Advent has a way of making me think back, sometimes way back even to college days, and remember.

 

It was Christmas morning, and even before I got out of bed, I knew that the turkey was in the big electric roaster out in the garage, slowly working toward its juicy, golden brown. I had left the “I can’t wait any longer, surely the sun’s almost up” stage of Christmas anticipation behind  years before, but the stockings above the fireplace and the packages under the tree still had their pull on me.

But what was really calling at the moment was the kitchen, where someone I loved more than I had ever told her had already been at work for hours. I knew without even going downstairs that there were pies in the refrigerator, chocolate and banberry and pecan. The cornbread was in the oven on its way to being the first stage of that wonderful dressing that I could already almost taste. The giblets were simmering on the stove, soon to be a rich thick gravy that would blanket my creamy potatoes, and the dough for the rolls was rising in that big bowl on the kitchen counter. There was even a chance that some of it would become sweet, gooey cinnamon rolls filled with syrup and pecans.

Sure, we’d eat dinner around that big oak table in the dining room, but we all knew that the center of this home was that warm, inviting kitchen. Even if they had moved and the surroundings had been different, I would have known . . . it was Christmas morning and I was home.

The anticipation that is Advent reminds me that some morning — maybe not too far off — I’ll wake up up where the surroundings will be a bit different. A place I’ve dreamed of all my life but not yet seen. I guess, to be honest, I really don’t know who’ll be in the kitchen . . . but I’ll know that it’s Christmas morning and I’m home.