Christmas Memory

Christmas morning, 1983, Susanna and I woke as we always did on Christmas, before the sun came up. Filipino fog surrounded the house, creating the illusion that we had awakened in the middle of the night.

“Mom said no waking them till at least five,” she whispered to me, “What time is it?” I grabbed my alarm clock quietly off the side table, “Five fifteen!” I answered excitedly.

We shook Mary until she woke up and ran together to my parents’ room to pounce on their bed.

“Merry Christmas!” we shouted.

“Merry Christmas,” they sleepily answered, “Get your brother up.”

We woke Simon Peter, made our beds, and gathered expectantly in the kitchen.

Mom and Dad poured steaming mugs of coffee for themselves while we lit four candles. Dad handed one to each of the older kids and to Mom. Since Mary was the youngest who could walk, she carefully cradled the figurine of Baby Jesus from our manger scene in her hands. I remembered that same Baby Jesus lying in a manger in Louisiana, Mexico, and New Zealand.

“Ready?” Mom asked, smiling.

We burst out singing “Joy to the World, the Lord is Come,” as we walked through the pre-dawn dimness lit only by the lights of our Christmas tree that Dad had made from two pine branches lashed together.

Next to the tree, covered with twinkling lights, the manger scene sparkled as we placed our candles around it. Mary placed Baby Jesus lovingly in the empty manger. Next, we sang “Happy Birthday” to Jesus, and then gathered around my Dad’s chair to listen to him read the Christmas Story from the Bible.

As he finished reading, the morning light began to stream in through the window, and Mom handed each of us our stockings (Dad’s dress socks), loaded with candy, oranges, and other treats. We ate a few of our goodies, while Mom and Dad set our table with pretty plates, quiche, and hot chocolate.

“Time for the quiche!” Mom announced.

We savored large slices of quiche loaded with eggs and cheese, one of my Mom’s delicious specialties reserved for Christmas morning.

We ate our fill, cleared the plates, and gathered around the tree. Dad handed out the presents, one at a time, from youngest to oldest. I enjoyed watching my siblings delight in their gifts almost as much as I enjoyed opening my own. After plenty of time to play with our few, lovingly selected presents, we dressed in our Christmas best and headed to Mass.

At Mass, we were surrounded by families dressed in lovely traditional hand-embroidered barongs and bar’s sayas. After Mass, my friend Rosi found me and excitedly told me her family had cooked lechon, a tasty suckling pig, to eat with their extended family. I knew she didn’t have gifts or a new dress like I did. I wondered if she missed those things?

A rare long-distance phone call to Abbeville made at the rectory let us hear the excited voices of our cousins, giddy about new bikes and something called Atari. Momentary jealousy overcame me, thinking about the one bike I shared with my sisters, with the torn white banana seat.

We rode home piled in a motorella and smelling the fragrant aromas of Filipinos cooking feasts for their families. Outside each house hung a Christmas star carefully crafted from bamboo and colorful paper commemorating the Star of Bethlehem.

Incredible gratitude for my family replaced the jealousy for my cousins’ gifts. I was in one of the most breathtaking places in the world on Christmas Day. I wouldn’t have traded our Christmas morning family traditions for all of the new bikes in the world, and I wouldn’t trade Mom’s quiche for anything.