Just as thoughts come and go, so it is with my memories. Some memories tend to linger, and they form an intricately choreographed dance, joyfully spinning, around and round in my head, one movement following another. Not this memory, not this day. It returns as a dissonant, unresolved movement, hauntingly as alive as it’s initial perception. 

I still remember the look in her eyes as I was leaving the retirement home. Briefly I looked back; her blue eyes penetrated my heart and pierced my soul. Straight up she sat, motionless, expressionless, as she held her fragile pride, with dignity and strength. It happened in a fractioned second. I wondered, even as I hurried out and onto the next home, not wanting to be late. I felt her eyes follow after me, then heard a faint "Merry Christmas." The greeting came from another who was now closer by, but with a sound more like a cry, on this Christmas day.

Alas, I’d arrived with a minute to spare, and smiling out across the room, I sat down at a new piano. My eyes quickly scanned the room, almost as if looking for piercing blue eyes, the eyes I‘d left behind. But in that genre of expressions, I did not find them there. A phrase of melodic harmony then began to flow. My finger tips so lightly dancing, "across the keys they go" said my thought, but oh.. my heart was low. I forgot not that fraction of a second, nor how her eyes had beseeched mine. I was wondering what peloria of wrong was held, behind the shadow of those clear blue eyes, that bled their pain to mine.

I no longer find it strange, when strangers tell me dark secrets. I’ve listened since I was a child, of maybe five or six. I could be sitting on a park bench, or in a church pew, and someone would come along and begin talking to me, as if I knew them. I suppose I did somehow. I may go back and talk to the old woman; her eyes are with me still. Burdens sometimes lighten when one listens, sometimes. . .  But I won’t go back tonight, for I must pen a thank you.

A lovely woman sent me a pretty homemade pillow slip and a box of chocolates for Christmas. I can’t help but to admire her. She has created such a lovely home. Touches of home sewn love are visible from the moment her doors are opened. She creates the loveliest of Christmas gifts for her family and friends, even for me each year. It’s been years since I was that organized, to care for all the superficialities and pretty details, that come in the name of Christmas; but I still recall the time and effort it takes. Mostly, I remember the blessings; blessings of joy in the giving. Even so, I‘ve come to recognize far greater things, as mysteries continue to unfold.

Still, I miss a bit of the olden, golden era, when humble gifts were received by most, as something precious and of value. The cards were actually opened, and often read aloud. It was so much clearer back then, that the giver was the valued, and the gift held value that could not be bought. Gifts were not expected, and were often complete surprises. Only the smallest of children were indulged a wish list, usually meant for Santa.

Could it be… this notion too nostalgic, too romantic, or was it ever so? Does anyone recall? It must have existed somewhere, sometime, long, long ago. Is it possible there’s no one left, uninfected by the new? The latest style of Christmas manufactures Hallmark’s memories. We’re clicking and taking snap shots, to put in crafty family albums, creating Martha Stewart’s "Living." Sometimes we even go so far as to photo shop the dreams. Commercialism continues on… to take away our Christmas, and little bit, by little bit, it goes, away, away, away… The economists exclaim, "It helps the economy to grow!" Even so, it spreads like leaven, just like in Christmas dough. . . To some degree, but what degree, and does it infect all it affects?

Well, Poor Santa does his best. . getting better every year. Ho! Ho! What a jolly job he does, keeping the infamous Jones’ happy, both the big ones and the small. Oh, to get back to the heart of it all. It’s time to think and to ask, ask, ask, while it’s fresh and with us still… Are we celebrating Christ’s birth or worshiping commercialized tradition? Could it be? Could it be? Even if unknowingly. . . To care to know we must. But to know to care is essential. Is The Lord, The King, Our Savior being used for greed and profit? Well, of course I know! Everyone knows..  Christ is the reason for the season! But has the season become treason? 

Wait! Wait! Who, when it’s their birthday, desires for all else to get the gifts, and all the attention as well? Would we feel worshiped, loved and adored? Well! Would we? Would we? Could we? Is this not the battle since the beginning of time. . . concerning who gets the worship. . . is it not even close to treason? How fresh is the heart of our season? If stale be the heart of Christmas season, ask what be the reason. Are there but just two Kingdoms? What kingdom are thee of, ask thee.. What kingdom are thee of? The Kingdom of the Dark or the Kingdom Of God’s Son?    

My thoughts began to dwell on Christmas and how it all came to be. . .  The things that we most celebrate, the things we value most, the things we give our time.  My heart ached for the elderly, the parents and grandparents now alone, wondering if anyone would remember them.  All they held dear were but memories of those I saw last Christmas. . .

 

America is the leading nation in spreading false illusions that the elderly are useless, have no value, no wisdom to impart to the young, no values worth considering as contributions to society. This nation has no idea what they have lost; for failing to recognize and to honor both the wisdom and beauty of those who marched before us; and we are paying the penalties for these modern, deceptive beliefs; and our once great nation continues to crumble into the depths of wreckage and disarray.

 

God Bless You!    

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