BEDD #24: Christmas Eve to Remember

I just got back from the annual Candlelight Christmas Eve Service. I don't care if you're religious or not, there's just something wonderful about singing carols with a room full of people holding golden, flickering lights. Since there's been a lot of Stupid Stuff going on in my life lately, I have to be entirely honest and say that this year's Christmas eve was not the best one ever. But that only casts my mind back to the absolute best Christmas Eve I've experienced, which was when I was nine.

I have a bit of a unique family situation, so here's the long story shortened so drastically that it really doesn't do it justice: my parents got married, had two kids, got divorced, decided they wanted to make things work, got remarried. This all happened when I was pretty young. The pastor at my church married my parents (the second time), and was very inspired by the story, so he asked me to speak at our church's Christmas Eve service. I remember being very flattered and honored, but mostly excited that this meant I got to buy a new Christmas Outfit.

I don't know if other people's families do this, but in my house you got to own two fancy outfits: Easter Outfit and Christmas Outfit. The best of frills, ruffles, and hyper-coordinated patterns were saved for these two mile markers in the year. When I found out I'd be speaking at church, my mom agreed to buy me the American Girl Outfit of my Dreams (tm). The top was navy velvet, with faux-fur white trim on the collar and sleeves. Stitched in the front was a silver snowflake, the epitome of finery for a nine-year-old. (Now that I think about it, it sorta looked like Pippin's tunic from Two Towers. Subtly cosplaying as a hobbit... I love little me.) The matching skirt was a white layered tulle number, complete with sparkles and supreme fluffiness. My mom joked that she'd bought eight skirts instead of just one. It was so... beautiful. Thus began my saga of being emotionally attached to pieces of clothing.

The service itself is a blurry memory. I remember sitting down at a computer and discussing what I wanted to say with my dad while he typed it out in a clunky Word 2000. In the sense that children really accomplish anything when their parents are holding their hands in early childhood, I guess I did "write" that speech. Actually giving the speech is a fuzzy memory. I remember my palms sweating a lot, the way they always do when I'm really, really nervous, and I made use of those eight layers of tulle with a lot of hand wiping and nervous-kid-crinkling. People laughed though. I definitely remember that. I made some cute kid joke, and people laughed. My most vivid childhood memories are people laughing at my stories, beginning my now fatal addiction. The man who spoke after me told me that I was going to go far as a writer and a speaker, and said he couldn't wait to see how I'd do in college. I was nine. College?!! Those words, however, stuck with me. The compliments burrowed in my heart, and they have a tendency to resurface in the darkest of times.
There was a lot more to the service than my little speech, and the whole thing had a "Come to the Manger" theme. So although my little testimony was modern and had little to do with the biblical story, there were still shepherds and wise men present on stage. After we each did our piece, we were supposed to turn and kneel by a manager. The Wise "Men" were played by some of the silliest teenage boys in our congregation. Every time I turned to kneel at the manger during rehearsals, they had some joke or stunt prepared to set me off into a giggle fit. The wise man carrying myrrh always joked that he was going to store some kind of snack in his box, like White Castle sliders or Burger King French Fries. Every time they joked about hiding things in the props or manger, it caught me so off guard that I'd shake with suppressed laughter. On the night of performance, he actually put an entire bag of sour gummy worms in the box. Though I was supposed to be kneeling reverently at the baby Jesus, I ate some of the candy while swallowing giggles. It still cracks me up to this day.

Enough cheesy reminiscing... Get to bed, little ones! Santa will be coming soon enough, and there's plenty of Christmas magic to be had tomorrow.