The Polar Express is one of my all-time favorite stories because I think it best captures the magic of Christmas. My aunt Barbara Jean gave me the book when I was very young and even wrote a little message for me on the first page, which when I was in elementary school didn't make much sense to me, but was supposed to when I grew older - just like the message of The Polar Express.
A quick recap if you don't know the story: a little boy takes a trip via the Polar Express to the North Pole and Santa Claus lets him pick out the first gift of Christmas. He chooses a silver bell from Santa's sleigh. But on the train ride home, he finds a hole in his pocket and the bell is gone. Under the Christmas tree the following morning, the bell reappears - wrapped up under the tree from "Mr. C." The boy and his sister can hear the beautiful ring of the bell, but their parents cannot. It must be broken, they say. The bell, after all, only rings for those who truly believe.
That part gets me every time. Including the other morning as my co-teacher read it to our Kindergarten class. As we read, I couldn't help but let myself revert back to my Kindergarten self (which isn't that hard for me to do) and remember what it felt like on Christmas as a kid. Magic was that feeling on Christmas Eve night, as we rush home after celebrating with the whole family at my grandparents house - will we make it home before Santa arrives?! Dad reading us Twas The Night Before Christmas in funny voices. Opening presents with my sisters Christmas morning, always blown away by the beautiful array of wrapped gifts Santa magically placed out while we were sleeping. Getting the house ready Christmas Day for the guests to arrive and the smell of Mom's cooking throughout the house. My brother was born at just the right time - my sisters and I knew the truth about Santa, but got to keep up the act for my brother. Santa visited my house until I was about 17.
As we grow up, Christmas becomes different. I'm no longer excited about Santa or presents. Instead, I'm excited about going home. Seeing my sisters and brother again. Catching up with my relatives. Feeling like a kid again for 4 days while I sleep in the bed with the quilt my Gramma made me.
I might not have the same type of excitement and anticipation that I did when I was four years old, but the magic of Christmas is still very much there, in new grown-up ways each new Christmas.
This year, there were 9 stockings on our fireplace, our family growing with the addition of my sister's new husband and our dog, Rocky (and of course there's a stocking for our old cat who no one ever really runs into, but she supposedly still lives at our house). And Christmas day started on Friday the 23rd when we all arrived in Agawam again and got to share a nice dinner together before the chaos of the next day. Christmas Eve was at our house this year, with my sisters and I helping my mom with the food. (Well, mostly my sister Lindsey helping with the food, and me providing moral support.) On actual Christmas Day we crammed all seven of us into the car. We all sang along to the carols on the radio and then sang our hearts out to Adele as she oddly popped onto the radio mix.
In that moment, I felt that 5 year old magic again. Because magic when you're a grown up isn't finding Santa's presents under the Christmas tree - it's finding those moments when love and happiness are so present that you can't help but sing at the top of your lungs because you feel how lucky you are.
So with this Christmas season, I leave you with my aunt's hand-written note: As you grow older, may the magic bells always ring for you.
