When I was young and all was fresh and new,
and Christmas trees were tall and covered up
with fancy balls and bubbling lights that shone
through glittering tinsel hung upon each bough,
I could not seem to tear myself away.
Colored wrappers topped with shiny bows
could hold me in their hypnotizing trance.
I could not sleep at all the night before
so tossed and turned until the morning broke.
With energy I’d never have again,
I peeped around the corner just to see
if Santa had put toys beneath our tree.
Then as I grew, my childhood feelings changed.
Replaced by facts, as notions were debunked.
But I still searched for presents just to see
if Santa had left one or two for me.
The years flew by and I was Santa Claus.
My kids were now where I could only dream.
And once again I shared with them the awe.
But, in that joy, was weariness it seemed.
Brought on by months of gaudy ads and things.
I sat amid the rubble of our fete
and thought on why we give the gifts we do.
And as I did a peace came over me,
Jesus was the reason for our mirth.
Born in the little town of
God’s gift to undeserving men on earth.