A Christmas Story - A Poem in Prose, an Allegory of Appreciation
Long, long ago in a life far, far away, an evil, sadistic sister of the hero of this tale decreed that her siblings and all the grandchildren must give the family's patriarch a Christmas story each Yule that he could treasure in a book to read throughout the year. This form of cruelty that only a mother could conceive was inflicted on each, every Christmas Eve since, with regular reminders to all to write rising, as the number of days before Christmas waned.
Children, and even those who pass for adults, when reminded to write would moan and postpone the exercise, often until the morning of that eve, finally stopping their shopping to reflect on something worth sharing that each had made themselves. Then on Christmas Eve, before exchanging presents, each was called on by the Christmas Queen of Cruelty to read aloud his or her creation. The sister relished these moments of torture and often captured each on video, no doubt so she could relive over and again the pleasure of each standing before the others to read his or her creation.
Traditions, like sores, persist because they are picked at again and again, and so it continued in this story of stories. There were tales told of crossing the country in a 16 foot sardine can, of being so poor that three children had to share a single cookie, apocryphal tales of mean tricks the brother played on his sisters, imaginative weavings of children's whimsy and, once in a while, apologies for having forgotten.
The stories grew to be a tapestry made of paper that captured images from the hearts of those woven together by the fact that they were family. In time, the book, the family and the the individuals grew older, which time has a way with, and also closer from sharing something made by hand from the heart for the head of the family each Christmas Eve.
And so your hero writes these thoughts to share, for himself and this year for all of his family. The star of Bethlehem appeared in the night, and genuine goodness is shared when one is most in need. We have seen our share, and a bit more, of dim days and dark nights this year. There was one person who was there during it all, my dad - by phone, in person, to listen, to help and, when needed,to be present.
Fathers and sons often don't share things about each other's heart that stories read aloud at Christmas capture. The hero of this story, which is me, learned a lifetime of lessons this year about a dad's love and about how to be as good a father himself: that there is strength in humility, wisdom in listening, and hope in helping.
As as for that sister, thanks for the tradition, but beware, for next year that brother may write about you.
Children, and even those who pass for adults, when reminded to write would moan and postpone the exercise, often until the morning of that eve, finally stopping their shopping to reflect on something worth sharing that each had made themselves. Then on Christmas Eve, before exchanging presents, each was called on by the Christmas Queen of Cruelty to read aloud his or her creation. The sister relished these moments of torture and often captured each on video, no doubt so she could relive over and again the pleasure of each standing before the others to read his or her creation.
Traditions, like sores, persist because they are picked at again and again, and so it continued in this story of stories. There were tales told of crossing the country in a 16 foot sardine can, of being so poor that three children had to share a single cookie, apocryphal tales of mean tricks the brother played on his sisters, imaginative weavings of children's whimsy and, once in a while, apologies for having forgotten.
The stories grew to be a tapestry made of paper that captured images from the hearts of those woven together by the fact that they were family. In time, the book, the family and the the individuals grew older, which time has a way with, and also closer from sharing something made by hand from the heart for the head of the family each Christmas Eve.
And so your hero writes these thoughts to share, for himself and this year for all of his family. The star of Bethlehem appeared in the night, and genuine goodness is shared when one is most in need. We have seen our share, and a bit more, of dim days and dark nights this year. There was one person who was there during it all, my dad - by phone, in person, to listen, to help and, when needed,to be present.
Fathers and sons often don't share things about each other's heart that stories read aloud at Christmas capture. The hero of this story, which is me, learned a lifetime of lessons this year about a dad's love and about how to be as good a father himself: that there is strength in humility, wisdom in listening, and hope in helping.
As as for that sister, thanks for the tradition, but beware, for next year that brother may write about you.
