Warning: Christmas cheer not included.

The phone rings the day after Christmas, Boxing Day, in between setting the teakettle to whistling and dealing another game of rummy. Mom comes out of her bedroom with a box of Kleenex—a dear friend has died at 48 years old. Her mother has waited to call until after the holiday, even though it happened a week ago.

What is one to think about a quick-witted girl with a crown of strawberry blonde hair and a smattering of freckles who could stay up all hours talking books and ideas but who was troubled always and ultimately drank herself to death? What sense is to be made? God’s on His throne, but this doesn’t feel like His plan. (My feelings on the subject are worthless, I know.) God gives us free will—can we miss the plan He has for us? Is that what happened here?

There are more questions than answers.  This uneasy place is breeding ground for the familiar feeling of wanting to grip tight and take charge. What if she’d been my sister, my best friend? She was sick, so sick. Couldn’t someone have made her get help? I recognize the fallacy of this thinking as fast as the thoughts come. I’m such a fixer. Is this a good thing or a control thing?

Where does one draw the line between faith moving mountains, doing for the least of these, pouring out mercy—and just plain meddling, trying to butt heads with Management?

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The kitchen has been covered with a fine dusting of flour and glitter all week, and I found Frasier fir needles on my pillowcase this morning. (Climbing under the tree with a watering can has its hazards—I’ve been wearing pine all month.)

We were getting ready to take Christmas on the road. I confessed to the family after an hour or so of huffing about that it’s hard to shut down the house, topping off vases overflowing with holly and packing cookies into tins, saying good-bye to the dear sights of home until after December 25. Once I’m on the other side (at my parents’ house in the mountains), I’m more than okay with being away for Christmas. In fact, I’m delighted.

There are tins full of cookies I didn’t make, a Christmas beast waiting in the fridge, gifts under the tree, and all the homey touches and traditions I was raised on. Best of all are the faces greeting us at the door.

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I was thinking January-ish thoughts the other day, like gee this bathmat is tattered and I should replace it. White sale!

My jeans sure are feeling tight—I’ll have to either give up sweets or buy new jeans—in January. The dentist called to confirm an appointment for next month. The expiration date on the three cartons of heavy cream in the fridge is for 2012.

How can this be? It’s not even here, but Christmas feels almost over.

This is when I really need to hunker down and focus on Jesus. The parties are behind me, the decorating, the wonderful whirlwind of it all. It’s time for family and family and more family. (The kids are out of school for weeks, and I’m glad. Mostly.) It’s not my birthday, it’s not my birthday…

How was your Christmas? People ask this well into the new year. My Christmas? At some level, Christmas just is.

In my efforts to have the best, holiest, most wonderful time of the year, I lose sight of the unchangeable. Love came down and put on humility and lived and died for us. For me.

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 “One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bull-dozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one’s cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.” ~ O. Henry’s “Gift of the Magi”

Books, perhaps, run a close second to Christmas music in the way they illuminate the season. And, as with music, (for me) old books make better friends.

It’s funny how fire and words beg more urgently during the busiest season of the year. But a December without a good Temple Bailey tale read while toasting my toes is like a Coke without fizz. I like these sentimental stories probably first published in a ladies journal. Bess Streeter Aldrich’s “Bid the Tapers Twinkle” is a favorite, too.

We’ve read out loud year after year Truman Capote’s “A Christmas Memory,” the story of a young boy and his elderly relative against the world. The pair are armed with fruitcakes, a dog named Queenie, and a keen sense of what Christmas and childhood and family are for. Peter Marshall’s sermons, “Let’s Keep Christmas” and “Invitation by Jesus” are wonderful read out-louds as well.

I dare anyone to read aloud A Bird’s Christmas Carol by Kate Douglas Wiggin. Bringing tears (or ugly sobs) every time, it’s a story of a little girl who shows us all a thing or two about keeping Christmas—even from one’s sickbed. Lloyd C. Douglas’ Home for Christmas is a sweet glimpse of the not-so-distant past. And it wouldn’t be Christmas without Dickens, of course. Far shorter is the “Three Stockings” chapter in Jan Struther’s lovely collection of essays about family life during WWII England, Mrs. Miniver. It’s full of nuggets. Early (too early) Christmas morning, our heroine reflects after being pounced on in bed by children eager to start the festivities,

“There were sounds of movement in the house; they were within measurable distance of the blessed chink of early morning tea. Mrs. Miniver looked towards the window. The dark sky had already paled a little in its frame of cherry-pink chintz. Eternity framed in domesticity. Never mind. One had to frame it in something, to see it at all.”

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Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things. ~ Philippians 4:8

When I was three-ish and went to see my first play, some community theatre version of Winnie-the-Pooh, I caused a big scene when the curtain fell, sobbing loudly because it was over.

December’s treats inevitably end. It’s over. I didn’t throw a tantrum, but I did tear up as I walked down the back steps of my friend Rachel’s house yesterday afternoon. Another Christmas Book Club, come and gone.

Maybe this one was especially sweet because last year we were missing our dear Rachel, who was having a grand adventure living in an English village. Now her family is adding their elbow grease and artistic touches to a big Victorian near Marietta’s square. When I arrived at the new old house, Rachel was still upstairs in a last-minute wardrobing frenzy (what does one wear when it’s 72 degrees at Christmas?), so I sat and listened to the clock on the table tick and stroked the head of Sebastian, a fawn-colored greyhound. It was prime looking time. I could soak in the wonderful details of this house and its décor.

Soon the kitchen was filled with laughter and good smells. The six of us lunched on braised short ribs in a winey sauce that made me want to lick my plate (I wouldn’t!), popovers, latkes and crisp green beans. My sister-in-law, Lori, gifted us with her homemade coconut ice cream, the sort with black specks of vanilla bean throughout and toasted coconut on top. We took our first spoonfuls and mmm-d our delight. Lori nodded and smiled slyly. “Merry Christmas,” she said.

We talked about this and that and Jesus and Christmas and Jesus again. We agreed that the trappings and trimmings of Christmas weren’t at all at odds with the spirit of the thing but all wonderfully and magically intertwined. We chalked certain things up to mystery and marveled at how much we don’t know about our great, big God. Jenijoy remarked, “There are tenants, and there are ponderables.” And then Lori brought us “down low,” she laughed, with a funny story about her children and the mischevious elf who ended up almost, just almost, convincing the adults in the family he was up to late-night tricks. It’s lovely to believe—and to almost believe.

Having had our fill of food and killed two hours, we adjourned to more comfortable seats in the den, where we had good stiff tea from Harrod’s, provided by Lanier, who had recently visited the Mother Land, and more talk, and an agreement to postpone our discussion of George Eliot’s Mill on the Floss so we could do it justice in January.

As is our tradition, Lanier read a Christmas tale out loud, but this time she treated to us to a gorgeous short story she had written herself. Our little gifts were passed around, including antique brooches brought back from Devon by Lanier, each one unique.

The greatest treasure was the hearts in that little circle, each one in love with many of the same things—beauty and sisterhood and books—but mostly with the Author of all we admire.

I can’t remember a worse December
Just watch those icicles form!
What do I care if icicles form?
I’ve got my love to keep me warm.
~ Irvin Berlin
 

I sent an email this afternoon to my husband, my groom, the man of my dreams:

Hey, have you seen the lint-brush?

As I hit SEND, I shook my head. Is this what it’s come to?

Before we were married, I remember missing that boy at Christmas like crazy. The day wasn’t quite complete without him, but I tried not to pout. I might’ve pouted a little. I waited for the phone to ring (this was back before cell phones or free long distance). One year, a few months before we got engaged, I had my hopes up during a pre-Christmas visit. Over a romantic meal, he presented me with… a sweater. A grey sweater.

Still, things were so holding-hands-at-the-Nutcracker back then.

Seventeen years later, I’m still madly in love with The Spouse. But I send him emails about lint-brushes, and we stay up late Christmas Eve snapping at each other while we wrap a few last-minute gifts for the kids. There are slippery spots we fall down on every year, like packing the car to go to my parents’ (Luke calls my pile of clothes “Mt. St. Laura’s”).

We even argue on the way to dinner parties sometimes. I’m in a red dress, he’s dressed in his best suit, we smell good. What’s there to fight about? But we can air grievances all the way from our driveway to the hosts’, and some of our friends live almost an hour away. (Friends: You know who you are. Don’t we do a good job of smiling pretty despite the fuss we’ve just had?)

Mostly we’re just worn out: “You want to get  Sadie up? I got her up last time,” or, “Could you take the dogs out while I wipe this puddle off the floor?”

But my husband likes to remind me we’re not roommates, two people who live together to share chores and expenses. And he’s right.

This Christmas I’m going to try to remember how I ached when he was eating coconut cake in Georgia while I was eight hours north in Kentucky. I’m going to count myself a lucky girl because we get to be in the same room at the same time, watching our children open gifts we bought and wrapped together (more or less). We get to travel in the same car, eat the same holiday food, sleep in the same bed. We get to reminisce about Christmases past and look forward to Christmases to come. We get to clink our glasses, wink at each other from across a relative-filled room, share an armchair if there’s a shortage of seats. And if we happen to find ourselves under a sprig of mistletoe…

Last night, after we each had a crazy busy day (is there any other kind?), we met for a drink at a favorite restaurant before the twins’ orchestra concert. We had 25 minutes to reconnect. I’m not sure that was enough, but it was something. And later, during the seventh grade’s rendition of “Feliz Navidad,” we held hands.

God rest ye merry, gentlemen
Let nothing you dismay
Remember, Christ, our Saviour
Was born on Christmas day
To save us all from Satan’s power
When we were gone astray
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy

Guess what I did to celebrate Christmas last night?

I slept for nine hours. That’s right, nine. With three out of five family members sniffling and coughing, I’m downing water and vitamin C and getting some rest.

That’s possible right now more than at any other time in the month. I call this time, around the 10^th or so of December, The Big Phew.

Right now it’s as common as “how are you,” folks asking folks, “Are you ready for Christmas?” What that translates to is, “Have you shopped for everyone on your list, or are you one of the suckers who still has to face the mall?”

Whether you’ve bought for everyone or not is not a measure of whether you’re ready for Christmas. Everyone has different shopping styles. Some people, like my husband, need the last-minute pressure. I guess he falls into the “not” ready for Christmas category. I need to formulate a flip answer to this question, like, “Yes, in fact, I feel peaceful and prepared to welcome Emmanuel. My heart is bursting with joy.” But that would make people hate me. I guess the other answer, “Yes, I’ve finished my shopping” might do the same.

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I can’t add much to this little dandy by The Spouse. As much as I enjoy parties and visits to church and being with friends, I do love Christmas on the homefront best. I will say that children are at their chattiest at Christmastime. I cherish some of the things they come up with. We’re still laughing at this one from when Maggie was younger: “Jesus can’t bring presents at Christmas. But Santa can.” This year Sadie has sympathy for Rudolph (weren’t the the other reindeer and Santa himself perfectly beastly on account of a red nose?). Sadie goes around saying (overly) sadly, “Poor Rudolph.” There’s only one thing she wants you to reply: “Yes, poor Rudolph.”  

My wife loves Christmas—and not in the everyday, run-of-the-mill way a lot of people love it. No, Laura loves Christmas with a consuming intensity that leaves her blue when it is over.

For example, Laura enjoys Christmas music so much that she imposes on herself an absolute embargo on playing it before Thanksgiving. Unless, of course, she really needs a pick-me-up a few days (or weeks) early. Then, the embargo goes out the window, at least long enough for a King’s College Choir disc or two.

My wife loves decorating for Christmas, too, even when she must do the same thing more than once. She dresses our mantle with magnolia leaves and pine fronds, replacing pieces as they turn brown.

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If you were feeling bad about yourself because you knew a girl who was blogging every day in December, I’ve given you the gift of my negligence.

I haven’t been able to count the ways I love Christmas over the last few days because I’ve been so busy keeping Christmas, or doing Christmas, I’m not sure which.

There have been swishy party dresses and glasses of eggnog and laughter and midnight heart-to-hearts with dear ones about what fully man and fully divine really means.

Perhaps most delightful of all was an impromptu photo shoot in the middle of one party, between dinner and coffee. The ladies were ushered into the hostess’ bedroom to pick hand-made headpieces out of a box. One talented friend had carefully fashioned a collection of fascinators, and in our evening finest we picked our favorites and posed for her website. She had used lovely feathers and lush ribbon and vintage jewels. We complained about our plain, fascinator-less heads when it was time to return her creations to the box.

I’ve had a strange sense of slow motion as I move through these things, trying to memorize what it feels like to march in high heels up my friend’s walk in the cold, knowing what warmth and hospitality waits inside. Watching the twins walk arm-in-arm as they disappear on a secret shopping mission. Throwing the door open to bright teen-aged faces and later watching them giggling around our fire. I go to sleep in our grey bedroom with colors still dancing in my head, red and green and gold. I do all this with the tiniest sense of sadness, that this will all give way to January’s quiet sparseness.

Tonight is a home night, and we’re baking cinnamon cookies and getting ready to watch “Under the Greenwood Tree,” a funny film based on a (non-depressing) Thomas Hardy novel. I recommend it at Christmastime—the choir scenes are especially amusing. (It’s on Netflix Watch Instantly right now.)

Goodnight, friends, and may these golden days go slow for all of us…

What sweeter music can we bring 
Than a carol, for to sing
The birth of this our heavenly King?
Awake the voice! Awake the string! ~ Robert Herrick (1591-1674)

I was trapped in the middle of a multitude of teens on a holiday hayride. A few of them started singing carols, and one girl remarked, “That’s the one thing I hate about Christmas: carols!”  There was nothing to do but join in the singing and aim my contribution directly into her ear. Good girl, she laughed.

I can imagine (if I really stretch) Christmas without food or presents or parties, but not without music. I try not to listen until after Thanksgiving, but there are a few October sneaks.

I love best the music sung in old cathedrals in England. The words of carols preach sermons to my heart. The John Rutter Christmas Album (2002) is the end-all CD for me. Poems by Robert Herrick (“No Sweeter Music”) and Christina Rossetti (“Love Came Down”) set to music are my favorites. Although not on the Rutter album, Rossetti’s “In the Bleak Midwinter” is The Carol, however, (the Darke setting, not the Holst).

In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter, long ago…

I can’t bear this music after the holidays are over, when the real bleak midwinter begins. It feels like funeral music for another Christmas Past. It hurts like a high school break-up.

But during December, it can’t be all high church all the time, and I like the old standards The Spouse much prefers over choral music. He likes Dean and Frank, but I say Bing is King.

Silly Christmas songs are fun, too. When “we” (Luke doing and me directing) are putting up the tree (when marital tension meets laughter), we listen to a crazy Tijuana brass CD. It sounds like something straight from “The Brady Bunch.” (Later when The Spouse exits, the girls and I decorate the tree listening to Rutter. Rutter’s all wrong, though, when the husband is turning the tree round and round for me to decide which side is best and he’s chanting robotically, “I AM A MINDLESS AUTOMATON.”)

One of the treats of the season is heading down to St. Phillip’s Cathedral for Nine Lessons and Carols the Sunday evening before Christmas. It’s one occasion the girls and I can wear hats without looking ridiculous. I keep the program every year, with all my notes scribbled in the margins next to the words of the songs. I am introduced to a new “favorite” carol each year, although the procession of the choir, preceded by a single voice singing  “Once in Royal David’s City” from the back of the church, is always the moment when the lump-in-throat is at its largest.

Maybe folks who say they don’t like carols have been exposed to too much of the stuff they play at the mall (Mariah Carey, in my opinion, does not make a case for Christmas music), or, worse yet, carols turned into annoying advertising jingles. Let’s hope they hear something lovely this Christmas—and their hearts grow three sizes that day.