Skipping Christmas Letters
Although it has been a family tradition since my Scottish ancestors stowed away on the Mayflower, I have decided to avoid the writing of a Christmas letter this year. My reasons are three-fold. Firstly, I am a procrastinator. My favorite t-shirt has this emblazoned on the front:
reasons I procrastinate:
the price of postage is getting out of hand for a Scot, leaving email as
my only option. Since I personally receive approximately 1,400 junk emails
a day mostly from folks who should have their mouths washed out with soap,
I have decided to refrain.
My third reason for avoiding the traditional Yuletide epistle is that each year I receive lengthy letters from former friends of mine and it is a little annoying to hear just how very well their lives are proceeding. For instance, this letter arrived last December. Names have been changed to protect the guilty:
I were to postpone my procrastinating long enough to write a Christmas
letter this year, it wouldn’t look anything like Jerry’s. In fact, it
might arrive looking something like this:
I was hoping to tell you of our wonderful year. Then January arrived. In hindsight, the New Year’s Day explosion (a simple mix-up involving household chemicals like paint and bleach) should have foreshadowed things to come. On Valentine’s Day the basement sewer backed up. Apparently Jeffrey had spent years wondering what would happen if he flushed a beach towel. March saw one of us total the fender on the Ford three days before the engine light came on for good. Next up came those mid-semester report cards warning us that another child had made the horror roll. May began with word of the tax audit (I accidentally added an extra zero to a check we wrote to our church), and in June the flooding began. It’s been quite a year. Three of my friends moved away and another experienced a massive heart attack. My mother broke both hips in the space of two months. and on Canada Day my dear father succumbed to Alzheimer’s-related pneumonia. Three days after his funeral we buried Ramona’s eldest brother. After a twenty-year battle with Huntington’s disease, Dennis will be Home for Christmas...
You get the idea. A Christmas epistle from the Callaways would hardly be welcome reading while roasting chestnuts on an open fire. If joy is a barometer that mirrors our circumstances, we've had an awful year.
But we haven't.
left the front door open while we were decorating the Christmas
tree—trying to heat the great outdoors, I suppose—and I yelled,
“Were you born in a barn?” He poked his head around the corner and
laughed. “Jesus was,” he said. And he was right. God sent His Son into
the world for families like ours, families where the unexpected and the
tragic infiltrate daily living, where questions don’t find ready answers
and parenting can be exhilarating and exasperating, all in the space of
six seconds. He came to the messiest of places, invading our brokenness
This Christmas will mark the first time that I will open presents without my father watching from a nearby sofa. Through the years he gave me some wonderful gifts. Skates. A Maple Leafs jersey. And more recently a light blue sweater that I haven’t had the nerve to wear publicly or the heart to throw away. But Christmas was never about stuff. It was about relationships. As Dad liked to say, “It’s not our birthday we’re celebrating now is it, Son?” So this year beneath the tree, the Callaway children will receive plane tickets notifying them that we’ll be starting the New Year right—by spending a week in Haiti helping others. I’ll be wrapping up some household cleaners for my wife, too. A little bleach. A little paint. And after I help Jeffrey pick out some new bath towels, I think I’ll wrap up a family heirloom for the boy. I’ve heard light blue sweaters are all the rage for teenagers these days.