Twas the week before Christmas [vintage 1986; December 18]]

It doesn''t seem like Christmas is just a week away,
Not today.
All days seem somewhat similar, or dis-,
And so they are, for a "grown-up," that is.
They go on and on in a stream unbreakable
With expectations and demands unshakable.

Life wasn't always so regimented
As to drive one to be nearly demented.
There was a childhood in everyone's past,
And for most it couldn't last.
Oh, not the immaturity, that's not what I mean,
But the sense of seeing which was once more keen.

The sense of seeing and of surprise
Gets lost in the transfer to "adult" eyes
And wonder is with worry and rush replaced
As we learn that no haste is waste.

So Christmas becomes another season
Filled less with wonder than with reason,
And we hurry and we count
As commitments mount,
And we rush and we fret
About what isn't done yet,
And we lose our breath and our peace,
For this is grownuoness--no time for release!

We push and we panic and we hope we won't be late;
We've got to dash and dash and push away the hate
Of the guy who cut in front of us in any given line
And of the children weary who scream and whine
And we put on the right face
As we push the frenetic pace
Which never comes to a sane halt of quiet;
Don't try to deny it.

That's how it gets to be
As we all verge on seasonal insanity.

It isn't just grading and papers to write
That makes us lose sleep on these winter's night
After night but the pace that we buy
And the stories we self-tell, those are why

Christmas cannot come in just seven days--
We've run far too low on our stock of praise
In our haste and in our worry
Mostly what we've got is hurry
And praise takes time--a precious commodity
Whether in country or city community--
And we've used it and gotten overdrawn
And now we are feeling quite put upon. . . .

We cannot buy praise or thanks;
They don't draw interest in banks.
They come from a heart
At peace, quiet, in part
From not competing,
Not head-beating
Against the nearest wall
For not being better than everyone or all.

Grace is what it takes to praise
And praise makes grace abound on days
When both seem in shortest supply
And for both, each, all, God is why.

He is reason enough for each rejoicement,
The Word who defines what the voice meant,
And goes beyond, and sweetly surrounds, protects,
Within whose confines we can connect
And find tranquility and content,
Finally whole, our hearts no longer rent,
For He is our peace and in His image we
Can find joy and harmony.

Then Christmas and Easter and all other days
Will find for us the norm is praise.
Circumstances be what they may,
Let joy resound both night and day.