December 14: Twelfth Night Party, Growing Older, P.O.E.T.S. Day

...It was strange, too, that while Scrooge remained unalterable in his outward form, the Ghost grew older, clearly older.  Scrooge had observed this change, but never spoke of it, until they left a children's Twelfth Night party, when, looking at the Spirit as they stood together in an open place, he noticed that its hair was grey.

It is a long night for Scrooge and the Ghost of Christmas Present.  Obviously.  The Ghost is aging before Scrooge's eyes.  The Twelfth Night party indicates that, at the end of the time they spend together, the entire twelve days of Christmas have passed, from December 25 to the Feast of the Epiphany.  Time is fluid, moving slowly and quickly, and The Ghost is in a yuletide warp.

It feels like I've been in a kind of time warp myself today.  The morning was long.  My computer at the office went for a sleigh ride to the cyber North Pole.  I couldn't get it to do anything for me.  I struggled for a couple hours, called I.T., hit it with my fist twice.  Finally, after rebooting a few times and swearing several times, I was able to get my computer work done.

Then, I left work and went grocery shopping.  I had a short list.  A really short list.  It took me over an hour to get out of Wal-Mart.  As I was pushing my cart through the snow to my car, I felt like I was on day eleven of Christmas, hungover on eggnog.  I still had to clean my house and get it ready for my daughter's birthday party.

By the time relatives showed up on my doorstep at 6 p.m., I think I was completely grey.  I could have crawled into bed and taken a nap.  Right before the party started, I turned on the TV.  That was when I saw the news of the elementary school shooting in Connecticut.  Twenty kids and seven adults slain.  Kindergartners.  First graders.  Second graders.  I kept listening to the reports, kept saying over and over, "What is wrong with the world?"

At this time of year, I can't believe such tragedy can happen.  There are mothers and fathers who have presents wrapped under their Christmas trees for children who will never come home.  There are plates of cookies that will not be left out for Santa Claus.  There are Christmas outfits that won't be worn to church.

On this P.O.E.T.S. Day, I'm feeling old.  Really old.  And sad.  Really sad.  As a parent, I want to hug my kids, let them know that love is more powerful than hate.  Hope is stronger than despair.  Light overcomes darkness.

Saint Marty will be saying a prayer tonight, for the children, for the teachers, for the broken world.

Praying for light...

March 10: Space of Time, Growing Up, Feeling Old

It was a long night, if it were only a night; but Scrooge had his doubts of this, because the Christmas Holidays appeared to be condensed into the space of time they passed together.  It was strange, too, that while Scrooge remained unaltered in his outward form, the Ghost grew older, clearly older.  Scrooge had observed this change, but never spoke of it, until they left a children's Twelfth Night party, when looking at the Spirit as they stood together in an open place, he noticed that its hair was grey.

The Spirit in question is the Ghost of Christmas Present.  In the time Scrooge shares with this specter, the Ghost transforms from a young, robust man into something akin to the stereotypical Victorian Santa Claus, white hair, white beard, and robe.  Of course, Dickens is commenting on the fleeting quality of time in this passage.  The present, you can almost hear Dickens saying, is gone faster than the Christmas holidays.  Pay attention.  Soon the present will be the past.

My daughter is going on a school field trip today.  She's travelling to Wisconsin to see the musical Mary Poppins.  She'll be gone all day and won't be returning until early tomorrow morning.  Of course, she's perfectly safe.  I have no fear about that.  It's just that she's getting to be so...so...teenagery.  It makes me think about her as a baby, eleven years ago, so small and dependent on me for everything.  Now, she just needs $100 in spending money, some friends, a chaperon, and a shopping mall, and she's good to go.  I'm sure she won't even look back at me when she climbs on the bus.

This trip isn't her first taste of freedom.  She's gone to summer camp for the last two summers.  Last year, she went on a bus trip to see Beauty and the Beast without me.  She has no problem being independent.  The problem is all mine.  I feel like the Ghost of Christmas Present.  Time is passing, and I'm the only one that's getting old.  The bell is tolling.  It's midnight, and my daughter is on her way to the ball at the castle.  (OK, I know I'm mixing tales here, but you get the idea.)

I'm sorry if I'm sounding nostalgic or melodramatic or ridiculous.  It's my job.  I'm the father of an almost teenaged daughter.  Pretty soon I'll be dragging out the shotguns when the boys start knocking on the door.  I am far from being Jeff Foxworthy, but I'll be just this side of Jed Clampett with any guy who comes a courtin' my baby girl.  I may even take up whittling.

Scrooge is too polite to mention the Spirit's obvious old age.  I expect any person whom I meet today to follow Scrooge's example.  I know I'm getting up there.  I wasn't at Woodstock, but I could have been in the mud in my diapers, listening to Jimi Hendrix play "The Star Spangled Banner."  (Just for the record, the 1980s had the best music in the world.  The fashion left a little to be desired, however.)  This afternoon, I may put on my Tears for Fears cassette and dance around my house in my black Reebok high tops.

Saint Marty isn't old.  He's vintage.

Confessions of Saint Marty