Peace on earth

The doorbell rings. I freeze. Immediately my blood is raging through my veins like a frantic fever, instantly my thoughts are tormenting me like a furious hangman. With one massive doctrine dominating: let it not be him. Let it be the phantom of Bill Cosby, let it be a drunk Santa Claus, let it be the songwriter of Peace on Earth, but please, please, please let it not be him.  

Four years ago we sat around the Christmas table as we are today. Friends, family, relatives. Young and old. A relatively big group of almost twenty people. The extended table was placed in the middle of the living room in such a way every guest could sit comfortably, having a good talk and laugh which each other. It was just when I brought in the stuffed turkey that the doorbell rang. As being the host, I opened the door. It appeared to be my youngest brother. Shabby, drunk and missing his front row of teeth, he stood so desolate and lonely at my doorstep that I couldn't refuse him to enter my warm and comfy dwelling. And since I still had some good old faith left in me by that time, I comforted myself with the notion that I was doing a merciful act.

Off course, the whole Christmas dinner went downhill the moment my brother took his place at the table. In no time he managed get even more drunk, to belch, to fart, to harass the women, to throw up, to continue to sing out loud the song Peace on earth. Every passing minute, all the guests were looking more and more desperately at me. As if I was their saviour and I should save them from this terror. But what could I do? As an older, pious brother? Accuse him? Crucify him? Fortunately, in the end my younger brother disappeared as suddenly as he had arrived.

The doorbell rings again. And as a couple of years ago, all eyes are on me. Strangely enough, after the first seconds of initial shock, I feel calm and relaxed. As new, as reborn. Is it because there's not such a thing as good old faith left in my life anymore?