If you were feeling bad about yourself because you knew a girl who was blogging every day in December, I’ve given you the gift of my negligence.

I haven’t been able to count the ways I love Christmas over the last few days because I’ve been so busy keeping Christmas, or doing Christmas, I’m not sure which.

There have been swishy party dresses and glasses of eggnog and laughter and midnight heart-to-hearts with dear ones about what fully man and fully divine really means.

Perhaps most delightful of all was an impromptu photo shoot in the middle of one party, between dinner and coffee. The ladies were ushered into the hostess’ bedroom to pick hand-made headpieces out of a box. One talented friend had carefully fashioned a collection of fascinators, and in our evening finest we picked our favorites and posed for her website. She had used lovely feathers and lush ribbon and vintage jewels. We complained about our plain, fascinator-less heads when it was time to return her creations to the box.

I’ve had a strange sense of slow motion as I move through these things, trying to memorize what it feels like to march in high heels up my friend’s walk in the cold, knowing what warmth and hospitality waits inside. Watching the twins walk arm-in-arm as they disappear on a secret shopping mission. Throwing the door open to bright teen-aged faces and later watching them giggling around our fire. I go to sleep in our grey bedroom with colors still dancing in my head, red and green and gold. I do all this with the tiniest sense of sadness, that this will all give way to January’s quiet sparseness.

Tonight is a home night, and we’re baking cinnamon cookies and getting ready to watch “Under the Greenwood Tree,” a funny film based on a (non-depressing) Thomas Hardy novel. I recommend it at Christmastime—the choir scenes are especially amusing. (It’s on Netflix Watch Instantly right now.)

Goodnight, friends, and may these golden days go slow for all of us…

What sweeter music can we bring 
Than a carol, for to sing
The birth of this our heavenly King?
Awake the voice! Awake the string! ~ Robert Herrick (1591-1674)

I was trapped in the middle of a multitude of teens on a holiday hayride. A few of them started singing carols, and one girl remarked, “That’s the one thing I hate about Christmas: carols!”  There was nothing to do but join in the singing and aim my contribution directly into her ear. Good girl, she laughed.

I can imagine (if I really stretch) Christmas without food or presents or parties, but not without music. I try not to listen until after Thanksgiving, but there are a few October sneaks.

I love best the music sung in old cathedrals in England. The words of carols preach sermons to my heart. The John Rutter Christmas Album (2002) is the end-all CD for me. Poems by Robert Herrick (“No Sweeter Music”) and Christina Rossetti (“Love Came Down”) set to music are my favorites. Although not on the Rutter album, Rossetti’s “In the Bleak Midwinter” is The Carol, however, (the Darke setting, not the Holst).

In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter, long ago…

I can’t bear this music after the holidays are over, when the real bleak midwinter begins. It feels like funeral music for another Christmas Past. It hurts like a high school break-up.

But during December, it can’t be all high church all the time, and I like the old standards The Spouse much prefers over choral music. He likes Dean and Frank, but I say Bing is King.

Silly Christmas songs are fun, too. When “we” (Luke doing and me directing) are putting up the tree (when marital tension meets laughter), we listen to a crazy Tijuana brass CD. It sounds like something straight from “The Brady Bunch.” (Later when The Spouse exits, the girls and I decorate the tree listening to Rutter. Rutter’s all wrong, though, when the husband is turning the tree round and round for me to decide which side is best and he’s chanting robotically, “I AM A MINDLESS AUTOMATON.”)

One of the treats of the season is heading down to St. Phillip’s Cathedral for Nine Lessons and Carols the Sunday evening before Christmas. It’s one occasion the girls and I can wear hats without looking ridiculous. I keep the program every year, with all my notes scribbled in the margins next to the words of the songs. I am introduced to a new “favorite” carol each year, although the procession of the choir, preceded by a single voice singing  “Once in Royal David’s City” from the back of the church, is always the moment when the lump-in-throat is at its largest.

Maybe folks who say they don’t like carols have been exposed to too much of the stuff they play at the mall (Mariah Carey, in my opinion, does not make a case for Christmas music), or, worse yet, carols turned into annoying advertising jingles. Let’s hope they hear something lovely this Christmas—and their hearts grow three sizes that day.

Whence is the goodly fragrance flowing,
Stealing our senses all away,
never the like did come a-blowing,
Shepherds, in flow’ry fields of May,
Whence is that goodly fragrance flowing,
Stealing our senses all away.
~ Traditional French Carol

I ’m not sure when the three of us formalized our little Christmas support group. I only know we so adore this season, we want to keep it as best we can.

“There’s always that tension between keeping Christmas and doing Christmas,” Lanier said today at our Advent Tea.

It’s a breath we take each year, a call to arms and an excuse to sit by the fire and do nothing but chat—in the middle of the day. Our common goal is to fight the tendency to overdo and over-bake and over-decorate, trying to following Mary’s example, not Martha’s. We can attest to what it’s like to be worried and troubled about many things, and we’ve learned quiet doesn’t come without intentionality.

Each of us emerged from our own tizzy-filled mornings, me not having so much as cracked an egg until my guests arrived. Why was I running so behind? I set Rachel to work grating cheese. (At least I didn’t make her empty the dishwasher.)

Lanier breezed in 20 minutes late. “Forgive me if I’m missing some foundational garment.” Scattered we were—and would be again. (We assured Lanier as she put on her jewelry she was otherwise fully dressed.)

Things finally started sizzling in the skillet as Rachel and Lanier gravitated toward the piano to practice a carol they’ll sing at a Twelfth Night party, “Quelle est cette odeur agréable?” I stood over the stove and smiled. How could such a sweet sound be coming from my den?

After breakfast, the dogs lounged while we wove words about seeking simplicity and the shape of our faith and so on. No one worried about being misunderstood, and laughter came easy. I kept adding more boiling water and tea leaves to the pot, fretting each time I popped up that somebody would get up to go.

When they did go, I washed the dishes and wondered how much real strategizing we accomplished about how to savor, to slow down, to sit at His feet. Not much this time. We were too busy actually savoring the moment at hand.

I’d call that progress.

“Let them eat cake.” ~ Marie Antoinette (reportedly)

Mom’s a master baker, and so was her mom. I love it too, the chemistry of butter and eggs and flour and sugar and leavening agent producing reliably gorgeous results. I guess you could say baking is one of our primary Love Languages.

Grandma Protzmann was old school and never sampled raw batter or dough. She stored cookies in tin coffee cans lined with wax paper, insisting the contents were best a few days old. With reckless abandon, Mom and I take our chances with salmonella or burning our mouths on chocolate chips.

I get to see my mom, who lives three hours away, at Christmas, but I don’t get to spend time with her pre-Christmas. Those days leading up to the 25^th are what my childhood holiday memories are made of, and many of them happened in a yellow kitchen with linoleum floors. I miss mom when I’m baking this time of year.

My father’s mom was quite the baker as well. An early riser, I think she did most of hers at 6 in the morning.   (There’s no such activity in my kitchen at that hour, except for grunting “Grab a bowl of cereal, child.”) The post office loved my Nana in December. An enormous box of carefully wrapped cookies arrived before her plane. We especially had a hard time keeping our paws out of the tin of gingersnaps.

When I make a batch, I’m often asked for her recipe.  I thought I’d share.

Nanny’s Gingersnaps

2  cups flour
2 tsp. baking soda
¼ tsp. salt
1 tsp. cinnamon
1 tsp. ginger
¾ cup butter  (room temperature)
1 cup sugar
1 egg
¼ cup molasses
Additional ¼ cup sugar for sprinkling

Mix flour, soda, salt, and spices.

In a separate bowl, cream butter with mixer. Add 1 cup sugar and cream until fluffy. Add egg and molasses. Add dry ingredients.

Chill at least 30 minutes. Take 1 Tb. or so of batter and mold into balls with hands. (Little hands can help. My kids love the mess.) Roll balls in the ¼ cup sugar. Place the balls at least 1 inch apart on ungreased cookie sheet. Bake at 350 for 15 minutes.

p.s. I almost forgot. I’ve got two words for you: parchment paper. It’s life changing.

The darling of the world is come,
And fit it is we find a room
To welcome him.

The nobler part
Of all the house here is the heart,
Which we will give him; and bequeath
This holly and this ivy wreath,
To do him honour; who’s our King
And Lord of all this revelling.

~ Robert Herrick (1591-1674)

You are not cool unless you have one.

I’m not serious about that. In fact, the last thing I want to do with this list of ways I love Christmas is make anyone feel like they need to nard things up in the same fashion. As they say, scent is a very personal choice.

And let’s not forget those Whos down in Whoville. They made a joyful noise despite their utter lack of ribbons or tags, packages, boxes, or bags. The Whos were nothing short of awesome.

But I find it a little bit awesome and cool to have an Advent wreath hanging in the room where we gather for meals. As we light the candles before dinner (when dinner isn’t from a drive-through on the way to somewhere), I’m reminded of the quiet holiness of the season, and the mystery, and the light coming in the dark.

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Sometimes I think I annoy people with my passion for all things Christmas. And I’m shocked when I come across someone who doesn’t share my (mere) enthusiasm.

A friend wondered out loud yesterday about all the expense and man hours put into decorating for the holiday. Why, even churches deck the halls, she said, when we could be out serving the poor.

I had one word for her: perfume.

Remember the pricey eau de toilette Mary (Lazarus’ sister) poured on Jesus’ feet—and how he defended her seemingly impulsive and wasteful action? I’m here now, said Emmanuel. In other words, bring it on.

Celebrating with all one’s heart is an outpouring, too. He’s coming! The prince who left his palace for a stable, who put on humility for love’s sake—how could this not hold hostage our imaginations? My father always informed merry little me that Easter is the pinnacle of the Christian year, the true ultimate holiday. I remember scooting around under the tree shaking the shiny boxes and smelling Frasier fir, the very odor of anticipation, and him issuing his annual reminder. Love you Dad, but what a buzz-kill.

The mystery and wonder and joy and pathos of the Incarnation is what tickles my look-what-God-did funny bone. The Word broke the silence. He came!

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The first of a few of My Favorite Things is a not a thing, like brown paper packages tied up with strings—although I really like those. Packages are good. No, it’s an attempt at science fiction: the quest for more hours in a day.

 In an effort to freeze time during this golden, glittering month (I told you I annoyed some people), I don’t do anything I don’t have to. Or want to.

I don’t mean I opt out of chores or duties or responsibilities. And I certainly don’t stop washing my hair or putting on make-up. But December teaches me that some things—well, lots of things— can wait.

Like the dentist. My last appointment was in June, but my teeth can go seven months between cleanings, can’t they? And January seems a fine time to visit the vet or the pediatrician or the shoe repair lady. Unpaid traffic tickets, recipes dog-eared to be clipped and filed, and receipts that need to be tossed pile up until the kids go back to school after New Year’s. Switching phone service, changing oil, shopping around for cheaper insurance—these just don’t say to me Let Earth Receive Her King.

I say bah-humbug to unnecessary trips to the store or any trips to the mall. To movies or television shows that don’t warm like a cup of cocoa. (The Spouse is in charge of the Netlix queue. Today a three-hour Nazi thriller arrived in the mail. It’s already back in the box, unwatched.)  And there’s nothing more depressing  than next month’s clean-out-the-clutter, healthy meals magazine covers while I’m in the midst of making messes and batches of fudge.

Of course, this can lead to one glorious muddle come 2012. But it’s good for me to get behind on things, at least once a year. Besides, the December 26 thud is coming no matter what. (More on the thud later. Later is the key!)

After all, you can always think about that tomorrow.