I could stand outside in beautiful first snow and hear
far more than I wanted to know about Mommy kissing Santa Claus underneath the
mistletoe.
I love Christmas music. In my life, I must have been part
of a thousand gatherings were “Joy to the World” brought the assembled to their
feet. I never tire of it. “Lo, How a Rose e’er Blooming” is as gorgeous as it
is haunting, and that last line of the refrain of “Hark, the Herald Angels
Sing” is enough to conjure up all the very best images of all my Christmases
past. My wife and I play Christmas music on our Sonos speakers in the center of
the living room. A week before Christmas, Handel’s Messiah is on most all the
time.
I’m no Scrooge, is what I’m saying, but I found the
downtown speakers constant blaring of seasonal music—most of it
secular—horribly annoying.
Christmas itself is so familiar, so intimate, that it
seems almost like a buddy from whom we expect so much that we can’t help but
somehow be letdown. Christmas is so close to us that a whole lot of us have a
love/hate thing with the whole season. Yuletide brings out the best in us—and
the worst. Ask any retail clerk.
It isn’t perfect, and everybody knows it. But that having
been said and despite the Wal-Mart excesses of Black Friday, the whole season
is an immense blessing for all of us—no matter what our faith.
I’m still, always, happy for the season. I love the
golden glow our wreath casts nightly over the snow on the front porch. I love
the bear nativity scene that comes out of nowhere and sits on our lampstand
table. I love the tree decorations, little tokens of where we’ve been
throughout our married life. I love buying gifts for people, lots of them. I
love the story. I love the love he’s brought—Jesus Christ that is. At
Christmas, we’re all kids.
One of every winter’s greatest disappointment is
Christmas being over. For a moment, even through the muzak, God’s perfect
beauty shines forth in sometimes very imperfect ways; but what it brings is,
well, joy to the world.
