The only time I remember my family turning on the oddly-shaped lights over our fireplace mantel was on Christmas Eve. We gathered in those hours before the celebration and the presents and the big meal and turned them on and read Luke 2:8-14. Just those verses. I don’t remember why only those. It began, no doubt, in my brother’s childhood, before mine began.

A family, a nation, a tribe—whatever community we are part of—needs rituals. The playing of “Hail to the Chief” during presidential inauguration ceremonies—first for the departing President, then for the new one—symbolizes our peaceful transfer of power.

A child’s choosing of a favorite story at bedtime is a ritual that gives comfort before entering the dark hours.

A phrase repeated by a couple, a family, or a group of friends may mean nothing to an outsider but for them it brings memories they enjoy recalling. “Remember Foggy and Sweetheart?” for years reminded my family of the time our car broke down on a lonely country highway at night and a somewhat weird couple answered our call for assistance and fixed the car. Nothing major—just a tingling reminder of black highway uneasiness and the repair that enabled our family to continue our journey together.