Scenes from Christmas Eve

The Child, celebrating the arrival of the tree.


















The Child has a North Pole scene that plays music and has elves that move around on a conveyor belt. (This is a Christmas miracle story: one year, when Santa was real and capable of anything, all she wanted for Christmas was the North Pole. When I found this glorified music box in a shop I started to cry. She was 6 and when she opened it on Christmas morning she stood in shocked silence and then whispered, "That's exactly what I wanted!"). Anyhoo, The Dog finds it very confusing. He spent a lot of time this afternoon looking at it and barking at the elves.















We had a lovely time at the Posh Hotel and then Seattle Coffee Girl and I were off to hold our seats for mass. I love sitting in the quiet of the Cathedral, talking softly and watching the servers prepare for the feast.



















It was raining super hard when we left church. I was just thankful that we were going home to a warm, well-lit place. We had our traditional progress to the creche, which this year was hidden in the lavendar. (The rain had eased by this time). We sang "Away in the Manger" and then initiated a new tradition by parading to the Finger Tree, beautifully lit for the season.



















Much as I loved going to Midnight Mass, in the days before The Child, it is very pleasant to have our festal prayer taken care of and be back home before 8. There's time for soup and wine, time to finish decorating the tree and to listen to Christmas music on the radio. After a few days of non-stop doing it is good to be still and find the spirit of the season in the silence.

The goose is thawing, the brioche dough is rising and in a bit I'll crawl into bed and start reading A Christmas Carol, as I've done every Christmas Eve since I was about The Child's age. Maybe we'll stay awake long enough to watch the beginning of Midnight Mass, broadcast live from our church, on a local station. We do miss singing "Adeste Fideles". But no doubt by the time the Archbishop gets up to start one of his (generally) lugubrious homilies, we'll be nestled snug in our beds with that whole "visions of sugarplums" thing going on.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!