It has been quite the Christmas Eve. Started early this morning--7 a.m.--making some Christmas cookies for my kids. After that, it was last-minute Christmas shopping with my son. Then, home again, home again, jiggety jig, to wrap some presents before heading off to an early worship service at my friend's church, which was awesome and filled me with even more yuletide spirit, if that's even possible, Then I rehearsed with my family for tonight's Christmas Eve service at my wife's church. "Mary, Did You Know?"--one of my favorites. Afterward, home again for more wrapping. (Are you sensing a theme? I had a shit ton of wrapping to do today.) After I was done wrapping, I wrapped some more.
The Christmas Eve service at my wife's church was beautiful and inspiring. My family did a great job on "Mary, Did You Know?" And, at the end, we lit candles, turned off the lights, and sang "Silent Night" by candlelight. That is always one of my favorite moments of every Christmas season.
After church, it was home and wrapping. Wrapping, Wrapping. Wrapping. The Family Stone on TV accompanied by more wrapping. And then, when I was done with that movie, Love Actually and wrapping. It has been a long night, but I can't wait to open presents in the morning. I have a wonderful surprises for my wife and kids. Stay tuned.
Below is my Christmas poem from last year. Enjoy. Tomorrow, I will post my new Christmas essay.
Saint Marty wishes all of you out there a merry Christmas and a long winter's nap.
Good Grief
by: Martin Achatz
To call something “good,” you must
fall
in love with it a little, the way
you fall in love with sardines
or eggplant, the first bite choking,
filling your mouth with salt, spit,
rimming your eyes with the onion
need to blink. Then a second bite, third,
until eventually you find yourself
awake at 3 a.m., placing Eucharists
of tiny fish on your tongue,
massaging
purple flesh until it glows like new
birth. So invite Grief to dinner.
Let him sit in your father’s empty
chair. Fill his plate with extra
turkey and cranberries and potatoes.
Ladle gravy over it all. Then watch
Grief eat like your father used to,
as if the Stock Market is going to
crash
in the morning and all that will be
left
in the fridge is an apple you find
at the bottom of the vegetable
crisper, its skin shriveled, soft
as the folds under your father’s
arms
near the end, when he couldn’t
even lift a straw to his mouth.
Or think of Charlie Brown, choosing
that twig of a tree, how he carried
it home in one hand, raised
like a banner at the beginning
of a Macy’s parade, its needles
dusting
the ground like broken glass. He loved
that tree with a single red
ornament,
placed near the top like a star
or angel, and it stooped, bent down
to earth, loved the snow and ice,
like the infant Christ loved
alfalfa, hay.
Like me, leaning over, pressing
my lips to my father’s smooth
forehead
the moment after he died.
No comments:
Post a Comment