The Moment Just Before the Honey

“Well," said Pooh, "what I like best," and then he had to stop and think.
 Because although Eating Honey was a very good thing to do, there was a moment just before you began to eat it which was better than when you were, 
but he didn't know what it was called.” 

― A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

Okay, so before I begin let me just take a moment to appreciate the Christmas miracle here. Are the lights in the picture of my Christmas tree twinkling? Because they are as I write this and I don't know how they're doing it! I took the picture with my phone, I uploaded it to this blog, and all of a sudden the lights are twinkling! ... It's not quite a virgin birth, but you gotta admit it's pretty cool. 

But I digress. I was visited by the ghost of Christmas past tonight. -- Magical photographs. Literary apparitions. Some of you are wondering if I may be hitting the eggnog a little too hard, I can tell. -- Maybe it was the "Twilight Zone" episode Miles and I watched last night. It was called "Walking Distance" and it was about an unhappy guy who wanders into his own childhood, a happy childhood he longs to return to. That's not what this is about, but it is about childhood and happiness and anticipation and presence. 

Christmas Eve: Lying in the "way back" of our VW Square Back looking at the stars and singing "The Twelve Days of Christmas" as we drive to my uncle Hal's house,  my great aunt Leta's Chex Party Mix, my Nana's dinner rolls and sweet tea, the dinner blessing which always ended with, "We thank you for this food and we pray that you'll bless it to the good of our bodies. In Jesus' name we ask it. Amen," the abundance of blond little kids in the house when you added my sister and me to the cousins, the smell of evergreens and the twinkle of lights, Uncle's Hal's light blue leisure suit, and my sister and I in matching dresses. And the anticipation. There is nothing like the painfully sweet taste of anticipation.

Of course it was not all tinsel and candy canes. Later there was listening to my step father argue with his ex-wife over who would see their girls when on Christmas Day. My own parents spared my sister and me that fight, but we were still shuffled around plenty during the holidays. Sometimes I felt like I was watching other people have Christmas while I was bustled from my mom's house to my dad's house to my grandma's house to my step grandparents' house. I remember just wanting to BE somewhere. But it's okay. I don't want my mom and dad to feel guilty as they read this. Because mostly I felt loved on Christmas. Mostly I felt warm and well fed and surrounded by the most important people in my life. And I am grateful for that. A lot of people don't get that. I grew up with parents who adored me, two sets of grandparents who couldn't get enough of me, lots of aunts and uncles and cousins, holiday traditions and comfort food. I grew up with an abundance of what matters.

I was going to write about anticipation, about the difference between that moment before you eat the honey and the taste of the honey on your tongue. I was going to talk about how Christmas is often more about anticipation and expectations than acceptance and presence. Instead I wandered into my past, a history that I have come to love and accept in spite of, or maybe because of, its imperfections. 

The holidays are sparkly and lovely, especially on the surface. When you unwrap them sometimes you find they are not what you asked for. They are too big or too small, too gaudy or dull, broken maybe. Then again, sometimes they surprise you with moments of joy and love so big your heart could burst. You just never know what you're gonna get. Usually it's a mixed bag. And so I'm offering this little reminder for all you kids from one to ninety two: Show up for the holidays. Be present for the moment before the honey AND the moment it drips onto your tongue. And if you end up covered in a sticky mess, be present for that too. Notice who shows up to help you clean up. There are gifts in all of it. I dare you not to find one.