Every morning except Christmas morning, my feet padded softly down the hall and to the outlet that powered the Christmas tree lights.

Then I’d touch the little button on the mantel garland and the soft lights shone sweetly.

On Christmas morning, the lights were left on all night before.

I’m thinking about the kindness of my husband’s gesture.

There was no talk of Santa, no cookies and milk for him, no carrots for the reindeer, no late night sneaking of gifts to the living room.

Still, the lights were shining because it was Christmas Eve.

And try as I might, I can’t not remember childhood Christmases. I both cherish them and with tender caution hold hard memories gently.

This Sunday morning, my whole house is quiet as the predicted stormy weather approaches.

As I do very often, I thought of my daughter and son, wondered what they were doing, hoping their days would be good.

I thought of who I am as a mother and what mothering has taught me. Naturally, a list formed.

Mothering

“I love you” has been spoken or typed without reservation .

I can always count on a weather report from my daughter.

I can enjoy dining out with my son.

I’ve learned to expect adventure, a few times I’ve been invited to tag along.

There will always be opportunity to both laugh at myself and to own my weaknesses.

I will never not secretly see them as little children at times and those times are gifts, precious surprises.

The certainty of their giftedness is a gift to me as is the certainty that they were gifted to me by God.

I think about such things.

Likely more so at Christmas. The solitude invites reflection and resulting epiphanies.

This year my tree will be up until January 7th.

Holding on until Epiphany, as I consider Jesus as a child.

For Jesus as child at Christmas and the child still in me as a mother, I’ll keep the tiny lights on.

Longer than ever before.