Christmas

No photos. I haven't been able to get into the house for days because of the staining of the floors.

The house is still empty of everything and everyone but contractors. The Senerchias finish the electrical pretty soon and Q & R has, very kindly, had eight men working seven-day weeks painting and staining, all to get us in by Christmas. I don't even want to be there by Christmas.  I want less pressure, not more. They tell us now that the work should be done by the 23rd and the move in is scheduled for the 27th. We will continue to sleep on the sofa at Christina's Mom's apartment until Christmas morning and then, just as every year, move down to the beach. I cannot wait to breathe at Point Lookout with my family, if just to lower my blood pressure.

On the 27th, the Feast Day of John the Apostle, Christina and I will stand together in an empty clean house that morning and wait for the Dun-Rite men to come in. We as a family will sleep in beds with cold sheets, without shades on the windows, watching the headlights from cars on Colonial Avenue glide across the ceiling. We'll call out to one another through the uncarpeted halls, and we'll be home.

John was the Saint who Stayed, the apostle whom many said Jesus called most beloved. Peter was the rock, but John was the one who was treasured for his loyalty. He was with Jesus for the Passover, lingered, together with Peter, after the arrest, and was the only apostle who was witness to Jesus's death on the cross. He was the one charged to take care of Mary. He was the first to believe that Jesus had risen. I agree, there's a lot of religion here, which I don't want to get sucked into. I'm just not that religious. I do like that our move-in day is the feast of St John the Eagle rather than, say, Saint Jude, patron of hopeless cases, or St. Maude, patron of misbehaving children, or St. Expeditus, patron of procrastination and money issues.

Back to John the Evangelist. Interestingly, there is a story that says he was taken to Rome where, thrown into a vat of boiling oil he miraculously emerged unharmed. That took place, supposedly, on May 6, my Dad's birthday. John the Apostle died of natural causes, near Ephesus in Turkey, as an old old man. I hope to do the same.

And so this Christmas is not forfeit. There is perhaps a greater sense of expectation, of humility, of thankfulness for the generosity of family and friends, which has been remarkable, and unsparing and heartfelt, and we haven't even been in an emergency. It's been more of what we should have, more what we learn in the Charlie Brown Christmas, and less than in, say, Santa Claus is Coming to Town. It's just not what we've done the past 12 years or so, and I am happy for the change.