Although we are in the last few days of 1999, I've changed the look of this page and the date in the title. For quite some time now I've begun my new year -- that is, I've begun orienting my thinking toward something different -- on this day, the Feast of Stephen. I even gave this week a fancy French name -- Fin de L'Annee. 

This day honors the first Christian martyr, a man "full of grace and power," we're told in the Book of Acts, who was stoned to death for challenging people with new ideas. Those not familiar with the pantheon of Catholic saints might still know his name -- it was on the Feast of Stephen that Good King Wenceslas looked out, saw a poor man gathering twigs for a meager fire, and summoned his weary and wary page to "bring me flesh and bring me wine, bring me pine logs hither" to help a homeless stranger.

My father's birthday was the Feast of Stephen. He'd be 82 today. I can't remember ever paying much attention to it growing up. Like most late December birthdays, it got lost under the silvery wrapping paper and stick-on bows of the gifts to us. I am more sentimental now about my father's birthday, now that I'm older, now that he's not here to receive a special greeting, now that it doesn't matter anymore.

One year I had a boyfriend named Stephen whose father was also Stephen. We went to dinner at their house on this day, and they toasted my father's birthday and their saint's feast day. It was a warm and joyous time, a cherished memory retained from my first steady relationship.

So I like that phrase, "The Feast of Stephen." I looked out this morning -- red sky, sailors take warning. There is no snow lying round about, yet, although the electronic weather monitoring system that showed up under our tree displays a falling barometer and an icon of a cloud with rays of precipitation descending from it. The moon which had everybody all a-twitter a few nights ago is hiding behind real clouds tonight.

I've started a new paper journal -- a brand new notebook with flat pages, the corners square and the edges still lying tight from the trimmer. I got out the bits and pieces of a short story I began four years ago. Its title? -- "The Feast of Stephen." Christmas is over, and I'm ready for the Year of Writing Steadily.