I think of my grandfather often. Although I doubt he could have picked me out of the crowd that was my Rose cousins, I feel a connection to him that is not belittled by the parameters of time or distance. He fed his family of a dozen children by composing a story each day, probably on an old typewriter, and handing it to the editing team at the newspaper where he worked. He leaned toward the humorous, but also dove into world events. He rode the train into Philly, and sat at a desk amid a cast of other writers, while I have the luxury of staying at home. His words arrived as ink on paper bound by a red rubber band at the doorsteps of thousands of Philadelphians, likely hurled by a ten year old boy on his bike. Mine are more imaginary, being pixels that fling through the air without the benefit of anyone's arm. In my resolve to publish a piece each morning I am grateful for whatever DNA has trickled down. 

 

There is a history of clever poems in that lineage as well, and they show up at birthday parties and retirement celebrations. But there is a lesser known one that continues to tug my heart strings each December. I took the bold liberty of putting it to music. 

 

What moves me is that the questions are still relevant. Do a hundred years have such minor impact? Are we still pondering our part in the pilgrimage to the stable? 

 

My granddaughter, Pop Pop's great great granddaughter lives in Philly. She walks the same bright streets he mused about, and revels in the traditions that have endured for five generations. Olly's mother is a copy chief, though not for a newspaper which she has perhaps never splashed with her morning coffee. 

 

But the wonder and tears have not gone the way of the typewriter. 

 

 

Last night the air was cold, the wind was chill. 

Was it so cold when on a distant hill

The shepherds raised their unbelieving eyes 

To see a wonder in the clouded skies?

 

Last night the city's busy street were bright,

Noisy with bells and glistening with light.

Was it the same when wise men wandered far

On ways illumined by a lonely star?
 

Last night the city rang with Christmas cheer.

But then the wise men sang for few to hear,

Sang of a promised King, a wondrous Birth,

"Glory to God on high and peace on earth."

 

Last night the turmoil slowly died away.

But then the wise men came at dawn of day,

Came where the smiling Child and mother were,

With gifts of gold, and frankincense, and myrrh.

 

How can our voices match that heavenly choir?

What of our giving can this Child desire?

Only a heart to love and to forgive, 

Only the little faith by which we live.

 

Only our opened eyes and list'ning ears,

Our thankful prayers, our laughter and our tears, 

Our sheltered homes with doors that open wide,

That none may wait in loneliness outside. 

 

Our willingness to wonder and rejoice,

Our cry of "Merry Christmas!" and the voice,

Of happy childhood, Lord, we offer them,

Beside Thy manger bed in Bethlehem. 

- Don Rose