I started this in a properly foul Scrooge-like mood, and now
am trying to finish it with a blistering migraine, after early morning medical
tests. ‘Tis the season, ho, ho. ho.
Why do I find it a chore to address Christmas cards? Part of
it is that I misplace the addresses and have to search them out one by one. Also,
I never seem to find a card with which I am happy but matches my cheap nature
in seeking out a bargain in cards. That in itself brings a memory. My mother
would always look at the back of a card immediately and sneer, cheap card, if
it were not a Hallmark card with gold somewhere on it. Some of the folks on my
list, when I can find it, are gone, some by death, or dementia, or the sad
distance that time and forgetfulness brings to all.
On the other hand, I do not find planning Christmas dinner
nearly as taxing as Thanksgiving. In our family, the major work was for
Christmas Eve vigil in a Polish household, but we had a big traditional
Christmas dinner on Christmas. I recall with fondness making my first plum
pudding because our eldest wanted it after reading Dickens. I followed the lead of my aunt and tried to
meld different ethnic traditions into Christmas for our daughters, mostly with
food. After our divorce, I never saw them on Christmas Day, but they were
wonderful about having an early or late Christmas. As our eldest said, “what’s
to complain; two Christmases are fine with us.”
I recommend one of my Advent disciplines. I search for Christmas
poems and stories for adults and most especially in illustrated children’s
books. Once again, we are so blessed to have the well-stocked Hayner libraries
for access to Christmas treasures. Following A Christmas Carol, good Christmas
books always have a note of gloom. For those touched by the Great Depression,
an Orange for
Frankie is great. Few books demonstrate the care of thoughtfulness in a family
more strikingly. Jonathan Toomey has
been made into a movie, but it may well be the most beautifully illustrated
children’s book I have ever seen. I read it to a group of clergy and Janet
Riley borrowed it for her children’s sermon. Almost without fail, I re-read
Truman Capote’s, A Christmas Memory, also made into a movie. People my age
member him as a lisping talk show guest, but you will be hard-pressed to find a
more elegantly written piece than this memoir of a rural youth that ends in a
captivating mystical vision. (I just had to go for testing at the hospital and
re-read it and was embarrassed that it brought tears to my Scrooge-like eyes
yet again.)
I wish to thank the Grandpa Gang for the labors it takes to
make Rock Springs
Park
Why are folks so determined to have pictures with Santa but
do not consider entering a church to celebrate the birthday of the Messiah? We
have some danger in the Santa image, as so much of it can apply directly to the
image of God. As children grow skeptical, that same skepticism can apply to the
divine. Often, we neglect to rebuild a sense of wonder and new understanding
when their childlike notions are dismissed. My prayer is that we can recapture
that spirit and see this as a time when we display the best in us, that we fill
the invisible stocking of The bishop’s Wife movie with deeds that fit the
season, of gentle, kind, compassion.
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