Merry Christmas new friends, passing strangers, and die-hard, loyal to the bone friends of the All Things Southern porch! How blessed I am to have you take time for our weekly visit in the midst of all your festivities! Put your feet up, grab a Christmas cookie, and let’s chat…~smile~
I’m delighted to welcome each of you to my Christmas issue. “And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.”
Those beautiful words are taken from Luke 2:10-12. How I long for the world to truly adore Him, Christ the King. No better news has even been delivered to this old earth than was sung by the angels on that long ago eve. We’ll talk more of that blessed Gift in the Southern Comfort in a bit, but right now, I have a story for you. As I may have mentioned one or ten thousand times lately, here during this most gracious and special time of the whole year, the Beloved Hubby and I are also celebrating the birth of our fourth grandchild! Yours truly is finding it most difficult to talk about much else.
For the record, I go by Keggie with the wee ones, and I love it. Long before I joined this select society, I was of the opinion that grandparents can be quite silly about their little lap young ‘uns. Little did I know I would soon become the silliest of them all. I have been particularly giddy with the birth of Connor Phillip Maher…
The other evening Connor’s Uncle Phillip and Aunt CeCe were in with the two bellerina czars, Emerson Ann and Carlisle Mae. Together with Grant the Big Brother, we kids were having quite the festive gathering.
One interesting moment perfectly illustrates my silly grandparent point. That’d be the one where I found myself directing my six foot two son on how best to ride little Grant’s plasma car. “Put your feet up,” I directed Phillip seriously, “And get it off the rug, it won’t get traction on the rug.” That may not seem so very strange to you. I didn’t find it that unusual myself, initially. It was only when I realized that as I was dispensing advice, I was also sitting in the floor balancing a stuffed dog on my head, placed there by Grant, wearing a bib around my neck, courtesy of Emerson, and playing aimlessly with Zany Zoo. All by myself. Apparently, the OTHER toddlers had moved on to another room.
And while we’re on the subject, I’ve decided to challenge the official results of my and Phillip’s timed car races on said plasma car. Carey was clocking us and she probably cheated so her man could win. That’s my story, anyway. Bear with me, folks. With time, I should return to normal. Or as close to it as I’ve ever been…
Merry Christmas, porchers!