An Extra Special Christmas

            The Murphy Brothers were seldom in funds, and could not afford to buy gifts.   They just did the best that they could.

            One year  Joey had managed to scrape together some change  and buy a beer-mug for his brother.   But since it was only a single mug and not a pair, the present proved impractical, and Murphy left it in the box:  until the following Christmas, having nothing else to give, he rewrapped it, and gave it to Joey, placing it under the lone coleus that served them as a tree.

            In this manner the relic passed from one brother to the other, and then from the other brother back, down the years, on each Christmas day:  as the brothers grew slowly older, and the coleus grew dim, and went at last to its reward.   And in time, that practice lapsed,  and the object was put away on a high shelf, until such time as the mug might someday somehow find its mate.

            And then one Christmas,  it snowed and it snowed.

            It was cold in their office-apartment, since the heat had been shut off.  And so they went out to the city streets to gather kindling, though fireplace they had none.  For it was the birthday of the baby Jesus, and it was meet, that they should gather wood.  And yet they found no twig nor stick of it. 

            
 And so they went sorrowing home.

            Yet were astonished, as they opened the door, to be rocked back on their heels by a summer breeze, which blew out from a roomful of snow.

            And there amidmost, stood a towering spruce.   Beneath it, three presents, wrapped in red:  and the fruit of this tree was permitted to them.

            They sat awhile together, and discussed these strange developments.   Where could all this have come from?   Neither of them knew.

            They wondered what might be in the packages.  At length they decided they would have to find out.  Joey motioned for Murphy to begin.

            And so, curiosity overcoming him, Murphy untied the ribbon, and carefully unfolded the paper, and lifted the lid of the box.  Then both brothers leaned forward, and wondering, looked in.

            It was the Gift of Poverty.

            Then both brothers rejoiced, amazed, and embraced.  For this was a wondrous gift indeed:  formerly, they had merely been poor.

            With keen anticipation, Murphy unwrapped the second present.

            It was the Gift of Chastity.

            The brothers sighed, and crossed themselves.   “Thanks be to God,”  they said.  For the solace of connubial bliss had always been denied them, owing to their detective vows;  yet now, their very abstention, might be a sacrament.

 Then gazed together at the final package,  neither one daring to move.

            But yet at last   with terrible trembling fingers,   almost sobbing with expectancy:   as when the bridegroom, as yet untried,  on the wedding night, fumbles at the bodice of his spotless bride, -- managed somehow to unloose the wrapping  (even as the maiden, on that sweet night, bids farewell to her maidenhead, and unloosens her chestnut hair):   and there lay--

            The Gift of Obedience.

            This gift had quite eluded them,  back in reform-school days.  Since that time, the Murphy brothers had always been resigned to their lot in life; but now they did embrace it, as the very will of God.

             “We should drink to this!” cried Murphy, indicating (and just noticing) a vat of ale;  and went to the high shelf, to bring the old package down. 

            And took out -- lo! -- twin goblets of crystal,  and filled them  each  to the brim.

            “This is the best Christmas ever,”  Joey said.

[Notice:  A hymn appropriate to this offering, may be witnessed here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W2YPsfwSPGg&NR=1 ]

~

For further Murphy mystical mystery

-- a story that will haunt your dreams:

Murphy and the Magic Pawnshop

 Also available for your Nook

Further parables from this pen, may be savored here. 
.

The Children's Christmas Eve

The stockings hang beside the hearth,

the holly on the door.

The children hope that they’ve been good --

but they’re not sure.

They think of sometimes thieving fingers,

sticky with cookie-guilt.

A tear creeps to their eye at the corners

as they think of the milk they’ve spilt.

And oh!  What of the times they tried,

but failed, to say their prayers?

Lo, woe!  their whole life seems to proceed

in the spotlight of grownups’ stares.

Untidiness, disobedience,

the list of sins grows long.

Like toddlers walking, they sway on the fence

dividing Right from Wrong.

The stockings hang like judgment

as the children search their souls.

Will sweetmeats by their portion --

or a lump of cold black coal?

Toys left lying, beds unmade,

the Sunday suit awry.

There was even a time, they know to their shame,

when they told -- O coal!  -- a lie!

The children crawl between the sheets

on the night before Christmas day.

The pillow against their cheek is wet.

Their lips begin to pray.

*

The stockings hang from the scaffold.

The dark tree stands by the stair.

Yet as they pray  they hear the toll

of sleighbells in the air.

Behold!  A chariot slices the sky,

the stars roll back in a tide.

Saint Nicholas stands upon the helm,

the Virgin by his side.

And all the angels  whirl like fire,

bearing the carriage along.

The heavens thunder  with the choir

of joyful Christmas song.

Sugarplums shower from the tree

where CHRIST was crucified.

Raised souls join in a jubilee

redeemed by Him who died.

The children stare at Santa Claus

as light streams from his face.

Their present’s the best  that ever there was --

the gift of Grace.

~     ~     ~

For a further story of miracles through grace,  

have a look at this:

Murphy Makes a Mitzvah

Jan Valjean in memoriam

Towards Christmastime, all the old radio plays had episodes keyed to the theme.  This worked well for comedies;  not so well for thrillers.   So this evening  I mostly gave “The Big Broadcast” a miss;  save that, doing dishes, I lent an ear to what happened to be on at the time -- Dragnet.  The crime:  The infant Jesus had been stolen from the crèche of a church.  When had the theft occurred?  The priest did not know; it could have been at any time during the preceding night.

Sgt Friday, incredulous:  “You leave the church unlocked all night, where any thief could walk in?”

The priest:  “Especially thieves, Sergeant.”

Laus deo.

~

Hooked, I stayed for the dénouement.

And sure enough -- the crime was not so much solved, let alone avenged, as sublated.  For lo, in walked a little Mexican boy, “no bigger than a pint of milk”, pulling the figurine of the infant in a brand-new little-red-wagon.  Questioned by the priest (in Spanish), the boy explained that he had prayed for that wagon as a Christmas present, promising that baby Jesus would get the first ride.

(The episode ended in soaring sacred music;  but then reverted to the standard crisp signoff, “The story you have just heard is true;  the names have been changed …”   Somehow one wonders.  Ma se non è vero, è ben trovato.)

~

Right after that, “Gunsmoke” ran a version of the Christmas Eve story -- a poor couple on a cold dark night, finding no shelter, finally winding up in some outlying make-do.  The dramatic strategy with these instantiations of the universal theme,  is not to tie it in with its historical antecedent in any obvious way, until it dawns on the viewer -- no “Biblical” trappings.  Thus, one effective re-imagining from a few years ago  had the wind-blown pair (or rather : trio, as it turns out) holding up in a dingy motel.  And then we learn, the woman is with child.   And all blooms forth, and the heart stops beating  in wonder and mute praise.

Even when you know what’s coming, it’s very powerful.

Exsultate -- Jubilate : Christus natus est

Word came down:

Christ is born.

Babe in crèche,

Word made flesh.

Died on tree:

Man set free.

Prayer is heard,

Flesh made word.

Seasons & Ceremonies

I have always been glad  to live in a land  with a proper four seasons.   And as Nature thus orders and segments the year (which our pagan ancestors did well to celebrate with festivals at each solstice), so too do the civic and ecclesiastical calendars  mark the stately procession of history through each of our lives.   And since (with a bit of leeway for moveable feasts like Easter) these latter occur with calendric regularity, they reinforce the sweep of seasons:  the Fourth of July and melting popsickles;   Christmas and snow.  In our town this year, the first snowfall came on Christmas Eve.  (Well, ice-pellets and sleet, but close enough.)

The worst of all worlds, in this respect, would be Arabia, with little in the way of distinct seasons (mostly just “hot” and “hotter”), and the religious calendar -- being lunar -- slides around the solar year, with no lasting seasonal association.

In time, I came to admire the crowded calendar of the Historical Church (in which I was not raised), especially the build-ups to a deepened meaning:  not just Christmas, but Advent; not just Easter, but Lent.

Yet now, my own season advancing into that of the sere, the yellow leaf, I mark these occasions less.   The Fourth -- well, by now I’ve seen my fill of fireworks; and as for the patriotism, I do that at my current job (minus the fanfare and rhetoric) every day.  Christmas?   It’s not the same when your child has grown up, and has no child of his own;  it’s a reunion like any other.  

And even the personal milestones.   Birthdays are no longer welcome when you already feel older than old.   For years, Suzanne and I celebrated the day of our first date, and continued to mark the date long after we married;  in time, that fell away, and we marked the wedding anniversaries only;  while now, though we each day  in some sense  celebrate our continued union, the actual date is of little moment:  we’ll take our “anniversary” trips when it’s convenient, not when the calendar demands.  Unsentimental, my wife often volunteers to work on Christmas, so as to give the other nurses a break.  (We’ll celebrate a couple of days late this year, when our son comes down.)

Several factors are in play, in this loosening of calendar-sentiment with age.

(1) A general stretching of the sense of time, leaving you less conscious of what year it is, or even which month.  (Plus no longer having the academic year to enforce the working-season.)

(2) Living more and more in thought, and less in immediate experience.  If you are dwelling on fundamental questions, it doesn’t much matter what day it is.

(3) Memory now plays a greater role (there being  by now  more personal past than prospect), and there is more of it to draw on.

(4) Just plain being tired.

(1) - (3) have their definite up-sides;  not that they are better than the way things worked for you in youth;  but they are different, and, given that retentive memory, the result is a more varied intellectual output.

As for (4), what can I tell you:  it sucks.  But here’s this bit of geezer’s wisdom:  Live with it; go ahead and take naps.