I’ve never experienced a perfect Christmas, such as Martha Stewart might orchestrate with hand-embroidered stockings and precisely shaped gingerbread men, but I’m OK with that.
You see, no one has ever brought me a figgy pudding, nor are my halls decked with boughs of holly, since the cat would probably eat them.
I stopped believing in Santa at age 7, when my older cousins gleefully pointed out the large, red suit dangling from my aunt’s clothesline.
That was proof positive my heavy-set uncle was the fellow who distributed gifts to the kids. Which was fine with me, because my relationship with Santa was anything but cordial.
My first encounter with a department store Santa is recorded for posterity, in a photo showing yours truly as a toddler, perched upon the big guy’s lap and crying her eyes out.
Truth be told, my favorite Christmases are ones where something went wrong, but everyone got a good laugh anyway.
There was the year my sister’s dog Snoopy ate some ornaments off the tree, which was discovered when my brother-in-law took her for a walk — and noticed her droppings were sparkling.
The time when my nephew climbed from his crib early Christmas morning and opened everyone’s presents beneath the tree.
In each case, the memory gave rise to funny Christmas stories for years.
Twentieth-century writer Flannery O’Connor had three donkeys on her Georgia farm, which were invited one year to participate in Christmas events at two local churches.
She sent Ernest, since he was the tamest, and he evidently behaved himself in the living manger scene at the Christian church.
But at the last minute, he balked at participating in the pageant at the Methodist church, creating an uproarious memory for the churchgoers.
Flannery dryly concluded that Ernest simply didn’t care for fellowship.
The Scriptures show Jesus as a joyful person, whom critics accused of drinking and eating too much, activities associated with celebrations.
And before he died, he said to his friends, “I have told you this so that my joy might remain in you, and that your joy might be complete.”
Happiness is fleeting, but Christian joy endures, even through painful times, because this joy is based on God’s love, which never fails us.
You see this joy in Our Lady of Perpetual Help home, where the Dominican Sisters of Hawthorne care for terminally ill cancer patients in an upbeat, loving way.
When her son Will was 3, my friend Cathy gave him an Advent calendar with a chocolate hidden behind each date.
She explained he should unveil one chocolate per day until Christmas —“when Santa comes.”
The next day, she discovered he’d opened the entire calendar and eaten all the chocolates.
When asked why, he innocently added to the season’s joy by saying, “Because I wanted Santa to come.”
And long ago, when I was in the choir at St. Thomas More church, a fellow from the congregation read aloud a Scripture passage, including a mistake that became infamous.
The passage was, “When the sun had set and it was dark, there appeared a smoking brazier and a flaming torch.”
Since the word “brazier” was unfamiliar, he emphasized the wrong syllable, and said “smoking brassiere.”
This faux pas was indelibly imprinted on the memories of choir members, who struggled to sing the next hymn.
At the heart of the Christmas story, we discover the message that God loved us so much, he came into our imperfect world, where hilarious mishaps often make the most lasting memories.
Dear readers, I wish you joy during this Christmas season, and always.
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