feel overwhelmed. What I feel is a renewed sense of faith and absolute conviction. And awe.

All of it wipes away the doubt that can accumulate in my heart the rest of the year.

Being swept up in the glow and spirit of Christmas is more powerful than all of the hours I have logged in church pews, more powerful than the time I have spent on my knees, and more powerful than my scrutinizing of the scripture in the Bible.

Because it just doesn’t make sense to me (the very rational part of me) that come December, every year all over the world, we work ourselves into this frenetic frenzy. We direct our focus on the season, we bedazzle our homes (and even our cars), bring out our finest clothes, our finest china, turn up our ovens to the highest setting, we sing and gather and give and sparkle and celebrate and find our way home to pay tribute to the baby Jesus…

If it wasn’t true.

Just last week, I attended the memorial service of a friend’s father. The service took place in a large cathedral-like structure in midtown Manhattan. Outside, big green wreaths with big red bows hung on the heavy wooden doors, and just inside, young men dressed in dark suits lined the entrance to the sanctuary, welcoming and ushering us into our seats.

Like many Catholic services, there was a lot of up, down, up, down, and when it came time for the homily, and we could stay down for a while, the priest offered a few comforting memories and finished with these words:

“We are all just trying to get home.”

And there were those words again, not lost on me in the Christmas season.

And although I know the priest, in his full religious regalia, was referring to a home that is both everlasting and eternal, I didn’t picture the heavens and the pearly gates.

I pictured my community, the place I have called home for over 56 years, in all of its magical Christmas splendor. I thought of the generous time and energy that go into the celebration of Christmas, year after year, neighbor to neighbor, home to home, person to person. I imagined Christmas Eve and the battle of inclement weather, crowded airports, traffic on 95, and the fear of COVID to get to the threshold of a warm refuge and loving family.

And I considered a manger a long time ago, where a small baby was born on a cold night, and wondered – did he know that his life would spring eternal a wondrous joy that would permeate the darkest days, and provide shelter, a home for all of us, not only in December, but throughout the year?