Morning Thanks--Our Christmas

You can't help feeling sorry for Christmas (the holiday, I mean) because no matter what goes on, the day only rarely lives up to its billing. Same thing happens with The Fourth, although the July letdown doesn't end up at the bottom of the stairs, like it can at Christmas. The day itself never quite reaches the glory to which our imagination rises, hyped by a drum roll that begins on Black Friday when stores start playing "White Christmas."

This year, our church, like thousands of others, had a Blue Christmas service, which is, admittedly, appropriate, even if the very idea ratchets up anxieties. A thousand very good reasons exist for acknowledging the darkness all around; 2020 won't make a list of America's finest years. This morning, the NY Times reports 333 thousand Covid-19 deaths, unimaginable last New Years. The country is split like a ripe melon--make that over-ripe--by a soon-to-be ex-Pres who has not and will not concede an election that's two months old. Meanwhile, he flips his buddies out of jail by the carload, a mad, profane bully who stays in power because overwhelming numbers of evangelical Christians think he's a blessing. 

This year we did church by Facebook Live (again). It was fine, but. . .you know.  Someday, once again, the real thing.

Closer to home, we did just fine. Not without caution, we hosted our children and grandchildren, and the dinner ham was to-die-for--ate so much we forgot about pie. We opened presents downstairs because we bought a cheap tree this year and decided to park it in the basement instead of the beside the fireplace on the main floor. Like most everyone else, thanks to the virus, we really have no social life; so here it stands in the corner, all kinds of bald spots from old strings of lights half burned out--hey, it's an off year, right?

A good time was had by all--seriously good. Opened presents without flagrant fouls--my wife gave her son-in-law a big mug with, mistakenly, her own initial on it; her grandson and his grandpa picked out a Walmart pajama for his grandma without checking the size. Ja, well. . . Otherwise all went well. We played a board game--Clue. Barb won, even though she'd never played before. Christmas wonder. Christmas cheer. 'Twas a sweet, sweet holiday.

I missed a Christmas Eve service. Should have found one. Maybe next year, I tell myself again. That may be the cause of my slight case of the blues. On Christmas, Sunday School programs played prelude to opening presents--baseball gloves, and once-up0n-a-time a new 26" bike hidden awkwardly behind the couch on the west wall--complete, shocking surprise, and me in my pajamas and outside anyway a Wisconsin winter. No matter. What joy. What childhood joy.

Nothing will ever rank with a child's Christmas. And the distance between the then and now only serves to make the what is no more so grand and glorious. Of all our decorations, I like an ancient plastic candelabra best. We got it from an aunt's estate. I'm amazed we can still replace bulbs. It's right beside me in the window. Something in it reminds me of my own childhood. And, I suppose, no much compares with candlelit Christmas childhood memories. 

Don't be mistaken. I'm greatly, abundantly, and blessedly thankful this morning for a wonderful family Christmas. Did I mention the ham? Wow.

It was a joy, all of it, Christmas joy.