On Christmas Day after the excitement of presents Dad lies on the living room floor on his side, head on hand as baby brother leans backwards and forwards rocking to and fro on his chubby bottom against Dad’s stomach, absorbed in his new playskool toy with a rolling barrel, levers to push.
He thumps on one lever, laughs at its loud tinging noise, stares in fascination as the barrel rolls and rings, thumps the lever again, murmurs excitedly to himself.
Dad watches as baby brother plays, grinning broadly at this intent little fellow, so engrossed in his fabulous new toy.
As children, we would go carolling around the neighbourhood. This carol was always a favourite:
O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie! Above thy deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by; yet in thy dark streets shineth the everlasting light. The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.
For Christ is born of Mary, and, gathered all above while mortals sleep, the angels keep their watch of wond’ring love. O morning stars, together proclaim the holy birth, and praises sing to God the King and peace to all the earth.
How silently, how silently, the wondrous gift is giv’n! So God imparts to human hearts the blessings of his heav’n. No ear may hear his coming, but in this world of sin, where meek souls will receive him, still the dear Christ enters in.
O holy Child of Bethlehem, descend to us, we pray, cast out our sin and enter in, be born in us today. We hear the Christmas angels the great glad tidings tell; O come to us, abide with us, our Lord Immanuel!
Author: Phillips Brooks
Phillips Brooks was born at Boston, Dec. 13, 1835, graduated at Harvard College 1855, and was ordained in 1859. Successively Rector of the Church of the Advent, Philadelphia, and Trinity Church, Boston, he became Bishop of Mass. in 1891, and died at Boston in Jan., 1893. His Carol, “O little town of Bethlehem,” was written for his Sunday School in 1868, the author having spent Christmas, 1866, at Bethlehem.
It’s Christmas Eve and the kitchen is a mess everything crusted with flour as more pastry is made because someone has eaten all the mince pies already.
The jelly stuffed full of Rum soaked sponges has finally set providing a foundation for our Christmas Trifle and the Christmas Cake has been iced with red rocketships rather than holly.
Meanwhile someone is melting dark chocolate to make a Yule Log the way Grandad used to and not looking guilty at all.
I smile and close the door on my adult sons as their chocolate fuelled laughter resounds in my ears. Christmas is finally here!
This poem appeared here last year, but I want to share it again! It describes our own little Christmas Eve tradition.
Many years ago, I would leave the bulk of the Christmas baking until Christmas Eve, and have an all day marathon with my two little boys. By the time Daddy came home from work, they were happy and above all tired. Not over excited at all, so sleep came easy to them and Father Christmas could drink his Calvados, eat his mince pie and fill those stockings.
The mess is a family joke –when they were young, somehow the house on Christmas Eve was littered with floury handprints…
Alas, last year and this year someone is elsewhere and baby bro (all 6 foot of him) is baking alone……
What are the words? Bright, cheery red, bob-bob-bobbing? My Robin has read Ted Hughes he pulls worms fighting from the stiff soil terrorises chickens, birds a hundred times his size fights to the death for territory. He is now lurking in our small unproductive Fig tree that leans awkwardly out of a fake ceramic tub. The pigeons by the pond look uneasy.
The form comes from the Flamenco songs of the Roma people. The structure is a quintain; five lines. The number of syllables; 6-6-5-6-6. Challenging bit: The second and fifth verses share assonance; the rhyming of stressed vowels (equinox; thought) or words with the same consonant and a different vowel (night; naught).
It was written in response to Rebecca’s December Poetry Challenge at Fake Flamenco. She is asking for poems about winter — I’m afraid mine is a bit gloomy though…..
For those of you not in the UK, people here count how many days that they are into Advent before they hear this song (in the shops, on the radio). When you hear it, you have been Whammed……
There fared a mother driven forth Out of an inn to roam; In the place where she was homeless All men are at home. The crazy stable close at hand, With shaking timber and shifting sand, Grew a stronger thing to abide and stand Than the square stones of Rome.
For men are homesick in their homes, And strangers under the sun, And they lay on their heads in a foreign land Whenever the day is done. Here we have battle and blazing eyes, And chance and honour and high surprise, But our homes are under miraculous skies Where the yule tale was begun.
A Child in a foul stable, Where the beasts feed and foam; Only where He was homeless Are you and I at home; We have hands that fashion and heads that know, But our hearts we lost – how long ago! In a place no chart nor ship can show Under the sky’s dome.
This world is wild as an old wives’ tale, And strange the plain things are, The earth is enough and the air is enough For our wonder and our war; But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swings And our peace is put in impossible things Where clashed and thundered unthinkable wings Round an incredible star.
To an open house in the evening Home shall men come, To an older place than Eden And a taller town than Rome. To the end of the way of the wandering star, To the things that cannot be and that are, To the place where God was homeless And all men are at home.
It’s Christmas Eve and the kitchen is a mess everything crusted with flour as more pastry is made because someone has eaten all the mince pies already.
The jelly stuffed full of Rum soaked sponges has finally set providing a foundation for our Christmas Trifle and the Christmas Cake has been iced with red rocketships rather than holly.
Meanwhile someone is melting dark chocolate to make a Yule Log the way Grandad used to and not looking guilty at all.
I smile and close the door on my adult sons as their chocolate fuelled laughter resounds in my ears. Christmas is finally here!
This poem appeared yesterday on Sarah Connors Advent Calendar, but I couldn’t help but blog it again today, as it is about our own little Christmas Eve tradition.
Many years ago, I would leave the bulk of the Christmas baking until Christmas Eve, and have an all day marathon with my two little boys. By the time Daddy came home from work, they were happy and above all tired. Not over excited at all, so sleep came easy to them and Father Christmas could drink his Calvados, eat his mince pie and fill those stockings.
The mess is a family joke –when they were young, somehow the house on Christmas Eve was littered with floury handprints…
As they grew up, the lads decided to do all the baking (and a lot of eating) on thier own. They make the Christmas Cake (a traditional fruit cake), mince pies, a chocolate Yule Log cake, and a Trifle. And yes, extra batches of pies are made, as the first batch always vanishes.
They cook the main meal on Christmas Day too, so we are very lucky parents!
The Cheesesellers Wife 