And His Name Shall Be Called...

My alarm went off this morning at 8:15. My tension headache was still there, waiting for me. In spite of a hearty rum and coke and hours with a heating pad last night, vestiges of it lingered, and my neck contracted and expanded its "good morning" greeting as soon as I opened my eyes. Merry Christmas to you too, I thought.

I left Caryl sleeping beside me and hopped into a hotter-than-necessary shower hoping to beat this pain at its own game so I could enjoy the birth of my Saviour. I donned my favourite Eddie Bauer flannel (a present on Christmas '98) and jeans and made my way down to 7-11 for half & half and eggs. I promised Caryl french toast stuffed with apricot preserves and ricotta cheese for breakfast. It came out pretty well, and was happily accompanied by country link sausage and coffee with an accent of kaluha.

I love the amount of tradition with which we've been able to infuse our celebration this year. Last night we (Me, Caryl, and Sarah) attended a lovely Eucharist at a nearby Episcopal parish. To say that it was lovely to be singing "Silent Night" at midnight in the sanctuary lit only by candles would be an understatement.

My family should arrive at about 3 p.m. at which time I hope to have the house smelling of appetizers and holiday fragrances and to have everything looking cozy. George Winston's "December" is playing in the background as I type. Caryl and I have decided to read from the prophet Isaiah and from the book of Luke before we all break bread this evening.

And I don't want to speak too soon, but I think this headache is almost gone.