Bruce

Tied up the Christmas movie marathon this evening with the annual viewing of Die Hard. 

Indeed.

Not a Christmas movie, you say? Oh, ho, ho! How wrong you are! There are very few movies that elicit quite this brand of Christmas cheer!

I learned something new today as well. According to the Book of Face, where I never go, but somehow happened to see:

And also:

I am devastated. Who knew?

If you’re completely lost, I apologize, and submit that you may be lucky enough in your life to have not been subjected to the ‘true meaning of Christmas’ infighting within Christendom. Count your blessings and move on.

If you’re not, I apologize for dredging it all back up again. I hope your scars aren’t too fresh. But seriously, hilarious, right?

I’m pretty sure I watched that movie enough times as a small child to have most of it memorized. Die Hard and Dirty Dancing. Such are the makings of a rounded childhood.

Before you lynch me, this is only the second time we’ve watched Die Hard as a family. Most of the kids are already out of the house. The two remaining are old enough, and experienced enough at the bottom of the pack, to handle such unadulterated Christmas joy.

I can’t keep you from lynching my mom. I’m not sure where she was when I was binge-watching Bruce, but the eighties were almost an exception to the parenting rule, right? Pop culture was so pervasive that we just didn’t know any better. Must consume. Regardless, I turned out alright, even with all that Bruce and Patrick in my head.

If you know me personally, you can kindly refrain from commenting on the ‘I turned out alright’ statement. Let everyone else live in their blog-induced delusions.

In all seriousness, we’ve almost reached another culmination of the Nativity season. A while ago I think I whined a little about Shopping and Technology getting in the way of my Nativity spirit, and how getting the Shopping out of the way and the disaster that was the Christmas Letter out of the way would free me up to enjoy the more important parts of the season.

This is the kiss of death, proclaiming anything the key to anything else. If only I could get past this, then I’d have all that. Yep. That’s always how it works.

I could regale you with the ten thousand things that stepped up dutifully to fill the void left by the Shopping and the Technology and the general woe of December, but you already know the story.

I will mention that the clowns played a big part. Not that I’m blaming, but…

So here we are on the eve of Christmas Eve, and I didn’t do all the hunkering down that I had planned on. Of course I didn’t. When was the last time that that plan panned out?

But it’s OK. The family is all en route tomorrow evening, and the days of festivities will begin with the Nativity Compline, and the reminder of exactly why we are gathered here.

And this year, the Grandbaby will be hanging about, a tiny little object lesson in grace and beauty and God delivering just what we need, often in the smallest of packages.

I may be late to the game, but Bruce was late to the party, too, and he still managed to learn a few things.

I imagine I might still be able to as well…

And speaking of the Christmas Letter, here it is, typos and all. Or here if you’ve already reached your click quota for the day. The 19-year-old informs me that I included fourteen pictures of Baby Rar. I don’t think there were fourteen of her. And the jealousy begins…

If you’re one of the many people who didn’t get a real live paper-and-ink Christmas letter delivered into your hands, it’s because you’re here, and you get yours through the miracles of blogging. Ain’t you a lucky bugger?

May your Nativity be filled with Light, even if you’re arriving carrying a wet candle,
KJ