Rest

My tenth loaf of strawberry bread cooled on a wire rack. In a frenzy, I darted around the kitchen making a final effort to clean the explosion of mess before Christmas Eve. It was nearly ten o'clock p.m. and I was exhausted, a nasty cough still lingering after a week of vitamins and NyQuil. Ultimately I reached the corner near the phone where magazines, letters to reread, and lists of "things to do" inevitably collect, threatening to become the clutter which I disdain. Our most recent copy of The Word, a magazine our family receives gratis from the Antiochian Archdiocese was amongst the stack. I was mentally and emotionally at my limit and was about to pitch it into the garbage. Yet, supposing I at least owed the people who so graciously produce it a moment of my time, I picked it up for a quick glance before pulling out the vacuum. As I flipped through the pages, I came across an article whose author, quoting from Joan Osborne's 1995 hit, had entitled the piece "One of Us" and who sought not only to demonstrate how the Christmas hymns of the Church testify to her core belief of the Incarnation of Christ - God becoming one of us - but how in "performing" the hymns in worship, "theology becomes alive, becomes praise, becomes dialogue with God. Its vantage point is no longer outside the event to which it refers, but rather the event itself, made present liturgically and encompassing worshippers past, present and future." I slumped to the floor. Leaning against the refrigerator and reading the following hymn from the Eve of the Nativity, I experienced the rest my weary soul and body so desperately needed:

Today is born of a virgin He who holds the whole creation in His hand. He whose essence none can touch is bound in swaddling clothes as a mortal man. God, who in the beginning fashioned the heavens, lies in a manger. He who rained manna on his people in the wilderness is fed on milk from His mother's breast. The bridegroom of the Church summons the wise men; The Son of the virgin accepts their gifts. We worship Thy birth, O Christ! We worship Thy birth, O Christ! We worship Thy birth, O Christ! Show us also Thy holy Theophany.

A blessed Feast of the Nativity. Christ is Born! Glorify Him!

P.S. On the homefront: Thomas has declared his new favorite color to be red. Russell and Elliot have discovered their noses and take great delight in sticking their fingers up this sensory tool, as well as blowing it into their hands. Russell has likewise learned how blowing on one's arm results in noises little boys seem to love; these noises make Elliot giggle. Enjoy our favorite pictures of December!

St. Nicholas Day

There have been times, while standing in church, that a glance over at my dear four-year-old son has revealed less than appropriate behavior. Admittedly, to the untrained eye, this little one has the appearance of exemplary conduct: He is standing, feet crossed just a bit, swaying back and forth, but still standing, his thumb and index finger crunched ever so slightly with a tiny space between. One might imagine he is preparing to cross himself. But to the well-trained eye, the posture of these fingers is anything but holy or innocent. To the individual well-versed in all things Star Wars, he or she recognizes that in the mind of this child, he has transformed from four-year-old boy attempting to make it through liturgy to the villanous dark knight, Darth Vader. Indeed, as we pray for the Lord's mercy, Lord Vader's Force-filled gesture unmercifully punishes one whose lack of faith in the ancient tradition of the Force is "disturbing."

Tonight, however, there is no pretend choking, no mention of the vast array of weapons that he has usually mentally accumulated for play time after church. Rather, Thomas, standing in his gray socks. is praying. His squeaky, childish voice, boldy rises above the adults, "Rejoice, O Father Raphael, adornment of the Holy Church...consolation of the oppressed, father to orphans, friend of the poor, peacemaker and good shepherd..." On this Friday evening, while university students party outside, a small group from our church community have gathered to pay homage to another saint likewise characterized for his vast generosity to those in need. Candles flicker around the holy icon of St. Nicholas, Bishop of Myra and Lycia (the historical ascetic figure our culture has banalized into a gluttonous, jolly-old elf), providing some light in the dimly lit chapel. Incense from Father Ignatius' censer rises as prayers to God. The choir chants hymns to the saint:

"A river of healings abundantly pouring and a plentiful fountain of wonders hath Christ shown thee to be, O Nicholas: for those bitterly oprressed by illness, and those tormented by the cruel misfortunes of life truly find healing for every affliction, thy warm protection. Therefore we cry out to thee: pray to Christ God to grant remission of sins to those who with love festively celebrate thy holy memory."

As the vesperal liturgy concludes, the children (and a couple college students) grow antsy. Pairs of shoes line up outside the chapel. Throughout the service the children have eagerly awaited a visitation by St. Nicholas, anticipating a gift of candies in their shoes. And our holy Father does not disappoint. Cries of delight emit from the younger children as chocolates are unwrapped; knowing smiles are displayed upon the faces of the older children.

Upon our arrival home, a bit of chocolate still smeared around his mouth, Thomas and I carefully place our shoes by the door before going to bed, hoping that St. Nicholas will sojourn to our home, bearing gifts. And again, the saint does not disappoint. As Russell and Elliot, more enamored with tearing the wrapping paper than the actual gifts, open books, Thomas unveils a toy Millenium Falcon. "How did St. Nicholas know this was exactly what I wanted?" Thomas questions. Later that day, as has become part our family tradition, we loaded into our van despite the bone chilling cold and journeyed to Mumma's Christmas Tree Farm. Though the cold necessitated that I remain in the van with Russell and Elliot, Jared and Thomas grabbed a saw and cut down a nearly flawless Scotch pine. (It was Thomas' duty to yell "Timber!" when he began to see the tree fall.) Together we drove home, Thomas lost in the midst of pine branches, fingers sticky with candy cane bestowed upon him by one of the Mumma family; Elliot pointing to the tree which threatened him from the rear; and Russell, well Russell, he was doing what he does best, snapping his fingers and doing what we have termed "The Hustle Bustle."

A blessed St. Nicholas Day!