I am at the end of my rope.

More precisely, I am at the end of my string of Christmas lightings.

The bright lights of Christmastime are officially “off.” I know because I just walked outside in the sunny cold (39 degrees Fahrenheit in Dallas) and switched the timer to the “off” position. It is with a sad joy that I report this so. Last night was Twelfth Night, and the end of my lighting season.

Twelfth Night is an old night. In ancient Celtic tradition, it was the ceremonial end of the winter festival that began with All Hallows Eve, our Halloween, and ended with the celebration of Twelfth Night. In the north of old Europe, it was the solstice time of waning sun, short days and long dark nights. “In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan, earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone; snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow, in the bleak midwinter, long ago.” Those words are from the poem “In the Bleak Midwinter” by Christina Rossetti, which she penned around 1870. Christina felt the days well and records honestly why there was need to celebrate.

The ancient winter festival was a way to lift the spirits and retreat from the cold touch of days, to pretend things were upside down, to make believe a peasant could be king, a seamstress queen and the days brighter and warmer. Which is exactly what the celebrants did. They baked a cake, a King Cake. In that cake was placed a bean and a pea. The man whose slice held the bean was crowned king. The lady who felt the pea was found queen. The King Cake is a very old tradition. It is today the origin of the cakes consumed in wait for Mardi Gras, Fat Tuesday, and the beginning of Lent.

The traditions of yore become the traditions of today — in their way.

Twelfth Night is also the traditional date to commemorate the arrival of three wise men at a stable in Bethlehem. Following a star two thousand years ago, the weary travelers found a baby in a manger. The magi bowed and presented gifts of myrrh, frankincense and gold. After celebrating the night, the kings woke in the morning, mounted their camels and headed back East. In western tradition, the arrival of the three kings is titled King’s Day, or Epiphany. The Epiphany is celebrated twelve days after Christmas, twelve days after the birthday of the little king the three kings found hidden in Bethlehem under a star.

I start my count of the twelve days of Christmas on the day after Christmas. In this manner, Epiphany and Twelfth Night were, for me, yesterday. Last night, January 6, 2015, marked the end of my Christmas season, and the last night I lit the house.

That night long ago, when three kings visited, I was not there, that night.

I believe it was a strange night for those royal visitors, a night when three majesties saw things turned upside down, a night when the mighty bowed to a humble peasant child, a night when, rich as their gifts were, the three magi knew in their hearts they were not enough.

There is a comfort there, as I leave this year’s decorations, a comfort that echoes in the parting words of Christina’s poem: “What can I give him, poor as I am? If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb. If I were a wise man, I would do my part. Yet what I can, I give him – give my heart.”

There, I wish, it always will be Christmas — and well lit.

Grandpa Jim