Joseph and Mary went up into the hills and found the caves. In one cave was a stable room. Joseph cleaned it and made beds of fresh hay. He found a feeding trough which he cleaned and filled with hay to use as a crib. The next night Mary gave birth to a son and they named him Jesus, as the angel had said.

When the child was born a great star appeared over Bethlehem that could be seen for miles around. In the fields nearby shepherds were tending their flocks. An angel appeared to them surrounded by bright light. The shepherds were frightened and tried to run.

"Fear Not," said the angel, "For I bring you tidings of great joy. For unto you is born this day in Bethlehem – a Saviour who is Christ the Lord."

"And this shall be a sign unto you. You shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger."

Suddenly the sky was filled with angels, praising God and saying, "Glory to God in the Highest, and on Earth peace, good will toward men."

This is a powerful image, song and story about the spirit of Christmas shinning bright in the midst of man’s worst hour…

And on another note, pray for our men and women of the military who have put themselves in harms way so that we may enjoy the freedom to celebrate this Christmas season!

".. We heard about this cello player born in Sarajevo many years ago (Vedran Smailovi?) who left when he was fairly young to go on to become a well-respected musician, playing with various symphonies throughout Europe. Many decades later, he returned to Sarajevo as an elderly man—at the height of the Bosnian War, only to find his city in complete ruins.

I think what most broke this man’s heart was that the destruction was not done by some outside invader or natural disaster—it was done by his own people. At that time, Serbs were shelling Sarajevo every night. Rather than head for the bomb shelters like his family and neighbors, this man went to the town square, climbed onto a pile of rubble that had once been the fountain, took out his cello, and played Mozart and Beethoven as the city was bombed.

He came every night and began playing Christmas carols from that same spot. It was just such a powerful image—a white-haired man silhouetted against the cannon fire, playing timeless melodies to both sides of the conflict amid the rubble and devastation of the city he loves. Some time later, a reporter traced him down to ask why he did this insanely stupid thing. The old man said that it was his way of proving that despite all evidence to the contrary, the spirit of humanity was still alive in that place.

The song basically wrapped itself around him. We used some of the oldest Christmas melodies we could find, like "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" and "Carol of the Bells" (which is from Ukraine, near that region). The orchestra represents one side, the rock band the other, and single cello represents that single individual, that spark of hope.”

“And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.”

This holiday season, it’s not about what you get for Christmas.  It’s not about the presents you buy.  It’s not the meal you cook under pressure because the whole darn family is headed to your house.  It’s not about the decorating of the tree or trimming the house in lights.

The title of this entry is “A.R.K.”.  I stole this from a movie we watched the other night on TV.

Acts of Random Kindness

Ladies and gentlemen, there are those that are walking among us today that are quietly passing through your world. 

They don’t look up. 

They don’t engage you. 

They don’t even exist to you after you’ve passed them by.

Someone…

• has a child at home with no Christmas tree or presents this year.
• is stressed because they can’t buy presents because they are so behind on the mortgage.
• has been recently given some bad news medically.
• is reminded of the loss of a loved one every Christmas season.
• has just lost a job.
• has just buried a family member or friend.
• is so depressed that they think their life isn’t worth living.
• is battling with divorce.
• is wishing their life was like yours.
• is hoping against all hope that someone, anyone would just reach out a hand to help comfort them.

It doesn’t have to be about money.  Maybe…

• it’s something in your closet you don’t need. 
• it’s an old artificial Christmas tree in your attic you don’t use.
• it’s picking up an angel from the Angel Tree.
• you need to hire someone in your workplace.
• someone just needs the touch of your hand on their shoulder.
• someone needs to hear someone else say “It’s going to be ok.”
• someone needs to know what you’ve been through.
• someone needs to know what it’s like to have a positive memory.
• someone needs to know that someone out there in this cold, hard world actually gives a damn about them.

So, in your travels in life, listen to that small voice inside when it tells you that you should say “Hello” to someone. 

There is probably a reason for it.

Today, you could change the life of someone who really needs it.

-Uppie

A True Christmas Story

It’s just a small, white envelope stuck among the branches of our Christmas tree. No name, no identification, no inscription. It has peeked through the branches of our tree for the past 10 years or so.

It all began because my husband Mike hated Christmas. Oh, not the true meaning of Christmas, but the commercial aspects of overspending, the frantic running around at the last minute to get a tie for Uncle Harry and the dusting powder for Grandma, the gifts given in desperation because you couldn’t think of anything else. Knowing he felt this way, I decided one year to bypass the usual shirts, sweaters, ties and so forth. I reached for something special just for Mike.

The inspiration came in an unusual way. Our son Kevin, who was 12 that year, was wrestling at the junior level at the school he attended; and shortly before Christmas, there was a non-league match against a team sponsored by an inner-city church, mostly black. These youngsters, dressed in sneakers so ragged that shoestrings seemed to be the only thing holding them together, presented a sharp contrast to our boys in their spiffy blue and gold uniforms and sparkling new wrestling shoes. As the match began, I was alarmed to see that the other team was wrestling without headgear, a kind of light helmet designed to protect wrestler’s ears. It was a luxury the ragtag team obviously could not afford. Well, we ended up walloping them. We took every weight class. And as each of their boys got up from the mat, he swaggered around in his tatters with false bravado, a kind of street pride that couldn’t acknowledge defeat. Mike, seated beside me, shook his head sadly, I wish just one of them could have won, he said. They have a lot of potential, but losing like this could take the heart right out of them. Mike loved kids -all kids- and he knew them, having coached little league football, baseball and lacrosse. That’s when the idea for his present came.

That afternoon, I went to a local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes and sent them anonymously to the inner-city church. On Christmas Eve, I placed the envelope on the tree, the note inside telling Mike what I had done and that this was his gift from me. His smile was the brightest thing about Christmas that year and in succeeding years.

For each Christmas, I followed the tradition – one year sending a group of mentally handicapped youngsters to a hockey game, another year a check to a pair of elderly brothers whose home had burned to the ground the week before Christmas, and on and on. The envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always the last thing opened on Christmas morning and our children, ignoring their new toys, would stand with wide-eyed anticipation as their dad lifted the envelope from the tree to reveal its contents.

As the children grew, the toys gave way to more practical presents but the envelope never lost its allure. The story doesn’t end there. You see, we lost Mike last year due to dreaded cancer. When Christmas rolled around, I was still so wrapped in grief that I barely got the tree up. But Christmas Eve found me placing an envelope on the tree, and in the morning, it was joined by three more. Each of our children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed an envelope on the tree for their dad.

The tradition has grown and someday will expand even further with our grandchildren standing around the tree with side-eyed anticipation watching as their fathers take down the envelope. Mike’s spirit, like the Christmas spirit, will always be with us. May we all remember Christ, who is the reason for the season, and the true Christmas spirit this year and always.

—

Author Unknown

By Eric S. Upton

Clouded sky on this Christmas morning,
Marked with my thoughts of you.
A quiet time given to thinking,
Wanting nothing
But to hold you.

Of all the presents I could have wanted,
Your heart I did not expect.
Beautiful soul
Wrapped in garland,
This gift
I cannot reject.

My life has returned to me,
All at the hands of my Kitten.
Ne’er believing
That there would be,
Love on my heart
Now written.

 
So on this damp, dreary morning,
I wanted to pen my thoughts of you.
To let you know
That one in this world,
Loves you.

—–

Sometimes I write poetry.  This one was from a Christmas morning.  A few years ago.  I wrote it for the person who changed my life forever.

I love you!

PHIL G. BUSEY

Do you believe in miracles? Christmas is a season of miracles and the birth of the Christ child  bringing the greatest of gifts to a world in need. Its message works magic. Hope can be a message we all can deliver. Amid shopping, stress, parties and expectations, search your soul for the miracle you can be. Pass on the true gifts of love, hope and peace that Christmas represents. No bows will be large enough.

After this year of economic storms, wars and scandals we need a few miracles. Miracles are defined as something supernatural, extraordinary or unexplainable causing great wonder or admiration. I imagine you know of a few “miracles” walking near or beside you. I believe miracles of the heart occur all the time, but especially at Christmas.

Pause to witness miracles happening. Ordinary people turn into angels of hope for those less fortunate. Organizations work diligently to gather food and clothes for those in need. Church services are filled with messages of the hope that is the Christmas story. Yes, Christmas is a season of miracles.

Hardened hearts open up and people get about doing some good, regardless of circumstance. The Christmas star still shines brightly within each of us when we remember the miracle that happened for us centuries ago. What miracles could occur if we held Christmas in our hearts all year?

In some places miracles do happen year-round. Recently, I was invited to The Children’s Center in Bethany. I have known of it for years, yet this was the first opportunity I had to visit. I really didn’t know what to expect.

The center cares for children whose health problems to most seem insurmountable. This is a long-term care facility. These children may never know what normal is. Their families need special support for the emotional roads they have traveled that would task the best of us. Here, everyday problems shrink by comparison.

I was surprised and amazed. I realize now I should not have been. Despite all the life difficulties and challenges there, the center is a true place of joy and inspiration. It is a miracle of hope for those needing care the most. This is possible because of the staff, caregivers and mission of the place. Entirely nonprofit and debt free, it is an astounding marvel of medical technology and human spirit.

The facilities, because of generous individual and community support, are new and beautiful, though the hospital has been in operation since 1898. Founded by a young teacher arriving in Oklahoma territory sensing she was called by God to minister to children, Mattie Mallory’s legacy of faith lives on today. The incredible chapel at the center was built 100 percent from donations of staff.

The simple message of the Christ child is practiced here hour after hour, year round. The staff, nurses and physicians give so much of themselves for these children. They are a joy and wonder in how they turn impairments into accomplishments. The people and things happening here are truly what human miracles are made of.

My life is better for that day, inspired by the hope they live. The joy these caregivers feel is genuine and not of stuff or material gifts. It is in the smiles of the children they care for, a first spoken word, a glance or a step. Each little success is a miracle of its own making. And what happiness when someone is well enough to go home. There is much about miracles we can learn here.

This Christmas we are called to remember in awe greater gifts given us through a miracle of the birth of a little child centuries ago in a humble, forgotten stable. The gift of Christmas is ours. We are called to be miracles for others this Christmas and always.

While we face our daily challenges, remember these caregivers but also the children and families who live far from normal lives and how their stories are a remarkable gift to see things in better perspective. We can believe in miracles. We can see being normal as a gift, and humbly, in the message of Christmas, a calling to go beyond ourselves, caring and supporting each other regardless of the challenge.

Do you believe in miracles? You should. The Christmas miracle is about what is important in life for all of us indeed. Be a miracle to someone this Christmas.

—

PHIL G. BUSEY, an Edmond resident, is chairman and CEO of The Busey Group of Companies.

Courtesy Of The Edmond Sun…

This is the lyrics to a TSO song.  It’s an amazing story of giving, and making everyday Christmas Eve.

OLD CITY BAR

In an old city bar
That is never too far
From the places that gather
The dreams that have been

In the safety of night
With its old neon light
It beckons to strangers
And they always come in

And the snow it was falling
The neon was calling
The music was low
And the night
Christmas Eve

And here was the danger
That even with strangers
Inside of this night
It’s easier to believe

Then the door opened wide
And a child came inside
That no one in the bar
Had seen there before

And he asked did we know
That outside in the snow
That someone was lost
Standing outside our door

Then the bartender gazed
Through the smoke and the haze

Through the window and ice
To a corner streetlight

Where standing alone
By a broken pay phone
Was a girl the child said
Could no longer get home

And the snow it was falling
The neon was calling
The bartender turned
And said , not that I care
But how would you know this?
The child said I’ve noticed
If one could be home
They’d be all ready there

Then the bartender came out from behind the bar
And in all of his life he was never that far
And he did something else that he thought no one saw
When he took all the cash from the register draw

Then he followed the child to the girl cross the street
And we watched from the bar as they started to speak
Then he called for a cab and he said J.F.K.
Put the girl in the cab and the cab drove away
And we saw in his hand
That the cash was all gone
From the light that she had
wished upon

If you want to arrange it
This world you can change it
If we could somehow make this
Christmas thing last

By helping a neighbor
Or even a stranger

And to know who needs help
You need only just ask

Then he looked for the child
But the child wasn’t there
Just the wind and the snow
Waltzing dreams through the air

So he walked back inside
Somehow different I think
For the rest of the night
No one paid for a drink

And the cynics will say
That some neighborhood kid
Wandered in on some bums
In the world where they hid

But they weren’t there
So they couldn’t see
By an old neon star
On that, night, Christmas Eve

When the snow it was falling
The neon was calling
And in case you should wonder
In case you should care

Why we’re on our own
Never went home
On that night of all nights
We were already there

Christmas Miracle

by Susan Leonard

When I recall precious Christmas memories, I think of a very special story, one which represents the magic and glory of the season. This is a true story, as told to me by my husband — a professional Santa Claus — of a real Christmas miracle which he experienced. A story that I think will cause YOU to believe …

Three years ago, a little boy and his grandmother came to see my Santa at Mayfair Mall in Wisconsin. The child climbed up on his lap, holding a picture of a little girl.

"Who is this?" asked Santa, smiling. "Your friend? Your sister?"

"Yes, Santa," he replied. "My sister, Sarah, who is very sick," he said sadly. Santa glanced over at the grandmother who was waiting nearby, and saw her dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

"She wanted to come with me to see you, oh, so very much, Santa!" the child exclaimed. "She misses you," he added softly.

Santa tried to be cheerful and encouraged a smile to the boy’s face, asking him what he wanted Santa to bring him for Christmas. When they finished their visit, the Grandmother came over to help the child off his lap, and started to say something to Santa, but halted.

"What is it?" Santa asked warmly.

"Well, I know it’s really too much to ask you, Santa, but …." the old woman began, shooing her grandson over to one of Santa’s elves to collect the little gift which Santa gave all his young visitors. "The girl in the photograph … my granddaughter … well, you see … she has leukemia and isn’t expected to make it even through the holidays," she said through tear-filled eyes. "Is there any way, Santa … any possible way that you could come see Sarah? That’s all she’s asked for, for Christmas, is to see Santa."

Santa blinked and swallowed hard and told the woman to leave information with his elves as to where Sarah was, and he would see what he could do.

Santa thought of little else the rest of that afternoon. He knew what he had to do. "What if it were MY child lying in that hospital bed, dying," he thought with a sinking heart, "this is the least I can do."

When Santa finished visiting with all the boys and girls that evening, he retrieved from his helper the name of the hospital where Sarah was staying. He asked the assistant location manager how to get to Children’s Hospital. "Why?" Rick asked, with a puzzled look on his face. Santa relayed to him the conversation with Sarah’s grandmother earlier that day. "C’mon …. I’ll take you there," Rick said softly.

Rick drove them to the hospital and came inside with Santa. They found out which room Sarah was in. A pale Rick said he would wait out in the hall.

Santa quietly peeked into the room through the half-closed door and saw little Sarah on the bed. The room was full of what appeared to be her family; there was the Grandmother and the girl’s brother he had met earlier that day. A woman whom he guessed was Sarah’s mother stood by the bed, gently pushing Sarah’s thin hair off her forehead. And another woman who he discovered later was Sarah’s aunt, sat in a chair near the bed with a weary, sad look on her face. They were talking quietly, and Santa could sense the warmth and closeness of the family, and their love and concern for Sarah.

Taking a deep breath, and forcing a smile on his face, Santa entered the room, bellowing a hearty, "Ho, ho, ho!"

"Santa!" shrieked little Sarah weakly, as she tried to escape her bed to run to him, IV tubes intact.

Santa rushed to her side and gave her a warm hug. A child the tender age of his own son — 9 years old — gazed up at him with wonder and excitement. Her skin was pale and her short tresses bore telltale bald patches from the effects of chemotherapy. But all he saw when he looked at her was a pair of huge, blue eyes.

His heart melted, and he had to force himself to choke back tears. Though his eyes were riveted upon Sarah’s face, he could hear the gasps and quiet sobbing of the women in the room. As he and Sarah began talking, the family crept quietly to the bedside one by one, squeezing Santa’s shoulder or his hand gratefully, whispering "thank you" as they gazed sincerely at him with shining eyes.

Santa and Sarah talked and talked, and she told him excitedly all the toys she wanted for Christmas, assuring him she’d been a very good girl that year. As their time together dwindled, Santa felt led in his spirit to pray for Sarah, and asked for permission from the girl’s mother. She nodded in agreement and the entire family circled around Sarah’s bed, holding hands.

Santa looked intensely at Sarah and asked her if she believed in angels. "Oh, yes, Santa … I do!" she exclaimed.

"Well, I’m going to ask that angels watch over you," he said.

Laying one hand on the child’s head, Santa closed his eyes and prayed. He asked that God touch little Sarah, and heal her body from this disease. He asked that angels minister to her, watch and keep her. And when he finished praying, still with eyes closed, he started singing softly, "Silent Night, Holy Night … all is calm, all is bright." The family joined in, still holding hands, smiling at Sarah, and crying tears of hope, tears of joy for this moment, as Sarah beamed at them all.

When the song ended, Santa sat on the side of the bed again and held Sarah’s frail, small hands in his own. "Now, Sarah," he said authoritatively, "you have a job to do, and that is to concentrate on getting well. I want you to have fun playing with your friends this summer, and I expect to see you at my house at Mayfair Mall this time next year!"

He knew it was risky proclaiming that, to this little girl who had terminal cancer, but he had to. He had to give her the greatest gift he could — not dolls or games or toys — but the gift of HOPE.

"Yes, Santa!" Sarah exclaimed, her eyes bright. He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead and left the room.

Out in the hall, the minute Santa’s eyes met Rick’s, a look passed between them and they wept unashamed. Sarah’s mother and grandmother slipped out of the room quickly and rushed to Santa’s side to thank him. "My only child is the same age as Sarah," he explained quietly. "This is the least I could do." They nodded with understanding and hugged him.

One year later, Santa Mark was again back on the set in Milwaukee for his six-week, seasonal job which he so loves to do. Several weeks went by and then one day a child came up to sit on his lap. "Hi, Santa! Remember me?!"

"Of course, I do," Santa proclaimed (as he always does), smiling down at her. After all, the secret to being a *good* Santa is to always make each child feel as if they are the only child in the world at that moment.

"You came to see me in the hospital last year!"

Santa’s jaw dropped. Tears immediately sprang in his eyes, and he grabbed this little miracle and held her to his chest. "Sarah!" he exclaimed. He scarcely recognized her, for her hair was long and silky and her cheeks were rosy — much different from the little girl he had visited just a year before.

He looked over and saw Sarah’s mother and grandmother in the sidelines smiling and waving and wiping their eyes.

That was the best Christmas ever for Santa Claus. He had witnessed — and been blessed to be instrumental in bringing about — this miracle of hope.

This precious little child was healed. Cancer-free. Alive and well. He silently looked up to Heaven and humbly whispered,

"Thank you, Father. ‘Tis a very, merry Christmas!

Two days ago, while working in the service drive, a gentleman pulled up in a motor coach.  It seemed apparent that he needed a window repair on the left front door of his vehicle.  The make-shift plastic window covering where the window used to be was a dead give away.

I met the gentlemen, assessed his needs and helped him get a game plan to get the window fixed (elsewhere).

This prompted a cool conversation about the “political correctness” of using the term Merry Christmas.

The gentleman told me that he was conducting business with a company somewhere in his travels.  The person he was dealing with was not allowed to use the term “Merry Christmas” with their clients.  The man asked for supervisor.

He explained to the supervisor that he could not conduct business with a company that could not openly respect Christmas as a holiday.

Right on!

Then we both agreed on one thing:  Respect each of the holidays.  Whether you celebrate Hanukkah, Kwanza, Boxing Day or Christmas, you should be free to express your Holiday in any way you see fit.  Don’t jam theology down someone else’s throat, but respect the person just as you wish to be respected.

As this gentleman drove out of sight, I spotted a web address on the side of his coach.  I visited his web site.  I was inspired by what I saw.

Visit Adrian’s website and you’ll see the home of the “A Hero On Every Block” project.

It’s awesome!  I can’t wait until the project becomes available.  Amazing concept, showing the positive in this world…

Way to go, my friend!  Way to go.

You are a hero in your own right…

—–

Just a true story from my weekly encounters with really amazing people…

Eric

©2009 Smuggling Swans Media, LLC. All RIghts Reserved

Every Christmas Was Crazy

Think of your Mom & Dad at Christmas when you were a kid.

Was Your Christmas This Crazy EVERY SINGLE YEAR When You Were A Kid?

Were there arguments over trees? Was there property damage? Did innocent trees get brutally stuffed into living rooms that were only half their height?

Welcome to my childhood.

My wife and I adore Christmas Vacation. One day I wondered why the movie was so hugely popular among so many people. My discovery was that people I talked with personally identify with the events and characters in the movie. Their family tree includes their own version of a cousin Eddie, a crazy Clark Griswald dad, and others. They have personally experienced the Christmas Vacation tragedies in their big extended family gatherings.

Let me tell you about the Crazy Christmases that I experienced most years as a young boy. You will likely see some parallels to Christmas Vacation.

My mom, Sue, is a trusting, wonderful person that has more positivity than Zig Ziglar. She managed to raise three boys and maintain her sanity. Dad was a no-nonsense, strong, hard working, large man who delivered milk to western Arkansas homes six days a week. Getting dad involved in holidays was only possible with subtle effort and no pushing or whining. Buying fireworks on the Fourth of July and decorating for Christmas was always a great win for mom and me. You can picture my dad as a tall & burly Uncle Lewis, complete with a cigar and lambchop sideburns.

So, what was Christmas like? Well, it was pretty much like this every single year as we walked through the pasture.

My dad, Bill, starts by prompting mom that “We don’t have all day Sue. Which tree do you want? There are only 14 acres on the place to pick from.”

“Ooh, Bill, that tree on the fence line looks pretty. What do you think? Oh, there is another one and it looks fuller. Wait, this one looks really full – it would look good in the living room.”

This is when my dad looks at me with that look. You know that look that says, does she really think that will fit in the house?

“OK, Sue, but I don’t think it will fit. It looks a bit tall.” This is when I am thinking that my dad is a master of understatement – the tree looks like it could tickle the top of our chimney and maybe fill the living room sideways.

So mom picks the tree… even though trees from previous years never fit without massive construction-level modifications. I know the tree is massive and know it won’t fit without severe trimming at the top and bottom. How much? Half the height, one-third of the height will be knocked off? My young estimates must be off because mom says “It just needs to be trimmed up a little bit to make it look just right.”

Dad grabs the axe, hacks the tree down in a few whooshing swings, and gives it to me to attach to Charlie Brown’s tree stand. Really, could we have picked a larger tree or a weaker tree stand? No, probably not. Once I have the tree mounted on the stand, I encounter my annual discovery, that the stand will not hold the monster tree. If I tilt the tree by half an inch, it rushes toward the ground. The weight of tinsel will crash this big boy.

Dad gets impatient – he has things to do, “Son, just don’t stand there with your teeth in your mouth, bring that tree in here.”

This is where I laugh quietly and shake my head. How much trouble might I get in if I point out the obvious? Oh well, in we go.

Pine needles fall to the floor, the tree stand wiggles like a whirligig, and the ceiling seems to be touching the SIDES of the tree as I carry it in horizontally! Now it’s time for something I learned later in engineering school that is called a “compression fit” –basically putting more in a space than can sensibly fit. Some people learned this concept with a phrase about a small bag and a large amount of manure.

I tilt the stand down to the floor in the same place as last year and dad gets the other side of the tree. We ease the tree toward vertical until it reaches about half way – the tree is already touching the ceiling. I remind myself not to laugh but it is pointless. Dad knew this was coming. Mom won’t hear me. She already has the vacuum zooming about to evenly spread pine needles through the living room. Vacuums won’t pick up pine needles, but they will drown out a “told you so.”

Dad and I start pushing. Thankfully he’s a big burly guy – we will need everything we can muster. Push, scratch. Push, scratch, grunt, pop. Push, scratch, pop, crack, snow. OK, a lot of the trimming is done and the popcorn ceiling scrapings look like a like touch of snow on the tree. This is working great!

The vacuum cleaner turns off just in time for me to test a new zinger “Mom, were you planning on cutting a skylight here that I didn’t know about?” Mom looks over her glasses and I swear she is smiling. She is enjoying this!

“OK,” mom says, “I’ll start trimming the tree and you two go get the decorations.” We don’t know what new hiding place might hold the decorations so we start our hunt. We discover the decorations and return to find the tree “lightly trimmed.” The tree ends, it just ends, about two-thirds of the way up the tree. Maybe I should go check for a full sized tree from the giant’s top in my room? No, none there. The giant is about 4 feet wide where it meets the ceiling. Oops, forgot to trim enough for a tree topper. I guess our ceiling is the tree-topper again this year.

There’s a problem. The tree no longer touches the ceiling to grip the top and it is starting to ooze to the left. I start to smile, I know what will happen next as the tree sways. Dad shrugs and walks outside while mom says “Bill, where are you going? What are you looking for? You’re not nailing that tree to my wall are you?” Yes, my dad IS going to NAIL the tree to the wall…again. It takes a little longer every year to find a hole-free spot on the wall where the nail will hold up the tree. But dad is stubbornly persistent once he starts a job – he will make this work.

Bang. Bang. Bailing wire, rope, or twine. Bang, Bang, BANG. “There. That ought to hold it” says my dad. Yeah, dad, that should hold a car. Mom comes back and tries to pretend that her wall paneling has not been sacrificed for the good of our tree.

We can’t help but let go. The guffaws and coughing laughter are great. This year was even funnier than the last. We should talk about how to avoid this next year.

Mom and I start to decorate and dad sits down to read the paper and smoke a grizzled looking cigar. It seems like we are going to have another wonderful Christmas.

The last year I was home for Christmas as a teenager was fantastic. The holes are still in the wall. The memories are still with me too. I hope my kids get the same type of warm & crazy Christmas memories that they can relive over and over. Today my 3 boys and our Christmas celebrations seem a bit more tame. Maybe I need a big tree in a small house?

I’m still convinced that vaulted ceilings were invented to accommodate the wishful eyes of parents just like my wonderful mom. Thanks mom – it was great. Dad – I miss you and wish you were still alive to nail a tree to my wall.

Joe

—

Joe and I went to high school together.  We recently reconnected via Facebook some time back.  This man has an impressive spirit.  And it turns out he is an excellent writer.  I hope to read more from Joe in the future!

Support Joe’s business ventures @ http://bestprogress.com and http://www.marketingformanufacturing.com