on christmas eve, we flew south.

i explained to my love, "eve" is the night before christmas, not the night of; he, a pagan all his life, understood about christmas the festival rinsed clean of God. thus, for him, it's a time to give presents and drink wine and watch the other males of the family sit in front of the football screen; it's time to play cards and eat store-bought ham and drink and trim a heathen tree. who is santa claus, anyway? and what has all this got to do with mr. christ?

but no, my sweet; no. you're forgetting the christmas carols sung by everyone in front of the fire or, even better, door to door; the christmas goose my mother always made, whereof my sister and i vied for the pleasure of eating the neck, which was an honor in spite of having an indifferent flavor. it's staying up as late as possible in front of the blazing fireplace to see if we can catch santa claus by roasting his bum. it's midnight mass at the church to light candles and sing hymns very quietly, almost whisperingly, so that the whole church merely trembles with the breath of human voice. well, the last is rather more my fantasy than reality, i admit. for never having been in the least christian, or even a believer, i find many of the christian trappings of ritual theatrical and charming, old-fashioned, like knowing how to bake pastry dough from scratch or carve radish roses.

but he's never read the bible. he doesn't understand that the language of christian passion can be as moving, as affecting as the language of love. i quote mercilessly from King James, from memory: listen, my dear: "Didst thou give the horse strength? Didst thou clothe his neck with thunder? The glory of his nostrils is terrible."

and of devoted love, there is also graceful eloquence: "Whither thou goest, I will go; where thou diest, I will die, and there will I be buried."

even of lust: "Thou art all fair my love, there is no spot on thee. Thy breasts are like two roes, which are twins."

think of this! this story, this legend shrouded in holiness - a man, a god, one being, destroyed to save the world. and think again on the lyrics of the carols that your instinct might be to despise, or at least to mock: "o little town of Bethlehem, how sweet we see thee lie; above thy dark and dreamless streets the silent stars go by.... the hope and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight."

or, in perhaps the most romantic and dramatic carol ever written: "a thrill of hope, and the weary world rejoices, for yonder breaks a new a glorious morn... fall on your knees! oh, hear the angel voices! oh night divine! oh holy night..."

did you not feel it, my love? when we were singing these songs to your grandmother as she lay dreamily in bed, did you not feel something that must have been greater than yourself? i am not so arrogant to presume to call it "God" - yet it was something powerful, divine perhaps. your grandmother is losing the gift of speech, of thought - how painfully it reminds me of the deterioration of my father, his eyes gradually clouding over to milky blue, his speech getting thicker and thicker in his mouth until it seemed his tongue entirely obstructed his words. but she will still recognize those songs, those well-known, well-worn songs of her childhood and mine, and even with her mind confused by the chaotic memories of her long years she can recall clearly the tune and the words.

the end of december, your pagans believed, was a powerful time. so powerful the church had to move the date of jesus's birthday to coincide with the heathen rites of midwinter. i am not sure. but since our culture has designated this time as the holy days, why not take advantage? explore them, in whatever way pleases us and satisfies our spirits. eat, drink, God rest ye merry, and sing.