5:21 am. Christmas morning. The tree is still up, but all the boxes have already been opened, the gifts distributed, the “thank yous” tendered, the rockets launched and lost from the mobile rocket launcher, cookies gone accompanying the laughter, noise, and a slice of my honey-baked ham into Maple Bacon’s mouth.
Maple Bacon
Saturday madness.
Two days later, Christmas morning. It’s time for church. Jadyne and I bundle up, head down the Maryland steps and turn south on Arlington in the 5:45 silence and darkness of Christmas morning.
We pass the fountain, down the steps to Henry Street, then Shattuck. The man who sits in front of the Cheeseboard is awake, grateful for the bill I press into his hand. No cars, no pedestrians, a coffee shop opens its doors. We continue down Shattuck, turn right on Central, and begin preparing communion for 125.
It’s Christmas, so each of our parishioners receives a box with fruit, two hard-boiled eggs, three pancakes, a doughnut, salt and pepper, coffee, and two slices of bacon. Oatmeal is an option.
Nico, Hody, and Stella doing the heavy work.
Parishioners on Christmas morning
9:30. The service is over, doors closed, coffee cart wheeled back into the kitchen. Several boxes of food, bowls of oatmeal, coffee and doughnuts are left on a table inside Dorothy Day Center. Jadyne and I abscond with a couple of slices of leftover bacon, head up Center and wait until 9:57 when the #7 bus takes us back up Arlington. There is another parishioner sitting in a doorway. A red blanket covers her face, but she can see over it. I hand her a bill, too. She takes it, says nothing. Church is over. WWJD?