Happy Christmas to all, and to Trump, a Good-bye

Twas the night before Christmas, and all was quite tense,

Not a creature was stirring, not even Mike Pence;

The ballots were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that a recount soon would be there;

Don's children were falling asleep in their beds;

While visions of "Four More Years" danced in their heads;

Now Rudy was sweating, and Don was irate,

The chance for an upset had passed one more date.

Then out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

They threw open the sash to see what was the matter.

The protesters stood on the new-fallen snow,

Shouting "Donald, it's time, we insist that you go!"

When what to his wandering eyes did appear,

But a Democrat's sleigh and eight liberal reindeer,

And a little old driver who seemed all aglow,

That Don knew in a moment this must be St. Joe.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And they whistled and shouted and called him by name:

"Now Donald! You're done for, quit scheming away,

For all you've destroyed, it's time that you pay."

And they carried him off from that famous White House,

And nobody stirred, not even a mouse.

Christmas Eve

The stockings were draped on the usual chair,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.

Bah, Humbug

It's too hot for Christmas.  Something's wrong when you hear "Sleigh Ride" and "Silver Bells" playing in the mall, only to step outside to a 70-degree day.  The inflatable penguins with scarves wrapped around their necks look sillier than usual, and the snow men should simply remain in the attic.

I thought I might find the Christmas spirit yesterday afternoon at Duke Chapel where the Choral Society of Durham performed its annual concert.  The music was beautiful indeed, but I couldn't help notice the aging white crowd, and I wondered about the fate of Christmas itself.  Not so much the secular Christmas, which long ago deteriorated into consumerism, but the Christian Christmas, with its fantastic story of angels, wise men, and a virgin birth.  It seemed quaint and out of touch.

Messiahs are hard to come by, I've decided, at least for now.  I'll set my sights a bit lower and hope that we mere mortals can chart a saner course.  After all, our wish for a messiah is part of our problem; thinking that someone will magically appear lets us off the hook.

Meanwhile the planet heats up, the rich are too rich, and the sick are still sick.  We've got work to do, messiah or no messiah. 

It's what Jesus taught, after all.

A Dog's Life: Waiting for Santa

Gifts of the Season

I've noticed that each arriving Christmas grows a little sadder than the year before when I acknowledge those friends and family who are no longer here. Rather than dwell in the sadness, I'm reminded of the gifts that each of these loved ones gave me in their life times and for these I thank them:

Glenn Franklin George, my father, for the gift of gratitude

Margaret Wright Hewitt, my grandmother, for the gift of dignity

Myrtle George Nase, my aunt, for the gift of kindness

Marion Sullivan Straubel, my mother-in-law, for the gift of endurance

Mary Lou Lynch George, my sister-in-law, for the gift of compassion

Susan Elizabeth Bello, my friend, for the gift of courage

In this season when many of us race around buying gifts, impatient and tense, we sometimes forget that the greatest gifts of all are those that last forever.

O Christmas Tree. . .

how patient are thy branches.

A Cape Cod Holiday

Cape Cod at Christmas was a blast of New England cold, a landscape both foreign and familiar, an oasis of water and stars, and a home with family and friends.

The Work of Christmas

by Howard Thurman

"When the song of the angels is stilled,
When the star in the sky is gone,
When the kings and princes are home,
When the shepherds are back with their flock,
The work of Christmas begins:
To find the lost,
To heal the broken,
To feed the hungry,
To release the prisoner,
To rebuild the nations,
To bring peace among brothers,
To make music in the heart."