Stir-up Sunday and Advent

First Sunday of Advent, and for our family, the first of the (pre-) Christmas season.

Mom was always on the lookout for traditions she could share with us, since she’d grown up with none, and the season of Advent bubbled with choices. She’d found a booklet in the vestibule of Sacred Heart that listed customs around the world for Christmas, so she decided to include many of them at our house.

First Sunday of Advent—Stir-up Sunday, which meant that each of us stirred wishes into the plum pudding batter before it simmered on the stove.

We also had an Advent wreath on the kitchen table with greenery and the four candles—three purple and one pink. First week, purple prophecy candle. Second week, purple Bethlehem candle was also lit. Third week, pink shepherd’s candle, and last week, purple angels’ candle, with all four burning during dinner. Before saying grace, Dad read the appropriate weekly prayers from the booklet.

We had an Advent calendar each year, and took turns opening the days until Christmas. Someone always unpeeled December 25th early to see the Baby around the stable.

Our Nativity set was unpacked, but the sheep and shepherd were placed “in the fields,” not far from the stable. The three wise men were across the room beginning their famous journey, and Mary and Joseph started theirs from another corner. Those figures were moved closer every week until Christmas Eve, when they all waited for the Holy Birth.

Of course, by Christmas morning, the Baby was in the manger. My brothers and I sniggered about Mary and Joseph making the journey on their knees.

Another idea from the booklet was to create a doll-sized manger (half an oatmeal container) for the coming Baby, with straw added from our good deeds. Unfortunately, the bedding rose and fell depending on our behavior, and whether straw was added or removed. On Christmas morning, a baby doll was born, hopefully to a bed soft with hay.

These annual rites gave the season a sparkle.

There were several nights of Christmas cookie baking and decorating, with the finished masterpieces saved in large Tupperware bins between waxed paper layers. We tried to keep our pilfering from being noticeable by rearranging layers until Christmas. Our cool basement made the perfect storage area, although not safe from eager fingers.

The hiding of wrapped Christmas gifts began, but no matter where Mom and Dad stashed my brother Dave’s, he always found them. At least, he was careful about unwrapping and rewrapping the corners to check. I unpeeled and retaped my Flintstone set so many times that year, it was shredded by Christmas morning.

It was always dark, cold, and snowy when we went out to choose the perfect Christmas tree. With a large family, we each scattered to find the winner. Lights around the lot and between rows of waiting cut trees made the darkness and search exciting.

I was surprised every year by how tall the tree was once it stood inside the living room.

“Let it settle,” Dad said, and we inhaled pine perfume as we waited a day for ornaments, lights, and silvery tinsel.

Our ornaments were traditional, too, and we begged for the privilege of putting our favorites on the branches. For years, Dad had bubble lights made with oil, and if not safe by today’s standards, they were glorious to see.

We chose an angel for the top, and I made sure Mom’s childhood construction paper stocking was visible, made for her father when she was in kindergarten.

Years later, when my brother Dave had his annual magnificent tree, he hid a glass pickle in the branches, with the announcement that the first sighting awarded good luck for the year. That drew traffic around his tree Christmas Day.

Christmas Day dinner at my brother’s deserves its own story, and became a tradition for many wonderful years.

Mom gave us small gifts on St. Nicholas’ feast day, December 6th, and again on Epiphany, January 6th, the Twelfth Day of Christmas. We enjoyed the tiny presents, but more important, even then, were recognizing holiday traditions, fresh in my memory all these years later.

Merry Heavenly Christmas, Mom, and thank you for your scrumptious rituals that made the entire Christmas season dance with anticipation.

And our plum pudding wishes always came true.