Oh Beautiful Star

Years ago, - nay, decades ago, (when the heck did that happen?!), I used to commute from East Lansing (by way of Detroit) to New York's JFK International Airport once, and sometimes twice, a week, to work a flight to parts east: Europe or the Middle East.

Work is work is work.  That I got to go to terrific places in my employment was a valuable perk.  But, I have to say, commuting and logistics did make my work to be...work!  I started out as a flight attendant first as a single woman, and later on, as a newlywed.  Still later, as a Mom.

Logistics abounded.  Every-which-way.

Stress and worries and security  (OH!  Hijackings and terrorists and who-knows-what-else.)
(In the New Millennium, we have sadly witnessed the "what-else".)

I remember listening to this carol so many, many times on my drives to and from the Detroit Metropolitan Airport.  It calmed my nerves, heading east to JFK.  It called me back to hearth & home on my return flights.

Oh Beautiful Star of Bethlehem

I still love listening to this song, sung here by the Judds.  It is a calming carol for me.

Speaking of calming...

I so needed this, this evening.

That Spouse o' Mine (and he will really hate it when he finds that I have written about this..) has been working on a piece of wood this month.  A carving.  A sculpture.

You see, every year at Big Family Christmas, we play Dirty Santa (look it up), and all the gifts are to be hand-made.  And we're not talking a snowflake cut out of a 9x12.5" paper, we're talking oil paintings, sculptures, quilts.  We Websters are creative, and appreciative of art.  The more personal it is, the better we like it.  Yes, ye, we all would LOVE a real live Bougerreau.  But Gma's oils (my Mom's) and nephew-in-law Josh's framed photographs from Antarctica are prime real estate in our Dirty Santa.

But, back to that Spouse o' Mine:

He was upstairs merrily creating something about which I cannot describe, while I was "lower deck" in the galley, prepping our Friday night pizza.  (Living 12 miles out in rural Kansas, we have no pizza delivery.  Sad state of affairs.)

Very quietly and suddenly, he appeared right next to me.

"I cut myself."

"How badly?"  (Note to all you English writer-wannabes: my adverb, even in emergency, was correct.)

"Not bad."  (Note to all you English writer-wannabes: this is how one speaks when he is bleeding, grey, and about to pass out; please note lack of proper adverb.)

I looked at the wound - and it was BAD.  I announced that I would take him in for sutures.  He ix-nayed that plan all over the place.  (How does one spell Pig Latin, much less speak it?!)  About this time, after I had cleaned and wrapped his wound and was cleaning the surrounding fingers and palms (Because, really? How much blood did you lose before you decided to come downstairs and seek help?!), I looked at his face.  And it was a terrifying grey.  Blank eyes.

He was in shock.

I yelled at him, and shoved him into the living room.  I told him to sit down on the sofa.  He could not find it - he was blacking out, I supposed.  I pushed him onto the sofa and pushed his head down (he frowned, but made no attempt to move it.)  I pulled his injured hand above his head.

Very, very soon afterwards, (a minute?  who knows). he seemed right as rain again.

And now we two are eating our pizza together, as if the First Aid necessity had never come about.

Have mercy.
And I will sing my calming carol, Oh Beautiful Song of Bethlehem once again.

And again...
and again...