Suffering from a case of the Christmas crazies?

This afternoon I stood in a long line at Macy's.  You know what I'm talking about-- you've been there yourself.  The 80-something-year-old-woman in front of me took a ridiculous amount of time to make her purchase.  She knew they could find what she wanted on that computer and she was using her 20 percent off coupon that expired yesterday, by golly.  The clerk was sweet and patient with this woman, but the other shoppers were not.  I was humming "O Come, o come Emmanuel" in my head to hide the irritation that was expressed by my body language.  I was hot and laden down with heavy bags.

If you're like me, you're up to your eyeballs in shopping, wrapping, decorating, baking and attempting to create the perfect Norman Rockwell holiday for your family.  Have you found the perfect gift for someone on your list only to return it days later because it's not quite perfect enough?  I have.  It's a genetic condition I inherited from my mother.

Most of what we do at Christmas doesn't matter.  Your children don't care how many cookies you bake.  They don't like tea cookies with nuts in them anyway.  In a day of Facebook and text messages, Christmas cards are unnecessary.  Years from now your children won't remember if your house had enough outdoor lights to dazzle the neighborhood or if your minivan was decked out to look like a reindeer.  They won't remember what the wrapping paper or bows on the packages looked like.  I hate to break this to you but . . . a year from now, they won't  remember that you were up at 2 a.m. on Black Friday to beat out all the other moms to find the perfect gift (at a great price) for Christmas morning.

What your children will remember is having a warm, safe, happy home filled with love.  They'll remember giggling with their siblings, or cuddling up with mom and dad on a snowy night to read a Christmas story.  They'll remember watching Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer again and again and again. They'll remember the fun of finding a brand new box of crayons hidden away in their stocking and a few Hershey kisses at the bottom.  They'll remember playing with empty boxes and balls of wrapping paper strewn about the family room floor after gifts were opened.  They won't remember what you fixed for Christmas dinner, but they'll fondly remember a house filled with grandma and grandpa and aunts and uncles and cousins and laughter and love. 

So let's make a pact right now.  Raise your right hand and repeat after me: "I (state your name) do solemnly swear to cross off all the unnecessary junk from my Christmas list RIGHT NOW, turn on some quiet Christmas music (I can highly recommend Michael Buble's new CD) and snuggle with those I love most in the world.  I promise to slow down and experience all the precious bits of Christmas that will happen in the next few weeks and not to put pressure on myself to create a perfect Christmas morning.  I promise to meditate on that baby in a manger, sent to give hope to a dark world, and to pass His love and hope on to my own babies."