Every year I like to post a copy of an essay, first published on Christmas morning 1967 in the Dallas Morning News. It was written by Paul Crume, one of Dallas' finest columnists. It's considered a classic in Dallas and they always have it on the front page Christmas morning. It was a joy to get the paper off the doorstep every frosty Christmas morning knowing there would be words of poetry and calm waiting for me. I gained a new appreciation of it when we moved out to the country and couldn't get the paper delivered to our door every morning. It just wouldn't be Christmas for any Dallasite without it. I know I'm not the only one who feels this way so here it is for old friends relocated to new places and new friends who've never seen it.
He speaks of the magic of Christmas--the indescribable feeling of a visit with your childhood self. If your inner child needs a dose of magic and awe I invited you to a Christmas Eve service at any church, anywhere tonight. Place yourself somewhere with people expecting miracles, filled with awe, waiting for God to make the next move. Close your mouth, bow your head, still your heart, open your soul.
On this Day, Angels Linger Close at Hand
By Paul Crume
A man wrote me not long ago and asked me what I thought of the theory of angels. I immediately told him that I am highly in favor of angels. As a matter of fact, I am scared to death of them.
Any adult human being with half sense, and some with more, knows that there are angels. If he has ever spent any period in loneliness, when the senses are forced in upon themselves, he has felt the wind from their beating wings and been overwhelmed with the sudden realization of the endless and gigantic dark that exists outside the little candle flame of human knowledge. He has prayed, not in the sense that he asked for something, but that he yielded himself.
Angels live daily at our very elbows, and so do demons, and most men at one time or another in their lives have yielded themselves to both and have lived to rejoice and rue their impulses. But the man who has once felt the beat of an angel's wing finds it easy to rejoice at the universe and at his fellow man.
It does not happen to any man often, and too many of us dismiss it when it happens. I remember a time in my final days in college when the chinaberry trees were abloom and the air was sweet with spring blossoms and I stood still on the street, suddenly struck with the feeling of something that was an enormous promise and yet was no tangible promise at all.
And there was another night in a small boat when the moon was full and the distant headlands were dark but beautiful and we were lonely. The pull of a nameless emotion was so strong that it filled the atmosphere. The small boy within me cried. Psychiatrists will say that the angel in all this was really within me, not outside, but it makes no difference.
There are angels inside us and angels outside, and the one inside is usually the quickest choked. Francis Thompson said it better. He was a late 19th-century English poet who would put the current crop of hippies to shame. He was on pot all his life. His pad was always mean and was sometimes a park bench. He was a mental case and tubercular besides. He carried a fishing creel into which he dropped the poetry that was later to become immortal. He was lonely enough to be the constant associate of angels.
"The angels keep their ancient places," wrote Francis Thompson in protest. "Turn but a stone, and start a wing."
There is an angel close to you this day. Merry Christmas, and I wish you well