Come he told me pa rum pa pum pummmmm...

I own a very nice Remo djembe drum.  It is one of my favorite "things."  I researched months online looking at different brands, sizes and styles before making the decision to buy it.  I felt like a kid on Christmas morning when it arrived and I quickly ordered kid versions for the boys so we could have our own little drum circle.  I had played in college with friends’ drums and always wanted one.  Now that I owned one it made me happy, but it did not instantly make me a percussionist.  I am a drum owner, not a musician.  I would liken it to the fact that I own a car, but I am not a professional driver.  It gets me where I need to be and historically I am a fairly proficient driver, but I am not about to step into a Formula One race car.  I am perfectly OK with my amateur status as a drummer.  I am satisfied to be an appreciator of music, not necessarily a performer.

Then came Noel, the man, not the Holiday.  Granted it is that time of year.  Noel came to our church this past summer as our new worship leader.  A ball of creative energy and musical ability he breathed new life into the worship services with upbeat song choices and contemporary arrangements, and the passion of youthful enthusiasm (he was fresh from the campus).  The fact that he is not only a talented musician, but a heck of a nice guy just added to my appreciation of our new worship dude.  So much so that after one of the first services he was involved with I felt the need to approach him afterward and complement him on it.  This led to a conversation about music, music styles, energy…and somehow about djembe drums.  I remember specifically telling him that I owned one should he ever need to use one in his arrangement of a song.  I also remember telling him I couldn't play it very well.  Apparently that part didn’t “stick”.

I got a call from Noel this fall; he wanted to borrow the drum for some acoustic songs he was going to be performing at an upcoming service.  I was excited to put the drum into service.  I was disappointed when I found out that he couldn’t talk the normal drummer into trying to play it.  It sat in his office for 2 and a half months.  I missed my drum.

Last week I got an email from Noel asking if I was willing to play on a few songs on an upcoming Sunday, this coming Sunday to be exact.  I have no idea what came over me.  I don’t know if it was Christmas spirit, guilt in knowing that he had wanted to have someone play it a few months back and it never happened, or maybe someone put something funny in my coffee that morning, but I said yes.  I started sweating almost immediately after hitting send.  I had not even seen my drum since September.  I have never played in front of anyone aside from my own kids or a bunch of hippies back in college.  I have never played along with a song in the comfort and anonymity of my own home, let alone along with a live band in front of an audience…at church.  What in the world did I get myself into?

Band practice was this past Wednesday.  I showed up with my drum and a bunch of butterflies.  I played along with the songs and just tried to keep up.  My hands seemed like bricks attached to the end of my arms.  I suddenly had all the rhythm of a lump of coal falling down the steps.  Not pretty.  Noel was gracious.  He spent some time afterward with me.  It didn’t really help.  My hands just won’t do what my inner Rasta tells them to.  Sunday is going to be very interesting indeed. Thank goodness this Sunday is also the children's musical presentation.  Maybe I won't look AS foolish in light of the other entertainment.

The “make a joyful noise unto the Lord” thing is all relative right?...I mean what’s joyful to one may seem like the awkward beats of a man with no rhythm right?!?

 

I am nervous, and a little scared.  I have never heard anyone boo’d off stage at church.  I just keep telling myself that I am a willing servant and I am going to play my best for Him. 

I have no talent to bring pa rum pa pum  pum….that’s fit to give our King,  pa rum pa pum pum, rum pa pum  pum….rum pa pum  pum….

Ho Ho Horns?

You know, even I have to admit that if you take a look at some of our recently fabricated Christmas traditions they are a just a little bit over the top at times…even for a 36 year old kid like myself.

I've found myself over the past week explaining why Santa uses reindeer when he could just Fed Ex the gifts to us on Christmas Eve, why our "shelf elf" Jingle has to fly magically to the North Pole each night to report the boys’ behavior to the man in red instead of just calling him on his cell phone after we are asleep to debrief him on the daily buzz, why we can’t just text our lists to Santa instead of writing a letter and putting it by the fireplace, and the best of all…”What’s the real Santa story Dad?” 

The coat makes the man.

Is it the Tim Allen story from The Santa Clause where Santa is just a poor chap who puts on the right coat at the right time?  Is it the Santa Claus the Movie version where an unsuspecting childless norseman gets lost in a blizzard and is rescued by elves who happen to inhabit a magical toy factory?  Is it the Rankin & Bass tradition that tells us of an orphan named Claus who is adopted by the Kringle family, who conveniently enough used to be the first toymakers to the king?   

You know what…I just don’t know.  But at least this is apparently not a new problem.

Krampus and Saint Nick visiting the home of some understandably nervous children.

As complicated and crazy as we have made the Santa story for ourselves over the past 20 years, it’s nothing compared to the stories of old.  Celts and Europeans have been spinning tales of Christmas visitations for a thousand years and some of them are more like Halloween tales than Christmas stories.

The one that caught my attention recently was the Hungarian legend of the Christmas Krampus.  The Krampus is apparently a part-goat-part human-part pure evil creature that accompanied Saint Nicholas as he went from town to town rewarding the good little girls and boys with gifts and love.  The Krampus’s job was to punish those who didn’t make the Saint’s list.  He was said to hide in the shadows outside the home of the bad children, waiting for the perfect time to snatch them up.  He punished the slightly naughty children by whacking them with birch twigs or pelting them with chunks of coal.  The more deliquent youths were shoved into the blanket he carried on his back and whisked off to the woods where he would either eat them alive (feet first) or kick aside a rock covering a doorway to the underworld and toss them in (presumably head first). 

  Merry Christmas Augustus and Helga…now be sure to do your chores so the evil goat demon doesn’t snatch you and throw you into Hell….wow.

Krampus merrily prancing down the street during a German Christmas parade...that's a harder image than Billy Bob as Bad Santa to get out of my head!  And you thought the cashiers at Kohl's on Black Friday were scary!

 

 It seems that legends, myths and stories surrounding the Christmas visitation of kids by larger than life mythical characters are historically screwed up... as part of the tradition of Christmas traditions.   

At least the story of Jesus birth is one that stays constant and true year after year, generation after generation.  And although king Herod is a pretty scary part of that event (if you read more than the greeting card snippit), even he doesn't paint the picture of a horrible horned goat man with a sack of screaming kids on his back ... but maybe that's where our ancestors got the idea?

Oh well boys and girls...be it coal in the stocking or Old Mr. Krampus hiding behind the shrubs next to the garage, you had better be good for goodness sake!

Thank goodness, it’s Thanksgiving

This year I am bound and determined to have a “Holiday Season” to beat all prior attempts.  It is going to be impervious to the usual schedule conflicts, family chaos, surprise guests, no-shows and uncooperative weather.  I am going to be merry.  My kids will embrace the joy of the season and fear the stealthy gaze of Santa’s elf.  The tree will shine brighter and the food taste better.  The drinks will be stronger and the hugs will last longer.  And it all starts with Thanksgiving.

I have so much to be thankful for this year.  Healthy kids who are (way too) full of positive energy, a new nephew who looks exactly like my brother (but cuter), a roof over our heads (that no longer leaks), a job that keeps me challenged and fulfilled (and very, very busy),  a church that “gets” the challenges of being the parent of young kids (sorry in advance for whatever happens at the Christmas Pageant),  a great community to call home (which we are quickly becoming an active part of) and great friends and family to share life with.  Good stuff.  Much thanks all around. 

  

Christ’s birthday will be the center of the celebration and we will surround ourselves with all of the magic that brings.  This always sparks a good conversation at some point from someone who asks, “How can you call yourself a Christian and then get so into the Santa thing?” I will preemptively refer to the previous blog post from December 2009 entitled “Just a clown at the party..." and get back to my eggnog, thank you very much.  Our kids know without a shadow of a doubt what Christmas is all about.

We will be jolly this year.  We will be merry.  Lights will be hung.  Trains will encircle the tree.  Chevy Chase will repeatedly kick ornamental reindeer and punch Santa on his front lawn while I reflect on which member of my extended family most resembles Cousin Eddie.  It is going to be a very good Christmas in the Blough household.  Those around us will be welcome (and sometimes shanghaied) to join in the caroling and merriment.   

But be warned…if you step on my porch, past the LED candy canes and nearly lifelike evergreenish garland with a bah humbug look in your eye…I will chase you back to your grinchy burrow faster than a 7-year old can open a loosely wrapped Nerf dart blaster.

Happy Thanksgiving and welcome to the season!