(Posted December 25, 2009)
I’ve plagiarized the above line from John Lennon more than once. It’s a trap of age, this repeating of quotations, stories from one’s youth, and the forgetting of names of actors in movies, friends long removed, or streets we’re trying to get to. But I have to admit as I look out the walls of windows which bless my writing space in our house just a few hundred feet from the Cloquet River, even with age creeping into my bones, I am truly humbled.
I have an astute and caring wife; four intelligent and healthy sons; a wonderful daughter-in-law; a neat young woman who’s a steadfast friend to my son Christian (and who, I hope, continues to be part of the family); many friends; and of course, extended family members, all of whom love me and I love them.
The wind outside is fierce. The snow (eighteen inches since yesterday and climbing) alternates between bitter pellets of ice and wickedly propelled gusts of solid white. The photograph inserted above is looking out my writing studio at my favorite tree. I’d guess the lone white pine framed by the birches and hanging on tenaciously by strong roots to the steep bank of the river is about fifty years old. The same age as me. That’s, as I’ve said, a guess. I’m no forester but I recognize the majesty and perfection of God’s handiwork in that pine. The fierce zephyr is blowing in from the east, off the big lake, and buffeting the pine to and fro as I type these words. I’m certain that the tree will withstand the storm. It’s seen far worse weather over it’s half century of life.
Today, my father, mother, brother, sister and their families, are due at our house to celebrate the birth of the Christ child. I’m in a bit of funk; not because the storm may cancel our family gathering. Such things are beyond my control and rest in the hands of the Creator. No, I am disconcerted because, for the first time in over twenty years, we were unable to make Christmas Eve service last night. Oh, we had good intentions to take in the sublime and sacred candlelight evening service at a local Lutheran church. But the weather caused the service to be canceled, leaving me with an empty feeling in my soul. And then there was the change of tradition occasioned by my son and daughter-in-law having to open their “Santa” packages, not on Christmas morning, as has been our family tradition for the entirety of my long life; but on Christmas Eve because they were due at her parents this morning. My wife is always quick to observe that my love of things past is sometimes endearing, sometimes vexing depending upon circumstances. Regardless of the label one places on my ennui, it exists despite all the positives one can stack against these minor disappointments. “I ams who I ams”, to quote that noted sage, Popeye the sailor man.
Whatever happens the remainder of this blustery morning, this is destined to be a memorable Christmas. There’s a chance this storm will equal the great Halloween Blizzard of 1991. That would very cool. Very cool indeed. As I finish this sentence, I receive a call. My second son, who borrowed my Pacifica to go into work last night, is now stuck in our driveway. His two younger brothers are being dispatched to his aid. Whether the van remains stuck or makes it to the house is out of my hands, as are so many things.
Merry Christmas to one and all.
Mark
