In this episode, Night Before Christmas . . .
(In the spirit of Edgar Albert Guest)
I’ve wrestled with the tangled lights the way I always do—
With just enough patience left to see the project through.
I climb the ladder carefully; the years have taught me how.
To take my time with every step and keep a steady brow.
We hang the faded ornaments I’ve known since I was small, the chipped, the cracked, the tilted ones—I love them best of all.
Santa’s lost a bit of paint, the stars’ leaning right, but oh, it casts a holy glow across the room tonight.
as voices drift like echoes from a long-forgotten year.
The floor is strewn with paper scraps, the clock is ticking slow,
As Christmas finds its own sweet pace and sets our house aglow.
The hallway grows a little still; the lights are dimmed, and low,
Small shoes are lined in messy pairs to wait for morning’s snow.
The fire's warm, the room is full, the world is deep and wide,
and someone brings a cherished book and settles by my side.
I clear my throat. The children gather ‘round my chair,
With eyes that hold a thousand dreams and wonder everywhere.
“’Twas the night before Christmas…”—I have read it many years,
Yet every time the magic starts, it brings me close to tears.
For Christmas isn’t in the things we polish or prepare,
It lives in moments handed down and hearts that choose to share.
So here’s to every grandfather who reads by firelight—
You help the years hold hands awhile . . . on Christmas Eve tonight.
I’m Patrick Ball. Stay curious, ask questions. See you in the next episode.
Comments