There’s a wonderful moment at my family’s annual Christmas party, often punctuated by awkward titters from the children of the day. To an adult who understands the fragility of family and the beauty of sitting and listening to a patriarch reminisce, those children’s groans can come across as nearly sacrilegious, but I know that I, too, offered the same as a boy, because sometimes when faced with something so unusual, so magical, the right response is not at hand.
My father is the owner of a letter sent when he was just two-years-old by his grandfather on Christmas Eve 1948. The text is on the reverse sides of two crunchy, weathered sheets of letterhead from a box company, a sign that this family treasure was never intended to be kept for these seven decades. But, isn’t that part of the beauty, when ordinary life becomes something you’ll cling to forever.
I’m sure that my father never got to enjoy a relationship with his grandfather the likes that I experienced with my grandmother, but when he begins to read the letter, and his voice takes on that of the mellow storyteller, a miracle of Christmas happens for me. I’ve tried, to weak effect, to detail what a slowed-down, “merry little Christmas” means to me, and of the importance for my well-being to relax, take a breath, and observe gravity. But, the power of moments like these can scarcely be articulated.
The subject matter of the letter itself so beautifully recollects the spirit of the holidays that I attempt to bring to myself and my family each and every Christmas. Thankfully, I’m not eating lutefisk, but the sentiment is identical. Slow down. Make deliberate, intentional actions. Observe traditions. Appreciate family and friends.