So it's over. Now there's a pile of boxes to be broken down for the recycle bin and a quirky stomach from too much rich food - I hope that's all it is. I'm up early sorting through the memories looking for moments that classify as magical this Christmas. Truth is, the more trips I take around the sun, the less stringent the magic-criteria becomes. These few come to mind.

Shared meals. In family kitchens, in trendy restaurants, in our renovation-pocked house. The ritual of home-made tortillas with my Boy. The invitation to partake of other families' traditions - chicken pie, ziti and meatballs, 10 layer cake, leftovers. Pizza and salad and comfortable friendship in a neighborhood "brewing concern." Asian fusion at it's finest amid books, a brewery and a flower shop. This one caught me by surprise. And quite frankly I was not happy with the choice of this spot. I read the menu online and the only thing that looked remotely compatible with this Southern Girl's biscuits-and-gravy-palate was a house salad - with ginger dressing at that. I was disappointed partly due to the foreign-ness and partly due to having my heart set on the place right down the block that has chicken and biscuits in the name of the restaurant. Hello - my people. I pouted a little then bucked up. Kind experts among us led me to try Peking duck... meh, kinda oily if you ask me, and pork bao... described as a sausage biscuit... no... not at all. That person obviously never had Neese's wrapped in flaky buttermilk perfection. Nevertheless, it turned out to be a great experience. The atmosphere was lovely and it felt like a little adventure. I learned that there is a level of Asian cuisine that rises far above the hot buffet at the Harris Teeter or delivery from the local Ming-Panda-Wok-something at the strip mall up the road. Fresh ingredients and skillful, even loving, preparation go a long way... whether you're making crab Rangoon or chicken and dumplings. Or meatloaf, mashed potatoes and green beans - our Christmas dinner-for-two menu this year. Memorized or unknown recipes, simple or complex flavors, new or familiar kitchens... Unexpected magic.

Conversations. Brief and prolonged - catching up and catching on. Hard, awkward greetings and meetings. Whispered bits across pews and between verses. TV's off and phones turned upside down on the arms of couches, we speak of health and plans for the future. The joy of toddlers and the anticipation - even fear - of upcoming birth. Hopes for our children and ourselves - for repaired relationships, for strengthened ones. Marriages on the horizon and healing from separations. Words spoken among friends, trusting they'll not be repeated in hostile places. The miracle of voice and video that swoop us into the midst of distant celebrations. So real you can hear the crinkle of discarded wrappings and see the somewhat overwhelmed glee of Christmas morning's generosity. A sermon reminding us to be present, to listen earnestly, to make haste for Mary-Elizabeth appointments. For visitations. The cards that were sent and the cards that didn't make it to the mailbox - or even the to-do list. The intention there and always good, though missed by sender and receiver alike. Words that spill out from bruised hands and maybe even bruised hearts. Words that won't come. But for those who dare to try, holy conversations one and all. Heart-to-heart-magic.

Church. Christmas Eve in the sanctuary knee-deep with memories - mostly good. This time, strolling in without a worry for sound systems or sermon notes or the two more services to come before we could go home and finally start our own Christmas - having done our best to create one for others. A touching reminder that Jesus came to interrupt our lives. Yes. Amen. Communion from the hands of young adults who were little kids just a minute ago. Tears falling amid tiny white candles in plastic holders at the singing of Silent Night, Holy Night. Hugs and handshakes accompanied by handbell music in the gathering hall. Predictable magic.

But then this moment, during the retelling of the Little Interrupter's birth story, when a tiny congregant celebrating her very first Christmas cried out on cue. Her Mary-mama shushing her a few rows up. And we smiled in sympathy and wonder as sudden-onlookers in this impromptu live-nativity. All of us a room full of shepherds and kings gathered around an invisible manger. Unpredictable magic. Holy magic even - as unorthodox as that may be.

Available magic... 365 days a year. Epiphanies all over the place. Hiding among the ordinary waiting to be noticed. Open our eyes, Lord. Open our eyes. Selah.

Open my eyes that I may see Glimpses of truth Thou hast for me; Place in my hands the wonderful key That shall unclasp and set me free.

Open my ears that I may hear Voices of truth Thou sendest clear; And while the wave notes fall on my ear, Everything false will disappear.

Open my mouth and let me bear Tidings of mercy everywhere; Open my heart and let me prepare Love with Thy children thus to share.

Open my mind that I may read More of Thy love in word and deed; What shall I fear while yet Thou dost lead? Only for light from Thee I plead.

Silently now I wait for Thee, Ready, my God, Thy will to see; Open my eyes, illumine me,     Spirit Divine!

- Clara H. Scott