Clergy Family Confidential

I’ve been walking around all day singing the “Dreidel Song.” Which sounds a bit odd coming from someone wearing a clerical collar. But when you live in metropolitan New York this time of year, your kids bring home dreidels from school and walk around singing the dreidel song. You know, “Dreidel, dreidel, dreidel, I made it out of clay…” Or maybe you don’t. But it’s been stuck in my head all day and it’s driving me nuts.

Last night Zack insisted I play the dreidel game with him before bedtime. Again, a bit surreal for a priest during Advent. He whooped me big time, although he seemed to have his own rules. Perhaps I’ll call the local rabbi (we get along well) and try to get the 12 Days of Christmas in his head. That would be much worse than the Dreidel Song; I’ve always thought of it as the Christmas equivalent of 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall.  

Delilah is shedding. Big time. Our 2 1/2 year old yellow lab/husky mix is the sweetest dog in the world.  But twice a year she sheds like crazy. In fact it’s more like she’s molting — perhaps she’ll come out of this as a crustacean. When she runs around she reminds me of Pigpen, except she’s followed by a cloud of fur rather than dirt. That’s a Peanuts reference for those keeping score at home.

If you have a dog – and I’d love to hear from you — you know what we’re going through. I vacuumed the rug yesterday for no apparent reason. I mean it was nice to do since I was able to get up the needles from the Christmas tree. But it didn’t have any effect whatsoever on the dog hair. It didn’t help that I was wearing a fleece pullover; I now look like a dog.

I’ll continue to take Delilah outside and brush her, though it just seems to make the hair multiply. I keep thinking if I could only invent a use for dog hair, I’d be rich. Maybe I can convince people that dog hair is the new goose down and start making coats. Sure, some people might be allergic to “doggie down” but caveat emptor (let the buyer beware). 

I hung the icicle lights on the outside of the front porch this weekend. This has become my yearly attempt to cheat the orthopedic fates. I survived another Advent without taking a tumble off the rickety ladder.  There were a few moments that captured that feeling when you lean back in a chair and almost fall backwards but just catch yourself in time. As if I need more adrenaline-pumping, death-defying, heart-pounding, gray hair-inducing split seconds in my life. But whatever. I got the lights hung, as per Bryna’s instructions, before she went out to run some errands. Of course she also reminded me to test them before I put them up. Oops. Most of them lit up, I discovered at the climactic moment when I plugged them in. I had the boys witness my dramatic handiwork and I knew there was a light “issue” when I heard one of them say, “Uh, Dad, they don’t look right.” Doh!

Actually, they’re not that bad. So there’s about a foot on each end where they don’t light up. Maybe it’s not a bad metaphor for our Christmas preparations. Despite the fact that your tree leans a bit to the left, despite the fact that your Christmas ham may be slightly overcooked, despite the fact that your Christmas cards may not go out until the 26^th, Jesus still arrives. So the fact that our lights aren’t perfect is okay. At least that’s what I told Bryna when I got the inevitable “I told you so” look.

I don’t go on many business trips. When the church rectory is a quarter mile from your church there’s not much reason to travel long distances. But I was out in LA this week for an Episcopal Life Board of Governors meeting. Yes, you can call me Governor. Actually it’s an advisory board for the Episcopal Life Media Group (the Episcopal Life newspaper and Episcopal Life Online). But you can still call me Governor.

As I scrambled to get out the door and into the cab amidst the zaniness of the usual school morning routine, Ben’s parting words were “Don’t forget to bring me something.” Kids seem to equate business trips with gifts. And I usually do find something to bring home. But the element of surprise is gone. It’s become an expectation rather than a gift freely given and joyfully received. I enjoy finding something for the kids because it means I’m thinking about, and missing, them while I’m gone. The only time I don’t like shopping for them is when everything’s rushed and I’m perusing the airport gift shop. They really don’t need a Hollywood shot glass or a plastic Oscar statuette.

Fortunately, I didn’t have to resort to this. On the last afternoon, before hopping on the redeye back to JFK, a few of us went to the Getty Museum. And, yes, it was brutal returning to 20 degree weather after sitting in a short sleeve shirt sipping coffee on a porch watching the sun set over the Pacific Ocean. But I found the perfect gift at the museum shop: art supplies. Charcoal for Ben, graphite pencils for Zack. Not exactly a token of California but popular nonetheless.

Of course I may be in the doghouse since I didn’t find anything for Bryna. She hasn’t said anything but if she does, I’ll tell her I did pass Frederick’s of Hollywood while driving down Hollywood Boulevard. That should end the conversation.

There are certain family activities where the Rockwellian image rarely meets the reality. Such is the case with picking out a Christmas tree. Every year I create a tableau in my imagination: the Schencks working in concert with one another, humming fa la la’s, while collectively deciding between a fraser or a douglass fir. The boys, overtaken by the spirit of Christmas, call a truce to all bickering; the smell from a nearby chimney fills the air; a stranger hands us each a steaming mug of mulled cider; carolers serenade us. Life is good, we’re the perfect family, and Christmas is indeed “the most wonderful time of the year.”

Then we actually go out and get the tree. There’s whining (”It’s too cold”), arguing (”He picked out the tree last year”), and all-around grinchiness. None of which helps prepare anyone for the birth of the Christ child.

Tonight was the first night of my parish’s annual Christmas tree sale. The boys did fine — they played, they raced around, they generally stayed away from the chain saw. Perhaps my threat to run them through the netting machine and throw them onto the roof of the mini van if they misbehaved was an effective deterrent.

I always feel slightly pathetic just buying a tree. For years I told Bryna I was going to cut down my own tree. What self-respecting guy doesn’t imagine himself as a modern-day Paul Bunyan this time of year? But I’ve never actually done this; I don’t think I even own a saw. Luckily I’ve been off the hook for a number of years because when your parish hosts an annual tree sale, you can’t go looking elsewhere for a tree. It doesn’t work that way – I won’t be bargain shopping and trying to haggle down the Methodists or the Presbyterians. We always buy our tree at All Saints’. And we do have the best trees around – they’ve come from a small tree farm in Pennsylvania for at least the past 20 years. No one’s ever complained about a bad tree from All Saints’. It may have something to do with the way they’re carefully farmed but I think it’s because I bless them every year. So I take the credit.

Well, we have our tree and it’s a beauty. We’ll get it decorated in the next week or so. I just look forward to the day when they’ll be able old enough to string the lights.