Christmas Eve always holds a unique magic. The air crackles with excitement, a palpable energy that seems to build throughout the day. In my Little Rock days, the ritual was the same: a frantic, exhilarating shopping spree on Christmas Eve itself. Local stores in Little Rock transformed into bustling, chaotic wonderlands, a sensory overload of twinkling lights, festive music, homemade egg nog, and the collective anticipation of the holiday. While undoubtedly chaotic, there was a certain charm to the last-minute scramble, a shared experience of the joy and stress of the season.
The aroma of pine needles, gingerbread, and roasting turkeys wafted through the air, a comforting symphony that evoked memories of warm kitchens and cozy gatherings from my childhood. Even my children, usually masters of mischief once school was out, would exhibit a surprising degree of good behavior, as if subconsciously aware that their actions might jeopardize their chances of receiving Santa’s approval.
The truth is, the anticipation often surpasses the reality. As a child, I yearned for a shiny new Schwinn bicycle and a Mickey Mantle baseball glove to no avail. Every year, we all harbor desires that may remain unfulfilled, yet the dreams themselves hold a special kind of magic. For years, my own elusive dream has been a rugged pickup truck, a symbol of freedom and adventure.
This concept of anticipation resonates deeply with the story of the Messiah. The Jewish people, yearning for a powerful king to deliver them from oppression, likely envisioned a figure of grandeur and authority. Instead, they were blessed with a humble carpenter, a baby born in a manger. In this instance, the reality, the true gift, far exceeded any preconceived notions or expectations.
As Christmas Eve draws to a close, I will settle by the fireplace, once Suzy has drifted off to sleep, and reflect upon the year’s blessings. This cherished tradition, a quiet moment of gratitude, transcends the material gifts beneath the tree. It’s during these introspective moments, when I contemplate the kindnesses received, the challenges overcome, and the enduring love in my life, that I truly understand why Christmas Eve holds such a special place in my heart.
My mom was born on Christmas Eve – happiest day of my grandmother’s life as her eldest child, 6-year-old Davis Hudson, had died a few days before from whooping cough. He was apparently one of the happiest children anybody knew and amidst all the sadness my mom was a clear point of newfound joy. Fast forward some 28 years and I was born; long story short, a great uncle (quite wealthy) desperately wanted me to be a namesake so I went home unnamed. Mom just could not see me as Kemper Pernay Liles and came up with naming me for the brother she never knew. She was a very smart woman and I am grateful although I always teased her that Kemp or K.P. was something I could have lived with for a great fortune!
Downside is that unless we organized it ourselves, my dad, brother and I never really had birthday parties!
Kay and I went to Holden Beach today and had a caramel pecan cinnamon roll to die for birthday party in honor of my mom – Rachel Hudson Liles who would have been 114! Thank you, MOM.