The Guardian's Playlist by J Powell Ogden

Author:J Powell Ogden
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9780998955131
Publisher: Spark Street Media, LLC
Published: 2018-11-07T05:00:00+00:00

SEVENTEEN

EVERY PART OF ME

IT WAS THE second Sunday of Advent, the season Catholics all over the world prepare for the coming of Christmas. My mother loved going to Mass during Advent, but she would miss it again today to care for Mina and, as my dad, my sisters and I left for church, I marveled again at the sacrifices she was willing to make for her.

Another warm front had blown through the north shore—at least warm for Cleveland in December. It was in the upper forties and had rained for the past few days, and except for a few sooty snow piles clinging to curbs, the snow was mostly gone. Soggy brown leaves flattened themselves against the driveway, and a dreary overcast sky pressed down upon us.

Inside the church, it was different. It was warm and peaceful and quietly alive. Just inside the entrance, we paused to look at the miniature stable, which was nestled in a pile of fragrant straw. Mary and Joseph, a shepherd and his sheep, a cow and a donkey, and a few of God’s faithful Angels were all gathered inside to wait for the birth of Christ. Baby Jesus, of course, hadn’t arrived yet.

The Mass itself was subdued, and the altar was adorned simply with a few evergreen sprays and loops of purple ribbon. Two of the purple candles were lit in the Frasier fir Advent wreath, which was set on a stand to the right of the altar. The remaining pink and purple candles would be lit during the next two Sunday Masses.

No, we weren’t celebrating Christmas yet. That would have to wait until Christmas Eve. The transformation that took place every year between the fourth Sunday of Advent and Christmas Eve was pure magic. There would be full-sized, live Christmas trees with red bows and thousands of tiny white lights flanking the altar and dozens of gloriously full poinsettias arranged down in front. The whole church would smell like a joyful pine forest and melting candle wax. I imagined the ladies from the church spent all night making the change happen.

For now, though, we were waiting. My faith wavered depending upon the events of any given day, but the deeply-held beliefs and traditions of Advent lifted it up and strengthened it. It was hard not to believe in God this time of year. As I sat through the quiet Mass, my heart ached for Michael who couldn’t be there with me to experience the warmth and hope that the season of Advent brings.

He’d stayed. And he was waiting, too—waiting for word on his beloved little Cherish. She would be five now and in kindergarten if she’d been able to escape Michael’s fate.

It would be a gross understatement to say Michael had no Christmas spirit. The Sunday before, when I mentioned to him that Advent had begun, and it was only a few more weeks ‘til Christmas, he scowled and then disappeared for a while, refusing to come out until I promised to keep my “merry freaking Christmas” thoughts to my seriously delusional self.

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