Edward J. Pluchar - The Blogsplitter

Over the past few Christmas seasons, there has been one song or another which almost inexplicably brings me to tears.

A few years ago it was “Do you hear what I hear?”  Particularly Bing Crosby’s version.

Last year was “O Holy Night.”  This tends to be a terrifically overdone song, especially by artists one might be surprised to discover claim some sense of religiosity.  Third Day had my favorite version, both because it’s up their alley (Christian Rock) and they didn’t overdo it.

This year was “Angels We Have Heard on High.”  I was blind-sided by the song, hearing it at church (I think) during the advent season.  It was like an old movie your aunt tells you to watch, because you’re really going to like it.  ”But it’s old,” you think, “and she was wrong about Casablanca.”

In truth, there are two main parts of the song which sparkle for me.  The refrain (Glo-ooo-ooo-oooria in excelsis Deo).  The gravity of this laudation was emphasized in a reflection by Fr. Barron:  The “host” of angels who appeared, singing this praise, were aligned and numerous as the greatest army.  They were effectively ready to do battle, but for this moment, they were singing mightily to the glory of God.

And the subject of this post:  ”Shepherds why this jubilee?”  Every part of that line moves me.  For what shepherds were - for the context in which they would be found in jubilee - for the density of a word like “jubilee” - and even for the fact that the lyric is a question - I am deeply moved.  What event could inspire this?

Merry Christmas.

I have a few miscellaneous thoughts about my current job.  Rather than leave them as Facebook statuses with little or no context, I’ll do that here, instead.

I’m Facilities Manager at a school for kids with autism.  There’s your context.

It’s amazing how little I am intimidated by the various projects, even when they’re relatively new.  Dismantling a laminating machine isn’t too scary after dismantling your house.

The staff at our school are genuinely impressive.  Once upon a time my flattery might have extended to myth-making; it is by acknowledging their human-ness that I have come to appreciate their (sure, let’s say it) holiness.  Holiness, after all, is the condition of being set apart, and surely they are:  Some kids talk and some don’t, and still they must communicate.  One of the students simply screams - in high, sharp bursts - all day long.  Many need assistance eating, performing basic tasks, going to the bathroom.  Several like to take off running down long corridors, and their aides simply must chase them down.  And occasionally a student will be in crisis, having lost any sense of restraint, and aides who are, in some cases, half their size must find a way to provide restraint.

Today I wore a pedometer.  I formerly suspected I was walking at least 3-4 miles a day during the regular course of business, but it turns out the formula should have read 3+4.  By estimation, that’s an average day - other days have seen 10+ miles, easily.

The rate of autism in children is 1 in every 97 births.  That’s up from some years ago (sorry, I don’t remember how many) when the incidence was more like 1 in 10,000.

Every other week or so a child (and his aide) will approach me to ask a question.  It’s an exercise in socialization, as I understand, for them to engage people in conversation.  Myles has approached me probably 3 of the 7 times I’ve been approached.  The first time he asked me what my favorite movie is.

“Braveheart.  What’s yours?”

“Madagascar 3!”  He wanted to say more, but his aide reminded him that he wasn’t supposed to talk about Madagascar 3.  I’m not sure exactly why, but I suspect it’s because he wouldn’t STOP talking about it earlier in the day.

Today the question was, “Do you like snow?”  I know that because it was written on his dry erase board.  Myles never asked me the question, but immediately began talking about…Madagascar 3.  His aide cut him off, and I smiled and walked away.

That’s all for now…

Referring to an employee who “wasn’t all there,” Danny Cox went on to say…

“He had a wild look about him, you know?  Like a man caught in the outhouse when lightning struck.”