This Poor Youngling
Christmas is just around the corner. Maybe a bit further. It’s at least across town, boarding the bus. But early autumn is when our church choir starts rehearsing for our Christmas concert. Silent Night and Lo, How a Rose E’er Blooming are strolling through my head, and they won’t stop until well after the new year.
Of course, the joy and truth of Christmas is supposed to outlast the holly. But we forget. The tree browns, the lights are coiled, and Christmas is packed in hastily labeled boxes in the basement.
It’s a powerful holiday for fathers. During the family service of my son’s first Christmas, I nearly cried at the strength of Joseph’s faith. Not yet married, his beloved with child, and not his. Today, such stories are bread and butter for Maury Povich and Jerry Springer. But where they get right-hooks and ratings, fathers get inspiration.
And the Father. The inspiration. The thought of Ian leaving home has barely crossed my mind, except in my weakest moments of frustration. Yet God sent his son, before he was even born. And not for his own sake, but for ours.
To me, Christmas has always seemed a child’s holiday, requiring a child’s faith. I believe children are closest to God because they think the least. They question, but don’t argue; unless you’re putting them to bed. They ask why, and trust the answer. My son trusts my embrace and my kiss, and asks for nothing in return.
Tonight we sang the Coventry Carol, which is the most beautiful, if not cheerful. I kept thinking of Ian, and the fatherly urge to protect, to guard. Part of that protection is knowing that it’s not perfect, and that it doesn’t need to be.
Lully, lullay, Thou little tiny Child,
By, by, lully, lullay.
Lullay, Thou little tiny Child,
By, by, lully, lullay.
O sisters too, how may we do,
For to preserve this day.
This poor youngling for whom we sing
By, by, lully, lullay.
Herod the king, in his raging,
Charged he hath this day.
His men of might, in his own sight,
All children young to slay.
That woe is me, poor Child for Thee!
And ever morn and day,
For thy parting neither say nor sing,
By, by, lully, lullay.
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