Searching through the attic, I was scavenging through an immovable box of Christmas decors looking for the pretty and sparkling ornaments from years gone by, when, in the midst of the pile I stumble across "the book." As soon as I saw it a smile crossed my lips. Wonderful memories of Christmas' gone by come flooding back. In my thoughts, I see my mother getting together our family to read an all-time favorite story.

This family practice started when I was only 8-years old and continued further well into my teens. My mother would gather us all into the family room with the fireplace lit and lights glowing on the Christmas tree. Peace and tranquility diffused throughout our house as we huddle together under the weight of the family quilt. It was at that moment when my sister and I would earnestly look forward to the opening words; the beginning of a cherished tale from our most prized collection of much-loved Christmas stories.

There was something heartening about this meticulous practice. We could barely linger for my mother to bring out "the book" each December. Year after year, this ritual was carried out in our home and every year the stories became more important to me.

Even when I became a full-grown teenager, I still adore it when my mother brought out the favorite Christmas book. It filled me with a deep sense of happiness and bonding. As I matured, the stories became richer as I started to understand their meaning. Immersed in tradition, understanding, morals and ethics, the stories gave me a new understanding about the importance of life, love, family, friends and spirituality. As I started unfolding my own personal hopes, dreams and desires, the stories took on a fresh layer of importance. It was happening gradually, but one Christmas,

I recognized that as I was growing, the stories had somehow matured with me. Now embedded deep within my soul their well-made skillful sentences had become deeply rooted with significance in my life. Back when I was a young girl, I simply loved the enchantment of the stories; as a young woman, I could more eagerly relate to the marvel and struggle the characters have stumble upon.

Fortunately, my mother understood that children will never outgrow the yearning to hear a story read aloud. She had a good judgment that we loved listening to her soothing voice. Listening to her fill the literature with life and passion gave each of us an inspiration to become skilled in training our voices, empowering us to learn how to articulate heart-felt passion.

So, as another season draw near, "the book" is once again being unpacked. My heart is appreciative for the well-built family traditions I grew up with, my soul is looking forward to the awakening of the real Spirit of Christmas. The child within me is dancing with anticipation, wondering which one of these "wonderful" Christmas tales I will read to my children this December. May all of us experience a blessed Christmas every year.