This Christmas season is, once again, almost over.
No more increasingly huge piles of packages to deliver.
No more frantic urgency.
No more USPS for a couple of days.
I’m glad it’s almost over.
I escaped without any major bruising.
I think that I escaped without picking up a bad case of “Christmas Spirit”, too.
I escaped without picking up a bad case of Christmas Spirit.
That’s not right.
That’s kind of sad.
Now, of course, when you have children, you key off their excitement.
My youngest son (and a recently minted “big brother”) is very aware of the Christmas story and the miracle that happened in a humble surrounding so long ago.
He knows about the manger and the new baby Christ.
It’s fun to see it all through his eyes.
It’s good to be reminded of all the gifts that come at Christmas.
It’s necessary to be reminded of the real gift that comes at Christmas, too.
Sometimes, that’s hard….with all the things we pile on and around Christmas.
I guess that if we don’t keep our priorities “right” (wrong), we don’t meet our sales projections….and we start worrying about things like whether cheap gas is going to hurt or help the economy.
We get distracted by strange things like that.
I get so distracted.
Here’s a blog post by a “friend I’ve never met”…..Rod Perry….who lives in Alaska and who wrote this post a couple of years ago.
I love this post….maybe because my own grandmother was born in a sod house in the Dakotas…maybe “just because” it’s a great post….I don’t know….but here it is again.
My mother spent her last years here with us near the old Iditarod Trail. But she grew up in a sod house and half dugout on a land claim in New Mexico Territory. She was born at a time when Pancho Villa’s raiding was keeping things lively thereabouts, before the territory became our forty-seventh state.
Among the frontier folk who scratched out a bare living scattered about the arid, sparsely-grassed country were many that were hardly schooled. Once a good little wife and mother walked five rough miles across the plains (then five back home) to borrow from my grandmother some “ingredients.” When questioned what ingredients in particular she sought, the poor dear looked puzzled. She explained that she had flour, salt, baking powder, and everything else called for except the item, “ingredients” she saw mentioned in the recipe.
My mother happened to be in the general store when a little girl came in to pick up an order. “I came to get wipin’ paper. Ma said put it on our bill.” The store keeper, not recognizing which family the girl belonged to, asked, “Little Lady, who is this for?” To which she answered, “All of us.”
Parents on a distant claim sent word around that they would be holding a birthday party for their son. A social event of such rarity drew every kid within walking or riding distance. My mother went, as did three sisters who came as they did each day to school, astride Ol’ Silas, their mule. Upon arrival each guest paid respects to the birthday boy then joined in the festivities honoring him as the center of attention. That is, until a young chap, getting there late, burst through the door. With not so much as a look in the direction of the one whose birthday was the sole reason for the entire gathering, he loudly proclaimed, “I come for ice cream and lemonade!”
Now, looking around during the Christmas season, I see parties, celebrations, plays and performances, going home for the holidays, family, children and friends. I see Santa and traditions, gift giving and benevolence to the needy. Center Jesus in his rightful place and it’s all so rich. But those celebrants who leave out the Savior, never stopping to so much as acknowledge God’s greatest gift as the very reason for the season, well, they are as crudely off the mark as that boorish late-arriving boy at the party on the plains almost a century ago. Leave Jesus out and even the highest and best of the rest is only, “I come for ice cream and lemonade!”
A “Happy Holidays” kind of Christless Christmas season, one that ignores, circumvents, or purposely shuts out both the Christ and the mass (celebration of his birth) might best be summed up using words of the famous trailsman, gold rush dog driver, Old Ben Atwater. “Whagh! Why, it’s all worth no more than a cold half pinch of last years’ bear scat!”
If even that.
The post was from Rod’s Blog.
Merry Christmas….every one of us.
Don’t forget….this is a birthday party!
“Silent Night” Martin Sexton