Mostly the beauty that The Little Matchgirl experiences as she is slipping away. Explicit criticism of the more fortunate society that ignored her or no, the visions she finds in the flickering flames of her disappearing hope are lovely. It’s almost worth it.

Thinking about all the odd weight of of Christmas tales had me looking back at Anne Sexton and the gravity with which she dealt with her fairy tale heroines. The grimness and lasting consequences in her Briar Rose are the sort of thing to keep you up on a frozen cloudless night staring at the midwinter moon with our dear insomniac. Thanks to Jax for reading and to Julie Zarate for the lovely image.

It would be so easy for Mash to give in and make a treacly paens to sweetness and light and instead we get lovely rhythms outlining the power of Ol’ Saint Nick. I hope you enjoy.

The Boy Who Laughed at Santa Claus
by Ogden Nash

In Baltimore there lived a boy.
He wasn’t anybody’s joy.
Although his name was Jabez Dawes,
His character was full of flaws.

In school he never led his classes,
He hid old ladies’ reading glasses,
His mouth was open when he chewed,
And elbows to the table glued.
He stole the milk of hungry kittens,
And walked through doors marked NO ADMITTANCE.
He said he acted thus because
There wasn’t any Santa Claus.

Another trick that tickled Jabez
Was crying ‘Boo’ at little babies.
He brushed his teeth, they said in town,
Sideways instead of up and down.
Yet people pardoned every sin,
And viewed his antics with a grin,
Till they were told by Jabez Dawes,
‘There isn’t any Santa Claus!’

Deploring how he did behave,
His parents swiftly sought their grave.
They hurried through the portals pearly,
And Jabez left the funeral early.

Like whooping cough, from child to child,
He sped to spread the rumor wild:
‘Sure as my name is Jabez Dawes
There isn’t any Santa Claus!’
Slunk like a weasel of a marten
Through nursery and kindergarten,
Whispering low to every tot,
‘There isn’t any, no there’s not!’

The children wept all Christmas eve
And Jabez chortled up his sleeve.
No infant dared hang up his stocking
For fear of Jabez’ ribald mocking.

He sprawled on his untidy bed,
Fresh malice dancing in his head,
When presently with scalp-a-tingling,
Jabez heard a distant jingling;
He heard the crunch of sleigh and hoof
Crisply alighting on the roof.
What good to rise and bar the door?
A shower of soot was on the floor.

What was beheld by Jabez Dawes?
The fireplace full of Santa Claus!
Then Jabez fell upon his knees
With cries of ‘Don’t,’ and ‘Pretty Please.’
He howled, ‘I don’t know where you read it,
But anyhow, I never said it!’
‘Jabez’ replied the angry saint,
‘It isn’t I, it’s you that ain’t.
Although there is a Santa Claus,
There isn’t any Jabez Dawes!’

Said Jabez then with impudent vim,
‘Oh, yes there is, and I am him!
Your magic don’t scare me, it doesn’t’
And suddenly he found he wasn’t!
From grimy feet to grimy locks,
Jabez became a Jack-in-the-box,
An ugly toy with springs unsprung,
Forever sticking out his tongue.

The neighbors heard his mournful squeal;
They searched for him, but not with zeal.
No trace was found of Jabez Dawes,
Which led to thunderous applause,
And people drank a loving cup
And went and hung their stockings up.

All you who sneer at Santa Claus,
Beware the fate of Jabez Dawes,
The saucy boy who mocked the saint.
Donner and Blitzen licked off his paint.

Whether for you it’s the beginning of the story of God’s redemptive grace or simply a beautiful incarnation myth it is well worth hearing again.

You do what is right,
and let your intention carry through.

Here Jax Steager reads us Madeline L’Engle’s “The Wise Men”.
Men who faced a call obediantly, and have asked nothing in return are left all their lives to wonder what if anything came of their actions.

If we all strive in the waxing year to cast kindness and joy into the darkness,
we create heaven. Whatever that might mean to you.

Is any other poem so broadly read and performed?

I encourage you to read it out loud for yourself after the baking and caroling and before the long winter’s nap. It’ll make you smile.

I’m not so naive as to think that there was not cultural oppression going on, or that there’s some fast and loose cultural appropriation in the lyric itself… but there’s a kindness in it that appeals to me. There’s a gentleness in the way Jean de Brébeuf is extending his belief in the deity of Christ and the hope of salvation in a way he believes the Huron will understand that warms my heart.

As you reflect on where you’ve come from, who you are and where you’re going… do remember to take a breath and be who you are for just a second… and enjoy it. We may never pass this way again…

To those who celebrate, I wish you a blessed Yule, and hope that in your new year your sacrifices may be blessed with grace, and your triumphs blessed with humility in the full knowledge of the fluidity of life.

In times of upheaval it seems like a fresh dusting of fear every morning. There’s some bogeyman or another lurking under every glimmer of hope. As we struggle to keep our footing and hold tight to those around us that give us strength it’s important to listen for those little voices that give us hope in the face of our doubt, even at dark midwinter.

Why are you here?