Only Ice Cream and Lemonade…almost.

That’s a sad thing…to be so busy delivering Amazon packages that you miss the meaning of Christmas.

Of course, there were moments when a breath came and some of the meaning snuck back in.

There was the 4-year old who handed me a chocolate…saying, in his best Tiny Tim voice…innocent little child voice…excited little child voice…”Merry Christmas!”.

Moments of kindness from customers…kindness from people I wished I had more time to visit with during this amazing time of year.

And…my family is a constant reminder of how good God has been to me.

I never forget the blessed life I live…no matter how frantic the job at the Post Office gets.

In spite of all that, this was almost an “ice cream and lemonade” Christmas.

Too busy…too distracted by the effort…asleep at the wheel (figuratively) and only thinking of the ice cream and lemonade…missing the point.

My friend, Rod Perry, wrote this years ago…and I’ve shared it many of the years that I’ve been writing this blog.

It’s about what we should be paying attention to…what we shouldn’t let the distraction of the world and the desire for the “ice cream and lemonade” crowd out.

Here it is:

Ice Cream and Lemonade

Posted on December 23, 2012 by admin

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.Rod Perry

That’s a good one….every Christmas.

Rod wrote this a bunch of years ago…and I shared it in my blog…a bunch of years ago.

It’s a message that can’t get old.

I hope everyone had a great Christmas!

And…there’s nothing wrong with enjoying some “ice cream and lemonade”….just don’t forget what the party is all about.

Don’t forget Jesus.

Don’t forget.

This was a busy Christmas season at the Post Office.

I don’t know when it hasn’t been busy at the Post Office at Christmas, but this season seemed busier…heavier…than usual.

Maybe I am just getting older…weaker…tired?

Nah! I’m a BRUTE!!

I’m a POSTAL BRUTE!!

Anyway, it was busy enough that I didn’t really have a lot of time to reflect on the true meaning of Christmas…the gist…the reason we celebrate… as I scurried away from another in a long line of porches after dropping off another Amazon package

The best I could do was a quick turn and a “Merry Christmas to you, too” when someone came out to get their package and told me “thankyou!”

The best I could do? Nah….maybe the best I did do….

This is a blog post that a friend of mine wrote a number of years ago that sums it up…

It became a tradition of sorts for me when I was still writing the blog consistently to feature his post at Christmas.

Rod Perry is the fellow who wrote this…and a number of other writings….

He’s an Iditarod pioneer and created the movie “Sourdough”.

I featured this on my blog….over 11 YEARS AGO!!

Man.

Anyway….here goes:

Ice Cream and Lemonade

Posted on December 23, 2012 by admin

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.

Rod Perry

We need to slow down and remember what this season is all about.

We need to remember Jesus all year long.

Slow down.

Remember.

(Thanks, Rod! I hope you’re doing OK!)

I haven’t been running lately.

I haven’t been walking lately.

It’s just not something that I’ve been doing lately.

I haven’t been getting enough exercise.

Lately.

This morning, I went for a short walk.

It felt good.

It felt familiar.

I think it felt like something I needed.

Anyway, there’s a rock that I pass on the route that I take that is a marker for someone else’s path.

It stands up…like a mid-size monolith.

It could be a bear or an alien or a misplaced bison or anything else that I wouldn’t understand in the dark…but…it’s just a rock.

I took my daughter’s dog, Boba, on a walk with me one nighttime morning a while ago when we were dogsitting him, and when we passed the rock he went crazy with terrified barking.

He didn’t understand…and he was afraid.

The rock is a common part of my experience…so I don’t really pay much attention to it.

To Boba, the rock, silhouetted in the moonlight, could have been anything.

I took him over to the rock to try and explain that it was just a rock, but even in the light of the flashlight that I carry but don’t usually use…even when he could see that it was just a large stone, turned on edge, he kept barking.

The thing that scared him when he couldn’t completely see it was just as scary in the light.

A strong explanation and all the illumination I could give him didn’t mean squat.

Maybe that’s “fear momentum”?

Even when the strange was transformed into something familiar, he couldn’t get over his feeling of dreadful and impending potential doom.

Now, if I was in India (this is an aside…but I’ll tie it in somehow), and I saw a monkey…or even a bunch of monkeys…it would be like seeing a squirrel here in the States.

I wouldn’t pay it much attention.

I’d be mad if it stole my curry, but I wouldn’t be freaked out.

But, if I was here at home and I saw a monkey out on my predawn walk, I would fricking freak.

Fricken freak-out, that is.

A monkey is not a squirrel taken out of context.

Our big dog is not a wolf.

A stone is not a threat.

I see things on the edge of what I understand all the time.

What I think is in the shadows gives me pause sometimes…but the reality of the situation isn’t often the danger that I think it is.

But…I would be scared if a squirrel was messing with me even if I’d seen a kajillion squirrels in my neighborhood over the course of a lifetime.

Familiar doesn’t always mean safe.

Boba is scared of a stone in the dark.

My comfort zone keeps danger at bay.

I will grasp the familiar like holding tight will save my life if it will keep me away from worry.

How’s that for a crappy creed?

“I promise to avoid the things I fear and don’t understand. I promise to calcify my worldview. I promise to never think about things that challenge me or expand my range of experience. I promise to distrust the people around me who don’t share my beliefs or lifestyle. My way…or the highway. In me I trust.”

That’s crappy.

Long story short, that dog barked at a stone, and I saw him do it.

Who isn’t afraid of the thing he doesn’t understand?

Not me.