As far as I’m concerned, any quest for the perfect Christmas is a mistake.

Ditto that thought, also, when it comes to the perfect Christmas present, the perfect Christmas dinner and any other noun of the season that requires perfect in front of it.

Bring on the frenzy, dish out a little disappointment, tie a lopsided ribbon around the holiday and let’s get on with it. The tree may tilt, the cookies might burn and every sweater has the potential for being too small.

None of that is the point.

I’m convinced this year’s Christmas observance, like all the previous ones, will register for me somewhere in between the best or the worst depending on what I alone bring to the holiday, not what I take away from it.

This year, like all previous, I started my traditional holiday season crabbing when I caught the first Christmas television commercial just around the time we were getting ready for Halloween. Every year I grouse about the commercialization of Christmas and I complain when Christmas ads air before Thanksgiving. Memo to myself: the spirit of Christmas has no start date - one either welcomes and embraces it, or one does not.

I came late to this year’s embrace, but now I’m holding on tight.

For I think the quest for the perfect Christmas always puts you at risk of missing the Christmas that is at hand and ready for the celebrating.

I suppose that the first Christmas ever, if perfectly planned on the human scale, would have somehow commenced with Joseph actually securing a room at the inn. Perhaps an advance reservation, or a generous tip to the innkeeper would have insured clean sheets and a nice view. But as I’ve come to understand, the truly perfect accommodation turned out to be a manger in a stable, not a bed in a hotel room. Perfection was there that very first Christmas, but it had to be discerned by those of us watching, waiting or listening.

For the past 30 years, with one notable exception, my wife and I have made our own family holiday pilgrimage. It is a secular trip involving Macy’s department store on Chicago’s State Street, a visit with Santa at the Cozy Cottage on 5, and lunch at the Walnut Room on the 7th floor. But secular as that sounds, there are profound religious overtones that have made their way into this Christmas holiday tradition and faith and wonder and hope all have put down deep roots.

But none of our pilgrimages have been perfect. Not one.

Our first journey ever to the Cozy Cottage was followed by lunch requiring a table for two. That year daughter Liz was only a couple months old. She didn’t need a chair, but her very presence was enough to kick off the tradition and enlarge the family tent. This year the table was for 9 and it was granddaughter Phoebe, all of 6 months new, who didn’t need a chair but raised the head count nonetheless.

The line for Santa was an hour. The line for the Walnut room even more. The store was hot, then cold. The grandchildren were adorable, some of the time. Granddaughter Julia, age 2 screamed when she met Santa, yet offered him an apologetic “bye-bye” while making exit stage right.

At lunch I scanned the familiar faces seated round our longest Walnut Room table ever. We were a hungry lot, famished really, and tired. Perfection seemed far from this moment. But I’m old enough and wise enough to know that life’s precious moments come without captions printed below them. This was one of them.

The caption below the picture of this Christmas is still mine to write. I will write it with a flourish, big and bold, far from perfect but precious indeed.