I grew up in a Jewish household. With a Jewish extended family, and Jewish holidays and traditions and grandparents who would crackalack me on the head about my love for Christmas.
First- to be clear, I loved my upbringing. I loved the snuggly family and the laughter and the sinister plots to call one another out on hilarious things. I loved the traditions and the celebrations and the reflections on what matters most. That boiled down, turns out, to THREE things;
Children. Family. And Education.
We were the center of every family function, we ran circles around every adult, and they took our cute cheeks in their hands and kissed us on the noggins before we bolted off to chase each other again. They told stories, they taught lessons, they made us everything we are today. And I stand proud of that. And I bow my head to thank them for it.
But I had a secret. I did. I had a secret little love affair, with Christmas. The lights, and the magic, and the sleigh bells and the trees. And the snow. And the glitter and the tinsel and the, well, the love.
It’s the love. It’s always been about love. My first three paragraphs taught love. And the fourth gave love this infinitely magical tangible feel.
It wasn’t a competition. Okay, DAD. I haven’t left. I’ll never leave. Yes, DAD, my front yard is heaven on earth right now with inflatable Mickey Mouses and Peanuts characters. The walkway is paved with candy lights. Okay. And my tree, my tree is glowing with history, with red and gold glitter, with ornaments Craig made as a kid. I have a Christmas village complete with a beautiful temple that, for the record, stands the highest of them all. And it brings me joy. And it takes me to a place I can’t quite describe. And that place isn’t incompatible, DAD, with the history-filled lessons of my upbringing. It’s all just love. And family. And here’s why.
It’s what the world needs now, and we know it.