Christmas has caused headcount issues from the very beginning. Joseph
and Mary had to travel all the way to Bethlehem to be counted. When he
arrived, he had to sleep in a manger. Now it's a pity that Joseph had
ties in the town of Bethlehem, but he had no kin to take him and his
wife in for the night? I could have traveled to the county of my
raising this evening, despite it being two hours away, but I decided
against it. I would have checked into a hotel after Midnight since I'm
not comfortable being any one's house guest, including family. The
holiday gouge sometimes doubles the prices of even cheap hotels. I
snore and that's going to cause sleep disturbances for the hosts.
Plus, I usually wake up twice or three times a night for a splash.
Yes, I get it checked yearly. Staying in a hotel is an expense, so if
I could find a good barn to sleep in, that would be a blessing. That's
one of the great crises of modern Christmas. Not enough mangers are
around to go around anymore. There's a dish of irony at every Christmas table. Who is there and who
is not; who was welcomed and who was not. This made the Christmas
dinner scenes from the Sopranos fascinating to behold. My mom has
played it smart. She refused to compete for couples and grandchildren
with all the kin; she declared her own Christmas day for the weekend
after. This gives me an extra week to shop and at after Christmas sale
prices. Last year, I gave money to the nephews in envelopes, each of
differing currency amounts. I had them roll dice for the envelopes.
The year before, I hid the Christmas money into new socks. Call it an
intelligence test. I will probably repeat this kind of gifting despite
the fact that both my brother and sister owe me money, loans from this
year. It's laughable, but I am what passes for a rich brother. Tonight, I had a hard time finding a partially-filled pew. A family of
four is ideal. Then, I look like the odd uncle who flew in for the
holidays, being sure not to sit too close to any women close to my age
not sitting next to a husband. I have had too many occasions where
this has had us married off in the eyes of beholders. Standing in line
waiting for a table raises this hazard. If I hear table for two, I
automatically joke, "I wish". That always gets a laugh. But today, I had to occupy a pew of my own, and I had to sit at the
head of it, right on the aisle. The arm rest is just hat. So here I
was, a man of middle age, sitting alone at the head of a pew. This
wouldn't happen in a Charles Dicken's story. I thought of pinning a
note on my blazer, explaining, "amicable divorce, and the daughter and
former wife are healthy, wealthy and wise, attending a Christmas Eve
vigil three hours drive from here". So I did what I always do in
awkward social situations. I tipped well. I understand it is called an
offering in a church, but I gave a good amount of money. I noticed
that the father in the pew before me passed his contribution to his
daughter, five dollars, to drop into the plate. The five-year old
stared at the bill, not sure what to do. The propensity of religious people to pair off men and women is
remarkable. I once made a small donation to Goshen College years ago,
a small Mennonite college southeast of Notre Dame in South Bend,
Indiana. I sent it by mail, so they started sending me the monthly
alumni bulletin, an excellent read. Three months later, a woman named
Martha showed up on the address label. I'm sure Martha is a splendid
woman, but I draw the line at marriage before the first date. No, I
didn't call Goshen College to correct them or ask to meet Martha. I didn't find the offering envelope in the pew slot until a few
minutes later. It allows me to slip any bills for foreign currency I
have in my billfold at the moment. Churches will take anything that
negotiable. Plus, they can hold the currency until exchange rates are
favorable. Dan Giacobassi might be the foremost flautist in Muskegon, and
normally he plays with a group named Nightcrawler out at Captain
Jack's or with Jive at Five or with Truth in Jazz Orchestra. Tonight,
he was honored as the featured soloist, and the carols included the
Shepherd's Pipe tonight to showcase his music. We were led in our
lessons by a new reverend in town, six months from her call to
Muskegon, Diane Gordon. She struck me as reverent, relevant, and
slightly anarchical. Attendance tonight, and I always count the room,
stood at twice last years turnout, so something is going on. The
congregation is even buying an African village water buffalo. I could go into all the resonances tonight's service struck in my
identity, although some would like me to substitute the word soul. For
example, I no longer sing with the carols despite knowing the words by
heart. The two children, dressed handsomely by their mother, fell
asleep almost immediately on the comfortable red velvet cushion of the
pew. I couldn't determine who was the mother of the two women in the
pew. A father and two children found a gap in a pew just their size
when they arrived before lesson number three. The man behind me
slapped me on the back and when I turned, offered me his hand in
Christmas greeting, a man that struck me as a wonder of muscular
Christianity. After carefully instructing us how to handle our candles so we
wouldn't spill hot wax onto the nice red velvet cushions, inviting us
to be careful, Reverend Diana paused us and asked us to look at the
base of our candle flame, where the wick arises above the wax. Look
for the blue flame. That blue flame is where God keeps alive the love
he has for you and you individually. I paraphrase badly, but can you
see how good is this new woman of God in Muskegon?
and Mary had to travel all the way to Bethlehem to be counted. When he
arrived, he had to sleep in a manger. Now it's a pity that Joseph had
ties in the town of Bethlehem, but he had no kin to take him and his
wife in for the night? I could have traveled to the county of my
raising this evening, despite it being two hours away, but I decided
against it. I would have checked into a hotel after Midnight since I'm
not comfortable being any one's house guest, including family. The
holiday gouge sometimes doubles the prices of even cheap hotels. I
snore and that's going to cause sleep disturbances for the hosts.
Plus, I usually wake up twice or three times a night for a splash.
Yes, I get it checked yearly. Staying in a hotel is an expense, so if
I could find a good barn to sleep in, that would be a blessing. That's
one of the great crises of modern Christmas. Not enough mangers are
around to go around anymore. There's a dish of irony at every Christmas table. Who is there and who
is not; who was welcomed and who was not. This made the Christmas
dinner scenes from the Sopranos fascinating to behold. My mom has
played it smart. She refused to compete for couples and grandchildren
with all the kin; she declared her own Christmas day for the weekend
after. This gives me an extra week to shop and at after Christmas sale
prices. Last year, I gave money to the nephews in envelopes, each of
differing currency amounts. I had them roll dice for the envelopes.
The year before, I hid the Christmas money into new socks. Call it an
intelligence test. I will probably repeat this kind of gifting despite
the fact that both my brother and sister owe me money, loans from this
year. It's laughable, but I am what passes for a rich brother. Tonight, I had a hard time finding a partially-filled pew. A family of
four is ideal. Then, I look like the odd uncle who flew in for the
holidays, being sure not to sit too close to any women close to my age
not sitting next to a husband. I have had too many occasions where
this has had us married off in the eyes of beholders. Standing in line
waiting for a table raises this hazard. If I hear table for two, I
automatically joke, "I wish". That always gets a laugh. But today, I had to occupy a pew of my own, and I had to sit at the
head of it, right on the aisle. The arm rest is just hat. So here I
was, a man of middle age, sitting alone at the head of a pew. This
wouldn't happen in a Charles Dicken's story. I thought of pinning a
note on my blazer, explaining, "amicable divorce, and the daughter and
former wife are healthy, wealthy and wise, attending a Christmas Eve
vigil three hours drive from here". So I did what I always do in
awkward social situations. I tipped well. I understand it is called an
offering in a church, but I gave a good amount of money. I noticed
that the father in the pew before me passed his contribution to his
daughter, five dollars, to drop into the plate. The five-year old
stared at the bill, not sure what to do. The propensity of religious people to pair off men and women is
remarkable. I once made a small donation to Goshen College years ago,
a small Mennonite college southeast of Notre Dame in South Bend,
Indiana. I sent it by mail, so they started sending me the monthly
alumni bulletin, an excellent read. Three months later, a woman named
Martha showed up on the address label. I'm sure Martha is a splendid
woman, but I draw the line at marriage before the first date. No, I
didn't call Goshen College to correct them or ask to meet Martha. I didn't find the offering envelope in the pew slot until a few
minutes later. It allows me to slip any bills for foreign currency I
have in my billfold at the moment. Churches will take anything that
negotiable. Plus, they can hold the currency until exchange rates are
favorable. Dan Giacobassi might be the foremost flautist in Muskegon, and
normally he plays with a group named Nightcrawler out at Captain
Jack's or with Jive at Five or with Truth in Jazz Orchestra. Tonight,
he was honored as the featured soloist, and the carols included the
Shepherd's Pipe tonight to showcase his music. We were led in our
lessons by a new reverend in town, six months from her call to
Muskegon, Diane Gordon. She struck me as reverent, relevant, and
slightly anarchical. Attendance tonight, and I always count the room,
stood at twice last years turnout, so something is going on. The
congregation is even buying an African village water buffalo. I could go into all the resonances tonight's service struck in my
identity, although some would like me to substitute the word soul. For
example, I no longer sing with the carols despite knowing the words by
heart. The two children, dressed handsomely by their mother, fell
asleep almost immediately on the comfortable red velvet cushion of the
pew. I couldn't determine who was the mother of the two women in the
pew. A father and two children found a gap in a pew just their size
when they arrived before lesson number three. The man behind me
slapped me on the back and when I turned, offered me his hand in
Christmas greeting, a man that struck me as a wonder of muscular
Christianity. After carefully instructing us how to handle our candles so we
wouldn't spill hot wax onto the nice red velvet cushions, inviting us
to be careful, Reverend Diana paused us and asked us to look at the
base of our candle flame, where the wick arises above the wax. Look
for the blue flame. That blue flame is where God keeps alive the love
he has for you and you individually. I paraphrase badly, but can you
see how good is this new woman of God in Muskegon?
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