the angels sing

This morning I carried Beatrice down the stairs, as I am wont to do (motivated by a combination of impatience [she can be so slow on her own small feet], refusal to say goodbye to her babyhood, and pleasure in the feel of her warm sleepy arms wrapped around my neck) and when we reached the bottom of the stairs Beatrice, as she is wont to do, told me what she wanted for breakfast as if she were a bejeweled, fur-covered elderly widow ordering her longtime waiter at the Plaza to fetch her tea - a minor character, soon to have her feathers ruffled, in one of the Eloise books. 

I want oatmeal. Then mah-tella on toast. And I want milk, without Miralax in it. 

Beatrice. Say please.

Without Miralax in it please.


And Beatrice, we don't have any Nutella. 


Then I want grits. With cheese. And then I want cereal.


Beatrice. Beatrice. What do you say?


At this point she'd followed me into the kitchen, where she saw her brother quietly pouring Autumn Wheat into a white cereal bowl at the counter. She proceeded to flip out, grabbing at the box and screaming that she wanted cereal first, not Gabriel! Nevermind that the cereal course was supposed to follow her grits. She lost her capacity for language, so distraught was she by the idea that someone else was getting to the cereal first, so irrationally determined and angry.

Before I could say a word, Gabriel put down the box, turned to her, and reached out his arms. She collapsed into his hug. They stood there quietly. She pulled away and looked up at me wonderingly.


Mama. Gabriel understands my feelings. He understands my feelings. 

I pulled out a bowl for her and brought both to the table. The morning proceeded in good cheer.

Let me be clear: this does not happen very often. Usually he gets very annoyed. Usually I separate bickering children many times a day. But this one time, the two of them found peace all on their own, a peace much more meaningful than any end-of-conflict I might impose.

When we sang It Came Upon a Midnight Clear in church this morning, my heart filled until it overflowed in tears. Something about the solemn stillness necessary for us to hear the angels singing connected to the loving stillness that Gabriel offered his angry sister earlier.

 It came upon the midnight clear, 

that glorious song of old, 

from angels bending near the earth 

to touch their harps of gold: 

"Peace on the earth, good will to men, 

from heaven's all-gracious King." 

The world in solemn stillness lay, 

to hear the angels sing. 

And to Mr. Rogers. Oh yes yes, I speak of singing angels and miraculous peace between siblings in the same breath as a I speak of Fred Rogers. While Frances and Gabriel watched some of The Lord of the Rings with Mike last night, I snuggled in my bed with Beatrice and watched an episode of Mr. Rogers in which Daniel Tiger feels forgotten by a friend. The way Lady Aberlin rushes to his side, once she realizes her mistake! It's been a long time since I've seen this old favorite, so I was amazed to see the careful, loving attention she lavishes on a puppet. You felt really sad, she tells him with full eyes. Did you worry it meant we weren't friends anymore? Daniel nods and his plastic puppet eyes seem to gleam with feeling. He asks her to tell him what happened once more. How did she forget him? The two of them spend what seems like a very long time listening to each other, healing the hurt between them with quiet, careful attention.


The sermon this morning explored "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was God, and the Word was with God." The priest suggested another translation of logos: voice. It suggests action, relationship. In the beginning, before time, before the world, was a voice. A voice calling out! A voice that creates, and calls to its creation. A voice that we were made to listen for, to yearn for, to receive.

It has been a hard few months. I have felt so very, very tired; so afraid to listen. But my own children, my church, this time of year - all invite me to consider the possibility of peace. To consider the healing that comes when one is courageous enough to turn to it all - the full moon, the quiet dark mornings, and the raging toddler - with quiet, attentive, loving presence.

 For lo! the days are hastening on, 

by prophet seen of old, 

when with the ever-circling years 

shall come the time foretold 

when peace shall over all the earth 

its ancient splendors fling, 

and the whole world send back the song 

which now the angels sing.