Well, December 25th has officially passed us by once more: another Christmas serivce, another ham dinner, and another day well spent with family playing games. This morning, the church choir sang a song interspersed with bible readings that quickly overviewed the story of Christ's birth, death, and earthly mission. It was a neat idea, but the song bothered me somewhat. The first line, and only line that I can remember, declares that "We are the reason for the season!" huh.
I know what they're getting at: if it hadn't been for us, Christ wouldn't have had to come and become human and die. But does it sound strange to anyone else to be declaring that joyfully in a song, that "hey, look, WE sinned, so it's cause of US that we get to celebrate Christmas day!" I think that we can get enough of that attitude, that it's all about US without singing those kind of songs. How about, for one day of the year, we take the focus off of ourselves when we're singing?
Anyhow, whilst talking to Brian tonight, I remembered that, in addition to not having my Christmas shopping done, I also do not have my Christmas poems done. (Our family Christmas is on Tuesday) Now, having just finished my creative writing course last week and handing over my portfolio containing 25ish poems, I'm not so anxious to write for a deadline again so soon. But it must be done. It's tradition. Every year since I can remember, my family has chosen names for Christmas among the kids. Along with a gift for the sibling and for each parent, we must write some sort of an original poem. My mom had the presence of mind to start collecting them early on, so there are "poems" that I wrote before I could spell and not long after I could actually write. They don't rhyme. They don't even make sense. But it is kind of fun to read them after so long. Some of them are limmericks, some are to be sung to the tune of 'Jingle Bells,' some are based on traditional poems such as 'The night before Christmas,' and some are just words scrawled on a piece of paper an hour before presents are to be opened.
A few years ago, the fateful year of the fake Christmas tree, I wrote this for my mom:
Without the first regard for me,
You did away with our real Christmas tree.
Never get a fake one, I tried to push...
but anyhow, here's something for you to put
on this plastic, pseudo Christmas bush...
Can you feel the love yet? :) My mom's poems are all nicely printed out on the Dot Matrix printer of the Commodore 64 persuasion, but the rest of ours are usually scrawled out in the shaky cursive writing of one in early elementary school. I'll leave you with a poem that I wrote back in 1992. 9 years old, just remember that, folks. Don't judge me for who I was....
To my dad who is really quite rad:
We got you a gift
but we hope that you will not have a fit!
It is not a boot,
but I ought to quoat,
"Where there is love
there is a dove!"
but it's the thought that counts!
Yep. With a poem like that, it's definitely the thought that counts.