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.
Loved your recalling of your day of delight. What special memories you are making. I can see all of you at 70 still enjoying each other and your precious Savior!
Much love,
Carol