One Christmas, when I was eight, my parents decided we would travel from Arlington, Virginia to New Haven, Connecticut. My grandmother had died the previous summer, and my mother's siblings wanted to gather at the family homestead for the holiday. My sisters, brother and I made wonderful presents to share with cousins and aunts and uncles. We carved "beautiful" soap figures, wrapped them in washcloths, and tied them with ribbons. We used little metal looms to weave potholders out of cloth strips. These presents were all put in paper bags, placed with luggage on the roof of our Robin's-egg-blue Plymouth station wagon (with fins), and covered with a heavy tarp.

We departed on Christmas morning because my father had to officiate at a few Christmas Eve and Christmas Day services. The seven us piled into the car and headed off toward Connecticut (this was before "the Beltway" and I-95). About a block away, my mother announced that she had forgotten to lock the front door. We returned to the house and made sure the door was secure. About two blocks out on our second try, my sister declared that she might have left the iron on. We returned to make sure everything was cool. Cutting through Washington, D.C., my father stopped suddenly and younger brother, Peter, tumbled backwards and received a gash on the back of his head (this was before car seats). A stop at the hospital emergency room for six stitches and we were on our way - again!

Somewhere on the highway in New Jersey, my sister shrieked, "The presents!!!" We looked out the back window and were horrified to see presents flying off the roof from under the flapping tarp and littering the highway. My father dutifully stopped, and dodging the light holiday traffic, carefully picked up every washcloth-wrapped gift and potholder.

We arrived in New Haven well after dark. The family had delayed the meal for us. We ate and shared presents and were delighted that our aunts and uncles seemed to like our carved soap presents the most. We reveled in the close bonds of family and we slept ever so well that night.

I am not sure how much of this story is factual. I have small snapshots of these events in my head; snapshots that are reinforced and enhanced by the annual retelling of our great sojourn to New Haven.

I wonder how much of the Christmas story is factual, and how much has been embellished just to make it more memorable - angels, shepherds, and magi. Somehow we embellished it so much that we got it in our minds that Christmas had to be perfect. We have to have the perfect tree, the perfect gifts, the perfect family, and the perfect day. But Christmas was not meant to be perfect. It was meant to be imperfect, to celebrate that God-in-flesh came into this world in spite of  (or perhaps because of) our imperfections.

This Christmas, please do not feel pressured to try and create the perfect Christmas. Instead, celebrate the imperfections of Christmas: that Jesus was born in a cattle stall; that humankind is so imperfect that we need a Savior; and that the most memorable times are often the ones in which everything does not go as planned. Happy Holy Days!