Christmas catalogue.

It’s holiday time once again dear reader.

And earlier today, I saw something that provided a prompt for my annual Christmas story. It was a facebook meme that asked, “Do you remember the Sear’s Christmas wish book?

I expect that you would be hard pressed to find a Canadian who could honestly answer, “No.”

With the population of Canada being so spread out across this country. and so largely rural for much of its 20th century history, the catalogue, in general, was an essential. But when that Christmas edition arrived with the mail, it was much more than an essential. It became both a treasure and a delight. Particularly the toy section.

In Canada, we had more than one. First of all was that giant Canadian retail icon, Eatons. Second to that, came Sears (for many years following their 1952 merger known as Simpson Sears). And both retail giants had order offices in my home town of Tillsonburg.

Both Christmas catalogues arrived by post before the end of August. Which meant that I had the additional opportunity of looking through them for what I hoped to get for my October (Thanksgiving day weekend) birthday.

For hours on a chill, autumn Saturday afternoon, one of my friends and I would lie on our stomachs on the living room floor and browse through them comparing their contents, constructing our dreams and requests of Santa Claus.

In my memories, both catalogues used the same general layout for their toy section, which greatly simplified that task.

They each began with a two page layout showing all of the elaborate slot car racetrack sets that were available. Although our dreams were grandiose, I can not recall either me or any of my friends, ever receiving track that was more than a basic figure 8. No matter.

That two page spread was followed by another two pages that were dedicated to toys for infants and toddlers. (Ho hum). And after those came the pages displaying toys for girls.

Skipping over all of those toys, we would next arrive at the toy cars (both Hot wheels, and Matchbox). Along with those were the displays of Hot wheels race track and accessories. Now those big dream sets did often appear under the Christmas tree bearing tags marked with my name.

Then, continuing with their appeals to young boys, both catalogues displayed action figures along with their accessories and playsets.

Finally to wrap it all up, came pages of differing brands of building and construction sets, and model trains , finally concluding with board games, toys with general family appeal, and table top games.

The same order of offerings presented in the same layouts year after year. It was a great way to spend idle time

But as kids, we built dreams on the magic held out so tantalizingly before us. And there were an awful lot of conversations that went like this:

“Well if I got this one, and you got that one,

then together we could . . . “

The stuff that both dreams and memories are made of dear reader.

Have a merry Christmas.

Because that is what dad would have done.

The late American president, Jimmy Carter will be honoured with a state funeral this morning. An event that will, of course, be televised, and streamed around the world.. And when each speaker stands to eulogize president Carter, and as each song is sung. I will be watching. And quite likely singing along.

Because that is what dad would have done.

Dad admired presidents. Yet he raised an unabashed monarchist.

I know that my dad was quick to greet him the moment he walked through those pearly gates. But if dad were still here, his admiration for this powerfully meek man would have had him glued to his television set this morning.

Dad’s heroes were not bullies and strongmen. Not the tough talkers.

No, my dad’s heroes were meek and humble men. Men who courageously lived their faith.

You can talk faith and yet not really have any. Dad would have seen right through you. And he had the courage to call you out on it.

And so, this morning, I will watch. And I will sing.

Because that is what dad would have done.

Flat Elizabeth

Greetings dear reader.

It is so good to see you once again. Please make yourself comfortable.

It is time for my annual Christmas story.

Once again, I am going to use an object that is here in my room, as my writing prompt.

It happens to be a Christmas tree ornament.

It is a roughly fashioned 2 dimensional white ceramic figurine of a small girl. Her name is Flat Elizabeth. Her hair is painted black, and her simple frock is purple.

She was a Christmas gift that I received one Christmas morning, from one of my 4 daughters.

She came with a paper story book, written and drawn in a child’s hand.

The story told of how one Christmas, as a little girl named Elizabeth, was preparing to decorate her Christmas tree. she climbed up to the top of a very tall storage unit to the shelf, where the box of decorations was stored.

But the storage unit toppled over and landed on top of her, flattening her out.

Now I will admit to being a sentimental person. I have kept every small hand-crafted object that each of my daughters ever made in school as fathers day Christmas or birthday gift.

I have a treasure trove of ceramic bowls, popsicle stick pencil holders, and such. And they all still receive regular use.

But from the very beginning I was enchanted by little Flat Elizabeth and her story. Every year I hung her on the Christmas tree with pride. Aand at the conclusion of every holiday season, I carefully placed her, along with her storybook back into the envelope in which she arrived. I took great pains to always keep the two items together. They were a package deal. As I confessed, I am sentimental. And those two things paired together were gifts of love.

However, years ago while I was undergoing a lengthy period of hospitalization and my family handled holiday decorating responsibilities without me. The small paper story book was misplaced. And Flat Elizabeth herself did not get packed up and stored away at all that year.

But she, herself remained safe, and when I moved into assisted living one year ago, Flat Elizabeth came along with me. She is too large to hang on my small 18 inch Christmas tree. Instead, she stands as aholiday display piece at the base of the Charlie Brown Christmas tree that sits on my dining table. Even if her story is never located, she herself will always remain beloved.

IF

Hello again dear reader.

How have you been? I am so happy that you have chosen to drop by and spend a few minutes with me once again. Today’s story begins 50 years years ago, when I was in the 6th grade, and I was 10 going on 11 years of age. One warm spring afternoon, (late in the school year 1974-5) our teacher, Mr McKibbon, read a poem to the class.

A well known piece of poetry. A verse that has stood the test of time.

That poem was “IF” written by Rudyard Kipling.

This poem , written in 1895, speaks of strength, and of virtue. It speaks of what it means to walk tall, with shoulders squared. It speaks of what it takes to be a captain among men. I can not speak for other boys who were in the classroom that afternoon. But our teacher held me spellbound as I listened. That piece of verse captivated my young imagination and stirred my heart. It excited me.

lt laid hold of something inside of me that afternoon. And the words have remained with me ever since.

After hearing it, I often found myself quoting lines from it. And aĺl through my adult years, I kept a copy of it near at hand. There was always a copy lying face up on my desk beside me where I could reference it at a glance. There was always something of value to be found in it for every situation that I faced in life.

I know that much has been written about this poem. About its eloquence, about its content, about the technical aspects of its rhyme scheme, poetry, and meter. But I am not going to delve into any of that.

My story for you today, is more personal. It is simply about what that poem has meant to me.

During my years as a QA manager; and later on as plant manager, it was those opening lines about keeping one’s head and trusting one’s own judgement during a crisis that meant the most.

During my long days of hospitalization and physiotherapy, following my stroke, it was the lines that speak of endurance. If the physiotherapist asked me, if I could walk just a one more round through the hallways, or try once again when my body was feeling all but spent, I would reply by saying, “Let’s go, and I will fill that unforgiving minute with 60 seconds worth of distance run.” And then I would push through, and do one more round.

It seemed that at every stage of my life, that the words of this poem became a source of inspiration.

Also during my long period of hospitalization, as we patients trekked back and forth between our assigned rooms and the dining room we were expected to stop and carefully read a giant white board which hung on the wall and was continually updated with our individual schedules with each therapist.

Since that is where we were required to direct our gaze and our attention, I failed to notice the large wood framed poster that hung on the opposite wall. When I finally did have the time one day to study it more closely, I was surprised to find that it was a copy of the poem, IF done in gilt gold lettering on a dark blue background.

Once I became aware of it, however, that poster got as much of my time and attention as I could spare between sessions of therapy.

Well dear reader, last week something small triggered a flood of many of those memories. And once again I bowed my head and gave thanks for that long ago afternoon when Mr McKibbon read that poem to our class.

And then I thought of a young friend of mine.

I once told you about him and our shared love of kaiju movies.

He is at the same age now as I was back then. And I thought, “He needs to have this poem read to him by a man he trusts and respects. Especially since his home life is somewhat unsettled right now. These are words to which every boy his age needs to be introduced. And not merely read it for himself. No, he needs to hear them read to him by a man he trusts and respects. The way I heard them for the first time.

So, I took a few minutes, and I recorded a video of myself doing just that dear reader. And I sent it to him.

What that meant to him last week, and what it may come to mean in years to come will be reserved for some future conversation he and I may have.

But once I had finished, those final words said something to me:

And what’s more, you’ll be a man my son.

I knew that I had just done what my dad would have wanted me to do. I had just done what he would have done.

When I began writing earlier this week dear reader, I was not sure where this was going to take me.

I did not know the reason why I was writing it.

But this morning, it all became clear to me. I understood what I was doing. My dad died 13 years ago. If he was still with us, Today (May 2, 2024) would have been his 84th birthday. This story was clearly meant to be my birthday gift to him.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DAD.

Bubblegum worship.

Do you remember the song Candy girl that was recorded by a group called the Archies back in 1969? link 

It was a song that exemplified a genre called “bubblegum pop” music. Or just “Bubblegum” for  short.

The distinguishing characteristics of bubblegum were simple, catchy, upbeat lyrics, with a lot of repetition,  written for, and played on,  a traditional pop-rock lineup of guitar, bass, drums, and keyboards; the rhythm section drove the song and production was always highly polished.

And  the songs were almost always (and exclusively) targeted toward a younger juvenile audience.

Here are the song lyrics for Candy girl.

Sugar, ah honey honey

You are my candy girl

And you’ve got me wanting you

Honey, ah sugar sugar

You are my candy girl

And you’ve got me wanting you

I just can’t believe the loveliness of loving you

(I just can’t believe it’s true)

I just can’t believe the one to love this feeling to

(I just can’t believe it’s true)

Ah sugar, ah honey honey

You are my candy girl

And you’ve got me wanting you

Ah honey, ah sugar sugar

You are my candy girl

And you’ve got me wanting you

When I kissed you, girl, I knew how sweet a kiss could be

(I know how sweet a kiss can be)

Like the summer sunshine pour your sweetness over me

(Pour your sweetness over me)

Sugar, pour a little sugar on it honey

Pour a little sugar on it baby

I’m gonna make your life so sweet, yeah yeah yeah

Pour a little sugar on it oh yeah

Pour a little sugar on it honey

Pour a little sugar on it baby

I’m gonna make your life so sweet, yeah yeah yeah

Pour a little sugar on it honey

Ah sugar, ah honey honey

You are my candy girl

And you’ve got me wanting you

Oh honey, honey, sugar sugar…

You are my candy girl…

Now, I want you to try singing it with a few word substitutions. Instead of sugar, insert the word saviour, and for the word honey substitute the name Jesus, for candy substitute awesome and replace the word girl with God. And replace the word kiss with the word embrace. Replace sweet and sweetness with holy and holiness

Now sing it.

Does that sound an awful lot like contemporary praise and worship music, like what you are hearing being sung in church, these days?

The thing about the bubblegum from which this genre of music takes its name, is that its sweetness is momentary and brief. Unlike the food on your dinner table, it contains no nourishment. Therefore, it can never satisfy.

It gives your mouth something to do, and it keeps your jaw moving. But it doesn’t do much beyond that.

Who knows. I may have just written the next big hit on the praise and worship circuit.

markers.

Greetings dear reader.

It is good to see you and to once again share your companionship. 

I am so glad that you stopped by. I have another story that I would like to share with you. Thoughts that were prompted by a conversation that I listened to on the radio this morning.

Each morning, when I arise, shortly before daybreak, I brew a cup of coffee for myself. Before I tune my radio to the feel good morning show on http://www.thefeelgoodstation.uk/

This morning, the program hosts were talking about houses and homes in which they had lived over the years.

While eavesdropping, I could not help but take a walk through my own past and my own personal history, and think upon the places where I have lived at different stages of my life. The houses and homes that have been part of my own life.

The first 18 years of my life were spent growing up in the town of Tillsonburg.

At the age of 18, after I had graduated from high school, I departed to attend the university of Waterloo. And I have remained in Kitchener and Waterloo all of my adult life (40 years). 

It was here that I met and married my wife Andrea. We have been married now for more than 32 years. And it was here that she and I raised our family of four daughters.

Now, we find ourselves empty-nesters, and downsizing once again from the houses in which we raised our family to the flats (apartments) where we both began.

Over the course of  those 32 years, we have owned three  different homes, at three different addresses.

And that, dear reader, is what I am thinking about today; markers.

What are markers? They are those small traces, and pieces of yourself  that you leave behind when you move from one address to another.  Small things that tell a story. Things that remind those who dwell in any  house that someone came before them. That theirs is only one page in an ongoing  story. 

I enjoy searching for those things, and listening to the story that they tell.

They might be as simple as the lines done in pencil  on the edge of a closet door, each one dated with a child’s name and birthday. Lines that show how much taller the child had grown since their last birthday.  

Or a paper copy of the order of service for a daughter’s wedding that somehow found its way into the bottom of a wood box by the fireplace. 

A friend of mine once removed a loose brick from the hearth of his fireplace, only to find a small safe with a combination lock concealed behind it. Both he and I passed hours idly attempting to crack the combination and find out what treasures it might hold.

And when I think about those things, I wonder what we may have left behind that marks our passage. 

At the first house we owned, they would be the gardens that my wife and I so lovingly planted, tended,  and cared for. Perennials, bushes, and fruit trees, that continued to grow, bloom, and bear fruit, for years after we were gone.

At our second home, they would include the small pet cemetery located along the north wall of the house. A line of graves marked by simple wooden crosses crafted  by the hands of children, to mark the final resting place of a beloved hamster, gerbil, goldfish,  or parakeet.

In the houses of my own childhood?  I can only imagine. Perhaps a toy car accidentally spilled from a box of toys and buried in the sand of the crawlspace.

A treasure, waiting to be unearthed by some amateur child archeologist.

How about yourself dear reader? Are there any mysteries waiting to be discovered in your house? 

they will know us.

Hello again. dear reader,

The last time that we met with each other, I talked with you about the subject of  slick marketing strategies intended to help build a church brand and create growth through human effort.

Then, looking at various megachurches (mostly (but not exclusively) American, who employ those strategies and then callthose large attendance figures “God’s blessing.”

Well, as I look around me, I see another thing that really bothers me. And with your indulgence, I am going to talk with you about it.

It was triggered by a song.

Not a new song. No. Nothing new has enough conviction in it to get into  my heart, and trigger my thought process like this.

It is a song that came out of the counter-cultural movement of the late 1960s and early 70s known as the Jesus people.

I can remember that during my days at the university of Waterloo (1980s), we had a chapel in our college dorm. Our Sunday morning chapel service followed the worship format proscribed by the United church of Canada. 

But ourSunday evening chapel gatherings were much more casual and conversational. 

We sat on the floor, in a circle. And with nothing more than  a simple acoustic guitar for accompaniment, we sang songs of worship. Songs such as,  “the prayer of St Francis,” and  like this one that I am thinking about. 

But there was something genuinely prayerful about those gatherings.

Well, Jars of clay have recorded a beautiful and haunting cover version of that song. 

The song that I am referring to is, “And they’ll know we are christians by our love.”

As I sit and listen to it these days, I think to myself, ”IF ONLY.”

I really wish that those song lyrics were an accurate description of the church . The impact that we would have on this world would be incalculable. 

But as America enters another presidential election year, I once again see the evangelical election machine revving its engine as it aims to “take back” the white house.  

Gaining political power has become the focus of the 21st century church. Because with political power, they believe that they  can change America.

 [ maybe I am a little out of step with things. but I thought radical widespread change was only going to take place by wearing out the knees on my trousers].

So, this song haunts me. It is not the picture we are actually living for the world to witness. I deliberately say “we” because one of the overarching themes of the New testament is that the church is the body of Christ in this world. And one part of the body can not separate itself from the rest because it feels that it can function on its own. So whatever other evangelical christians do /or fail to do is a stain on me as well. 

Sin does not respect man-made geo-political borders. So, I am not innocent.

These  are the original song lyrics: 

We are one in the Spirit, we are one in the Lord;

We are one in the Spirit, we are one in the Lord;

And we pray that all unity will one day be restored.

Chorus: And they’ll know we are Christians by our love, by our love,

yes, they’ll know we are Christians by our love.

We will walk with each other, we will walk hand in hand;

We will walk with each other, we will walk hand in hand;

And together we’ll spread the news that God is in our land.

We Will work with each other, we will work side by side;

We will work with each other, we will work side by side;

And we’ll guard each man’s dignity and save each man’s pride.

Chorus: And they’ll know we are Christians by our love, by our love,

yes, they’ll know we are Christians by our love.

All praise to the Father, from whom all things come;

And all praise to Christ Jesus, His only Son.

And all praise to the Spirit who makes us one.

Copyright: 

Words: 1966 F.E.L. Publications. Assigned 1991 Lorenz Publishing Company (Admin. by Lorenz Corporation),Music: 1966 F.E.L. Publications. Assigned 1991 Lorenz Publishing Company (Admin. by Lorenz Corporation).

But, this what I actually see happening.:

VERSE 1

We are one in the Spirit, we are one in the Lord;

We are one in the Spirit, we are one in the Lord;

[This truth remains because it is God’s doing, not ours.]

And we pray that all unity will one day be restored.

[If this is not our prayer, it should be.]

CHORUS: And they’ll know we are Christians by the things we’re against.

Yes, they’ll know us by the things that we’re against.

VERSE 2

We’ll shout the loudest. And we’ll show them who’s right.

We’ll shout the loudest. And we’ll show them who’s right.

And if they argue with us, well then, we’ll give them a fight.

CHORUS: And they’ll know we are Christians by our lhate, by our hate, by our hate. Yes, they’ll know we are Christians by our hate.

[We expect conformity to our rules and norms. Don’t think that you can come here and still expect to follow your own traditions and customs. When our founding fathers gave us Freedom of religion they meant freedom for OUR religion. There are men who fought and died for OUR freedom. They did not fight and die for yours].

FINAL VERSE.

All praise to the father from whom all things come;

And all praise to Christ Jesus his only son;

And all praise to the spirit who makes us one.

Like the beginning verse this remains true. Because God’s worthiness of praise remains a constant regardless of our behaviour. He always remains deserving).

Dear reader. 0You have every right to disagree with me. This  is only my opinion. But this one thing I ask of you. Please do not share it where you know that it will likely trigger hate-filled vitriolic exchanges on politics.

 Because I am not trying to make a political statement with what I have written. It just breaks my heart to know how far we are from being identified by our love.  

How can the world take on John Lennon’s song “Imagine” as their anthem, and then try to live it? And we, as christians, not put in the effort to make this anthem a reality? 

church branding.

Hello again, dear reader.

Do you want to know something that really bothers me?

What bothers me is how much information was available to me online when I asked google this simple question.

What is hurch branding strategy?

There is a lot out there. And they make it sound so right by saying things like, “Christian brands” (so to speak) should be living, breathing, and embodying a Christ-aligned spiritual core.

And things like, ”Portraying and emphasizing how your mission, vision, values, and goals align with God’s will is paramount.”

Pretty slick, don’t you think dear reader?

For centuries, people have chosen to brand themselves and their local churches with denominational labels in order to differentiate themselves.

Sadly, I have to wonder if even any of that was truly wise. One of the overarching themes of the new Testament is that the church here on earth is the living body of Christ. Not individual limbs and organs. But hat did not stop us from differentiating ourselves denominationally. The church names that I have always most liked have been those which include a neighbourhood or street name. That is practical. It helps me locate them, if I am new in town.

But this reliance on slick 20th and 21st century sales and marketing strategies really doesn’t sit well with me.

I think that is because no matter how much righteous and holy language you dress it up in, it is still building the church through human effort.

Certainly, many megachurches have become recognizable world-wide brands; Hillsong, Willow creek, and Saddleback to name a few.

And they all boast of extraordinarily large attendance statistics, and many conversions. All of which is interpreted as God’s blessing and his approval.

But is it?

God’s blessing is something rock solid. Unshakeable. Yet we are seeing the leadership of many of these megachurches fall into disgrace as their sin and corruption is exposed. And the institutions themselves coming into disrepute.

Jesus said, “I will build my church; and the gates of Hades shall not overpower it.” (Matthew 16:18 NASB).

There is no doubt in my mind that my stroke has brought me closer to God by forcing me to be more dependant on him, by giving me a fresh excitement about the coming resurrection, and by distilling my faith down to a simpler essence. Not a faith wrapped in slick packaging.

A few basic prayers that have become a part of my daily life. I wrote about them in this post. Kyrie.

and here. Favorite Prayer.

Thank you, dear reader for indulging me as I aired this concern.

Kyrie.

But is it?

christmas wishes from Canada.

This is not a new Christmas story. This is a collection of old memories that I have assembled together in one location in order to share them with all of my friends at Feelgood radio. I want to do my part in helping people feel good.

Charles Dickens had a recurring theme among his Christmas stories. “The beneficial effects of memory.”

A theme to which I easily relate since I am prone to sentimentality and nostalgia.

And over the past few years, I have attempted to bolster the Christmas spirit and bring you dear reader, a little joy through my own annual Christmas story.

You may recall my mission statement. “To use the written word in a way that elevates, rather than demeans the human spirit.

But, trying to select just one memory from my collection to share was too daunting for me. I prefer to let you, my reader, select your favorite and take a look at it once again this Christmas. So let’s rummage through these old storage boxes together and see what we find.

The first memory that I shared with you was when my four daughters were very young and early each December, I would take them Christmas shopping.

And I told you about their decade long Christmas eve written correspondance in Letters From Santa.

Which, based on people’s past reactions has been the most popular of my Christmas stories.

And we could not leave out the story of their Christmas cat.

And about some of the more humorous moments that took place during Christmas pageants in which my daughters have participated

Oh!look here dear reader. Do you remember the year that I told you about our disastrous efforts to attend the Santa Claus parade ?

And here is the story of how the year we celebrated Christmas the year that I was hospitalized. I’ll Be Home for Christmas.

Then I took you farther back in time and space to my home town of Tillsonburg which I described for you in Christmas when I was three.

Now there is something that I must confess to you dear reader. I was off by one year with the title of that memory.

Much of what I told you was consistanand unchanging, from year to year.

But, earlier this week a close relative sent me copies of some photographs labelled Christmas 1967 (the year that I was three). So I was received a reminder that I was not at home in Tillsonburg that Christmas morning. I was with my family paying a visit to my aunt, uncle and three older cousins.

And the Eldon toy company did not begin selling Billy Blastoff until 1968 (when I was four years old). But those old b/w photographs triggered a flood of wonderful memories from that day: which house we were at, what toys I received as gifts, what we ate for dinner, where at the table each family member sat, and what family games we played together following dinner, and more.

Since penning that story, I have also learned that Santa’s house is memory that is dear to many others my age who grew up in Tillsonburg. And I have also learned w,here it was stored during the off season (when it was not sitting at the corner of Ridout street and Broadway.

But those of us who claim Tillsonburg have even more memories in common. I told you one of those when I wrote about the importance of http://yellow newsprint

A story which Tillsonburg’s own miseum and archive of local history, Annandale NHS, chose to feature on their own website and Facebook page.

As well as this year’s story about the annual radio news bulletins from NORAD

Then going back to family memories, I told you about my dad and his Front yard Santa , and the year we experienced a Tree fall.

And one of the pieces that is dearest to my own heart, the tiny church.

Please dear reader, enjoy them at your leisure. And if you find one that you find one in particular which elevates your spirit and puts you feel good please let me know which one it is. I already have a couple of fun Christmas inspired ideas simmering in my thoughts for next December. And I hope you are going to want to came back then to celebrate Christmas 20w4 with me.

Black Friday.

Good morning dear reader. Well, the month of December is now well underway.

Office Christmas parties are taking place and families are busy trying to coordinate plans for other Christmas gatherings with each other. I have been enjoying listening to the music of the season (mostly recordings of old favorites). And of course doing some Christmas window shopping.

These days, (post stroke and post pandemic) most of my shopping is done on-line. Amazon, of course, is the largest of the virtual department stores.

But something is missing. Growing up, I rather enjoyed the hustle and bustle of Tillsonburg’s downtown retail district. There was a friendly and festive feel to it.

But Chtistmas shopping has changed radically since those days.

It is something approaching more of a blood-sport now. It seems less like the magical picture painted by the lyrics of the Carol “Silver bells.” And more greedy than I remember.

I think it began with that day that they now refer to as Black Friday(which has now expanded to include cyber Monday). An American phenomenon that has been embraced with open arms here in Canada.

Now I have heard, second-hand some very funny stories about my mother, who, along with another group of ladies (a group which included her sisters, and a couple of friends), went adventuring cross-border, that have had me laughing.

When they were younger, those ladies looked forward every year to that time spent together. So I am not against sales and shopping.

But what does get me down is the way in which that former one day/single weekend event has become such a symbol of seasonsl greed and avarice.

The television advertisements begin airing in early to mid October.

And then, Black Friday sales drag on well into the month of December.

And even now as advertisements for those sales events are beginning to abate, the fearsome engine on the retail shopping machine is beginning to fire up once again, and I am seeing and hearing advertisements for Boxing week blowout sales. We haven”t even reached Christmas day yet.

Long gone is the era when it was a Boxing day event.

No. Because retailers are doggedly pursuing the contents of your wallet, it has evolved into Boxing week. Not content with just your wallet , they want your heart as well.

I do not mean to come across as either Ebeneezer Scrooge, or the Grinch with what I am saying, dear reader. And I apologize to you if it feels that way.

But I am beginning to feel like Charlie Brown lamenting all of the commercialism that he saw around him.

And whether I like it or not, that is what our culture has become. I can not reverse it.

So I am faced with the choice of either embracing it or resisting it.

Please believe me when I tell you dear reader that I am firmly convinced that the spirit of Christmas is still alive and well.

I do believe that generosity and kindness are still virtues, that are displayed more readily during the Christmas season . And so like Scrooge,’s nephew, Fred, I say, “God bless it.“

But I will be making a counter-cultural choice to not take part. Even to the point of avoiding references, when possible, to either Boxing day or Boxing week.

You may recall, dear reader, that there is a carol sung this time of year that extols the virtues of generosity and kindness.

That song is Good King Wenceslas.

the feast of Stephen (St Stephen’s day) also happens to fall on the 26th of December. So if you and I should cross paths, and I happen to wish you a merry Christmas and a blessed St. Stephen’s day, dear reader, you will understand why.