The Long and the Tall of It

I do love a little nog with a splash of brandy and a small plate of Christmas sugar cookies on the side.  I added a second splash of brandy in the nog and Mother remarked,

            “I don’t mind you getting into the Christmas spirit Alfred, just don’t let too much of the Christmas spirit get into you, even if it is Rémy Martin.”

            “Yes, Mother,” I sighed, “I was just ruminating on the Lessons and Carols service yesterday.  I had forgotten what a pleasure it was to sing some of the old Christmas Carols.”

            Mother put down the Smithsonian magazine she was reading and said, “God does answer prayer.”

            “How so?” said I, cautiously.

            “You asked for a short sermon, and you received one.”  With that Mother buried her face behind her copy of the Smithsonian magazine again.

            I could feel her smirking behind her magazine.  If you don’t think that you can feel someone out of sight smirking, you don’t know Mother.  Defiantly I added a third splash of Rémy Martin to my eggnog.

            “Ah,” said I, sotto vocé.   “That’s more like it.”

            Mother lowered her Smithsonian, eyed my glass suspiciously, and said, “That was quite a compliment that you received from Grace Whittington yesterday.”

            “Oh. Oh.” said I to myself.  I could feel a faint flush rising to the tips of my ears; but it might have been the brandy?

            “Well, Alfred?” said Mother, “I had almost forgotten that you had a very tolerable tenor voice.  I remember years ago Father Phineas Lofty at St. William of Ockham’s telling you that tenors were God’s gift to choirs.”

            “Harrumph!” said I, which was my way of not answering, but Mother was not to be deterred.

            “Grace said you ought to join the choir.  They have sopranos and altos, baritones and basses, but they really could use another fine tenor.” 

Mother looked at me expectantly, and far be it from me not to change the subject.  “Do you know Mother, Jeremy and Winifred are coming in tomorrow?”

“Yes, Alfred,” said Mother, “The room is all set for Winifred.  It will be a pleasure to have our son’s lady friend visiting with us; but as I was saying, the choir really could use another tenor, and I wouldn’t mind a bit sitting with the Whittington’s.  It really seems so long ago that you sang in the choir at St. William of Ockham’s.”

I felt like I was being shaken by a large playful Afghan hound.  I tried another tack, “I think we ought to take Jeremy and Winifred to the Petroleum Club for dinner one night.  I think Winifred would enjoy the view.” 

“Alfred,” said Mother, “Every time I have mention the choir, you change the subject.  “I think that the problem is that you are afraid of commitment, and that’s the long and tall of it.”

I took another sip of my nog before saying, “You mean the long and the short of it.”

For a moment Mother didn’t answer, then, “That’s three times Alfred!”  Then Mother raised her Smithsonian magazine again and I could feel her smirking.  Then softly Mother began to hum, “Good King Wenceslas looked out, on the Feast of Stephen.”

“As each has received a gift, use it to serve one another, as good stewards of God's varied grace: whoever speaks, as one who speaks oracles of God; whoever serves, as one who serves by the strength that God supplies in order that in everything God may be glorified through Jesus Christ. To him belong glory and dominion forever and ever. Amen” (ESV 1 Peter 4:10).