THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, December 24, 1995 TAG: 9512240101
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: NORTH CAROLINA
SOURCE: PAUL SOUTH
LENGTH: Medium: 69 lines
The winter's chill manages to whisper cold through the glass panes of my house. It is a strange night, and the stars and clouds are playfully pushing to be noticed, like excited siblings, competing for the attention of a visiting grandparent.
Across Sir Walter Raleigh Street, and all up and down the avenue that runs like a vein through the quiet heart of Manteo, are single candles in most windows. The white beacons await the arrival of Christendom's most blessed day.
I've taken a bit of extra time to notice the quiet this Christmas. And while I can't put a finger on exactly why, I have some thoughts.
When we were children, Christmas was letters to Santa, deeply thought out petitions to the great man, asking for the entire Sears catalog.
The holiday was about stuff. That was it. Stuff.
Of course there were the church Christmas plays. Wise men in imitation silk polyester robes with Mom-made crowns on heads. Shepherds in regular cloth bathrobes. Somebody's dog was picked to be a manger animal. The baby Jesus was either someone's doll or a 400-watt light bulb.
But the minds of every junior wise man and shepherd were focused on what would be under the tree on the morning of Dec. 25. We were kids. That's the way it should have been.
But it seems the closer I get to 40, stuff doesn't seem to matter as much at Christmas. I think less about the football I got almost every Christmas, and more about the time my dad spent showing me how to lead a receiver. ``Throw the ball a few steps in front, let him run to the ball,'' he would say. For hours on sunlit afternoons we would play pitch and catch. And now I think about what must have been going through my dad's mind, knowing that football for his only son would be a dream, and no more.
Nevertheless he ran the routes.
I don't think much these days about how much is under the tree. More often, I think of the richness brought to my life by my mom, my sister, and the rest of my family. And I think of those who have gone on from this life, and the gifts they shared with me. Life. Love. The importance of knowing from whence you came.
My mother's life has not been easy, especially in the eight years since my dad passed away. But her courage and grace will endure far longer than any the contents of a brightly wrapped box.
I will think less of the turkey and dressing, laced with an ample portion of tasty sage, and more about the loving hands that prepared those wondrous meals of memory. My grandfather's yeast rolls, my grandmother's dressing, my Grandmother South's green beans.
I will remember the lessons taught about the importance of believing. Not in Santa Claus - although surely he exists - but in something higher, more lasting.
In some ways, this has been a hard year. My grandfather, Bob. Uncle Bill, Aunt Addie. All gone, I believe, to the place they surely believed would come after this life. I think of them this Christmas with sadness, but fond remembrance.
But in the grand cyclical way of life, the person has come with whom I will spend the rest of my life.
Christmas isn't about stuff.
It is the joy that comes wrapped in the swaddling clothes of love and memory.
And the comfort found in a single twinkling star, which conveys a marvelous message more powerful than any holiday gift. It's something we knew even in the days of plaid bathrobes and junior shepherds.
We are loved. by CNB