The calendar says August.
The garden is still producing tomatoes, peppers and herbs. School supplies have replaced pool toys in the stores. Football is beginning to stir, and before long the leaves will begin their slow transformation.
Christmas?
Not yet.
And that’s exactly the point.
Christmas isn’t made in December.
After all these years of living with Santa, I think some of the most important work of Christmas happens when no one is watching.
It happens in August.
It happens sitting beside the camper with a cup of coffee in the morning. It happens over dinner with someone you love. It happens when you put the phone away long enough to really listen. It happens when you rest because you’re tired, laugh until your sides hurt, cook something wonderful simply because you enjoy it, or spend an afternoon doing absolutely nothing productive.
Those things may not look very Christmassy.
But I think they are.
Part of being a really good Santa, and, for me, the person beside him, is paying attention to ourselves and to the people around us.
Because you cannot manufacture the spirit of Christmas in December.
The more peace, hope, love and joy we experience in our everyday lives, the better prepared our hearts are to share those things with someone else.
This month, Richard and I celebrated 38 years of marriage with a camping trip. I would show you a picture, but apparently we were so busy enjoying ourselves that neither of us took one. Not one.
There was no elaborate anniversary celebration. We cooked outside. We ate very well. We talked. We laughed. We sat together. We enjoyed the quiet. And somewhere in the middle of all that ordinary goodness, I realized again how much I simply enjoy being with this person I’ve shared most of my life with.
After 38 years, that’s quite a gift.
And strangely enough, I think weekends like that make Richard a better Santa.
Not because we practiced anything.
We didn’t.
But Santa needs something genuine to give.
When a child climbs onto his lap in December, that child deserves his attention. When an older gentleman quietly tells Santa about the Christmases he remembers, he deserves to be heard. When a tired mother is desperately trying to get one photograph where everyone is looking in the same direction, perhaps she deserves a little patience and grace.
Those things have to come from somewhere.
They come from a life where we practice them.
Peace.
Hope.
Love.
Joy.
Long before they become the words we light on Advent candles, they can become things we notice and nurture in our ordinary days.
August gives us plenty of opportunities.
Dinner around the table.
A tomato still warm from the garden.
A camping trip with friends.
A conversation that lasts longer than expected.
A grandchild saying something you want to remember forever.
A quiet morning beside someone you’ve loved for nearly four decades.
And lately, I’ve realized that recipes are part of this quiet work, too.
As I’ve worked on At the Claus;s Table , I’ve discovered that the cookbook is really a collection of these very things.
Yes, there are recipes. But behind those recipes are people, places and stories. Meals we’ve shared. Things I’ve learned from someone I love. Recipes that became traditions almost without our noticing.
That may be my favorite part of finally putting the cookbook together.
I thought I was collecting recipes.
It turns out I was collecting pieces of our life.
And maybe that is part of the quiet work of Christmas, too.
We gather all year long, the meals, the stories, the laughter, the people we love, and when Christmas comes, we bring those things with us.
Perhaps preparing for Christmas doesn’t always mean making lists, buying presents or planning menus.
Perhaps some of the best preparation is simply paying attention.
Pay attention to the people you love.
Pay attention to what restores you.
Pay attention to the person sitting across the table.
Pay attention to the small moments that bring peace, hope, love and joy into an ordinary Tuesday.
Because when December comes, and it always comes faster than we expect, we’ll have something real to share.
Christmas can wait.
Joy doesn’t have to.
Until next time,
Lori
Kris Kringle Christmas