Christmas scares me.

Not the holiday itself but that each successive year, despite its ever earlier encroachment, it takes me progressively greater effort to summon the holiday spirit or conjure up a bright seasonal emotion which for decades seemed effortless.

Before Halloween has always been unreasonably out of the question, but before Thanksgiving they say, is now increasingly expected if you’re to enjoy the full value of the magic season even though half the country is still well over 73 degrees.

I say it’s just a little scary when it takes this much work to be merry.

So I went to WalMart.

If anything says Christmas in October, it’s WalMart, but then I found myself shopping retail for the best buy on a holiday goods soon to be marked down.

Then I turned on the radio station.

As if I wasn’t snapping into the season quick enough, 24/7 carols sang the tune, but then I questioned whether a song alone could or even should make such an instrumental shift in my attitude.

Over time, I tried several other near misses, disappointing myself at every turn. Baking, decorating, bad sweaters, none seemed capable of the transitional trick.

I once talked with my Mom about it and she shared with me some memories of earlier Christmastimes when the magic didn’t seem so difficult to come by. I called my kids and chatted about it some and we laughed a little at remembering their first Santa Claus moments. But if I recall, it wasn’t until my son, away at school at the time, said he was coming home for the holidays. That was when I felt things inside me change, much like that Grinch moment where he had encountered an obvious truth.

Christmas isn’t created by things and stuff and trappings. It’s inside people.

It’s our special stories, our humored histories and the secret gift searches we Google in talks with one another as the weather begins to change to hot chocolate and we all grow just a little bit closer.

And then suddenly one morning, that little something tips the scales just enough to conjure that Spirit we sought all along. And for the first time of the season, and certainly not the last, we utter our first “Merry Christmas” to a stranger, and indeed, it has arrived.

What people don’t seem to understand is that people have been living in the end times ever since we knew there would BE end times. Truth is, we have never not been living in the end times.

Signs predicted so long ago have been evident across every one of the thousands of generations since the beginning of mankind with each proclaiming that their years were the end times with fear and trembling and waving of hands.

We all have been absolutely correct in recognizing the signs both then and now. What’s been missing, however, is a more poignant discussion and critical call to action instructing us how to avoid being among its casualties.

It all started at 4am in an otherwise empty convenience store with my cheerier-than-usual “good morning.” It ended 30 minutes later, late to work but with a new best friend.
Miyisha was working graveyard on just two hours sleep as a fill-in for a sick coworker, but our last magical half hour together where I went for coffee unexpectedly amounted to a bond like lost siblings reunited.
I don’t usually click with people less than half my age but we ended up sharing life details of our years without edits, sang together to a song on the radio and showed the surveillance cameras just how badly we could dance.
We vowed to meet again without too much passing of time and hugged a happy Tuesday to one another before I drove across town to start my workday while hers was ending.
Though I’d come for coffee, the power of a good disposition and a genuine interest in the life of a stranger is what filled my cup. It reminded me of how church should feel, with unlimited free refills.

For no immediately apparent reason except having some free time on my hands, I did a weird thing. Very few of you are surprised.

I took inventory stuff I’ve allowed into my mind over these many years. Far from complete, it included thoughts, ideas, considerations of evil and good, the unspeakably secret, the imaginations and images, and the themes, worries, hopes, dreams and beliefs I’ve allowed to consume so much nogginmatter, complete with smiles, sweat, tears and all.

I do this kinda thing every so often. I find it’s the quickest and most efficient method of pride and ego control at times when I may be inclined to think a little more of myself than I should. A real humility builder.

The list is long. Really long. And while it contains many recollections of things good, noble and clean…the dirt, filth and sewage was a clear overpopulation.

As a man thinks, so his heart shall be. Proverbs 23:7

Your thoughts shape who you are.

Fortunately, most of my sewage is from years past and are long since forgiven. Changing the way you think about the world and your experience in it can mold a new perspective for your own future and for influencing those around you.

This weekend I’ll be coming home with a little less baggage than I brought.

Visiting your kids might just be less about a vacation away from work than worry.

As a parent, we want to ensure for ourselves in person that they’re doing okay in the most important things. Like seeing that their marriages are solid and loving. Their kids are happy, well adjusted, and kind by nature. That the family business is thriving and providing for their needs. And that they’re engaged in doing good things for the world we live in.

Coming home with resolve in these matters is a unique kind of rest only parents can know and enjoy. The kind of lovely assurance that brings peace to our existence.

So my load home will be a little lighter and my heart will be a little merrier, and isn’t that what vacations are all about?

If they are allowed, needed, or even still relevant at all when I arrive in heaven, I need to ask God a question about dreams and why some are so disturbing, because even after a dozen years clean from meth, I’m still haunted by people and situations from my past that don’t end well. Waking up, I’m not tempted to use, but the experience leaves me with feelings I can’t explain like a Goliath of a tornado leveling what might otherwise have been a beautiful day.

Most days I live my life on an upswing of hope and vision, yet only 40 years ago I never would have envisioned the changes I’ve seen and experienced to date in American culture.

While I may only have about 20 more remaining lucid years on board, life seems a lot more like chutes ‘n ladders these days.

I can spend what’s left watching this slippery slope continue its slide downhill from the bleachers or contribute what’s left of me from the sidelines for the building of a better, more formidable staircase.

#TheNewWorldDisorder

You know what happens when you buy breakfast for a homeless guy?

He eats.

More than that, he doesn’t feel overlooked or avoided by everyone for yet another day of his invisible life.

He smiles.

His faith in strangers is renewed just a little, maybe even enough to bring him out of hiding into getting help for his mental health or addiction.

He cleans up.

Washes his hands and face for maybe the first time in a week while the food’s cooking and feels better for doing so.

He’s surprised

when you extend your hand for a shake after the meal, for no one has voluntarily reached out to touch him in a very long time.

He’s still homeless.

No plan, no pathway, no purpose, just one early morning experience of fellowship where many seeds were planted that may make the continuing of his dismal existence a little less attractive and his options for help a little moreso.

Then he walks away.

My addictions had me spend 10 years of my adult life essentially out of my kids’ reach.

Thanks to their forgiveness, grace and mercy I’ve been back in spades since.

What I will never understand though, is how any father can make a conscious, sober choice to be distant and estranged from the very lives they helped to create. My lame ‘excuse’ was addiction yet I know otherwise sane fathers who keep walls up and I will always wonder what fills that God-given void so full that they remain blinded to such wonderful experiences they never will have and times they can never recover.

I hate Father’s Day for all those years I missed, and I love Father’s Day for those who still choose to celebrate me despite my absences.