I love Charles Dickens. I love his wordiness, his outrageous (and memorable) characters, and his insight into humanity. His story A Christmas Carol is wonderful. Really. Wonderful. But I have a confession to make:
it scares me. I have read the story many times, seen it on stage, watched Mickey Mouse and The Muppets interpret it. I've seen the freakily animated version and the Bill Murray version. I know that tears will spring into my eyes every time crippled Tiny Tim, full of goodness and typifying the light that Christ affords us, asks God to bless us, everyone. I know that the visiting ghosts will guide Scrooge into repentance and understanding. I know that many lives (except that of the prize turkey in the poulterer's shop window) will never again know the sadness of their lives previous to the fateful Christmas Eve night. All of this I know!
Yet, at the beginning, whether I am reading or watching or listening, I have a persistently uneasy feeling swimming around in my insides. I know that those scary ghosts are Going To come and Jacob Marley is Going To untie his head wrap, letting his jaw fall slack. The thought of all the freakyness happening in the relative safety of one's own bed is, well, unnerving.
I keep tuning in because the good in the outweighs the bad, but, I'm holding my pillow awfully tight until Scrooge wakes up on Christmas morning.