My Life Inside A Musical

At least twice, and more often three times a day, I hear this:

Behold the brimming bowl of meat and meal
Which is brought forth to ease our hunger.
Behold the flowing flagon moist and sweet
Which has been sent to slake our thirst.

All this delivered to the tune of something that sounds like the Grand Processional.

Yes, my friends... my life has been taken over by You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown, the musical. The above is part of Snoopy's dinnertime song, and the chorus (below) seems to grace every single evening meal in the Somerville household.

It's suppertime.
Yeah, it's suppertime.
Oh, it's sup-sup-suppertime,
Very best time of day.

It's suppertime.
Yeah, it's suppertime.
And when suppertime comes,
Can supper be far away?

Bring on the soup dish, bring on the cup.
Bring on the bacon and fill me up.
'Cause it's supper
Supper, supper, suppertime.

Ye olde ancestral rings from morning till night with those lively ditties: My Blanket and Me, The Book Report, and Little Known Facts. Charity has gone permanantly over to the dark side. She plays this stuff in the car which we share--I was forced to yelp and hit the Off button rather violently the last time I turned it on--and is convinced, I believe, that she was born a Lucy.

Marjorie, when not babysitting, recovering from her recent cold, or reading the new Harry Potter book, is an enthusiastic neophyte of the Way of Charlie Brown.

And, of course, all this is exacerbated by the fact that we do in fact have, for the first time in about six months, a puppy. A dog. An animal that really does value supper. Nor does Nate begrudge Sam a rendition of the brimming-flagon song with each and every serving of puppy chow.

Oh, the delight. I am reduced to helpless laughter as a way of life. I have often put the question to you, but I will put it again. Is it even remotely possible that I could ever have deserved this splendid family of mine? This right here is the definition of grace: unmerited favor from a holy God, whose love exceeds our comprehension to the extent that, Matthew Henry put it (I will paraphrase), we quickly reach the rim of the abyss, and can do nothing but lean over to adore the depth.