Well, it’s not exactly Christmas Eve—more like Christmas Eve Eve, which probably has some liturgical significance that my Southern-fried Protestantism doesn’t know or appreciate—but given the way Christmas is falling this year, as well as my own laziness, I thought it’d be worth looking back at this classic Christmas Eve post, with my timeless “Christmas and Its Symbols” post for Flashback Friday tomorrow.
That scheduling also lets me do my beloved “^2” addendum with the titles, adding another layer of Talmudic-esque commentary onto my past scribblings: the ultimate in authorial self-indulgence.
Of course, the season isn’t about my half-baked musings about Christmas, Christmas Eve, or the rest. It’s about the Birth of Our Savior, Jesus Christ. As I wrote last year, Christmas Eve seems to perfectly capture the spirit of mystery of that night, “a night full of magic, mysticism, and wonder.” Christmas Day is a flurry of activity: opening presents, yelling at parents to wake up, cleaning up piles of wrapping paper. Christmas Eve, especially Christmas Eve night, has always seemed more mystical, more reflective—the true celebration of Christ’s Birth.
It was also the night my Aunt Cheryl—the best one-eyed piano player in Aiken County—used to throw her big, bodacious Christmas Eve bash, featuring her incredible lasagna. So maybe that’s why it fills my heart with a warm, fuzzy feeling (these days, it’d be a welcome dose of heartburn—totally worth it for a thick section of her lasagna).
This year, I think I’ll be spending Christmas Eve with my niece and nephews, waking up at their house Christmas morning for the second year in a row. That’s always a fun way to spend the season. Here’s hoping there’s some Christmas Eve Chinese food thrown into the mix. God Bless General Tso—he was a bloodthirsty dictator, but his chicken is delectable.
With that, here is “TBT: Christmas Eve“:
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