Merry Christmas...

to all who stop by, with a special thought for the old friends of this blog. Some have disappeared, but I still think of them, like Kathy of the Gospel Minefield, and Francis Mooney, and Jane Wangersky and Varenius. There are others. And I think of those who have had special crosses to bear, but don't need me to remind people of it. And then there are the dead, like Karen Marie Knapp. There are others like her, too. The rest know who you are; all your names would make too long a list. Besides, it's now 9:22 on the East coast, and I haven't wrapped a single present. I'll do it while the family's at midnight mass. I went earlier to the children's mass, during which the priest invited all the kids to sit with him at the foot of the sanctuary while he asked them questions about the meaning of Christmas, then led them in song: "Do You Hear What I Hear?"

...ringing through the sky, shepherd boy,
...a song, a song, high above the trees,
with a voice as big as the sea...

Other than that, not much to say, beyond last year's touch of melancholy:

I've always been amazed (except when I wasn't) at the fact that mankind is not stricken dumb with wonder and gratitude by the gift of the Christ Child's story, that men do not lift their eyes heavenward to see that not merely the multitude, but any one among them, might be the star announcing that God is with us. The light of Bethlehem flickers ever more faintly in this miserable and faithless world. It vanished from the heavens but, if not extinguished, where did it go?

The miracle we celebrate seems such a small thing - a baby, conceived out of wedlock, born somewhere in the world to parents of straitened circumstances - yet so fills the heart it's too big for words. The poet, of the shepherds and the wise men, said

...one came from near, one from far,
One heard a song, one saw a star,
but following together found
infinity in flesh wrapped round.

Who can hear it, yet who cannot?

The melancholy lingers; it must ever be joy's companion, in this life at least. Most of you have families, I presume, people who love you, who will shower you with gifts, and with whom you will share in this mystery. On the way home from mass I saw a ragged-looking fellow at the interstate onramp, looking for a handout. It seems a good night for remembering the lonely and the lost. Just for tonight I'll let the cynic sleep, and not blame him for his own circumstances which, like the Holy Family's, seemed somewhat desperate. Maybe I'll just say a prayer engendered by the hope of the Incarnation, that something will change, that someone's misery will have an end.

All you fellow cynics out there need to remember that the image of a mother and child can change the world. It already has, else why are you celebrating that 'small' moment in Bethlehem?
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Meanwhile, Olivia sings it from the heart.