September 26: Tiny Tim, Until the Last, My Son

...Scrooge had his eye upon them, and especially on Tiny Tim, until the last.

Yes, I've used this little passage before, but it seemed quite appropriate for me to use it again this morning.  Scrooge has a soft spot for Tiny Tim.  In fact, at the end of the book, Dickens writes, "...and to Tiny Tim, who did NOT die, he was a second father."  Tiny Tim becomes the child Scrooge never had.

Today is my son's fourth birthday.  Before I left the house for work this morning, I stood by his bed in the dark and watched him sleep.  I watched his small chest move up and down with his deep breaths.  I watched his fingers curl and uncurl into his palm. 

My children are miracles to me.  I sometimes can't believe I actually had anything to do with creating these creatures.  My daughter is tall and graceful, with thick auburn hair.  My son is funny and strong, a little bull in a proverbial china shop.  If it ain't broke when he enters a room, it will be by the time he exits.  I find myself fiercely protective.  If one of my children gets hurt or upset, I want to fix them.  Heal them.  Make sure nothing hurts them or upsets them again.

My children are smarter than me, thank goodness.  I like to say they're made of rubber because they're so resilient.  They bounce back, fast and hard.  They don't let hurts hurt them for very long. When some child or adult causes injury to my daughter or son, they forgive them quickly.  (For my son, who has the attention span of an amoeba, hurt and forgiveness are the same thing.)  They don't understand grudges and seething resentment like me.  They don't understand the satisfaction of harboring anger for days or months or years.

I have learned so much from my son and daughter about forgiveness and love.  Daily, they teach me how to be a better person, just like Tiny Tim teaches Scrooge.

Saint Marty celebrates one of the two biggest miracles of his life this day:  his beautiful son.

Happy birthday, my wonderful son

August 24: Until the Last, Tiny Tim, Feeling Sentimental

But, they were happy, grateful, pleased with one another, and contented with the time; and when they faded, and looked happier yet in the bright sprinklings of the Spirit's torch at parting, Scrooge had his eye upon them, and especially on Tiny Tim, until the last.

This moment is the first where Scrooge connects with Bob Cratchit and his family.  Scrooge views Christmas dinner at the Cratchit's house with the Ghost of Christmas Present, and, for the first time, becomes aware of Tiny Tim and his health issues.  Some may call this little scene sentimental.  Justifiably so.  It's a Christmas novel, and therefore a certain amount of sentimentality is expected.  However, sick and desperate children are not unusual in the works of Charles Dickens.  Think of all the homeless orphans in Oliver Twist or Little Nell in The Old Curiosity Shop whose death set off world-wide mourning.  Tiny Tim is just one in a long line of such kids in Dickensian novels.

I'm feeling a little sentimental myself this morning.  Before I sat down to type this post, I spent a few minutes gazing at a picture of my three-year-old son.  In particular, I was staring at his tiny hand.  It's so perfect.  The skin is smooth, and each finger is a little pudgy.  Baby pudgy.  I got a little choked up because, over the summer, my son has grown into this little boy, tall and sweaty and covered in dirt.  He isn't a baby anymore.  (Don't get me wrong.  I'm happy to be almost out of the diaper stage of my parenting life.)  He's just this miraculous creature, full of curiosity and adventure and happiness.

There's a reason Dickens uses Tiny Tim as one of the biggest catalysts of Scrooge's redemption.  Aside from Tim being a Christ figure (Tim's crutch is a little cross he carries everywhere), he is a symbol of innocence and vulnerability.  He represents the delicacy of childhood and the future.  Of hope.  That's why Tiny Tim effects Scrooge so strongly.

I think that's what children represent to most people.  Hope.  I look at my kids, and I see potential.  My daughter dances and sings and makes videos and does gymnastics.  My son loves cars and music and books and computers and running.  They are limitless right now.  That's a daily miracle, even when they're irritating the crap out of me.

Forgive Saint Marty this morning.  He's having a happiness moment.  It will soon pass.

A future President of the United States