The Christmas tree

I can confidently say that one of the main reasons why I love Christmas today has everything to do with my parents. Quite inadvertently they created an environment of magical expectations for my sister, my brother and I when we were children, that has followed me since.

I remember a million details. The Christmas tree. The twinkling lights. The silver glass balls and tinsel, cascading from the top. The star of Bethlehem, presiding the entire thing, dipped in silver sparkles. The tiny presents hanging from a few branches - so shiny and full of promise, as they innocently adorned the tree. And the few Santas and Reindeer, scattered around and perhaps in full opposition with the Nativity set that rested on a mantel. After all, this was Spain: a fervent Catholic country, even in the heart of Catalonia's main city.

Barcelona was largely a city of migrants when I was growing up, who were well established in some of the biggest neighborhoods of the Ciutat Comtal. As such, it held the religious traditions of Spain more abruptly than today. Francisco Franco had died in 1975 and I was born a year later. A lot of the old and corrosive Catholic environment still prevailed at large, while Spain as a whole tried to figure out who we were as a nation, now that the dictator that oppressed us all was finally gone. My parents' heritage came from Andalusia, the devoted southern Catholic Autonomous Community. The irony however rested in the fact that even though my father had made the decision of not raising his children in the church that he considered to be in conflict with God - and never placed us in Bible study classes - he still honored God in a very subtle way, opposing Santa and embracing the three Wise Men and the person of Jesus. It took a few years of my childhood for my Dad to accept any type of Santa Claus decoration in his home, as long as the Son of God was always there too.

Speaking of Santa, while Americans heavily celebrate the coming of Saint Nicholas every Christmas morning - when presents are finally under the trees and the whole family gets to open them together - for Spain and all throughout my childhood, the children waited for the morning of January 6 to get the presents the Three Wise Men had brought to them all the way from the ancient lands of the Orient, on their camels. Americans think of reindeer the same way we thought of camels - a tradition that is still alive to this day. The night before Christmas, Spanish children did not concern themselves with impressing a jolly gift provider by going to sleep early; when I was a chid, instead, we were concerned with Melchior, Gaspar and Balthasar - and their hungry camels. We had no idea how they got up the buildings and delivered presents. We only knew that they were magical and that they had visited Jesus Himself in the manger the day that He was born. Talk about butterflies in the tummy. The Biblical Magi visited my parents' humble apartment every year without exception when I was a kid. It was quite something. My parents really struggled and worked harder than ever when I was growing up because our innocence was at stake - and somehow we always had enough presents under the tree, to where we never wondered of the authenticity of the Kings, nor whether or not we were worthy of love, not even when we also received coal every single year. I did not know then how amazing my parents were, how they balanced the good and the bad, how they encouraged their three children even in the midst of their own lack. I truly hope I am honoring them by raising my daughter in a similar fashion.

There was a Dia de Reyes (Day of the Magi) tradition in our home. Every early January 6, us kids had to wait for our parents' permission to leave our rooms, in order to go see the presents. Our bedrooms were on the opposite side of the apartment, and my parents' bedroom was right next to the living room. A hall and a door separated the presents from us. Once we got the verbal okay from our parents, which traveled down that hall before 8 am, we were to walk backwards, so that our backs would reach that living room door, where our parents waited to open it for us. Once open, we slowly turned around and screamed with joy at the sight of the Christmas presents that laid under the tree and on the couch. I have to say, I was never disappointed. They tried so hard to make us happy at Christmas. They succeeded every single time for me.

Christmas also brought our whole family in Barcelona together. We all lived in the same neighborhood and spent quite a bit of time together every month, but Christmas was different. Christmas meant champagne for the adults and plenty of turrón for the kids. It meant traditional Spanish Christmas carols and laughter. It meant "let's try to get along this time". It meant long dinners and longer discussions while the kids - the cousins - played and watched the Christmas specials on TV. It meant family, more than any other gathering throughout the year. My uncle Rafael and my Dad would sometimes disagree, and some argument would start; or my uncle Julián would have something unkind to say to my uncle Antonio and words would fly; or maybe my mother would disagree with my aunt Mary, and they would discuss it over a cup of coffee. Christmas somehow meant that all bets were off and all inhibitions were lost. Someone would vow to never get together again, but sooner or later they would - a dysfunctional dance my cousins and I fortunately have not decided to dance with each other. And in some level, it represented the love of our entire family - the being comfortable enough to tell someone off; the caring for each other so much that everybody had to show up or else people would go looking for them to their own home; the knowing what each of them enjoyed on their plates, and making it possible to be all together, eating together, singing together, laughing together. We often met at aunt Mary and uncle Rafael's home for Christmas. I remember those days with a longing I can't quite explain. Family truly is everything to us, Spaniards. I was blessed and fortunate to have and enjoy a large one for many years, and to have a childhood that although challenged in some respects, it did have the grace of God poured down on me at Christmastime.

Last but most certainly not least, I remember laying under the Christmas tree at home, and staring at the sparkles of the decorations and the tree lights. I used to imagine the little chipmunks from the Disney movie running through the branches and staring at our sparkly balls, enlarging their faces in the reflection of the glass. I felt so much happiness under that tree. It was a fake one that stayed with us for many years. It embodied everything I thought happiness was. It was sturdy. It was loyal - having lasted that long! It was beautiful. It was simple and yet deep in truth and context. It was magical, with or without the decorations on it. It was part of the family. He is possibly the reason why I cannot connect to real Christmas trees. They can't stay in the family forever.

Looking back I realize that my parents made this possible, and I can never thank them enough. Today I believe in God and I believe Jesus was born in a stable according to prophecy, and that He lived among us and died to save the world. I believe that Christmas is far more than decorations and presents under a tree. I believe that celebrating the birth of Jesus means celebrating everything that is good and honorable and true. I believe that the Savior brings families together because He Himself is our family. And I believe that I love Christmas because my parents taught me to, knowing that someday I would understand.

I understand.

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