I wrote this exactly five years ago. It was written long before my blogging days, but I am not quite sure why I never posted it. It was a time a change – I had come out just a year earlier, I was recently divorced (the two events may be related), it was my first Christmas alone… and little did I know that less than two years later, I would leave the place I was finally calling home…
Merry Christmas – may you find Home wherever you are.
Christmas In Maine December 25, 2003
I should continue wrapping gifts. The hour is late and I feel the lure of sleep, but I should put tape to paper, add bow, ribbon, and tag with some little clue of the contents before I forget what is inside the package that I just wrapped. I hate when I do that.
The soft patter of Christmas Eve rain matches an unusually pensive mood for such a festive day. I proudly convince myself that I don’t really care if it is raining - White Christmas, and all that. I suddenly realize that “White Christmas” is playing on my little radio, and shrug my shoulders in acknowledgement. Living in Maine, one has their fair share of White Christmases. I also know something of the real meaning of Christmas, and snow has very little to do with a child born over 2000 years ago in a desert. Why don’t those little glass balls with the tiny Nativity scene contain sand instead of whatever it is they use to resemble snow? When was the last time it snowed in Bethlehem? Why are they in water anyway? It’s the kind of thing that can keep me up at night…
Having wrapped all that I can with 11:00 PM drawing near, I realize it is time to leave the warmth of the fire and head out into the rain. I promised myself that I would go to Midnight Mass this year. It would be nice to say that this is some grand or noble gesture on my part, but truth be told, I really want to be as lazy as possible in the morning. I lock the front door behind me, quite unnecessarily in this sleepy bedroom town, with my usual Christmas Eve headache – a mixture of fireplace smoke and the smell of all of the boxes marked “Christmas” brought up from the basement each year with some new and exotic mold growing in them – or the same old mold… hard to say. The walk is only a few minutes; I could probably count the steps, and frankly I am surprised I have not during one of these long Maine winters.
The Church is lit from the inside looking like a life size Christmas ornament. All of the colors glowing from the stained glass windows appear as a watercolor wash through the rain, especially without my glasses on. I begin to think that Impressionistic painting was the result of bad vision. I really can’t see much without them, but I have this thing about getting my glasses wet. I can squint and stumble around well enough, so they stay stuffed in my pocket until there is no chance a stray droplet will threaten them.
Pulling open the very large and heavy wooden doors, I wonder how most of the congregation ever gets in. At 48, I am usually the junior member in attendance, and I have to give the door a good tug. Tonight, there is a much broader range in age than usual, with some considerably younger then I. It is nice to see the turnout, especially with so many younger people. Odd for so late in the day, but then again, as a child I could never sleep on Christmas Eve. As soon as I sit down and try to get handout, prayer book, and hymnbook organized so I am not hopelessly lost as usual, the music starts.
Oh my, the music. Two flutes play with a timid start, and then grow slowly bolder with the screeches that remind me of my early attempts at the flute. There are harmonies, well intentioned, with the happy accident of occasional moments of accuracy. A guitar joins in, then the piano. The piano player is clearly more skilled, to the obvious chagrin of the other three. Giving his best don’t shoot me, I’m only the piano player look, he is a polished jewel among some diamonds in the rough. I can’t help but smile.
This is pure delight for me. Coming from the highly polished, well rehearsed, and fully choreographed church services in New York, here is all of the small town Maine charm that one could ever hope to witness. The feeling is what I imagine it would be like to look through a jungle blind and be the first to see some aboriginal tribe that is yet unnamed, performing one of their ceremonies, and appearing both odd and somewhat frightening to western eyes. That is not a bad analogy for what it is like to make Maine a home when you are “from away” as they say. A charming and quirky sub-culture with its own vocabulary and a distinct way of letting you know that you are not now, nor will you ever be, like them - you will always be “from away.” Well, that’s OK; I look different too. I still dress for church as I have since childhood – I just can’t bring myself to embrace the more casual look and feel of the area. Old habits die hard and it will take a lot more than a figure of speech and the occasional sidelong scowl to kill my sartorial sensibilities.
With one chime of a single bell and soft notes from the pipe organ, the mass begins. The pastor is clearly “from away” as well. No hint of a down-east accent, his hair neatly trimmed and combed, he has a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye. He’s not dressed like anyone else either, but I suppose that doesn’t count. If he has any sense of not belonging to this tribe, he doesn’t let on. He greets the sea of scowls with joy in his heart and a message to match. I can’t help but think, “This poor guy really has his work cut out for him.” Through the mechanical lay readings, through all of the mispronunciations and skipped words, he keeps his smile. It’s infectious for me. Looking around, I see that this is not the general consensus. Somehow, that makes me smile even more.
Father John gives an articulate and inspired sermon. I smile and nod in assent with the parts that speak to me, which makes me an island in a sea of stoic stares. He makes it through the entire Christmas Eve mass with aplomb, and I can’t help but feel like I am the only one who gets it. Either that or the rest are smiling in some very subtle Maine “secret handshake” kind of way that I have not been let in on. Quite unlike the “Type A” cosmopolitan crowd from my own personal “away,” this group does not race for the door when the mass ends.
Suddenly, the congregation engages in what appears to be a spontaneous social event; right there among the pews. Miraculously transformed, here are the smiles, the camaraderie, the questions and answers about loved ones, the whispers of gossip, and all of the Christmas cheer I never would have seen had I not come tonight.
Father John, still smiling, is standing by the back door ready to greet the assembled townsfolk as they exit, but it looks like it may be some time before that happens. I put on my coat, remove my glasses for the walk back through the rain, and head for the door, now a bit out of focus. I try to think of something clever to say to the pastor, but as I approach, the thought vanishes in his arms reaching out for an embrace.
I struggle to know this town, and I am just coming to know Father John. I believe that all clergy deserve a hug for what they do, and I have never been refused. Clearly, by initiating a warm hug, Father John has come to know me. The good people of this town may never understand my strange dress and habits, but it doesn’t stop them, on what has just now turned to Christmas Day, from wishing a total stranger a sincere “Merry Christmas” on his walk home.
Even one “from away,” wet and squinting through the rain.
… and much has changed. There is no fireplace; there is no snow… no walk in the rain through the quiet town with friendly greetings that belie the inclement weather.
