For whatever it’s worth, every time I’m in Kansas City and turn on the CNBC Biography channel, I catch “Ray Kroc: The Story Behind the Golden Arches” at least once. And it may be that he is from Chicago or his Czech heritage or maybe my expanding, McDonald’s-esque waistline, but his sassy success and complete domination of America’s appetite reminds me of both my family and Christ’s birth. But before there was Ray Kroc and the McDonald’s brothers, there was the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. And so, last Saturday, it was Christmas.
On the 24th I decided to take the MegaBus from Chicago to Kansas City, a mind’s seed that was planted to piss my Father off who thought it was a terrible idea. By proving him wrong, I proved him right and arrived in Kansas City 45-minutes late, on 2-hours of sleep and with a lovely case of the dossays due to a stale roadside breakfast sandwich.
With the help of a hot shower and a little holiday magic (wink), I headed down to the Kansas City Plaza with a couple of family member for a few Christmas Eve cocktails. Funnily enough, Christmas Eve cocktails mixed with Christmas Eve cold medicine leads to Christmas Eve shots of Jameson at the dinner table and ends with a blacked out me at Christmas Eve midnight mass.
Oops.
So the next morning (Christmas!) I awoke a little sluggish and opened stockings. After we prepared for the rest of the clan to arrive for dinner, drinks and holiday cheer. As a child, Christmas represented a time for carriage rides, gifts and familial goodwill. I am the lucky owner of two amazing grandparents and a special aunt who always went out of their way to make our family Christmases (Christmasi?) the most memorable, the most special and the most magical time of the year. What I am left with are warm, wonderful memories that feel like my very own personal Christmas carol...or coke commercial.
But just like America’s eating habits changed over the years (cue Kroc), so do the holidays as families evolve. Instead of days filled with ice-skating and sugar castle building, things are more quiet and reflective. My Grandparents are aging and with that brings stories of their youth - lessons learned, victories gained, goals achieved and dreams recognized.
Earlier this afternoon I was showing my Grandpa Facebook. We wrote, “Hi Aunt Annie, I’m showing Grandpa Facebook,” on my Aunt’s wall, we commented on the status of a cousin/Grandson and chatted with one of my sisters. “It is a miracle this all happened,” my Grandfather said to me after going through page after page of his family’s online profiles. Before I answered with some praise of Zuckerberg, he finished by saying, “You guys are my miracles. I just can’t believe this all happened to me. I’m so lucky.” And like Jesus unto the world, we are my Grandfather’s miracles, his passion, his joy, his proof that he was here and he did good.
I hope everyone has a wonderful holiday season…and the chance to be someone’s miracle. Merry Christmas.
Posts
