Christmas Eve is still one of my favorite days of the year, even though it looks different now than when I was a child. 

As a pastor’s kid whose mother often had worship duties of her own, I had two choices: spend hour after hour at church, sometimes as an acolyte, or stay home to prepare our traditional Christmas Eve meal, oyster stew. If you have to choose between sitting quietly on a hard bench until it’s time to light a candle, or touching raw oysters, the decision isn’t always easy. 

As a child, I tried both. At times I preferred the robes and fire, the pomp and circumstance and permission to go behind the altar to fulfill my sacred assignment. Most years, though, I chose to stay home with my sisters, prepping the soup while Christmas music played in the background. 

I sometimes miss the formality of a traditional Christmas Eve worship, braving the cold in dresses and tights. How we’d watch the candle wax drip down onto the white paper holder during Silent Night. How we’d sometimes come home late enough that it was straight to bed for three girls eager to see what Santa would bring. 

Today, Christmas Eve is much more relaxed, with church at HOPE followed by our annual viewing of Christmas Vacation, during which we all recite the lines from memory. Afterward, our kids go to bed without even a peep, knowing that Christmas gifts are on the line. 

I’m grateful for our family’s new, blended traditions. Now we preserve the faith while somewhat sheepishly allowing our youngest to gleefully say lines like, “Bend over and I’ll show you!” and “Shitter was full!” It’s only once a year, after all. 

Much of my former pastor’s kid life is like Christmas Eve, navigating the ways of the world while sprinkling in the mysteries of faith. 

It’s what I find most joyful about the holidays. The way we’re allowed to keep or let go, to hold on to what matters and create new traditions, too. We’re allowed to swap oysters for Christmas Vacation, and what a blessing that is. I never liked those slimy little things, no matter how much cream and butter I added to the pot. No offense, Mom. 

We’ve relaxed our Christmas Eve apparel, too, as is evidenced by one of my favorite Christmas memories, when Margaret demanded to wear flip flops to church. Spoiler: it was cold outside. She got so worked up that she promptly fell asleep in Mike’s arms and slept the entire service.

I’ve learned, now, Christmas Eve or any old Sunday, that it’s best to let children wear whatever they like to church. Over the years they’ve worn Batman capes and overalls, tights under shorts, and pajama pants. 

We’re open, also, to allowing whatever makes church feel like a place where our kids want to be. One of them has brought nearly her entire bedroom to church, including baby dolls and a full library of books, all manner of stuffed animals and art supplies. Another shows up looking ruffled and sometimes wearing whatever he slept in. But they show up, ready to absorb whatever message they can while also caring for their stuffies—it’s hard work!—or wondering if they can swipe another cookie from the buffet without my noticing.

It seems fitting, this mixing of the secular and religious, and maybe it’s how what started in a stable is able to thrive in homes across the world. We’ve each taken what began in the hay, the dusty yet divine, and over the years have crafted our own rituals. Some are quite complex, and others are all we can manage while working long hours to keep food on the table.

We honor the Christ child when we search for the perfect gift or hang old ornaments on the tree. We mark the season when we light the Advent candles two out of seven nights, never finishing our devotions, but most certainly finishing the chocolate in the Advent calendar. 

Some days we are the shepherds, arriving just as we are, and some days we are the Magi, bringing our best. 

In the end, we do what we can to observe the old ways, while embracing the here and now. We show up in ways big and small, wearing whatever we can manage, and trusting that it will be enough.  

That’s the beauty of what happened all those years ago. It freed us from the have tos and shoulds, from needing to look or act a certain way to earn our peace. We can arrive in flip flops or formal wear and worship the miracle that still promises love. 

This is all to say that I hope today finds you surrounded by the people and things you cherish, wearing whatever makes you happy, and soaking up the spirit of the season. 

Merry Christmas to you and yours, and if you attend service, may you find yourself seated behind a child wearing a cape. Because while nothing screams fire hazard during Silent Night like a flowing synthetic costume, I can’t think of anything more true to the original nativity story:  all of us together, a new group of misfits, delighting in the tiny baby who changed everything.