THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, December 24, 1995 TAG: 9512220184
SECTION: SUFFOLK SUN PAGE: 06 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Editorial
SOURCE: John Pruitt
LENGTH: Medium: 76 lines
This is John Pruitt's favorite holiday column from Christmases past.
Several years ago, I came upon a poem titled ``Slow me down, Lord.'' Its theme: In the rush of life, we somehow must slow down to enjoy the little things that are so important.
Its message seems particularly appropriate at Christmas, when the rush can overwhelm the celebration.
I'm so busy, I think: How on Earth am I to get it all done?
True, I say upon reflection, but suppose you had nothing to do.
The house is a chore to decorate, I murmur. It seems only minutes ago that we were taking down last year's tree.
Remember childhood, when Christmases seemed light years apart?
Yes, dressing the house in Christmas fancy can be burdensome, I say upon reflection, but what if you were homeless as many people are this Christmas? What if every day meant nothing more than passing time? Be thankful for a home to decorate and the means to buy the tree.
Advanced deadlines for the newspaper are such a pain, I complain, that I'd almost rather just work on holidays.
Then I read of businesses that are closing, of people who've worked hard all their lives, being told that their jobs no longer exist, and I see ``For Sale'' signs on the lawns of people who love their homes but who can no longer make the mortgage payments.
And I chide myself: Yeah, go ahead - complain. But before you launch into that, look around you.
Look at the Christmas tree and reflect on the things there:
The foam gingerbread man, with a leg bitten off by our son when he was just big enough to reach the tree. Where did all the years go? Can he really be 23?
Those crocheted candles, bells and Santas, made so lovingly by my mother. She doesn't do that ``close work'' now - her eyes, you know.
This ``Baby's first Christmas'' ornament, a gift from a cousin when our daughter was born. Gee, she's 14.
The frayed, tin angel, a memento of my wife's childhood Christmas, atop the tree. She's beautifully ugly.
Look, too, at the Angel Tree at church, bearing the names of children who, without the good will of those of us blessed to be among the ``haves,'' will find themselves among the ``have nots,'' even at Christmas.
Look at the clothes your children have, the warm beds they sleep in every night, the diversions available to them. And imagine how hard it would be for the parents of Angel Tree children to know that they're unable to meet even basic needs.
While you're looking around , I think, give some thought to how fortunate you are to be able to take in the sights and sounds of Christmas.
Suppose you couldn't hear the giggles of children singing ``Away in a Manger'' or the heavenly strains of ``Messiah.''
Suppose you couldn't hear the Salvation Army bell ringers or children's disrespectful versions of three kings who smoked rubber cigars.
Moan, too, about all the food you'll consume and the few pounds you might gain.
Then listen to the pleas that arrive every day from soup kitchens, the Union Mission, the Salvation Army and others working to meet the needs of the hungry.
Pretty soon, we come to realize that wealth is measured in terms beyond the bank account.
Yeah, family members get on our nerves. But aren't we lucky to have someone to love us even when we're irritable?
Yeah, Christmas can be a headache. But aren't we lucky to be healthy enough that aspirin will cure most of our ailments?
Just by slowing down, we can, as the writer of ``It Came Upon the Midnight Clear'' wrote:
``Rest beside the weary road and hear the angels sing.'' by CNB