I wandered aimlessly, then focused. Searched shelves with intent as well as casual amusement. Narrowed on three books, a gift and a quick exit before spending above more than my pocketbook would allow.
I arrived in Pioneer Square to watch the lighting of the Christmas Tree.
I'm born December 23rd so my childhood was short on birthday parties and rich in Christmas tradition - a "birthday month" where most years my birthday was buried in red and green wrapping paper and pecan and pumpkin pies. But hunting out the tree from a lot of spruce and pine, scented in cinnamon-spiced cider, listening to Christmas carols was fun. We often went as a family. Sometimes we even cut our own tree from one of those come-select-cut tree farms. At home the great untangling of tiny little white, red, green, and blue lights began. Ornaments hung. A beautiful mom-hand-sewn angel-like doll on top. The tree became a sanctuary of peace. Looking at the lights and watching as piles of gifts surrounding it's trunk began to build. Chocolate chip cookies and milk left for Santa. Fighting to stay awake the night before Christmas, eventually overcome by sleep. Christmas day my brother and I pouncing on my parent's bed "wake up! wake up!" In a moment all that's left is piles of wrapping paper, bows and ribbons askew, my brother and I setting up new games with new toys - "where Barbi meets Luke Skywalker". In our house, Barbi never dated Ken, but she was often tight with Yoga. The tree still lit.
I still remember sitting by the tree, watching its lights tinkle on and off and sometime watching an entire strand of lights go off, for good.
Today I don't know whether I believe Jesus has already come to save us or Isaiah is coming to save us. Likely my beliefs fall somewhere else altogether. But what I do know and I do believe is that tradition is the glue that holds us together.
