For the new year . . .

New Year’s Eve. By definition, “eve” is the day immediately before an event or occasion. It’s likely we’ll use the transition from 2016 to 2017 to look forward to the days ahead, perhaps with resolutions for improved behavior (diet and exercise usually top that list).

Yet we also use this passage of time to reflect upon the year we’re leaving behind. We’ll read of the top ten news events of 2016, as well as the losses that shook our world, such as the deaths of famous people, the loss of those we loved, and even the demise of “The Good Wife.”

One such loss is the ending of “The Diane Rehm Show,” a NPR radio program that began as a 1979 show designed for homemakers. Rehm’s frustration with that format led to her demand to her boss: “I’m bored. I’m really bored. Unless I can change this show and do politics, do science, do medicine, do everything that’s happening in the world, I’m outta here.” Consequently, “The Diane Rehm Show” was instituted in 1984, and, as NPR colleague David Folkenflik noted, “It became a place for policies to get dissected and politicians to get tested.”

I’m glad Diane Rehm got bored. Not just because of those interviews on policy and politics, as informative as they’ve been, but also because Rehm welcomed many voices to her show. In the week following her final live broadcast, she aired her favorite interviews from the archives. I was hoping for poet Maya Angelou or actress Julie Andrews, but they didn’t appear – but authors Maurice Sendak (Where the Wild Things Are) and J.K. Rowling (Harry Potter) did.

Rehm also selected a poignant conversation with Fred Rogers to broadcast again. Their slow, thoughtful talk, about parents and children, voice, and the life and care for others was precious in retrospect. She remembers: “I’ll never forget talking with Mr. Rogers. He was in Pittsburgh at his piano and he was doing all those wonderful voices. And I said to him, ‘Mr. Rogers, what do you do when you’re sad?’ I don’t know why I asked him that, except that he always seemed to be so happy.”

Mr. Rogers responded: “I play the piano. I think I’ll be playing the piano a lot today.” When asked why, Rogers replied, “Because my stomach hurts.” Rehm notes, “I did not have the courage to say to him, ‘Why does your stomach hurt?’ I was afraid. I was afraid, and he was dead three months later.”

My favorite of these classic interviews was from 2014, with Peter Yarrow and Noel Paul Stookey of “Peter, Paul, and Mary” fame. While missing Mary Traver’s voice, who died in 2009, these two folk singers sang on, and Diane and I sang with them, of lemon trees, five hundred miles, magic dragons, and answers “blowin’ in the wind.”

While I’m not generally a New Year’s resolution person, these last few days with Diane Rehm have encouraged me to formulate commitments for the new year. First, in 2017, I want to sing more. I need to sing “Puff, the Magic Dragon” with the lovely Madelyn Simone and the delightful Elizabeth Holiday, for every child should know the love between a little boy and a magic dragon who “lived by the sea and frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honnah Lee.”

As I sing, I also want to remember. First, the passion of my teen years as I sang along with Peter, Paul and Mary; the hammer, the bell, and “the song I have to sing,” for justice, freedom, and “the love between my brothers and my sisters, all over this land.” I want to remember the stories and the people who have formed my life. I don’t want to forget.

And I want to have courage. I don’t want to be afraid to speak, to act, and to connect, beginning, as Maya Angelou wisely offers, “by doing small, courageous things.”

In 2017, might we sing, even if our voices are raspy or off key. Might we remember, even when the memories are clouded or painful. And might we not be afraid, even in the darkness. Happy New Year.

Noel. Aleppo.

About ten years ago, I wrote a tender Christmas carol called “To the Holy Family.” Each verse focused on a member of the small family from Nazareth whose story is told in the gospels of Matthew and Luke. What might it have been like for Mary and Joseph as they lived through what we call the story of the nativity? It’s tempting to sanitize the account, awash in glorious singing and twenty centuries of artistic interpretations. Surely, the beasts were friendly and the angels were encouraging to the new parents, right? “Fear not.”

And yet. If Mary had written her birth story, it might have included an exhausting trip to Bethlehem, a frantic search for a midwife, a crude substitute for a cradle, and a bevy of unwashed and less-than-welcome visitors – and nobody brought a box of Pampers. From the unexpected annunciation by Gabriel to the prophetic pronouncement of Simeon in the Temple (“and a sword shall pierce your very soul”), there was little of the normal in the narrative of the nativity.

A final component to the Christmas story gets less attention from the pulpit or the pen of the songwriter than the angelic announcement or the visit of the shepherds and magi. Recorded in the second chapter of Matthew’s gospel, these prescient words hint of what is to come: “After Jesus was born in Bethlehem . . .”

After the birth, the celebration – then what? For Mary and Joseph, there was to be no return to their home in Nazareth, at least for the immediate future. Instead, they became refugees, heeding the divine directive to escape into Egypt. The life of their baby was threatened by the “slaughter of the innocents,” which took place under the direction of King Herod. ‘Kill the babies,” Herod ordered. Here’s how I described Joseph’s challenge: “When Herod rages, run for His life, harbor your babe and trembling wife.”

This is the part of the Christmas story that has been ever-present to me in these waning days of December, 2016, and it has been echoed in the name of a Syrian city: Aleppo. Ten years ago, the population of Aleppo was more than two million, more than twice the size of Cleveland, Ohio. Today, its ancient structures are in ruins and its population is on the run. Aleppo has been described by a United Nations representative as “a meltdown of humanity.”

The tragedy of Aleppo is captured in an image from August of this year, the picture of Omran Daqneesh, a five-year-old child photographed in the back of an ambulance. If you’ve seen it, you remember. Last Sunday, as I sat in the opening worship time in church, I couldn’t escape the image of Omran, nor could I ignore what it must have been like for Mary and Joseph as they were forced to depend on the goodness of others as they made their refugee journey to Egypt.

And yet. “Noel, noel, born is the king of Israel.” The congregation joined the song leader in the familiar refrain of the sixteenth century carol, singing of stars, angels, shepherds and magi. As the music swelled around me, I clung to the delightful Elizabeth Holiday, drifting off to sleep in the comfort and safety of my arms. “Noel,” the music repeated. “Aleppo,” my heart cried.

Under deadline to submit these words to the newspaper, I wonder, “Where am I going with this?” I want to wrap up my words in a neat package, tie a pretty bow around them and push “send” to the newsroom. But not this week.

And yet. As unsettled as these December days have seemed, as persistent as the pain from Aleppo has been, I still believe that love can triumph over hate. I still believe joy can be found in the mist of sorrow. It is possible, as Pastor Nate Bebout reminds us, to find “celebration in the midst of the rubble,” no matter what our rubble looks like. And so I claim the words of Charles Wesley for myself and for my readers, a prayer and a promise for Christmas 2016: “Hark, the herald angels sing . . . peace on earth and mercy mild.”

I want a hippopotamus . . .

I had the privilege of taking the lovely Madelyn Simone and the delightful Elizabeth Holiday for a girl’s night out, drinking hot chocolate and oohing and aahing over Christmas lights, as we drove through the snow-dusted December streets. With the voices of Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck and Goofy leading us on, we sang heartily about the twelve days of Christmas, the fact that it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas, and the joy of decking the halls with boughs of holly. But when the CD track switched to “Toyland,” Madelyn directed me to move to the next song. “That’s boring,” she complained.

Perhaps there’s a holiday song or two that draws a less than positive reaction from us as well. I’m not too enthralled with songs with baby in the title, such as “Santa Baby” and “Baby It’s Cold Outside,” nor do I like the ones that include acts of aggression, as in “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.” And I’ll admit, if I hear “Christmas Shoes” once each December, that’s more than enough for me.

Watching the 1953 clip of Gayla Peevey singing, “I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas,” I felt for her two silent companions, especially the head-bobbing brunette whose bangs left much of her forehead exposed (I’ve got similar pictures among my own childhood photos). But despite its rather annoying melody, the song sold a half million copies the year it was released, propelling Gayla to an Ed Sullivan performance. Adoring Oklahoma City fans donated enough money that year to purchase a hippo in honor of Gayla (to be housed at the local zoo), and 10,000 people came to visit the hippo on its first Christmas day in the Sooner State. More information than you wanted to know, I’m sure.

Despite these less-than-stellar contributions to the holiday music genre, the music of Christmas continues to bring a sense of connection to us, calling us back to childhood experiences of note. I had one of those flashbacks this week when I joined what seemed like thousands of adoring grandparents and parents at Madelyn’s first-grade holiday concert. The children’s interpretation of “All I Want for Christmas,” complete with lisps in just the right spots, was reminiscent of a family of singing chipmunks. “The Friendly Beasts” took me back to my days in the cherub choir as we sang of the donkey, camel, sheep, cow, and dove who each gave something of themselves for the Christ-child. I saw a hint of my own childhood eagerness in Madelyn’s sparkling eyes, so intent on singing joyously.

While some Christmas music is pretty awful, and yes, Madelyn, even boring, I’m convinced that singing the same songs each year isn’t necessarily bad. The rhythm of holidays, especially as expressed in music, speaks of constancy, of steadiness. I long for that kind of rootedness, a connection with my heritage, with values that don’t go out of style.

Just this year, I bought a number of miniature salt and pepper shakers that reminded me of the small wax figurines which rested on a windowsill in my parent’s home, often a bit misshapen by the warmth of the December sun. We never lit the wicks of those candles, but carefully unwrapped them year after year, always a welcome part of our Christmas preparations. This year, chubby toddler fingers will be allowed to gently hold these new angels, Santas and snowmen, just as I held the fragile candles so many years ago.

Some may call me nostalgic, but I prefer the term, “preserving our shared heritage.” These are our people, our traditions, our roots. As the candlelight glows around us, we’ll once again gather in the pews on Christmas Eve to sing of angels and shepherds on a hillside, of a babe in a manger, and yes, perhaps of a friendly beast or two (although hopefully no hippos). Some of those we love may be scattered throughout this world or departed for a world beyond our understanding, but somehow, we will still raise our voices together as the faithful come, joyful and triumphant. Indeed, light has come to our world. Gloria in Excelsis Deo.