PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

In this late stage of my life, my old age some would call it, I have learned, finally, how to interpret one of the most precious memories of my life---the long Christmas break, during my first undergraduate year (my "freshman" year), six weeks back at home, Tuesday, November 23rd through Friday, December 31st, 1976.  There was a sparkle, a glow, a glistening, and a shimmering---not just visual, but apparent to all the senses---during that time, so that even the mundane winter job which my parents insisted that I take (they were terrified that I would just "lay around," and lead the neighbors to believe I lacked ambition) partook of that attitude.

What I have learned, just a few days ago, was that the Christmas break of 1976 taught me that what was most pecious to me---represented to me, at that time, by the summer of 1976, and my discovery of my real identity---could not be taken from me; not by my parents, not by my college, not by my absense from the venues and sites of that summer:  for those gifts had been given me by Christ Himself, even before I actively believed in Him as my Savior rather than as a historical precedent deserving of our utmost homage.  And these precious things are still with me; and, I believe (according to 2 Timothy 1:12) that they have been deposited with Christ my Savior and Lord.

I slept late, Christmas Day of 1976, as I had been given the privilege of serving as Assistant Celebrant during the two Christmas Eve services at the Church I, then, attended.  The first service consisted mostly of sung carols, and the service was very much like an ordinary Sunday.  The second service, the Candlelight Service, was very, highly, Liturgical; second in Liturgical profundity only to the Easter Vigil itself.  I did not return home from the Church until about 2am on Christmas morning.  

The custom in my parents' home was to open gifts first, then to partake of breakfast.  I received two gifts I had particularly wanted:  a pair of white painter's pants (then quite fashionable on my college's campus and, when warm weather returned, a great look to go with my flipflops (whether I wore the flops or carried them in one hand; the latter being the more frequent condition); and the album, Frampton Comes Alive.  My parents had always given very generous gifts for Christmas, Easter, and birthdays; what caused so much division between them and me was the gift they refused to give---the acceptance of me as I was, even if I was unable to conform to all of their expectations.  I must admit that, during the holiday break, they were able to restrain their customary criticisms (with which the previous summer had been loaded):  to this day, I do not know if this was caused by the novelty of my presence in their home after an eleven week absence, or if the happiness represented by the Christmas Season caused it.  It was, to describe it bluntly, a relief from the usual turmoil.

My mother said that she would need about an hour to prepare the elaborate breakfast she had planned, so I went to my room to listen to the Frampton album with my headphones:  specifically, I wanted to hear my favorite song of his (which remains my favorite to this day), "Baby, I Love Your Way."  I had heard this song on campus on the AM radio station that many of us listened to when not in class or the library; and I had also purchased the 45tpm version.  And I was about to learn that both of these sources featured a truncated version of the song, omitting the magnificent third stanza (its first words, "I can see the sunset . . .") which, on that Christmas day so moved and penetrated my soul that I nearly began to weep in the presence of so much verbal and melodic beauty.  And though I have listened to it thousands of time since, and listened to it this morning just before writing this, the intense perfection of that third stanza is no less wondrous, no less exquisite, than on that Chrismas Day forty-seven years ago.

The third and final delight of that day awaited me at the Breakfast Table.  Our local newspaper had printed a morning edition which had been delivered to the house, like on any other morning.  As I began to sip the steaming cup of tea my mother had prepared for me, opened the paper's main section to the editorial page, which I was accustomed to reading first.  For the first and only time that year (to the best of my recollection), the editorial cartoon was not political:  instead, it depicted the great star shining over Bethlehem and, in the foreground, the Magi in camels proceeding toward Bethlehem to greet the Savior.  And, as I gaze in awe upon that depiction (which, at the moment, is the screen saver on my laptop), I felt as if that "still, small voice" had whispered to me, "These, too, were Starwatchers."  This was a second confirmation of my handle; the second being the sudden awareness, during the first full week of that December, that the yet incomplete typescript of the poem I had entitled "Flowerchild," and had been working on intermittently at college, was to be signed with my c.b. handle, Starwatcher.  Over the intervening decades between then and approximately, 2017, Starwatcher evolved to Starward, the final version of ny appellation and identity, which I found in the great Christian Poet, Thomas S Jone's Jr.'s sonnet on Saint Benedict, and which I (also, now) realize must be the appellation signed to all of my online Poetry.  

The gifts, the third stanza of Frampton's song, and the editorial drawing in that day's edition of the morning newspaper made the most memorable Christmas I had ever experienced in my parents' house.  And during that Day, and the weeks that surrounded it, November 23rd through December 31st, seeds were planted, by my Lord and Saviour, that blossomed for me this year, during this season---as part of those final preparations to be made in order to be ready to soar Heavenward when the Lord calls my soul from my flesh to join Him in Heaven.  What He has shown me during this season is that there has been a pattern of events, a pattern to show me that all of these events are within His control and His plan for me; and that, therefore, I need not be afraid tbe transition which follow upon His Call and will be conducted by His Angels (Luke 16:22); nor of the preparation still remaining to me.

Starward