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 sad to day, I am anticipating its end, and that should not be. 

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. It all has to do with time. The time when I enjoyed Christmas, and the time to do it again.

In my childhood and youth, I remember that 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, both singing and hearing. 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 seems to be gone. If it isn’t gone, it is greatly diminished. There is just too much to do in so little time.

It is the second week of the month and 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. I have Princess’ concerts, church obligations, 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 different even with the packed schedule. I’m going to 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 perhaps my smile to them.

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 am going to take time. The time is mine anyway.

I am going to make it move slower, savor it all, all the things that make Christmas special. This year, I resolve to do Christmas like I did when I was a kid. I think I remember how, and I’m going to like Christmas, not dread it. It’s about time.

David Wilson Atwood is a local writer whose human-interest columns offer a unique perspective. He is the author of Where the Mockingbird Sang, A Novel of the Civil War and I Followed the Wolf, Buck's Story, the prequel/sequel to Where the Mockingbird Sang. He may be contacted, and his other works viewed at: www.starchasers.us, or david@starchasers.us.