Keep Singing

(for Jessie...and Tara, because today they both asked...)

Photo courtesy of Sophia: Elmo, Ernie and Bert asleep in her closet. Bert was clearly not consulted on this change of scenery. And Elmo and Ernie are practicing for a Christmas Cantata.

Singing "O Come all Ye Faithful" puts this big lump in my throat. Every year, every time I sing it, the same wave of regret washes over me. It is about this time that I remember: This was supposed to be the year. I was going to extend my arms to the poor and complain less, and be triumphant and joyful and never ever doubt. I was going to radiate love and peace and be the Proverbs 31 woman wearing purple and weaving my enterprising loom late into the night. I was at least going to learn to be nice. But I didn't. Nope. Not even close. Even as I write I'm kind of fuming over the college student who left her car in front of my sidewalk for the past six days and hasn't bothered to introduce herself. (Because I was never a student who snuck my car onto residential streets at night and ran for my life - in this same town, two blocks over. Obviously).

I learned to tell the right story years ago and but I am always tempted with believing the wrong one. The one with halos and pristine clothing, Mary's hair freshly straightened and cherubs and gentle, sleeping oxen. The manger scene that's by invitation only, based on excellent behavior, or at least wanting to behave. My Christmas Theology is being held captive by a Renaissance painting. And I think the only place I really could be welcome is in Sophia's rendition below:

( Which I have to confess, I contributed quite a bit too. In fact, she only colored and glued. Another reason I must never homeschool.)

My friend, Kate, once had a professor who said "more than anything she wished she could smell history. The smells would add incredible perspective." So here's my new strategy: When I start shutting down in the first line of this most beautiful Christmas hymn, I'm going to be imagining what it smelled like in that stable - before and after all the "prestigious guests" arrived. And maybe then I'll feel that there is room to squeeze one more in. Even if my year didn't seem to accomplish all I had planned, and even though I'm probably silly enough to think next year still could.

The power is in the Story's ludicrous details. Grace is woven through every inch of the poverty and scandal and invisibility and odor. Our crazy Yankee Candle Burning traditions, though lovely, make it so pretty and well-scented. And then its down the slippery slope to becoming like every tale we tell - a story about what we have done and we will do, or haven't done or can't do. And we get stuck on the first line and miss the song entirely. Imagine the smells. Hear His invitation. And keep singing. The song isn't actually about us. (Thank God.)

...Word of the Father; Now in flesh appearing.

O Come Let us Adore Him

O Come Let us Adore Him

O Come Let us Adore Him

Christ the Lord.