THE BEST CHRISTMAS EVER
Making Christmas happen
by Jan Whitson

My least-favorite commercial right now, amid many, is one for a home improvement store that opens with, “How can you make this season better than the last? Then you are treated to pictures of a bunch of things you could buy or do that, the ad implies, will make your holidays better.

The unspoken implication is that every year must somehow surpass the year before, or you have failed. Now there’s a recipe for stress.

Sorry, decoration-hawkers of the world. I don’t agree. I submit that the way to make the most of your holiday this year may be to do less. Heresy, I know. But true. All that it takes to have the best Christmas ever is a change of attitude, and a willingness to make Christmas happen.

When it comes to our attitude, there is a lot to be learned from children. When my grandkids were six and seven, everything was the best ever.

“This was the best day of my whole life.”

“This is the best dinner ever.”

There was no limit to how many things could be best. This became clear to me one day when, for no good reason, really, I challenged my seven-year-old granddaughter when she said, “This was the best day ever,” for the second day in a row.

“You said that yesterday,” I observed. “So which really was the best?”

“Both,” she replied. “Yesterday was the best, and today is the best.”

“So on tomorrow, which will be the best: today or yesterday?”

“Both. They were both the best.”

After a while, I got it. In her mind, once a day is the best, it stays the best, and it can be followed by another best day without being superseded.

We should all be as smart as seven-year-olds.

So let me tell you about one of my many best Christmases. We were newlyweds, my husband and I, living in an efficiency flat situated in an old, but well-kept area of Chicago. That meant we had a bathroom with a connecting small dressing room, a kitchen, dining area, and a living room with a Murphy bed that folded up into the wall during the day. (Yes, really!)

Being young, foolish and broke, we decided the smart thing to do would be to buy gifts at the after-Christmas sales and, of course, we weren’t going to spend money on a tree or decorations. My mother and his had always made Christmas happen without much help from the rest of the family, who simply sat back and enjoyed it. We honestly didn’t realize that some modicum of effort on our part was required. Consequently, our Christmas spirit was sadly lacking that year, and we weren’t really sure why.

When my parents came to visit on the day after Christmas my brother, a high school senior, was scandalized. No tree, no decorations, no presents…it wasn’t to be borne. When my husband and I went with my parents to shop the sales, he stayed home.

Hours later we returned, tired and cranky, and found the apartment transformed. Our first clue was a small rectangle of green construction paper taped to the front door. On it was written: WREATH (big and beautiful). We opened the door and dangling from a long strip of tape hanging from the high ceiling was a construction paper square—yellow, this time. It was labeled in black ink, similar to the sign on the front door, as MISTLETOE.

As we stepped into the apartment, a strange and wonderful sight met our eyes. In one corner of the room, the old army cot that was my brother’s bed had been upended, and the upper legs collapsed in to make a point, of sorts. The cot was covered with a bright green thermal blanket and hanging from the blanket were a dozen or more of the construction paper signs.

At the tip-top was a yellow rectangle: STAR (big and beautiful). Below that one could find ORNAMENT (gold), ORNAMENT (striped), ORNAMENT (sparkly) and ORNAMENT (red), plus TINSEL (lots of). On the floor next to the one straggling corner of green blanket was the inevitable… ORNAMENT (broken).

Sitting at the base of the “tree,” a yellow sign proclaimed itself to be the MANGER SCENE (Mary, Joseph, and Babe included).

My brother didn’t just complain; he took action. The effect was immediate and dramatic. Suddenly it was Christmas.

Of all the Christmases I remember, even the wonderful ones when our children were young, there is none that taught me as much as the Christmas my brother gave us that year. I learned that it isn’t about the lights, or the candles, or the tree—though those are all good things. It’s about the love that puts them there. And it doesn’t matter if the ornaments are fancy, or homemade, or even just construction paper signs. It is caring enough to make the season special—with some sign of celebration, however small—that wakes the Christmas spirit in our hearts. It doesn’t have to be bigger than last year. It doesn’t have to be brighter. It doesn’t have to be shiny or new. But someone has to care enough to make an effort to set the scene.

This year I will be traveling to Texas in mid-December, to spend Christmas with family there. I wasn’t going to decorate the house…it seemed a silly waste of effort. But you know, I think I will. Not the boxes and boxes of things I enjoy hauling out and putting up most years, but something. Something small, put up with love, to celebrate the season. Maybe even a few construction paper signs, though they are brittle now, and yellowed with age.

Something to make Christmas happen.