The Gift
I remember one particular Christmas when at the tender age of 12, my aging grandmother presented me a gift.
I remember one particular Christmas when at the tender age of 12, my aging grandmother presented me a gift.
Many years ago, when I was younger and a much less experienced gifting advisor to St. Nick, a rock tumbler appeared under our Christmas tree.
This morning, our tree lights went out. I checked each strand. I even double checked them in different outlets. No luck.
Pause for a minute to think about your traditions. What are your family traditions?
It’s hard to avoid Christmas music, and we don’t completely shun it, but when we do find albums that stick to an Advent theme, they will get heavy play in our home.
Ever wonder why certain animals were depicted in that manger scene besides reflecting the cultural context of the era Christ was born?
As Advent dawns, I can feel my stress level rising. It’s easy to get caught up in the busyness and to forget the reason for the season.
The shout of “I see the steeples!” brings more than a silly adrenaline rush now; it brings the nostalgia of feeling entirely safe and known.
My home parish is located in a small town in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. It wasn’t one that is obviously aesthetically beautiful. Its community life wasn’t notably stellar. Growing up, I would have never described myself as particularly attached.