I missed the Christmas Eve service today. In a scene so very Home Alone-like, I stepped into a bedroom to change to church-suitable attire and when I emerged the family had already headed out. I ran after the last SUV in the entourage, but couldn't quite catch it and didn't manage to be noticed. I then ran back to the cottage and called my sister's cell phone number -- and listened to it ring where it had been left on the mantle. Then I called my father's cell phone number -- and listened to it ring where it had been left on the table. I didn't bother trying my mother's cell.
I eventually found car keys to the remaining vehicle but decided it wouldn't be smart to head out to catch up since I hadn't managed to get in touch with anyone and wasn't really sure of the way. That's my excuse. If I were honest I'd admit I was a little miffed at having been forgotten, something I soon got over and should have gotten over sooner. I spent most of the time home alone reading The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.
Every Christmas eve service has something to offer. In past years I've enjoyed sermons exhorting me not to worship angels (and thereby miss the true meaning of Christmas) and not to over-value the trappings of Christmas (puncuated by the smashing of an heirloom Christmas ornament at the pulpit). Fortunately, missing the service didn't involve my having to helplessly watch chicks flee their coop into the snow and freeze to death (featured in another memorable Christmas eve sermon) -- but I think it likely was an even better reminder of the true meaning of Christmas than attending the service would have been.
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You missed nothing of import, just the importance of lighting candles at Christmas (no doubt a tradition taken from Hanukkah, the Festival of Lights), and the usual community talent show.
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