In DEAR SISTER, which releases in paperback on January 28th, Michelle Horton battles the criminal justice system to release her incarcerated sister after she kills her longtime abuser. Since the book’s hardcover publication earlier this year, Michelle’s fight, alongside a tireless network of supporters, has resulted in Nikki’s release from prison. In her holiday blog post, Michelle recalls much simpler times --- when she and her sister would hear their father read a Christmas classic to them every December 24th. It’s a tradition that Michelle has kept alive, even in the midst of all that her family has endured these last few years.
My sister and I often joke that we had two different childhoods within the same house --- except on Christmas Eve. On that day, our experiences overlapped into one reality.
We always spent the evening at church, singing hymns and holding candles. Then, driving home in the dark, we would squint toward the sky from opposite ends of the back seat, looking for evidence of magic. At home, we put on matching Christmas pajamas before setting out cookies and milk for Santa (and a few carrots for the reindeer). Before we went to sleep, often in the same bedroom, our Dad would walk over to the Christmas tree --- decorated in white lights and heirloom family ornaments --- and pluck off a small book bound in a deep maroon leather with cursive gold writing: ’TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS.
Nikki and I already would be on the couch, wrapped in blankets and anticipatory excitement. Our Dad would sit between us and open the teeny tiny book, small enough to blend in as an ornament. In its own kind of magic trick, when he opened what appeared to be a toy book, the full illustrated poem was inside.
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house / not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse…
That was the tradition, the ritual. Looking back, it almost felt like an incantation, as if Christmas couldn’t begin without our Dad speaking magic into the house.
That book became woven into the fabric of Christmas memories. So much so that, decades later, our Dad would drive to my apartment every Christmas Eve and read the book to my son, his grandson. (We had to get a larger book, with larger print for his aging eyes.)
And years after that, when our lives unraveled and I suddenly had to raise my sister’s kids along with my own --- back when my niece and nephew were devastated to spend the holiday without their parents, and required all of the Christmas spirit I could muster --- our December 24ths ended the same way: with that book, and that story.
There’s something comforting about reading those timeless words before each and every Christmas --- a reminder that all past versions of myself existed in this time frame, from the over-stressed caregiver in family crisis, back to the little girl with thick bangs, a red plaid nightgown, and small feet dangling off the edge of the couch. There’s warmth and familiarity in that famous poem. Not because of the story, but because of the feelings imbued in those words.
I only hope that when our kids open that book as adults and read the words to their own children, they’ll feel the familiar tingling of Christmas magic that never fully leaves us.
