It’s holiday week.  Thanksgiving, to be exact.  The transition period where my orderly house becomes a space filled with artifacts of an eternal childhood.  Hopes go up as Christmas lists are finalized.  The senses are engaged through the Christmas music on the radio (only now permissible in my home), the stock pot simmering all day as the turkey readies and the lights are strewn through the yard as we try to find that one broken bulb to complete the series.  It’s messy and loud and frustrating and yet beautiful and sonorous and exciting. These rites of passage into the holiday prepare us for a holy time — a time set apart from the rest of the year.

It’s a packed time, filled will deep history and symbolism, deep traditions and ceremonies.  It can be an overwhelming time, especially for the sensorially sensitive.  Lights and sounds abound.  The pace of the world quickens where running in for a gallon of milk becomes an act of eternal patience standing behind those that only cook twice a year.

And yet it’s the stillness of the season that is most dear.  It’s waking up to have the muted glow of the Christmas tree act as the nightlight.  It’s the moment before the Thanksgiving feast where the children pray for all 23 family members by name.  It’s the inefficiency of decorating that allows for the reflection on years of Christmas cards.

It’s a season of contrast: silence and sounds, darkness and lights, youth and traditions.  I’m as grateful for the ‘Fragile’ Leg Lamp ornament from the Christmas Story as I am the ornament I gave her for our first Christmas together, each because of its unique story (and because they both rile up my bride).

I tell my kids that I hope the home owner’s association drops a letter in the mailbox one year telling me my decorations are too much — that I have to dial it back because this is a tasteful neighborhood and that I should show some class. That’s my goal now — over the top. I want National Lampoon worthy lights.  And I also want the simplicity of a candlelit dinner with my family.  These two contrasts I hold harmonious during this season.

I used to decorate because it was important to my wife.  Then the kids came and we added lights and an inflatable snowman.  I’d fight the missing bulbs for hours in order to see their eyes light up as I connected the extension cords in some imagined ceremony.  Now, I do it for me.  Yes, I turn on the music because my wife likes it and light up the cul-de-sac because my kids like it, but the whole of it is for me.  I like the silence and the sounds, the sparkles in the darkness and the grand meals in dim candles.

This is the contrast of our Christmas — the same contrast the Savior joined in as He, God incarnate, was born in a barn.  This is a time set apart — a holy day.  Happy holy days!