Silent Night
December 23. It’s the most won-der-ful time of the year, or so says the song. In all truth, it’s the most crazed time of the year, with people nearly breaking into fistfights for the last copy of Al Franken’s “Lies” on the shelf. I could tell them that there are two more copies in a box in the back somewhere, but that takes away all the fun. Anticipation of chaos and bloodshed is what keeps us going in the final days before Christmas.
I was back to work a day earlier than the medic had advised. I had bills to pay. I wasn’t just going to remain in bed until Christmas Eve. So I went to work, pulled on a Santa hat to hide my flat hair, and wandered through the store directing traffic on the fly. Humor? Three aisles back on your left. Management? Those would be all the way at the end on the right. Travel guides for Sweden? Please don’t tell me you’re going in the winter… two aisles over to your right, near the latte stand.
A small girl came running up to me and gave me a hug, wrapped around my leg like a boa constrictor. “Whoa! What’s going on here?” I reached down and tried to unwrap her from my leg as her mother approached.
“She thinks you’re one of Santa’s helpers,” she said. “She thinks she can influence Santa with your help.”
I crouched down and whispered. “Are you looking for Santa?”
“Yes,” she whispered back.
“He’s not here right now,” I said. “He’s a busy guy. He’s got lots to do tomorrow night.”
“I know,” she whispered, “but I forgot to tell him something.”
“Do you want me to tell him?” She nodded. “Ok, what?”
“Tell him I love him. Tell him that I was a good girl. And tell him that we don’t have a real fireplace, so he’ll have to look for another way to get inside.”
I promised, and even did the cross-my-heart thing, the most solemn vow an elementary school child can make. I assured her that Santa was crafty about finding new and interesting ways to get inside and deliver presents. Lots of people didn’t have chimneys and real fireplaces, but he managed to come to their houses and deliver gifts for them anyway.
The day moved quickly in spite of the chaos, and before I knew it I was clocking out. “See you tomorrow?” asked my manager.
“Same time, same place,” I replied.
I rode home on the bus, but got off one stop early to visit a parking lot full of trees. I picked out one that wasn’t too big or too small, but looked like a cozy addition to the condo. I dragged the poor thing four blocks before arriving at the building and struggling to get it through the front door. The elevator was a piece of cake, and it was just a little more of a drag to get it to our door. I unlocked the door, threw it open and yelled “Honey! I’m home!” in a singsong voice. Missy was over by the windows keeping herself busy with decorating – you guessed it – the tree that she had bought earlier that afternoon.
We sat the two trees on either side of the plasma TV and decorated them completely differently. Missy’s tree was filled with bows and colored lights and brightly hued metallic balls. Mine was white lights, hand-strung microwave popcorn garland (lightly buttered), and an assortment of ornamental goodies that I could find around the house. It was starting to feel like Christmas. Not the retail-manufactured, decorations-up-in-August kind of Christmas, but the hot chocolate and cookies kind.
Christmas Eve is a day that can make even veteran bookstore employees weep. When you’re in the middle of it, everything is crazed beyond belief. When it’s over, you are so insanely delighted to have a day off that you give no thought to the fact that in just two days, everyone will be back to return it all. “I got 13 copies of Howard Stern’s “Private Parts”. Can I return some of them? Lord, doesn’t it tell you something about yourself when 13 friends and family members get you a Howard Stern book for Christmas?
The store closed at 6:00, and after much frantic organizing, we ran for the exits like children on the last day of the school year. I met Missy at home and she encouraged me to come with her to the city cathedral for Christmas Eve services. I had only been to church a few times, so I wasn’t familiar or comfortable with it, but she insisted that it was an event of unparalleled poetry and beauty, so I went.
If you’ve never seen the inside of a big old church by candlelight, I highly recommend it. There’s a beauty and tranquility there that makes it easy to understand why people want to believe. The minister’s voice booms authoritatively from the altar; the candlelight casts magical shadows on the walls and the stained glass; and there is nothing more beautiful than the sound of human voices singing in unison. Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright.
Missy and I each held our candles as we sang, playing with the hot wax as it made puddles on the top of the candle and trailed down the sides like a hot waterfall. How old are we? Clearly not fully mature adults.
“For unto us, a child is born,” said the minister, with his deep, rumbling cadence. “Unto us, a son is given.” The Christmas tale is a lovely story, really, one of birth and life in the face of adversity. I was surprised to find myself filled with hope, letting go of the pain of recent years and looking ahead to the future. Tonight, in the glowing candlelight, I wasn’t afraid of what was ahead. Missy put her arm around me, once again playing the role of caretaker, and gave me a squeeze.
When the service ended, we walked down the front steps of the cathedral. I could see my breath in the light of the full moon as I wrapped my scarf around my neck and we headed for home.
I was back to work a day earlier than the medic had advised. I had bills to pay. I wasn’t just going to remain in bed until Christmas Eve. So I went to work, pulled on a Santa hat to hide my flat hair, and wandered through the store directing traffic on the fly. Humor? Three aisles back on your left. Management? Those would be all the way at the end on the right. Travel guides for Sweden? Please don’t tell me you’re going in the winter… two aisles over to your right, near the latte stand.
A small girl came running up to me and gave me a hug, wrapped around my leg like a boa constrictor. “Whoa! What’s going on here?” I reached down and tried to unwrap her from my leg as her mother approached.
“She thinks you’re one of Santa’s helpers,” she said. “She thinks she can influence Santa with your help.”
I crouched down and whispered. “Are you looking for Santa?”
“Yes,” she whispered back.
“He’s not here right now,” I said. “He’s a busy guy. He’s got lots to do tomorrow night.”
“I know,” she whispered, “but I forgot to tell him something.”
“Do you want me to tell him?” She nodded. “Ok, what?”
“Tell him I love him. Tell him that I was a good girl. And tell him that we don’t have a real fireplace, so he’ll have to look for another way to get inside.”
I promised, and even did the cross-my-heart thing, the most solemn vow an elementary school child can make. I assured her that Santa was crafty about finding new and interesting ways to get inside and deliver presents. Lots of people didn’t have chimneys and real fireplaces, but he managed to come to their houses and deliver gifts for them anyway.
The day moved quickly in spite of the chaos, and before I knew it I was clocking out. “See you tomorrow?” asked my manager.
“Same time, same place,” I replied.
I rode home on the bus, but got off one stop early to visit a parking lot full of trees. I picked out one that wasn’t too big or too small, but looked like a cozy addition to the condo. I dragged the poor thing four blocks before arriving at the building and struggling to get it through the front door. The elevator was a piece of cake, and it was just a little more of a drag to get it to our door. I unlocked the door, threw it open and yelled “Honey! I’m home!” in a singsong voice. Missy was over by the windows keeping herself busy with decorating – you guessed it – the tree that she had bought earlier that afternoon.
We sat the two trees on either side of the plasma TV and decorated them completely differently. Missy’s tree was filled with bows and colored lights and brightly hued metallic balls. Mine was white lights, hand-strung microwave popcorn garland (lightly buttered), and an assortment of ornamental goodies that I could find around the house. It was starting to feel like Christmas. Not the retail-manufactured, decorations-up-in-August kind of Christmas, but the hot chocolate and cookies kind.
Christmas Eve is a day that can make even veteran bookstore employees weep. When you’re in the middle of it, everything is crazed beyond belief. When it’s over, you are so insanely delighted to have a day off that you give no thought to the fact that in just two days, everyone will be back to return it all. “I got 13 copies of Howard Stern’s “Private Parts”. Can I return some of them? Lord, doesn’t it tell you something about yourself when 13 friends and family members get you a Howard Stern book for Christmas?
The store closed at 6:00, and after much frantic organizing, we ran for the exits like children on the last day of the school year. I met Missy at home and she encouraged me to come with her to the city cathedral for Christmas Eve services. I had only been to church a few times, so I wasn’t familiar or comfortable with it, but she insisted that it was an event of unparalleled poetry and beauty, so I went.
If you’ve never seen the inside of a big old church by candlelight, I highly recommend it. There’s a beauty and tranquility there that makes it easy to understand why people want to believe. The minister’s voice booms authoritatively from the altar; the candlelight casts magical shadows on the walls and the stained glass; and there is nothing more beautiful than the sound of human voices singing in unison. Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright.
Missy and I each held our candles as we sang, playing with the hot wax as it made puddles on the top of the candle and trailed down the sides like a hot waterfall. How old are we? Clearly not fully mature adults.
“For unto us, a child is born,” said the minister, with his deep, rumbling cadence. “Unto us, a son is given.” The Christmas tale is a lovely story, really, one of birth and life in the face of adversity. I was surprised to find myself filled with hope, letting go of the pain of recent years and looking ahead to the future. Tonight, in the glowing candlelight, I wasn’t afraid of what was ahead. Missy put her arm around me, once again playing the role of caretaker, and gave me a squeeze.
When the service ended, we walked down the front steps of the cathedral. I could see my breath in the light of the full moon as I wrapped my scarf around my neck and we headed for home.
posted by Ali at 8:22 PM
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