Reviving Catholic tradition at Christmas time

Michael Matt has a lovely piece at The Remnant on the tradition his father kept alive and that he now observes with his seven children.  Here’s an except, but go read the whole thing.  It’s marvelous:

It all began in Advent, when my seven sisters and brother were expected to prepare for the coming of Christkind(pronounced Kris-Kint). Under Mother’s watchful eye, we’d fashion a small, makeshift manger that would remain unoccupied until Christmas Day. As Advent progressed, good deeds were encouraged on a daily basis; and each time it was determined that a good deed had been done, one piece of straw was placed in the empty manger—the idea being that Advent was a time to prepare a bed on which the Baby Jesus could sleep when He arrived. Under the rules of the old custom, the practice of virtue was an essential part of a child’s preparation for Christmas.

Each night after supper, the lights would be turned down while Advent Wreath candles were lit. The haunting strains ofO Come, O Come, Emmanuel would be lifted (somewhat awkwardly, I suppose) on the voices of children. Shadows and flickering flames played on faces across the dining room table, making it easy for a child to imagine that he sat with the Israelites of old waiting for the Messiah to come.

As the four weeks passed seemingly as slowly as those four thousand years, one question became constant: “Have my sacrifices been enough to please Christkind?” And thus the weeks of Advent were spent in preparation and waiting…as they should be.

Gradually, the empty manger would fill with straw as the stage was set for a celestial Visitor.

On the evening of December 23rd, my father would hang a curtain over the doorway of our living room, which, if that straw was piled high enough, was to be transformed into the “Christmas room” by the Baby Jesus Himself in the middle of the night.

Then, it was off to sleep.

The Christmas Eve mornings I remember so well are marked by a combination of joy and wonder. Children still in their “jammies” could scarcely whisper the words to a curiously exhausted mother: “Did He come?”

All day long, we weren’t allowed to go near the curtain, lest one of us should succumb to the temptation to “peek”, which would be to risk the instant disappearance of whatever Christkind may have brought. A lifetime of self-discipline was taught between dawn and dusk on Christmas Eve—the very last day of waiting.

After a day of chores, naps, and helping with the house cleaning, the anticipated hour of 7 o’clock would finally arrive.

The children would gather in the back room and sing Christmas carols in candlelight as our mother would read aloud the story that always began the same way: “And it came to pass in those days that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus…” We listened as Father disappeared into the “Christmas room” to take down the curtain and see to the final arrangements for the holy ritual. Only he was worthy to “take over” for Christkind.

The wait seemed interminable. Then, all at once, his voice would call out from the darkness: “Come children, Christkindhas come.”