Let us put by some hour of every day for holy things...

Think on th' eternal home,
The Saviour left for you;
Think on the Lord most holy, come
To dwell with hearts untrue:
So shall ye tread untired His pastoral ways,
And in the darkness sing your carol of high praise.

--from Keble's The Christian Year, Thoughts in Verse



Sunday, December 16, 2012

Oops!

Christmas Card, 1939

Oh, my!  I don't know where my wits have been, but up until yesterday, I was under the mistaken impression that I had a full two weeks until Christmas, and now I realize I have only one full week and a day...  I can't believe this! I have got to get cracking. I haven't sent my cards or wrapped or shipped any packages. Wow! This has never happened to me before.  Good grief!

Come, Dear Children 

Come, dear children, don't be dallying,
All the family now is rallying,
Not a moment now to spare,
joyful haste is in the air.
There are nuts to crack
and candies to make,
and birds to stuff
and cookies to bake.
There's many and many a thing to do,
which we have done before.
For Christmas, blessed Christmas
is here once more!

Now begins a mighty scurrying,
each to do his task is hurrying,
All to finish he contrives,
Ere the glorious day arrives.
There are gifts to wrap
and cards to write,
and secrets kept with great delight,
there's many and many a mystery
behind each closet door.
For Christmas, blessed Christmas
is here once more!

O was there ever such a jolly day?
Fam'lies gathered for the holiday.
Home is filled with dancing eyes,
laughter, love and glad surprise.
There are friends to see
and prayers to say,
and songs to sing in rondelay,
There's many a lovely memory
of Christmastides of yore.
For Christmas, blessed Christmas
is here once more!

~Wihla Hutson & Alfred S. Burt
 

My own "mighty scurrying" means I plan  to quickly sew up a present for Lilith (one of my granddogs!) plus plan out a menu for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day and get groceries. I'm also hoping to host an informal luncheon afternoon for some close friends if I can get organized in time, and there are more decorations I really want to get out on display. If I can find my few remaining squeakers, I want to make Mr. Wickham a few good toys as well.

Well, we'll see. What gets done gets done. I learned long ago that Christmas will still occur whether I get every cupboard in the house cleaned out first or not. (Seriously. I used to be in a panic if I hadn't done a massive, thorough housecleaning before Christmas.) Let's all relax...  Enjoy some lovely music, some candles and twinkling lights, and read some wonderful Christmas stories...read aloud some wonderful Christmas stories...

Have you read Pearl S. Buck's Christmas Day in the Morning? Here is a slightly abridged version. It is a lovely tale.

 

Christmas Day in the Morning, by Pearl S. Buck
He woke suddenly and completely. It was four o’clock, the hour at which his father had always called him to get up and help with the milking. Strange how the habits of his youth clung to him still! Fifty years ago, and his father had been dead for thirty years, and yet he waked at four o’clock in the morning. He had trained himself to turn over and go to sleep, but this morning it was Christmas, he did not try to sleep.
Why did he feel so awake tonight? He slipped back in time, as he did so easily nowadays. He was fifteen years old and still on his father’s farm. He loved his father. He had not known it until one day a few days before Christmas, when he had overheard what his father was saying to his mother.
“Mary, I hate to call Rob in the mornings. He’s growing so fast and he needs his sleep. If you could see how he sleeps when I go in to wake him up! I wish I could manage alone.”
“Well, you can’t Adam.” His mother’s voice was brisk, “Besides, he isn’t a child anymore. It’s time he took his turn.”
“Yes,” his father said slowly. “But I sure do hate to wake him.”
When he heard these words, something in him spoke: his father loved him! He had never thought of that before, taking for granted the tie of their blood. Neither his father nor his mother talked about loving their children–they had no time for such things. There was always so much to do on the farm.
Now that he knew his father loved him, there would be no loitering in the mornings and having to be called again. He got up after that, stumbling blindly in his sleep, and pulled on his clothes, his eyes shut, but he got up.
And then on the night before Christmas, that year when he was fifteen, he lay for a few minutes thinking about the next day. They were poor, and most of the excitement was in the turkey they had raised themselves and mince pies his mother made. His sisters sewed presents and his mother and father always bought something he needed, not only a warm jacket, maybe, but something more, such as a book. And he saved and bought them each something, too.
He wished, that Christmas when he was fifteen, he had a better present for his father. As usual he had gone to the ten-cent store and bought a tie. It had seemed nice enough until he lay thinking the night before Christmas. He looked out of his attic window, the stars were bright.
“Dad,” he had once asked when he was a little boy, “What is a stable?”
“It’s just a barn,” his father had replied, “like ours.”
Then Jesus had been born in a barn, and to a barn the shepherds had come…
The thought struck him like a silver dagger. Why should he not give his father a special gift too, out there in the barn? He could get up early, earlier than four o’clock, and he could creep into the barn and get all the milking done. He’d do it alone, milk and clean up, and then when his father went in to start the milking he’d see it all done. And he would know who had done it. He laughed to himself as he gazed at the stars. It was what he would do, and he mustn’t sleep too sound.
He must have waked twenty times, scratching a match each time to look at his old watch-midnight, and half past one, and then two o’clock.
At a quarter to three he got up and put on his clothes. He crept downstairs, careful of the creaky boards, and let himself out. The cows looked at him, sleepy and surprised. It was early for them too.
He had never milked all alone before, but it seemed almost easy. He kept thinking about his father’s surprise. His father would come in and get him, saying that he would get things started while Rob was getting dressed. He’d go to the barn, open the door, and then he’d go get the two big empty milk cans. But they wouldn’t be waiting or empty, they’d be standing in the milk-house, filled.
“What the–,” he could hear his father exclaiming.
He smiled and milked steadily, two strong streams rushing into the pail, frothing and fragrant.
The task went more easily than he had ever known it to go before. Milking for once was not a chore. It was something else, a gift to his father who loved him. He finished, the two milk cans were full, and he covered them and closed the milk-house door carefully, making sure of the latch.
Back in his room he had only a minute to pull off his clothes in the darkness and jump into bed, for he heard his father up. He put the covers over his head to silence his quick breathing. The door opened.
“Rob!” His father called. “We have to get up, son, even if it is Christmas.”
“Aw-right,” he said sleepily.
The door closed and he lay still, laughing to himself. In just a few minutes his father would know. His dancing heart was ready to jump from his body.
The minutes were endless–ten, fifteen, he did not know how many–and he heard his father’s footsteps again. The door opened and he lay still.
“Rob!”
“Yes, Dad–”
His father was laughing, a queer sobbing sort of laugh.
“Thought you’d fool me, did you?” His father was standing by his bed, feeling for him, pulling away the cover.
“It’s for Christmas, Dad!”
He found his father and clutched him in a great hug. He felt his father’s arms go around him. It was dark and they could not see each other’s faces.
“Son, I thank you. Nobody ever did a nicer thing–”
“Oh, Dad, I want you to know–I do want to be good!” The words broke from him of their own will. He did not know what to say. His heart was bursting with love.
He got up and pulled on his clothes again and they went down to the Christmas tree. Oh what a Christmas, and how his heart had nearly burst again with shyness and pride as his father told his mother and made the younger children listen about how he, Rob, had got up all by himself.
“The best Christmas gift I ever had, and I’ll remember it, son every year on Christmas morning, so long as I live.”

They had both remembered it, and now that his father was dead, he remembered it alone: that blessed Christmas dawn when, alone with the cows in the barn, he had made his first gift of true love.
This Christmas he wanted to write a card to his wife and tell her how much he loved her, it had been a long time since he had really told her, although he loved her in a very special way, much more than he ever had when they were young. He had been fortunate that she had loved him. Ah, that was the true joy of life, the ability to love. Love was still alive in him, it still was.
It occurred to him suddenly that it was alive because long ago it had been born in him when he knew his father loved him. That was it: Love alone could awaken love. And he could give the gift again and again. This morning, this blessed Christmas morning, he would give it to his beloved wife. He I could write it down in a letter for her to read and keep forever. He went to his desk and began his love letter to his wife: My dearest love…
Such a happy, happy, Christmas.

Wyatt and I will be going caroling this afternoon with other members of our church. It's activities like these--singing the beautiful, traditional carols of Christmas, reading aloud to the family, baking together, sharing a meal--that make Christmas what it is to me. Opening presents is the least of it.

Years ago, I read Unplug the Christmas Machine and it was an excellent and thought-provoking book which I recommend to everyone--particularly to women, upon whom rests most of the preparations and duties of celebrating the holidays. One thing which particularly stood out to me was a quote from a Mexican man who was living in the States. He said, "Americans don't have Christmas. They just have presents." How sad and how largely true! 

And it isn't, as this book points out, doing more that solves the dilemma. For example, making a gingerbread city to rival the one on the cover of the current December magazine cover isn't going to bring that special sense of contentment, no matter how enthusiastically we're urged to jump in and craft ourselves silly. It's figuring out what truly means the most to you and your family and establishing priorities and taking time. The simple traditions are often the most well-remembered and beloved.  

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