I packed away the Christmas decorations this week. We once had a larger tree in our larger house, circled by gifts for our larger family. Now we have a simple tabletop tree by the window. Ben was excited when we brought it in from the garage. “Twee!” he crowed at the sight. “Ho Ho!” For the month of December he finally set aside asking for his birthday (he will be 32 in June) to focus on gifts and lights and the anticipation of a visit from his beloved brother.

Here, on the backside of Christmas, he carefully handed me each ornament to nestle back into their boxes for another year. They are Danish porcelain, a tradition in honor of my mother’s heritage and the Christmases of my childhood.

Every year my father, mother, sister and I dressed in our best clothes and climbed into our station wagon on Christmas Eve, traversing the southern California freeways to join the exuberant celebrations of my mother’s extended family.

No matter who hosted the gathering, the tree would be strung with garlands of little Danish paper flags, and traditional blue porcelain plates would be proudly displayed on the walls.

I dared not enter the kitchen, where the older generations of women, apron-clad, stirred and fussed over the traditional Danish red cabbage and dark brown gravy. My mother was there too, hair freshly styled and pearls peeking out over her apron as she arranged the place settings just so. I preferred the back room, where the men, dapper in ties and suitcoats, argued over the football games playing on the small black and white television.

We were a loud family, full of strong women and their men, some from the old country, some born in the new. I knew that at some point I would be called upon to give an account of myself to Aunt Betty and field questions about school and boys. At Aunt Elsa’s house, I eyed the Danish porcelain figurines on her coffee table, being sternly warned against touching. At Aunt Alice’s, I stared, fascinated, at Uncle Otto’s unlit cigar always present between his fingers. At Aunt Helga’s house, I could expect to find Uncle Al out in his vegetable garden. “How do you like dem apples?” he would ask in that lilting Danish accent, proudly surveying the rows of cucumbers and cabbage as I fingered the tinsel strung up to keep the critters away.

At meal times I sat at the children’s table and listened, rapt, as my older sister and cousins told stories of high school adventures, desperately hoping that none of the adults would insist that I eat the cabbage being passed around behind the mashed potatoes. “Tak for maden” we were taught to say, “Thanks for the meal.” Later, in addition to the traditional pie, we nibbled vaniljekranse cookies and a creamy dessert called floderand.

My Danish relatives came through Ellis Island in the early 1900s and quickly made their way in their new country, learning the language and working their trades. I wish I had asked them for their stories, but never gave it a thought, so accustomed was I to the sounds of their heavily accented voices filling the house, and later lulling me to sleep as I lay among the coats and purses in the spare bedroom.

A few decades later I became the holiday host, not to my Danish relatives but to the rest of the world, our table now circled by students from around the globe: China, Korea, Mexico, Bulgaria, Thailand, Azerbaijan, Germany, Taiwan, Macedonia, South Africa, Australia, and others, all of them bringing their life and laughter and questions to share. Our children never knew a holiday without teenagers from around the world sharing them with us, just as I had never known one without my boisterous Danish family.

Those sweet days are over now. Gone are the years of an overflowing table and a house full of chatter. Gone too are the Danish Christmas Eve parties. Now the three of us—Bill, Ben and I—are the ones invited to join in other families’ celebrations. Now we are the ones others make room for, just as we added chairs to our table in days gone by.

This week as I packed away the Danish ornaments from our little tree, I remembered those days and those voices. I finished the last few vaniljekranse lovingly baked and mailed by my sister, who shares those sweet distant memories with me. And I thanked God for my heritage and my family, and for those I count as family.

Like me with my Danish family, our children also grew up in the culture of a distant country. Not of earth, but of heaven. They learned the vocabulary of grace, and were kin to others who shared a life that stood out from the world around them. We taught them about their familial ancestry, but also explained that they were part of a more ancient lineage, one holding out a bright and living hope in this darkening world.

I pray that those ways provide more than fond memories of times past, tucked away like snapshots in a shoebox. That they aren’t only remembered on special occasions. I pray instead that their words bear the accent of heaven, and their hearts follow the narrow, blessed way, looking ahead with joy to the beautiful country awaiting us.