It feels almost unseemly, hurling another post at you so soon after the last, given my long absence before. Think of me as the gregarious but wayward uncle, come to inhabit your kitchen for the Christmas season. He’ll likely take up his bag and be gone one morning without so much as a goodbye, but then again you never know—maybe this will be the year he finally accepts your invitation to live over your garage.
And then he’ll be at your table every morning, telling you stories that are different than the ones he’s told before, yet the same, and you’ll be stuck with him because, well, you did ask.
So, another Christmas meditation of sorts. Here’s an excerpt:
The world soon obscures that childlike vision. Many of us learned to see Christmas as a time of plunder. For some, it became a season of annoyance, even bitterness. For nearly all it became a gaudy carousel operated by madmen, and we all grabbing hold and clinging, because how can you let go? How can you disappoint those who await presents? How can you not hang the decorations you’ve accumulated in the attic?
How can you avoid the parties, the gatherings of fractured and factious family, the recitals and plays, the renderings of Tchaikovsky or Handel (because this year our kids are going to get some culture if it kills us!), the homeless-shelter outing (see, kids, howgood you’ve got it!), the never ending trips to the grocery store?
You can read the rest here. Enjoy your Christmas, and remember, no matter what the stores and radio stations and neo-Puritanical anti-liturgical sourpuss culture mavens may claim: IT LASTS TWELVE DAYS.
