Christmas 2024

We had a relaxing, comfortable Christmas again this year. With David grown and it just being the three of us in the house, that's the vibe we go for lately. 

Last year, Diane let me know that real Christmas trees are hard on her allergies, so I bought her an artificial tree as her big Christmas gift. David and I put it up this year and loved how easy it was to assemble. No trying to make it stand up straight and tying it to a wall to keep it from falling over. No futilely trying to keep it watered to prevent it from drying out too quickly. And it already has lights on it right out of the box. 

We've lost the romance of going to our favorite tree farm and cutting down our own, but I did still bring in real greenery for the holiday. We always get a real wreath for the front door, so this year at the nursery I also picked up some garland: white pine like our Christmas trees used to be. I hung it on the railings going up to our front porch and also the railing on the inside stairs. It wasn't as full and lush as I imagined, but it's pretty in a humble sort of way. Bob Cratchit would like it.

For the last several years, I have a tradition of starting the same book every December. It's called Christmas: A Treasury of Verse and Prose, a collection of art and writing curated by Sheila Pickles. The writing is a mix of letters, essays, and story excerpts that Pickles describes as helping her keep Christmas in context. It has the same effect on me. It's so easy to let the holiday get out of control and these paintings and writings (mostly from the 19th Century) either describe very simple, but joyful holidays or communicate thoughts about Christmas that ground me in its meaning about Christ, but also family and friends.

We always get together with my side of the family a few times during the season. I help my Mom make one of my favorite holiday treats, a fruit-filled pastry that I and some other out-of-town family and friends can't celebrate without. We make them, I take some home, and she ships the rest around the country.

Then there's our annual trip to the very small town of Kellogg, Minnesota where we have lunch at the same diner every year before going to Lark Toys, a magical independent toy store that has individual rooms for various kinds of toys, but also books and games. There's a huge collection of vintage toys to look at. There's also a soda counter/grill, a fudge shop, a candy store, and an indoor carousel with beautiful, hand-carved wooden animals to ride. 

Rather than buy individual gifts for family members, my folks treat us to some kind of Christmas outing every year: a play or a concert or something like that. This year we watched the Minnesota Orchestra perform a tribute to John Denver, my Mom's favorite musician and someone the whole family has a lot of fondness and nostalgia for. The concert featured Christmas songs, but also all the signature stuff like "Country Roads" and "Rocky Mountain High" and "Calypso," a personal favorite of mine. Accompanying the orchestra were members of John Denver's old band, but also archival recordings of him singing. As someone who grew up on this music, it was incredibly moving for me.

Finally, my brother and his wife traditionally host Christmas Eve dinner, though this year their schedule prevented it being on Christmas Eve. That worked well for Diane, David, and I though. 

For most of our married life, Christmas Eve has been a time to get together with Diane's side of the family. There was a traditional meal and lots of caroling accompanied by Diane's mom on the piano. After Diane's folks died, we continued the tradition at her brother's place (without the piano accompaniment), but he and her other siblings have gradually moved to other towns and cities, so now it's a chaotically fun Zoom call. 

Typically, we'd have to leave my brother's place after dinner to get home in time to call Diane's family. And then the last couple of years, we've adopted the Icelandic tradition of Jólabókaflóðið. We buy each other a selection of books to be opened on Christmas Eve, then we spend the night reading. It's a wonderful, relaxed, low-stress way to finish an evening directly following two different family gatherings. But this year, with my side's family meal moved to a different night, there wasn't the usual rushing around before book time.

Christmas Day was also very relaxed. We slept in and opened gifts around 10:00. Then we didn't have anything else scheduled until dinner time, so we leisurely cleaned up and spent the rest of the day reading and/or napping. My big gift for the year was an iPad. I resisted it for years, because I didn't think I needed it, but my little Kindle wasn't cutting it for reading digital comics, so I finally asked Santa for a larger screen and spent the afternoon catching up with Wonder Woman.

My sister and her family came over for an informal Christmas dinner (our oven broke a couple of days ago, but Santa brought us an air fryer that saved the meal). Then we relaxed some more until about 10:00 pm when Diane went to bed and David and I went to a late show of Robert Eggers' Nosferatu. 

Greatness Will Not Make Me Happy

I'm reading Sense and Sensibility and was struck by this exchange between Elinor and Edward. She speaks first. Not accusatorily; just matter-of-factly.

"You have no ambition, I well know. Your wishes are all moderate." 

"As moderate as those of the rest of the world, I believe. I wish as well as every body else to be perfectly happy; but like every body else it must be in my own way. Greatness will not make me so."

Edward gets it.

The Express Purpose of Interfering

I just finished reading The Peril at End House, a Hercule Poirot mystery by Agatha Christie. It's very very good, but I was especially struck by a bit of theology that Poirot brings up.

There's a minor spoiler in this, so if the book is on your reading list and you want to remain totally surprised, you'll want to skip this whole thing.

Some set up: Poirot and his buddy Hastings suspect that someone is trying to murder a young woman named Nick. It's an unusual case, because they're trying to prevent a murder instead of solve one. That's one of the things I love about the book. 

But here's the spoiler: Nick's cousin Maggie is dressed similarly to Nick at one point and is killed instead. Shortly after, Poirot and Hastings talk about what happened. Hastings is narrating and begins:

"It's really amazing the way Nick has escaped. It seems almost incredible." 

And suddenly I remembered the tone in Frederica’s voice as she had said: "Nick bears a charmed life." 

I shivered a little. 

"Yes," said Poirot, thoughtfully. "And I can take no credit to myself. Which is humiliating."

"Providence," I murmured. 

"Ah, mon ami, I would not put on the shoulders of the good God the burden of men’s wrongdoing. You say that in your Sunday morning voice of thankfulness — without reflecting that what you are really saying is that le bon Dieu has killed Miss Maggie Buckley." 

"Really, Poirot!" 

"Really, my friend! But I will not sit back and say 'le bon Dieu has arranged everything, I will not interfere.' Because I am convinced that le bon Dieu created Hercule Poirot for the express purpose of interfering."

It's a profound, important idea that Poirot expresses. Hastings offers a quick, simple platitude about the Providence of God being responsible for saving Nick, but he hasn't thought through the implications. Hastings is never the deepest thinker, but someone a little more thoughtful would realize what Poirot points out: that God can't just get credit for saving Nick. If Hastings is right, then God must also taking the blame for murdering Maggie.

Poirot goes even deeper though and dismisses the idea that God had a direct hand in the affair at all. In Poirot's view, God has placed his people on the Earth to act on God's behalf. We don't get to sit back and wait for God to fix the world. We have to understand that it's our job to fix it as God's agents. That the way he fixes it is through us. 

It's a terrifying responsibility that more of God's people need to take seriously, but I think Poirot is absolutely right.