The Cold, The Dark, The Light

 (Songs mentioned: “Here We Come A-Wassailing” English traditional; “Who Would True Valor See” English Puritan hymn by John Bunyan; “The Season’s Upon Us” by The Dropkick Murphys)

Christmas Eve on the outskirts of Boston, and it was nearing midnight.

And Adam’s bloody fall. It was wicked cold. Didn’t stop my love and her brother from going to Midnight Mass though. Of course not. Nothing would.

“At least they’re allowed to keep the Catholic churches warm, mo ghra,” Noreen had said to me, grinning in her extremely attractive way. “Unlike a certain girlfriend of mine, I could never freeze my ass off in a Puritan meeting house all Sunday long-”

“And you’re about to say ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’” I cut in. “Don’t take the name of Jesus in vain, love,” I said, only half serious.

Holy New England’s God, I truly did love my girlfriend. I truly did. Yes, another woman, yes, a seriously Catholic woman at that. My parents…I don’t know what they would have thought. I hadn’t seen them in ages. Did they know about me? Did they know about Noreen?

I made up my mind. Yes, it was cold as the witch’s bloody tit. It wouldn’t keep me in, just like it didn’t stop Noreen and Kelly.

I stepped out into the cold, clutching my coat around me against the brisk wind. According to reports, it was nearly the coldest Christmas on record.

Christmas…I’m not supposed to celebrate it. No one of my faith is. We celebrate Guy Fawkes Day, Thanksgiving, New Year’s, and that’s about it. Over the years, some have had turned to minor Christmas celebrations. But none on the scale as our great-great-grandparents would have had back in the Old Country.

The Meeting House was cold and dark. Naturally, no one was there. But I knew how to get in – I had a key.

Unlocking the door, I stepped in. Bleeding Adam’s fall.  It was hardly any warmer in there than it was outside. But my eyes were accustomed to the dark. It wasn’t the first time that I had come to the Meeting House in the dead of night. I could see in the dim light the small lanterns and small stoves, neatly stacked among the benches. I pulled a stove and a lantern out of the pile, quickly lighting both.

There was never any incense or Latin hymns in here. Not like in Noreen’s cathedral. But the dim flickering light and heat from the lantern and stove made the atmosphere feel sacred and holy in its own way. Puritanism has its own dark, solemn beauty.

I sat on one of the cold benches, bowing my head and quietly whispering to God, our Father. Then as I started to breathe more deep and easy, my words to God began manifesting in my head.

In Adam’s fall we sinned all. Hail, Great God of New England, Holy is thy name. I thank thee for thy blessings and the blessings of the upcoming year. I concentrated on my soft breathing, feeling the heat from the stove, the flickering light from the lantern. I felt my heart beating softly, underneath the winged skull that I always wore around my throat. Many, not all, freaked out at the Death’s Head. But I always saw her as a sort of protector to me.

Great God, did my people screw up? I suppose we did.  Thoughts were running through my head. I remembered once, before we parted ways, asking my mother what I thought was a harmless question. “Mum, what were we before we were Puritans?”

She looked at me for one second like I had just taken Our Lord’s name in vain, but then her gaze softened only slightly. “Church of England, my love. And don’t ask any more questions.”

But I wasn’t done. “But why were they so against us” – “Mercy Deliverance White.” Her snapping of my name (my oh so New England name, for that matter) made me shut my mouth.

I never knew that one day, I would fall in love with one of the very people that we were taught to oppress…an Irish Catholic. An Irish Catholic girl, for that matter. Someone of the same sex as me…

I shivered, more from my heavy thoughts then from the cold. I never truly resented my faith. Again, Puritanism has its stark beauty. But sometimes, such as on this night, I wondered what it would be like to…I remembered my grandparents, on both sides, and their stories from of their merry Yuletide wassails back in England, when they were small. Before they purified themselves. “Good master and good mistress, while you’re sitting by the fire/Pray think of us poor wassailers who wander in the mire…”

And I remembered once, my dear father’s words to me, “You are a true Puritan, Mercy. Your family came to New England from Old, so that we could be free. Never forget that. Don’t go against your faith.” He was honestly way more devout than my mother, who was from good Yorkshire stock, and who once or twice I had caught muttering about fairies. Kind of like what Noreen’s Irish ass believes in.

God, you know that I love Noreen. And she loves me. You are great and almighty, God. The heavens declare the glory of God, and of His handiwork. Love is not a sin.

 I almost felt as though the Almighty was speaking to me. You are a daughter of New England, Mercy. But you are also a child of Mine. And so are Noreen, and her dear brother Kelly… 

“God, almighty be Your name, bless my love on this winter night…this Christmas night,” I whispered, touching my Death’s Head. Who would true valor see/Let him come hither/Who would true constant see/Come wind, come weather/Shall make him once relent/His first vowed intent/To be a Pilgrim…

I took another few breaths, my head bowed and my hands together. New England’s God, thou forever shall reign. We shall fear no iron rods of tyrants.

Slowly, I opened my eyes, adjusting to the outline of the benches and the faint outline of the Reverend’s pulpit in the flickering lantern light. I stretched my back, thinking that I should get back and see if Noreen and Kelly were back from Midnight Mass. It was so ironic, thinking of her warm, inviting cathedral.

But speaking of the damned Devil, a figure then chose to step through the doorway of the Meeting House. I calmly turned to face the outline of my love. The lamp gently illuminated Noreen’s green eyes and beautiful rich auburn hair.

“Am I interrupting, love?” she asked.

“How did you know that I was here?” I asked softly.

Noreen giggled, not in a disrespectful way. “I know ya too well, a stor.”

I slid over on the bench, and Noreen took that as an invitation to come sit next to me, which it was. She was quiet for a moment, and then she spoke. “Do you ever miss it? Christmas, I mean?”

And I voiced what I had just been meditating on. “I never really observed. My parents never did. They were Puritan before I was born.” I had never really spoken about my family too much, not even to Noreen. She knew that I hadn’t seen them for years. Nor had I seen my sister, Freedom, for that matter, although we were in touch once in a while.

“Mercy…you still have family back in England, don’t you?” she asked.

“I do, actually,” I said. “A couple of them became Puritans, like my parents. The other ones stayed in the Church of England.”

“Sorry, I shouldn’t pry,” Noreen said.

“It’s okay. I actually do hear from some of them. My cousin James, for one,”

Noreen snickered good-naturedly. “James? A normal name, unlike Mercy, Deliverance, or Freedom. Let me guess – he’s from the side that didn’t purify themselves.”

I giggled too. I’m not as reserved as I seem on the outside. I do have a playful side. “Actually, no. He’s Puritan too.” (Which was the truth.) That seemed to shut her up. The she yawned.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m heading back. Kelly’s back home.”

“I’m coming with ya,” I told her. I knew that she wanted to get inebriated. As for myself, let’s just say that contrary to what some may believe Puritanism actually does not, and never has, forbidden the consumption of alcohol.

We stepped back out into the bitter air. “I love ya, A chuisle.” Noreen said softly. The streets were deserted by now, and it was well after midnight.

“I love ya too. Merry Christmas, love,” I told my Catholic girlfriend. It wasn’t too long of a walk (praise God, I didn’t know how much of the cold that I could take.)

Finally we stepped inside the warm, bright, foyer of the big house. First thing that I heard was something that sounded very much like Kelly in the kitchen singing his and Noreen’s favorite Christmas song under his breath (The season's upon us, it's that time of year/Brandy and eggnog, there's plenty of cheer/There's lights on the trees and there's wreaths to be hung/There's mischief and mayhem and songs to be sung. MY SISTERS ARE WACKJOBS, I WISH I HAD NONE -) “MEOW!” I was then greeted with as our big gray cat came flying up to us. We both laughed. Noreen brushed a lock of my long brown hair out of the way. “I love your gorgeous blue eyes so much, mo ghra,” she said.

Footsteps were heard coming up to us. “Get a room, you too,” Kelly giggled. He wasn’t fooling anyone. “Into the drinks already, I see, mo buachaill,” Noreen groaned.

“Oh, bloody hell, Noreen,” I told her. “You’re just afraid that he drank everything and left you with none.”

“Am not,” she growled.

“They call this Christmas where I’m from!” Kelly sang happily. Noreen and I embraced again, Catholic and Puritan, two worlds. Regardless of our beliefs, I had a happy family with her and Kelly. And of course, there was also the very real hope that I would see my real family again one day, of course. Actually, whenever all of this was over…I’d reach out to them. It was time for us to put our differences aside.

After all, Puritans may bitch about Christmas, but we weren’t quiet about celebrating the New Year…