Passion for Coffee - Fuel for the Soul

As of seven o'clock this morning I had already notched two hours of productive morning under my belt. As I stepped out into the waning darkness, the crisp air that accompanies the first snow of the year slapped my freshly shaven face like a forgotten lover in an old Cary Grant film. I drove to work in the chill of a sluggish car heater, surrounded by commuters who looked similarly drowsy and equally frozen.

On a Frosty Morning Such as This

I woke up before the sun this morning, an unfortunate side effect of both the season and my current job. I laid still under my down comforter, frozen by the impending chill that awaited me beyond my bed. Mustering the courage to sally forth into the icy tundra of our tile-floored bathroom, I forced myself vertical and stumbled down the hall.

The Exorcism of Volvo

I believe in the possibility of demons.

I'm a natural skeptic. I hear stories of ghosts, demons, and possession, and I raise an eyebrow. Ouija boards, in my opinion, are bogus. Horoscopes and fortune tellers are so vague and generic that they get it right most of the time.

But something inside me still believes that there is a possibility that the supernatural world is real. That there is validity to some of the paranormal things going on in this world.

A priest once told me that we have a Diocesan Exorcist. One priest is appointed as the exorcist for the entire Diocese, which is a large region, geographically. If another priest is faced with a possessed soul, they call the exorcist, who will come and pray over them, performing rites in an attempt to remove the demonic presence. This happens! The Linda Blair, split pea soup-spewing, spider-walking, head-spinning images of the 70's are still happening today.

It's kind of hard to believe. That being said, I do have a personal story of exorcism. The tale is true, although the demon is questionable.

Foreign Cars are the Devil

Growing up, I was a member of St. Boniface Catholic Church in Farmington, Iowa. It was a quaint church in a town of 750. A few times each week, we'd travel highway 2, through the stoic evergreens of Shimek forest, from Donnellson to Farmington. The town was tired and dilapidated. Once a vibrant river town that took advantage of the commerce that traveled the shallow waters of the Des Moines River, Farmington had begun to dry up when the railroads and highways began etching their way into the rolling hills of Southeast Iowa.

The church was a potpourri of families that lived in and around the dirty little town. Some older couples, tottering in on canes and replaced knees. A nice man named Gerhardt, who was missing one hand, everything from the forearm down. A few of my classmates' families, although none the really cared to associate with me. One woman distinctly stands out in my mind. No one knew how to take her. Her name was Christie.

Christie was around my moms age. Sandy brown hair laid plainly on her head. She was extremely tan, with wrinkly-leather skin pulled across her petite frame. Christie dressed plainly, with white canvas shoes and smudged khaki pants that were too short for her wiry legs. She often wore some type of button down shirt or sweater that seemed as thought someone thrown it out. Christie believed in demons.

The story goes that Christie moved to Iowa from Washington state, to attend the Maharishi School of Enlightenment in Fairfield, Iowa. Something happened while she was there, and she left the school to live in Farmington. Again, I do not know what the incident was, but the Christie I knew was both physically shaken and mentally distraught.

She walked with a timidity that reminded me of a nervous rabbit, arms pulled in tight and eyes nervously glancing back and forth. When she prayed in church, she folded her hands beside her head and laid her cheek against them. Her face was wrought with distress over silent pleas that no one else knew. Every time she spoke, it was with a whispered cadence that sounded as if she was trying to sing, but afraid of how it might sound. The result was a haunting voice that hung in the air like a fog, settling on your memory and turning to dust.

Christie was the point of much pity in our church and my mother made a point to make her welcomed at every opportunity. We had dinner with her, sat with her at church functions, and helped out with things she had trouble handling on her own. That's where this story picks up.

It was a brisk October day, not over 40^o Fahrenheit, when my mother got a call. The voice on the other end was breathy and sing-song. When she hung up, my mom turned to me,

“Christie called. She said she needs her car cleaned. I guess she drove through something.” There was more to the story than this, but my mother wasn't divulging any other details.

“Isn't it a little cold for a car wash?” I asked. I was not looking forward to any part of this mandatory charity event.

“Just go out there and help her.” She commanded with a roll of her eyes. After some cajoling, I got the truth out of her.

“Her car is possessed.”

“What?”

“I guess she drove through...something, and now her car is possessed.”

“WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO ABOUT THAT!?! I don't know how to cleanse demons! I am not an exorcist! Come on, mom!”

My pleas for reason fell on deaf ears. Begrudgingly, I set out to deal with the demonic Volvo.

The Tools of the Trade -- Lime Away and Carpet Cleaner

When I got to Christie's house, she was waiting for me at the door. She led me to the dingy silver Volvo wagon and explained to me the process that I was to follow:

Step 1 - Pour Lime Away pipe cleaner onto floors, seats, and any other surface, until thoroughly soaked with green goop.

Step 2 – Vainly attempt to soak up the verdant, viscous liquid with old towels.

Step 3 – Pray to God that Christie is satisfied before my hands freeze off.

When I opened the driver door, I was greeted with the project already in progress. Christie had unloaded two bottles of Lime Away onto the floor of the car. It seemed that this had happened some time earlier in the day, as the liquid was a semi-frozen slush. As the mid afternoon sun started lowering itself behind the scraggly trees, I began the process of exorcising the demons.

The first step was to remove the icy liquid from the floor. I checked the back for an ice scraper. No such luck. I attempted to chisel the corrosive liquid from its hold on the carpeted floor with a pen, but got nowhere. Then I got smart. Requesting a bucket of the hottest water available, I proceeded to besiege the Lime Away with scalding water, thus successfully liquifying the frozen cleaner. Objective completed. As I looked down triumphantly at the floor boards of the vehicle, my mood quickly changed from triumphant to disparaged. While I had melted the frozen muck, the car was now even swampier and, with the sun going down, the potential for another frozen floor was imminent. So I began bailing out.

After the majority of the liquid was removed from the floor, I was able to soak up the remainder with some old towels that Christie had provided. About the time I was finished with that project, Christie came out with a Shop-Vac and a can of carpet cleaner.

“Spray this on the seats. We need to get rid of it all.”

Ignoring the fact that a vacuum would have made the floor job much easier, I tried to think of a response to her request. Finding none that would meet Christie's irregular logic, I sighed and proceeded to coat the seats with an expanding white foam that smelled of old rubber. After vacuuming the upholstery, I returned triumphantly to Christie's door.

“All finished!” I proclaimed with vigor and chattering teeth.

Christie sidled up to the car with some trepidation. She peeked into the backseat, opened the hatchback, and seemed to be satisfied with the job I'd done. But then she sat in the drivers seat.

Immediately, she turned and looked me straight in the eye.

“You need to do the dashboard.”

“Christie, what do you mean? How do I do the dashboard?” I responded reluctantly. The methods used thus far were not utilizing electronics friendly cleaning agents, and this worried me.

She looked around a moment, then reached down for a bottle of Lime Away. Handing me the bottle, she pointed at the electronic panel of dormant meters and lights.

“If I put this stuff on the dash, It could ruin the car. There are electronic controls up there that – ” She cut me off,

“You need to do the dashboard. That's where they are. Please just do the dashboard.” She was adamant, but I realized the implication of this decision. I tried one more time,

“Why don't I just put it on like this?” I squirted the liquid onto one of the towels and began rubbing it into the vinyl.

In a surprisingly quick motion, she snatched the bottle from my hands and pushed me aside. As she sporadically squirted the cleaner onto the control panel, she ordered,

“Like this! You need to do it like this!” then she darted away and disappeared into the darkened doorway of the house. As I assessed the situation, I noticed her silhouette in the kitchen window, watching me as I stood in the frosty dusk. And so I began to dump the remainder of the bottle onto the dashboard.

The green liquid poured into the defrost vents. It seeped into cracks and ran over the edge, dripping onto the steering column. I did my best to mop up the goo, all the while my stomach sank lower and lower with the realization that I may be destroying a perfectly good vehicle. A perfectly good, potentially possessed vehicle, but none-the-less, a perfectly good vehicle.

I finished mopping up the mess I'd made, collected all the empty bottles, rags, buckets, and left them with the vacuum by the front door. Christie didn't come to the door when I knocked, so I closed up the soggy car and drove home, reflecting upon the task I'd just completed.

I don't know if the car was possessed. I don't know what Christie thought she'd caught in the engine of her Swiss-made hatchback. I do know that she had the entire dash replaced a few days later, due to an unknown failure in the electronic systems. But of some things, I can be certain.

Something had affected Christie. Whether it was in her car, in her house, or in her head, something had definitely upset her.

And that is real.

In Sickness and In Health

My wife is sick.

It may have come from the 20+ degree fluctuations in temperature this last week. I blame El Nino for the bi-polar weather that has dumped close to two feet of snow on our heads, then jumps to a balmy 40^o Fahrenheit, inspiring shorts and flip-flops to fly out of drawers and everyone to think we're living in the Bahamas.

It may have come from extended contact with any of her 30 cousins over the Christmas holiday. Lord knows what bacterial, viral, or homicidal specimens creepy-crawled their way from those cute little elementary school hands into my wife's ears, nose, or throat.

Regardless of the source, she is officially sick. The doctors have deemed it,

“SINUSITIS”

Evidently she's been infected by sinuses. I hope I don't catch the little buggers. I've gone my whole life without a single sinus, and I don't plan on catching one now.

Nursemaid to the Stars

I don't know if you realize this, but as a husband, it is your duty to care for your ailing wife in times of suffering. The clause “In sickness and in health” includes sinusitis.

It all began with a tickle, located somewhere in the back of her throat. Annie's voice sounded a little raspy, but we chocked it up to talking over the ravenous din of ecstatic cousins and exuberant aunts. But then, the aches and pains started. The soreness led to an all out whine of despair that bore a striking resemblance to Randy from A Christmas Story. Instead of,

“I can't put my arms down!”, her wails of despair were saying,

“My whole body hurts!”.

After a healthy regimen of over the counter pharmacological cocktails, cold washcloths, and love, it was obvious that I was losing the war against this vehement virus. I admitted defeat and she went to the doctor. She waited two hours for five minutes of face time with a physician who didn't have time for bedside niceties. A few routine pokes and prods and the verdict was in: SINUSITIS.

Pharmacists Don't Smile

Out the door she went, sinusitis in one lobe, prescription in the other. I got a phone call about an hour later.

“They said I have to wait 25 minutes for the prescription. Will you pick it up for me?”

“Of course. Go home and rest. I'll bring it by in a bit.”

A half an hour later, I head to the pharmacy. The lady at the counter retrieves my white bag from the sea of bins behind her.

“There's a five dollar charge for flavoring.”

“She got flavoring? What kind of flavoring?”

“Watermelon. It's out of season, so there's a five dollar charge. Is that OK?”

“Well, you can't remove the flavoring now, can you?” I joked. Anything to help get this Codeine infused swill down.

“Have you ever taken these medicines before?” she responded with deathly seriousness.

“They're not for me...My wife – I'm not Ann, I'm Chris.”

“Have you taken them or not?” Her tone was tinged with an irritation you might find in someone surrounded by sick people all day.

“No. No ma'am.”

“I'll have a pharmacist explain them to you. CONSULTATION!” she bellowed into the shelves behind her. I didn't think such a small woman could contain such a deafening roar. Soon a pharmacist was before me, rattling off the specificity of each elixir and pill.

“Quaff one teaspoon every 4 hours...

...Two pills the first day, one the next four, unless your a Capricorn on Thursday...

...Don't take if you are operating a forklift...

...Don't forklift if you are operating a tank...

...And that is all there is to it. I hope you feel better Mrs. Jasper!”

Bewildered, I proceeded to the exit and delivered the narcotics to my withering wife. I tried my best to impart the instructions to her and, in a semi-conscious state, she understood fairly well. We administered the first dose of antibiotics without a hitch. Attempting to deliver the Codeine proved more difficult.

The top was not only childproofed, it was adult proofed and possibly bear proofed as well. After a solid three minutes of prying, twisting, and biting, I successfully loosed the cap from it's mooring.

“Is it flavored? I asked them to add a flavor.”

“For five dollars, it better taste like prime rib.” I muttered. “It smells kind of spicy...”

An unsteady hand wielding a teaspoon of medicinal magic was soon in route for my wife's mouth. A squeamish face greeted the utensil and swallowed the medicine with reluctant force.

“Eeeeuuuggghhhhh!!!!! Get me some water!” Evidently the spicy watermelon didn't help much. So much for that investment.

I Feel My Temperature Rising

When I got home from work, It didn't seem as though Annie had moved more than a few inches from the spot I'd left her in.

“I threw up.” She greeted me with a dilapidated groan.

“So you're feeling better! Swell.” I changed out of my work clothes and tried to assess the situation. She was very warm, so I got her a cool washcloth and laid it on her head.

The rest of the evening, we had the thermostat set at a balmy 55^o. As we went to bed, Annie was wearing pajama pants and a t-shirt. I cloaked myself in a hoodie, sweatpants, socks, and mittens. About four hours later, all that was about to change.

I woke up at 2:30am in a pool of sweat. My mittens were strewn across the bed, the blankets were no where to be found, and I had no clue what was going on. But it was hot. Annie was barely awake and, upon hearing my rouse, she asked,

“I'm freezing. Can you turn up the heat?”

I begrudgingly obliged, peeling off layers as I stumbled through the house. I got back to bed, laid back, and heard,

“Can you get the thermometer? I think I have a fever.”

Another blind stumble to the bathroom found me back at the bed, thermometer in hand. A few moments later, the digital read out stated,

“99.4^o”

“Great. I'm glad we solved that mystery.” I returned to bed, pulled up the covers, and was met with a meek,

“Can you get me a box Kleenex?”

At 3am I was finally reunited with my REM cycle. The next morning was a slow one, but I made it to work. Annie had borrowed my car for the day, and about 11:30, she shows up at my office, bearing SUBWAY.

“This is for taking such good care of me. Thank you.”

And that makes it all worth it. I love my wife, even when she's feeling like death, and just as fun to be around.

About five minutes later, I get a text from the woman of my dreams:

“I almost just barfed in your car.”

That's what love is all about.

Seasonal Affect

It's cold. For those of you who are not in in the Midwest, take my word for it.

My car thermometer read a balmy one degree Fahrenheit this morning as I mad my way out of the parking lot. I backed into the alley and, as I shifted into drive to begin my commute, continued to slide backwards. No matter how much my tires protested the backwards motion, I continued to move in reverse. After a few failed attempts to gain yardage, I opted to work with the forces of physics. As I backed down the alley, I hoped no one would come out of their garages and see me creeping down the lane in reverse. Once I reached the street, I was able to continue my journey facing the proper direction.

I've spoken to many people over the last month who've all made similar claims about this inclement iciness.

“The weather puts me in a foul mood.”

“I'm tired of being cold all the time!”

“It gets too dark too early.”

“I can't feel my fingers.”

My father, a born and bred Iowan, even left last week for the warmer climes of Houston Texas. This ardent opposition to winter got me thinking about seasonal affect disorder, a psychological disorder that has come to my attention in the last few years. Here is what the Mayo Clinic has to say about SAD:

“Seasonal affective disorder (also called SAD) is a type of depression that occurs at the same time every year. If you're like most people with seasonal affective disorder, your symptoms start in the fall and may continue into the winter months, sapping your energy and making you feel moody. Less often, seasonal affective disorder causes depression in the spring or early summer.”

Definition taken from www.Mayoclinic.com

From this idea, I started creating a person that not only experienced mood swings or lethargy during the winter months, but was so brought down by the drabness of the snow and slush, that he actually detached from reality. The only thing that kept him attached to some semblance of this world was a woman he loved. I don't know if her love was reciprocated, or if she even knew of his existence, but his belief in her attachment is what keeps him tethered to reality, if ever so slightly.

As our disconnected character wanders through life, he gets lost in the monochromatic gray, misplacing the horizon and falling off the sidewalk, into the ashen ether. He is brought back to earth by a prescription, but whether that medicinal solution in actually a productive addition to his life is questionable.

I don't know where this character goes from here. The story may continue with another song, or essay, or some other medium. But for now, it's just seasonal affect.

Seasonal Affect

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Drive around the town I don't know where to go

Stare at twinkling lights, amid the falling snow

I don't know

Lets run away

I don't know

Let's run away

Together

Frustrated with all this madness

Curtsy the world insincere gladness

I don't know who

Lets get away

I don't know who

Let's get away

Together

The land the sea the sky they fade to gray

Unsure of where to step, of what's terrain

I don't know who this life is for

Let's float away

I don't know who I am any more

Let's float away

Together

The frozen ground it falls away beneath my feet

Barren tree tops they shrink away in this retreat

I don't know anything for sure

Let's fly away

I don't know where to find the floor

Let's fly away

Together

The pastel doctors reign me in prescribing rope

Tie me to a lamppost in the park force-feed me hope

I don't what to do any more

Let's break away

I don't what I'm fighting for

Let's break away

Together

Greeting cards wish peace on earth good will towards men

speak to me in foreign tongues and unfamiliar pen

I don't know who you are anymore

Let's fade away

I don't know how I've come so far

Let's fade away

Together

Hot Pants and Common Sense

When I walk my dog in the mornings, I rarely see anyone on the street. I pass the brick cottages and neatly trimmed lawns, my inquisitive Basset Hound in one hand, a plastic bag in the other. We groggily meander the sidewalks, sniffing out traces of squirrels and Taco Bell wrappers. Listening to podcasts syndicated by NPR and PRI, Ellie and I generally make our way back to the apartment without event or catastrophe. Sometimes we encounter a stray dog, or a child on their way to school, but for the most part, it's a solitary journey.

This morning we saw something worth noting. It wasn't so much an interaction as it was an observation.

The White Mile

As we exited the apartment this morning, we were blasted with the frigid wind of a twelve degree morning. Ellie dove into the snow, painting it yellow as she relieved herself in the three inch powder. We then began our trot down the alley. Our brisk pace was not due to any love of exercise, but rather a vain effort to keep from turning into living ice sculptures.

As we rounded the block, we jogged passed a house that bore signs of life. On the concrete front porch of this two story brick bungalow, a frumpy woman, mid 30's, stood stoically smoking a cigarette. The woman in and of herself was not notable, except for her chosen wardrobe.

Hot Pants in the Cold Dawn

Her head was covered with a nondescript stocking cap ('toque' for the Canadians out there – or a 'tousle cap' if you are my grandfather). She had an over-sized ski jacket on that draped over her shoulders and overshadowed her mittened hands as she tried to light the tobacco stick. 

The woman's bottom half was clad in naught but a pair of hot pants. No shoes, socks, or slippers. No jeans, snow-pants, or even pajama bottoms. It seems that her need to ingest that cigarette had overwhelmed her desire to avoid frostbite. I realize addictions are fierce masters, but I always assumed that pants would take priority over cigarettes. 

I may be making some unfair assumptions. Perhaps, in her rush to put on her down jacket, gloves, and a hat, she left her pants sitting on the floor of her bedroom. Right next to her common sense.

I tried not to stare as she stood in the doorway of her home, seemingly not phased by the biting cold. Hopefully the incredulous look on my face was masked by my own teeth chattering.

The Smoker's Motto

I've always wondered about a smokers audacious ability to brave any weather for their cigarette. It's commendable, that dedication. Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these smokers from the swift completion of their addicted vices.

But most have the common sense to put on pants before inhaling. Maybe there should be a new warning on cigarette cartons:

Warning: Excessive use of cigarettes can lead to a loss of common sense. And pants. It will eventually lead to frostbite, if the first two conditions occur.

This is what I take away from this naked legged woman from the suburban tundra:

Smoke. Smoke whatever you want. Smoke wherever you want. Smoke with whomever you want. Just wear pants while doing it. For everyone's sake.

The Holiday Buffet

I've recently discovered an amazing new restaurant in the Quad Cities' – Capriotti's. The one singular item that makes this sandwich shop stand out above the half dozen other sandwich shops in the metro area is a delicatessen treat known as “The Bobbie”.

“The Bobbie” is the general equivalent to the sandwich one might make on the day after thanksgiving. The start with a supple, sweet, hoagie bun. Adding in a generous helping of shredded cold turkey, they dollop on a succulent cranberry sauce, followed by just the right blend of stuffing, and top it all off with a generous slathering of mayonnaise. It is one of the most enjoyable sandwiches known to this man.

I was conveying the awesomeness of Capriotti's to my friend Dan one evening, when we stumbled upon a brilliant idea for a restaurant – The Holiday Buffet.

It would be rows upon rows of buffets, each with a festive holiday theme. At each bar our beaming patrons would find their favorite foods from that corresponding day of celebration.

There would be watermelon and fried chicken at the Independence day buffet. At the Easter buffet you'd find ham and colored eggs. Thanksgiving would have the obligatory turkey, with all the stuffing, cranberries, potatoes, yams, and the like. We might have a Presidents day buffet, with some of the past oval office food favorites. Memorial day deviled eggs and marshmallow fluff. You get the picture.

We wouldn't be selectively American and Christian in our holiday selection. We'd have matzoh balls for passover, baba ghanoush and hummus for Ramadan (this buffet would only be open between sundown and sun rise).

From this conversation grew the spark for a song.

A long distance truck driver, stuck far away from his family on the night before Thanksgiving. He stops at a mysterious restaurant to clear his head and recharge – The Holiday Buffet. There he finds an impressive array of foods from every holiday of his past. The emotional connection to this food is magical – the reminiscence makes this hard old truck driver want to stay and eat forever, safe from the cold, lonely road.

But the Holiday Buffet isn't the real thing – the food we eat on these special days is not what makes the festivities memorable. It's the people we're with. It's the stories we share. It's the love of family that makes the food such a powerful force.

So the trucker tears himself away from the buffet and trucks on, drawing ever closer to his family, his real holiday experience.

Call it a Christmas take on The Eagles' “Hotel California”.

Listen, enjoy, and comment.

Holiday Buffet

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I'm out on the road again

This cold November wind, sure ain't no ones friend

Haulin' 30 tons down the line

Tryin' to get home this holiday to be with mine

My eyes are bleary, head is groggy - way up there

I see a shining light I see an answer to my prayer

The neon warms my soul tells me everything's OK

As I break these 16 wheels at the Holiday Buffet

Oh my soul

I don't know

I ain't never heard of

No Holiday Buffet

Oh my soul

As I slow

I think I like the looks

Of this Holiday Buffet

I strolled down the aisles

I could hardly believe my eyes

I saw festive treats

All color shape and size

Began to fill my plates

Those memories return

Pullin' at my heart strings

Makin' my stomach yearn

Oh my soul

Where'd you go

Those memories come floodin' back

At the Holiday Buffet

Oh my soul

Row by row

This food it takes me back

At the Holiday Buffet

Independence watermelon

A slab of sweet Easter ham

President's day cherry pie

Thanksgiving yams

Tacos for Cinco de Mayo, corn beef & cabbage for Patty's day.

I keep fillin' plates

Tryin' to eat my blues away

All this food around me

Sure is good but it ain't right

Fillin' up my belly

on this lonely winter night

This feast ain't what I need,

Gotta get away

Gotta drive all night

from this Holiday Buffet.

Oh my soul

Where'd you go

You cannot fill that hole

with a Holiday Buffet

Oh my soul

Row by Row

Flyin' through the snow

From the Holiday Buffet

Every now and then

Haulin' through the east

I think I see a neon sign

I think I smell a feast

Although I wish I could

Sometimes I think I might

Can't find that Holiday Buffet

From that cold winter night

What do I want for Christmas? For you to get on Twitter and Facebook and tell your friends about Musings of a Renaissance Man in Training. 

Oh! look here - a button for you to do that right now!

Dearest Annabelle

Christmas music is in full force. On the radio, in department stores, and in my head. I have a confession to make.

I love Christmas music.

I know I may come across sometimes as a curmudgeon who hates all things beautiful - Top 40 Radio, Reality TV, Justin Bieber. And while I will rail against the commercialism of this season, I do love Christmas music.

So here is a Christmas song. No it's not your traditional fa la la la la, but it has some nods to a few of my favorite carols.

Football on Christmas, 1914

The impetus behind Dearest Annabelle came to me when I heard someone talking about the unofficial truce's that happened during World War I between the British and German soldiers on and around Christmas. The details vary by incident, but the gist is that the soldiers stopped fighting, exchanged gifts, sang carols, and in at least one case, played a pickup football game. This ability to step outside of themselves and find some human decency amidst such a horrific conflict is something from which we can all take some pointers.



Dearest Annabelle

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Oh my dearest Annabelle
with frozen fingers fingers and a heart that's true
I write to you.

How I wish for sunny days
when warmth above would cast its rays on you
all dressed in blue

Its Christmas eve tonight on the battlefield
My rifle I will rest, my pen I'll wield

Though so many men have died 
in brutal bloodshed from the other side
I live for you

Strip away this uniform
and I will stand here unadorned, the man
that you once knew
 
This Christmas night is shining, bright and blue
Star of wonder and might bring me home to you

Through the crispness of this 
bitter night we hear O Tannenbaum and Yule
ring clear and true

Candle clad and arm in arm
they march across the death fields bearing truce
a peace filled fruit

Stille nacht, Heilige nacht
Alles schlaft, Einsam wacht

As I pen these words
with frostbit hand I hear the Christmas bells ring through
the dawn is new

Close my eyes I'm taken back
to Sunday morning snowflakes landing on 
turn into dew

Peace on earth, good will towards man
Father son and ghost have mercy on this land

Stille nacht

Heilige nacht


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