We have an interesting dilemma in our family this year: We can't manage to schedule Christmas.

We have a visiting nephew for whom we want to preserve the rituals of the season, but my husband has to go to work at 7 a.m. Christmas Day, and my father, who suffered a stroke before Thanksgiving, won't be able to start his morning at 5 like we used to, a generation ago. We could move the gift-opening to Christmas Eve, but my brother's family wants to attend church down here in the valley, which will end about the time my family begins to worship up on the mountain, and Dad fades later in the day anyway. My children are trying to fit in celebrations with other families.

Earlier this week, after a long, complicated negotiation, one of my children suggested a compromise: Let's just open presents right now! 

The true compromise has been this: My brothers and their families, gathered for what may be the last Christmas with my father, will open gifts in their hotel rooms on Christmas Eve.

My husband and children and I will open gifts in our own home early on Christmas morning. Then the kids and I will go off to the big community dinner, serving up grace and peace along with 900 plates of turkey and all the trimmings. That has been our Christmas observance as long as the children can remember. It began as a small dinner for those who were hungry and alone, as no one should be on Christmas Day or any other day, to teach our children that there's more to Christmas then the frenzy of opening packages and then asking, "Is that all?" It's not. Every year there is more need, and every year it is met with more generosity from our community.

Then we'll return home for the real family gathering, late in the afternoon, a sit-down meal of tamales and a sedate exchange of gifts with Grandma and Grandpa. That's manageable for them. All I have to do is lead the midnight candlelight service, 50 miles away through the snow, hop out of bed early, manage dinner for hundreds and then serve dinner at my house for another 20. 

It's a dance. We gather in one configuration, decked in our Christmas finery, for a flurry of bright wrapping paper under the lights of the Christmas tree. Then we separate and gather in another configuration under the bright lights of a community kitchen, knives flashing as we bone turkeys, dozens of volunteers moving in set patterns around the floor. Back at home, we gather around our table, heads of white hair, salt-and-pepper hair (which I prefer to think of as stylishly highlighted), blonde hair, raven-wing black hair, and at least one shiny pate, bowed over an embarrassing array of food, at least one favourite for each person there.

But here is where it starts for me: In a mountain church where worshippers who don't come at any other time listen reverently to the lessons and exuberantly sing the carols. At the end of the service, I lift the Christ candle from the center of the Advent wreath and light candles held by the ushers, who will walk down the aisle, sharing the light.

Only I, in the pulpit, can see the three-dimensional spread of light, handed down from on high, spreading horizontally like the beam of a cross, and then extending in the shape of a Christmas tree, broader near the chancel, growing until the sanctuary is filled with enough light that the once-a-year worshippers can see the words to "Joy to the World!" printed in their bulletins.

As they sing, they file out, dozens of people carrying the light. It reflects off the snow in that town where there are no streetlights. It echoes the stars, and nowhere in the world are more stars visible than on this cold, silent night above that mountain.

That is religion in its purest form: Believers echoing, in this world, the word and will of the Creator. Good tidings of great joy. Peace on earth and good will toward all. "Love one another as I have loved you," reflected in all the colours of light with food and gifts and service throughout our communities.

May you dance in the light.