A little bit of this, a little bit of that and a few things I learned on the way to someplace else.

Her fleece was white as snow

I’ll confess my heart skipped a beat when I heard that my granddaughter, the princess, would be a little lamb in her first church Christmas program. There was a whole flock of lambs, as a matter of fact, and each one a perfect vision. The costume crew should have been elevated to sainthood on the spot.

I admit I swooned at the sight of my favorite little lamb, her halo of curls peeking out from a fleece as white as snow. But her big brothers, miscast as angels, would have none of that.

I overheard them teasing.

“Tatum had to take off her pants in church,” the older one taunted.

“No pants, no pants,” the younger twin chorused.

Unaware that the little lambs had been instructed to wear only black tights, I was briefly concerned.

“Why didn’t you wear pants?” I asked the princess.

It must be awful to have a clueless grandmother. She looked me up and down, sorrowfully.

“Because lambs don’t wear pants,” she said.

Oh. Right. Of course.

I knew that.

A poet’s mind, mouth

With all the balmy nights this month, we picked the coldest night of the year to take our annual trek to the beloved Christmas carousel in Valley, Ala. Shivering or not, the grandchildren love this little pilgrimage, and so do I. There’s nothing like climbing aboard a “galloping” horse on a merry-go-round to make you feel like a kid again.

As we left the Valley Sportsplex, new home of the historic carousel, we climbed a hill and looked down on the carousel, its bright lights and circus tent-style top twirling, twirling. I struggled for a phrase worthy of the spectacular scene.

My grandtwin, Aaron, had no such difficulty.

“Grammar, it looks like a painted tornado!” he exclaimed.

It did. It did.

Perfect imagery from a 5 year old.

Wonder if that’s how Robert Frost got his start?

Greatly exaggerated

For years, our church has offered the opportunity to place flowers in honor or in memory of loved ones at Christmas. It’s a time-honored tradition, one I’ve always appreciated.

Each year, as I read the names of those recognized, I fight back a secret, selfish longing. Wouldn’t it be nice if, just once, someone honored me?

Well, it happened. It finally happened.

Trouble is, I had to die first.

Yep, in the most recent church bulletin, there was my name - smackdab in the middle of the “in memory” list. My husband’s name, too. And my mother’s.

It must have been a terrible accident. Our whole family got wiped out!

You’d think the newspaper would have reported it.

I learned of my demise while dropping off a Christmas gift at a friend’s house. “We were sorry to see that you died,” she said, grinning.

‘Do I look that bad?” I asked, hastily running my hand through my hair.

As one who’s made her share of goofs in print, I hold no blame.

In fact, it was great for a laugh. And a lift.

I really don’t look bad at all - considering that I’m dead.

The babe, in living color

Our grandtwin Aaron has the memory of a whole herd of elephants. That boy can rarely find his shoes or coat but never forgets anything he’s seen or heard.

I should have remembered that and trusted him when, at Fantasy in Lights, he rambled on and on about watching the Nativity scene “until it turns colors.”

“What’s that boy thinking?” I was thinking as the glowing scene neared its climax. The beautiful Callaway Gardens’ spectacle tells the Nativity story in white lights. Thousands of white lights. Nothing but white lights.

Just then, boom! The music soared - and suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of heavenly colors - blue lights and gold, reds, greens and royal purple, all shining rapturously beneath the great yellow star.

“We can go now,” Aaron said, tugging my arm. “It’s turned colors.”

And so it had. And so, I realized, that little boy had captured the very essence of Christmas, without even realizing it.

Every year, Christmas colors our weary world, bathes it in brilliant, holy beauty - if only we watch long enough.

This Christmas, as you revisit Bethlehem, don’t rush off. Sit in the silent night. Wait in the heavenly peace.

Until it turns colors.

Andrea Lovejoy can be contacted at alovejoy@lagrangenews.com