Oh how I wish I could always feel the wonder and awe that little ones feel when they look at lights. I walk past them hurriedly, putting dishes in the dishwasher and scooping up too-small legos off of the floor. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I notice that Sebastian has stopped racing around the floor and he is just staring at the tree.

I breathe deeply and I’m so thankful for those moments when I’m reminded how beauty is simple.

For me, there is nothing like having a little one in your home at Christmas. Sharing things for the first time with my children brings waves of nostalgia. They probably get tired of me telling them about nanny’s pecan pie, grandma’s dining room table with the red velvet carpet, the china cabinet with santa mugs and elves hidden behind the silver, and Whataburger on Christmas Eve. I repeat the stories because they send me so clearly to a time of joy and happiness and love. It’s like I can smell and hear and see those special scenes as if I’m Scrooge peering in Tiny Tim’s window.

I sit back and wonder what stories my children will tell. Will it be looking at Christmas lights with the heater turned up on high and the windows rolled down? Will it be the 22 hour drive to Texas? Will it be this year, the first time we haven’t gone?

Maybe it will be holding the candle at the Christmas Eve service and singing silent night? Maybe it will be the generosity of their grandparents?

Whatever it is, I hope they know, that they made my life beautiful. They made this crazy ride a cycle of sweetness and beauty and hope.