By Lisa 
Dancerina was my favorite present from Santa. She was about two feet tall, with blond hair pulled back in a ponytail and a sparkly plastic crown that lit up. Her dress was pink satin with a taffeta skirt, and ballet shoes to match.
On Christmas, I would try hard to stay awake to see what Santa had brought. One year, I succeeded (although it likely wasn’t a lot past my bedtime) and tiptoed in the dark as quietly as a six-year-old could.
The whole living room glowed from the lights on the tree. Poppy liked big colored lights, the kind that were so hot they would set fire to a real tree. Mama thought an artificial tree would be safer until she discovered melted plastic on several bulbs. She also preferred white lights.
I believe a compromise was reached because we did have Pop’s colored lights, but no lights on overnight except for Christmas Eve.
The bulbs were clipped firmly on the branches, and ornaments were carefully placed so none touched the bulbs, with one exception. It was my favorite…a pink plastic birdcage with a tiny aluminum fan blade inside. Positioned just right, the blade would spin from the bulb’s heat. It was magic.
Our toys were displayed under the blinking glow of lights and in the center was Dancerina. She was about half my size, not a cuddly baby doll but a real ballerina with a knob on top of her crown to twist so she would pirouette on one toe.
Dancerina was pretty heavy to hold up for a little girl, and I dropped her several times despite trying to be quiet. As I recall, my time in the Land of Christmas After Bedtime ended pretty quickly.
Later that Christmas morning, Mama held Dancerina up for me (over and over) while playing “Dance of the Sugarplum Fairies” on a cardboard record (over and over).
(Not that Mama had anything else to do on Christmas morning after staying up most of the night worrying about Christmas tree lights and small children with insomnia.)
Christmas Eve a couple of years later, I had fallen asleep in my brother’s room on one of his bunk beds. We both woke up to the sound of metal hitting concrete outside the window. There was silence for a second or two, a grunt, another crashing sound, then laughter.
My brother put one finger on his lip and motioned me to the window. He pulled the drapes back a tiny bit so we could only see out if we turned our heads sideways with his head over mine.
On the front porch were our parents. Pop looked annoyed as he juggled a torn cardboard box with a long metal pole hanging out sideways and several round weights around his feet. Mama was sitting nearby in the middle of a smushed boxwood hedge with her hand over her mouth, trying not to laugh. It didn’t work.
My brother quickly closed the drapes and looked right at me.
“Santa gets real busy on Christmas Eve so parents have to help. Especially since we don’t have a chimney.”
I looked at him wide-eyed. I had wondered about the chimney situation.
“He must’ve stopped his sleigh in the street in front of our house and handed the presents to Mama and Daddy,” he said, looking at me without blinking. “Like the postman does.”
I got so excited that I pulled the curtains back wide to see if Santa and Rudolph were still at the mailbox.
Nada. Just Mama and Poppy, red-faced from laughing.
They also got wide-eyed after seeing our faces in the window. Oops.
Years later, I realized we were allowed to have our Christmas lights on that one night because…Mamas and Poppas never actually got to sleep on Christmas Eve night.
Poppy loved riding around looking at Christmas lights; as Mama said, he liked them: “The tackier, the better.” My brother and I would jump into the backseat, pressing our noses against the windows, trying to spot anything Christmas-y before the other did.
My brother would remind me that traffic lights didn’t count because they were always red and green. I was so excited I pointed them out anyway.
Pop would drive us all over town trying find the most decorated houses. I suspect he scoped out the route beforehand because we saw a lot of lights in less than an hour in the car.
On the way back home, Pop would point towards the sky at some red blinking lights way up high.
It was Santa’s sleigh with Rudolph in the front! That was his red nose!!
Pop told us we had to go right home and get in bed so Santa could come! He wouldn’t come unless we were in bed asleep!
Fifty-plus years later, I still tear up seeing the red lights on aircraft warning towers.
Christmas becomes…bittersweet…as you get older. Mostly about remembering times when everyone you loved was still alive.
Christmas lights seem a little dimmer. I don’t notice them as much. Traffic lights are just…for traffic.
There was a song back in the ’80s called “Somewhere Out There.”
One of the verses says:
“And even though I know how very far apart we are
It helps to think we might be wishing
On the same bright star.”
Maybe it isn’t Biblical, but I often imagine my loved ones in Heaven seeing what I see here, maybe a star or something else beautiful…or even my Poppy seeing the bright red light on an aircraft warning tower at Christmas.
I want to share the sweetness of memories together, even though we aren’t physically together…for now.
I wonder if God the Father looked at the Christmas star the night His Son was born…
Did Baby Jesus, opening His eyes for the first time, see that star too? Did He feel the coldness of lying in a stable trough, the aloneness of being away from His Father, and the helplessness of being human?
Did He somehow know His Father was seeing that same star?
Was He comforted?
Did They both find some comfort, especially knowing Their plan and what Jesus would go through?
My husband and I attend two churches. One is in the town we moved to, my hometown, and the other is in the town he moved from.
His church has a huge wall in the foyer area that says, “Be the Light.”
Christmas can be a difficult time for a whole lot of people. There is the pressure of unrealistic Hallmark movie expectations, family members who don’t get along and overstimulated children.
At worst, there are people who are alone, hurting, addicted, and maybe scared. Maybe homeless. Without hope.
Our loved ones aren’t here. But we are. And we are not without hope.
Maybe we are all here for a reason, one very important one.
To “Be the Light” when people can no longer see the stars.
To shine a light, as best we can, towards the One who came to save them. To point them towards home.
I read a meme on FaceBook recently:
“Child of God,
as you miss the laughter of loved ones who are no longer with us, remember, you are the one who is not yet Home for Christmas”.
Until then…the field is ripe for harvest. Be The Light.
Merry Christmas…