Sorry, Charlie Brown, Christmastime is Not Here

For stores, it began as soon as July. Craft stores like Michaels got a head start on the rest, while stores like Target waited until October to provide an aisle next to the Halloween section, intimating that once “trick or treat” is done “ho, ho, ho” takes over. For some it began with the beginning of November. Dumping their carved pumpkins on the curb, they began searching for something to decorate their now bare porches. In my town, Christmas wreaths were already displayed several weeks before Thanksgiving. And the day after Thanksgiving? We pile into our cars in the early morning hours, eager to complete our Christmas shopping, at a significantly reduced price, no less. We dash madly into the “Christmas season,” humming to ourselves, “It’s Beginning to Look a lot like Christmas.”

What does the secular world’s Christmas look like? At best it is warm and fuzzy, if vague, notions of “Christmas cheer,” “goodwill to men,” and lots of references to bells ringing. At worst it is a stampede of determined mothers trampling one another for the newest toys the day after Thanksgiving. Christmas for a lot of people starts as soon as the weather turns cooler. Visions of sugar plums begin their dance sooner and sooner, it seems. Part of this, of course, is due to the retailers needing to extend their holiday surge in sales as long as possible. But, I’m also beginning to realize that it goes much deeper than that.

We really need Christmas. But what kind of Christmas do we need? Look at all of the other American holidays throughout the year--New Years is for resolutions, fancy parties, and maybe some champagne; Valentine’s Day is for paper hearts, chocolates, and flowers; Fourth of July means fireworks, barbecues, and relatives; Halloween means playing dress up, eating candy, carving pumpkins; Thanksgiving is for turkey and more relatives. And Christmas? Is what distinguishes it from the others the exchanging of gifts?

I don’t think so.

Because if that were true, if what we really needed at Christmas was some warm feelings and presents under the tree, then we wouldn’t leave the Christmas season feeling glutted and tired. We’d have a bounce in our steps and be rejuvenated. Instead, we tear down the Christmas decorations as soon as possible, making sure that not one sprig of holly is left. We’re so eager to have Christmas, yet when it actually comes, we experience a letdown. We are left unsatisfied, sometimes a little bitter. Wasn’t Christmas better in the old days? In our childhood?

Christmas just isn’t treated like Christmas anymore. The world waited for six thousand years for the birth of Christ, the one who would save us from our sins. Two thousand years after the coming of Christ, and we have a really hard time waiting until Christmas for Christmas to start. The time before Christmas day is not supposed to be filled with parties and decorations, and Christmas music ad nauseam. That’s what Christmas Day and the twelve days after are for. Remember the Twelve Days of Christmas? It’s not just a quaint little song that doesn’t make any sense (how exactly would you deliver ten lords a-leaping?). And it’s definitely not the Twelve Days Before Christmas.

Remember when you were a little kid, waiting until Christmas morning when you could open your presents? I know that I always had a hard time sleeping the night before, eager to usher in the new morning, and with it, surprises in the stockings, presents under the tree, but most importantly a baby in a manger. Joy is increased with expectation.

As my good friend Cecilia reminded me the other day, hope is perhaps the most human of virtues. “We are a people of hope,” she wrote on her Facebook status. We are fallen, yes. But we also have a savior, one who is coming. We await the time when we will be reunited with him in heaven, and with joyful expectation, we look forward to his Second Coming. Even if it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas, Christmas is not here. It’s still a little less than a month away. Let us first prepare our hearts before we prepare our homes. Let’s spend this time in hopeful awe, recalling the expectation of the Jewish people and remembering that we, too, are waiting.

Look around you. More than ever, this world needs Jesus. We don’t need fleeting pleasures or warm fuzzies. We need the light of the world. Come, thou long expected Jesus. Come.

Confessions of a Land Bum

Self diagnosis is every hypochondriac’s forte and I am no exception. This time I believe the case is terminal. I am a land bum. Last night I watched 1959’s Gidget for the first time. Quirky and underdeveloped blonde (played by sugary Sandra Dee) encounters--shock and horror--a group of tanned and attractive young men whose only passion is surfing--and girls. They have no jobs to speak of. They live for the good life. The life without responsibilities or ties. They are beach bums.



I can identify with these California guys, but in my own Midwestern Missouri land bound sort of way. The closest beach is on a river or a lake. And since Missouri is also blessed with seasons, November is hardly the month to don my swimming suit and a surf board. And I suppose I don’t exactly qualify for bum status because I have a part time job. But don’t let that fool you. I am a full fledged land bum. I am the queen of pipe dreams. Every day I have off is my so-called “writing day”--the day that I’m supposed to get up early, head immediately to the keyboard, and begin my life as a serious writer. Soon the publishers will come calling--or should I say begging--to hire me. My work will be seen in bookstores around the country, nay, around the globe. It will be translated into forty-one languages and I will win a Nobel Peace Prize for Literature that very same year. I will be approached by several film companies dying to adapt my work of art for the screen. I will write the adapted screenplay, of course, and my efforts will be rewarded in two years by an Oscar…

And then I wake up. I look at the clock and it’s already 9:30. Time to walk the dog, put on the kettle (for some reason I have this idea that successful authors should always have some brew by their keyboard), and then maybe some breakfast. Oh, but what’s that on the counter? A note from my dad. He says not to forget to take out the trash. Oh, and could you also sweep and mop the kitchen floor? Love, Dad. And then there’s the laundry, that thank you note I’ve been meaning to write for a month now, and I’m behind in my piano practice…

I’ll write tomorrow.

And so the story goes, month in and month out, my dreams of the charmed writing life are just that--dreams. It’s not that I never accomplish what I set out to do. No, I just enjoy the land bum’s life too much. There’s no greater pleasure, I tell myself, than to wile away entire mornings with watching YouTube clips, checking up on my friend’s lives via Face book (and discovering with a deep sense of sadness that they are being much more productive than I am), looking at their photo albums and their friend’s photo albums. I begin stories that never see a middle or an end. I practice playing my first grade piano pieces. Occasionally I’ll pull out my sketching book and draw a person’s face. I am in the middle of reading five books--each very different from the others.

But when a friend asks, “What do you when you’re not working?” I fumble for a suitable response. I would love to say, “Thanks for asking. I’m working on the Great American Novel, composing a symphony, and training to climb K2. How about you?” Instead, I often speak of my hopes for a future time. “When I have more time, I’d love to work on my fashion idea, get published (or even get a response from a publisher), take the GRE and apply for grad school…” I seem to have this unshakeable belief in some future time when I will be able to, AT LAST, accomplish all of my heart’s desires. Yet I know, deep inside, that from here on out, it only gets harder to fulfill one’s dreams. I have enough middle-aged friends to know that I am not the only one with pipe dreams.

In Eugene O’Neill’s The Iceman Cometh, the main character, formerly a jovial and entertaining drunk, wises up to the pipe dream lie. He returns to his favorite bar to encourage its hopeless regulars to quit lying to themselves that tomorrow they will sober up and start again. For tomorrow is already today.

Our struggle with time is eternal. The world is riddled with sayings akin to Carpe Diem--seize the day. Their constant recurrence just proves that it doesn’t get easier. We need to constantly remind ourselves that today is all we have. Remind me of that tomorrow, will you?