There was a time I loved Christmas; a time I counted the days waiting for its arrival. I still count the days, but now I am anticipating its end.

Before you think me anti-American, anti-Christ, anti-fun, or anti-anything else, let me assure you that I am not. Somewhere in all the preparation and celebration, the holiday has been lost. It isn’t fun anymore, and it should be.

This is not a piece about the “reason for the season,” Jesus Christ, or about the glories of Santa Claus, or any other celebrated being. This is about time; the time when I enjoyed Christmas, and the time to do it again.

It seems that in my childhood and youth there was time to absorb the season and its reason, time to cook and bake and smell the goodies, and time to taste them. There was time to carol — to sing and be sung to. There was time to visit with relatives and friends, time to write an individual message in each Christmas card, time to take calls from loved ones far away and time to remember those even further away that you would never see again. There was time to go to church and sit and listen and remember, but it’s gone; if not completely gone, greatly diminished. There is just too much to do in so little time.

I am writing this on the third day of the month, and already I am overwhelmed with demands on my time. My December calendar looks as if it is bleeding for all the red ink signifying important events: my girl’s concerts, church obligations (I am to be narrator in two presentations) party here, dinner there, trip to and from, shop here then there, buy this or that, we even have phases of decorating the house calendared. If it doesn’t get calendared, it doesn’t happen. There just isn’t time. Time, time … where does it all go?

I resolve this year to do it differently even with the packed schedule. I’m going stop and take time …

To look at the lights I hang, not cuss them.

To sit, hold and read every Christmas card we get, and think of who sent them and why.

To sing loud, even though awfully, and listen to every hymn and carol.

To read out loud the story of the Savior’s birth, “The Cajun Night Before Christmas,” “The Polar Express” and watch “Claymation Christmas” — all more than once.

To smell the divinity, fudge and pralines, along with the ham, turkey and other goodies before they are devoured.

To read the list I made at Thanksgiving of the things I am thankful for and remind myself how blessed I am.

To make someone smile everyday by a kind word, thought, deed, or even my smile.

To call, not e-mail, all my family and friends before Christmas to let them know I have taken the time to think of them.

That’s what I’m going to do. I’m not going to make time, that never happens, I’m going to take time, it’s mine anyway, and make it move slower, savor it all, all the things that make Christmas special. This year, I resolve to be a kid again, I think I remember how. And I’m going to like Christmas — it’s about time.

David Wilson Atwood is a local freelance writer whose human interest columns offer a unique perspective.