Christmas Day of 2011 finds me with some moments to reflect upon the events of the past year, events which have brought hardship and, indeed, death to my family, events which have also brought new life. For purposes of such reflection, I have taken a seat in a guest bedroom of my wife’s parent’s house, my position allowing me to gaze out at the winter branches of the woods behind their North Georgia home. An intermittent rain spits from a grey sky, forming droplets, which cling temporarily to the bare branches before completing their journey to the cold, adhesive Georgia clay. There is, in this scenery, a beauty best enjoyed from indoors, and it is evident from the sounds elsewhere in the house that the other family members who have gathered for the holiday have contented themselves with indoor pursuits.
This pilgrimage to my in-law’s home has become a Christmas tradition in the twenty years my wife and I have been married. To be precise, I believe 18 of our 21 married Christmases have been spent with them. Though the city and state of my in-laws’ residence has changed and though the cast of characters who gather in their home has evolved, the fun of spending Christmas in a big house surrounded by the smell of food, the laughter of games, and the thump of excited little feet on the stairs is a Christmas tradition that continues to call us back year after year. So it is that this view of the bare winter branches upon North Georgia hillsides is familiar to me. It is a part of who I am, and the life I have led, the familiar curse of Interstate 75, followed by the blessing of family.
