My favorite version of Christmas Carol has the Muppets taking on the Dickens’ classic. I would feel badly about this, but our resident theologian Fred Sanders agrees, thus making my ego secure against the sneers of the purists who prefer bald star ship captains or crusty Americans as Scrooge.
Give me frogs, pigs, and the Great Gonzo.
A good musical, which a Muppet’s Christmas Carol surely is, has songs that add to the story and do not just delay it. With the exception of an overly long love song done by a luminous beauty, who is never seen for more than a minute by any of my children as they rush to get microwave popcorn, the Muppet score delivers.
There is one song that sticks in my head this Christmas Eve. The Muppets joyfully sing on Christmas Eve that there “is only more sleep ’til Christmas.” This night, of all the nights of the year, that is true. For half the year my Google home page points to the number of days until Christmas. Tonight the count is one.
Right now Google agrees with the chorus of puppet rats and frogs that there is only one more sleep until Christmas.
Tonight after Midnight services at dear Saint Michael we will put the children to bed, stuff the stockings, bring out the Baby Jesus for the creche, and snuggle down all warm in our beds.
Only one more sleep ’til Christmas.
This year the Midnight service will be bitter sweet. It will be the first since Father Michael died. The corner where he once sat remains empty.
Only one more sleep ’til Christmas.
As my entire family kneels at the rail to receive communion as our first act together on this Holy Night, I will (as I always do) remember Nana, Granny, my two Papaws, Roddy, Karen and so many others in my family now gone. I will remember Torrey chum Angela Good . . . gone to glory in her senior year.
Only one more sleep ’til Christmas.
Christmas is the first waking up from the nightmare of our fall. It marks the beginning of a holy time in the calendar that will culminate in His final sleep on Holy Saturday.
O Holy Night.
Only one more night, one more sleep, ’til all the Holidays begin.
The great crowd of saints, Father Michael, my Nana, Auntie Karen, and so many others wait eagerly. Soon, a flicker of cosmic time, and there will be a family reunion of epic scale.
Great gifts will be given by our Father and not one will need to be returned.
Splendor will shine forth on a feast that will require no compensating workout the next day.
There will be no tax bill or credit card statements coming like a hangover to that party. The bill has all been paid.
This year, my forty-fourth, I have become aware of my own mortality, but oddly fear it less. Perhaps, I am learning the lesson of this Holy Night.
Only more sleep ’til it is always Christmas.
