Sunday, December 13, 2015

Christmas Story (date unknown)

  No, don't "fix" it, that wreath is supposed to be egg shaped. That's the one Aunt Sally sat on, it's a keeper for sure! That perfectly round one you saw down at Macys is just a thing, a mere object. It has no character, there is no family legend to attribute to it, and brings nobody a smile when they remember her big eyed surprise at what she had accidentally done.
  You can try (if you'd like) to frame a "perfect Christmas" with one of those utterly conical  green things which never lose a needle on the carpet . . . but I tell you, the stinker is still leaning!
  Think back with me, those family stories you recall best; don't they involve those pesky trees which not only refused to stand erect, but finally came crashing down on the magical day that Sam the dog came roaring around the corner? The tree-in-motion, which was to have been "the-rooted", now that's memorable! Nobody recalls the "perfect" one, which just stood there, and never did anything interesting.
  Our little stories are connected-to, and ultimately based upon the one Real Story. Our constant urge to "repair and dress things up", our chronic fixing of things just doesn't tell the story right.
  The grand tale told, of a peasant-baby "pretending to be food" (asleep in a manger) ends with Him becoming the "true food" for our souls. It would just ruin the story to take the tyke and place him in a "proper and decent" bassinet.
  The real saga of He, without beginning, popping suddenly into our crazy world is hurt not helped by our insisting that He was nevertheless always-with us. He, without end, all just and true, dies miserably at the hands of rotten men framing Him on false charges. The story told is supposed to be messy! To prettify it, to make it smooth is no longer jarring, and it is we who slumber at noon, who are thus not called awake by such "repairs".
  The One who died friendless and alone, had nothing in this world but the clothes upon His back, and those were promptly stolen and gambled away! He the Friendless One, then proves to be the only True Friend we have ever really known. Out of His naked-ness we are clothed, out of His violent suffering, we are calmed and cared for. If we take out the ugly sections, the pretty parts end up making no sense at all for our sore and tired lives.
  He calling for help, goes unheard, and so the calling upon our lives is ratified. We then, called anew, out of our stupor, out of our pointless busy-ness, called out of our soul devouring acid loneliness; we are called alive, by Him-Who-Died! It's not supposed to be a pretty story, it's way too real for that kind of stuff. "It" (He actually) is the new thing in the world.
  So, He The Rememberer, and incidentally The Inventor of dirt, shows up, and is buried in the stuff and promptly forgotten. And as He verbally repeated, predicting His Own return from the dead, not a soul "heard" it. The utterly expected, becomes thus the ultimate. . . Surprise!
  The Perfect Son is joined to a deeply flawed bride, and He is not ruined in that union, but she is lifted up. Perhaps it might be a bit like Mark Twain "entering" his own story, so to meet in person those rascals Tom and Huck. And all this, so to bring them "back up" with him, back to the real world?
 So don't you listen to all that moping over the "ruin" of the holiday. All of that caterwauling over there about the shabby materialism, the crass tinsel and shallow merchandising; just forget it for the day. Let it go! The day was never really intended to "be perfect"! You, by your own self can't fix it, but you can become a grouch. Who wins there?
  Let's face it, the dinky lights are charming, amid the schlock and spiel, the music yet remains haunting. The ever-new, the evergreen day doesn't need repair, for it is part of what is repairing us! You needn't fuss over things, for He is The One fussing over you!
  This transformation, this rebuilding shows up as a kind of glad boldness in His folk. He is the new "thing" in earth, and He relieves our fears that everything has been ruined. Do you see? He was The One-ruined, and He emerged on the other side of that disaster fiercely loyal, and strangely lively indeed! The First-born of the dead, is transmitting this very same mighty conquest into we-dying. He, always and always The First, amid and at the heart of what shall prove to be an uncountable multitude of the likewise fiercely loyal, and strangely lively, is glad of it all!
  I tell you, the story is true! The new creation has commenced, it is begun just here; in our sad, stupid and lonely hearts. From there, it shall spread out to a whole new Making! A whole new reality is in the works, this one founded in justice, rightness and joy, I tell you, He is unstoppable!
  Your hearing heart friend, your listening center is the priority (His priority I mean), the new beginning starts in the lowest of the low, even me! And once He has your heart, once He has that, ALL-else follows.
  So, I (for one) am going to let the ACLU continue to make their snarky, cheap-shot attacks on "dangerous manger scenes" this year. I am going to let the "outraged and offended" leftists whine about what a terrible "waste" this ritual is. Heck, bring on the Muslims, Hindus and every cadre of the complaining. Drag in the combined powers of hell and all earth for that matter, NOTHING can deter Him! He is our Champion, and shall prevail, for the excellent reason, that He already has!
  He crashes every barrier, leaps every wall, and busts down every prison door. Upon His Own honor, He will not halt! . . . Until He finds every last one of His lost lambs. He ceases not, until the day that the very last crazy rebel, hating Him for no cause (the one that He foreknew!), comes out with his hands up! The story isn't the thing that is being fixed, but our sad and wretched lives and hearts.
  It's all right there in the story. See? That wild looking wreath is supposed to be egg-shaped!
                                                                                         Merry Christmas to all!
                                                                                          Love, M.