There we were, just this week, singing verse after verse of it. Joy to the World.
Yes, I know it’s summertime. Even so, at our church evergreen trees glowed with bright white lights, holiday arrangements graced the altar, and the air conditioning blasted cold air into the atmosphere because members of the congregation came to worship in long-sleeved sweaters and holiday vests scattered with poinsettias, Christmas trees and the word Noel.
Yes, I know it’s summertime, but at our church we were celebrating Christmas in July.
Sunday morning reminded me of Thanksgiving time at my house when my grandkids decorate the Christmas tree. Yes, I know Thanksgiving waddles into our lives in autumn, packed with stuffed turkeys, loads of potatoes and pumpkin pie, but we were celebrating Christmas. Little August, only three or four, did his part, hanging a half dozen ornaments on the tree, the color of shiny, golden stars, all exactly alike. And when he was done, there they were, all in a row, all on one branch, each about an inch apart. Were they perfect? They were to him. And to his Grandma.
When I was August’s age, okay, when I was a little older, my brother and I decorated our Christmas tree. Ron would carefully divide the tree in half so that my random globs of tinsel, catapulted onto the branches with wild abandon, wouldn’t ooze over onto his perfectly coiffed branches, one shiny individual strand of silver tinsel per individual pine needle. His side was a shimmering masterpiece, a Monet or Renoir perhaps, while my side could have been finished late one night by Picasso with a Tom and Jerry in each hand and a house-painter’s brush in his teeth.
Let’s face it, if our lives had been a tv reality show, my brother would have been the American Idol and I would have been the Biggest Loser.
But life isn’t a game of Dancing with the Stars or The Voice where perfectly wondrous singers, who—it seems to viewers—hit every note spot on and still get the axe. Where dance lines in joyous rows of happy, tapping feet get booted off the stage. Sometimes life is just a game of mediocrity, where we don’t always exhibit flawless acts of performance. None of us gets through it without some serious Bloopers. We don’t all score a ten. The importance lies in showing up on stage at all.
So I don’t say dance like no one’s watching; I say dance like everyone’s watching. Yes, I know no one is, but pretend they are anyway, and they’re cheering us on. Give it all you’ve got. Hang ‘em like you’ve got ‘em. Sing joyful Christmas tunes even if it is July. Let all your songs employ.
And then repeat. Repeat. Repeat the sounding joy.
Merry Christmas.
LaRayne Topp
Yes, I know it’s summertime. Even so, at our church evergreen trees glowed with bright white lights, holiday arrangements graced the altar, and the air conditioning blasted cold air into the atmosphere because members of the congregation came to worship in long-sleeved sweaters and holiday vests scattered with poinsettias, Christmas trees and the word Noel.
Yes, I know it’s summertime, but at our church we were celebrating Christmas in July.
Sunday morning reminded me of Thanksgiving time at my house when my grandkids decorate the Christmas tree. Yes, I know Thanksgiving waddles into our lives in autumn, packed with stuffed turkeys, loads of potatoes and pumpkin pie, but we were celebrating Christmas. Little August, only three or four, did his part, hanging a half dozen ornaments on the tree, the color of shiny, golden stars, all exactly alike. And when he was done, there they were, all in a row, all on one branch, each about an inch apart. Were they perfect? They were to him. And to his Grandma.
When I was August’s age, okay, when I was a little older, my brother and I decorated our Christmas tree. Ron would carefully divide the tree in half so that my random globs of tinsel, catapulted onto the branches with wild abandon, wouldn’t ooze over onto his perfectly coiffed branches, one shiny individual strand of silver tinsel per individual pine needle. His side was a shimmering masterpiece, a Monet or Renoir perhaps, while my side could have been finished late one night by Picasso with a Tom and Jerry in each hand and a house-painter’s brush in his teeth.
Let’s face it, if our lives had been a tv reality show, my brother would have been the American Idol and I would have been the Biggest Loser.
But life isn’t a game of Dancing with the Stars or The Voice where perfectly wondrous singers, who—it seems to viewers—hit every note spot on and still get the axe. Where dance lines in joyous rows of happy, tapping feet get booted off the stage. Sometimes life is just a game of mediocrity, where we don’t always exhibit flawless acts of performance. None of us gets through it without some serious Bloopers. We don’t all score a ten. The importance lies in showing up on stage at all.
So I don’t say dance like no one’s watching; I say dance like everyone’s watching. Yes, I know no one is, but pretend they are anyway, and they’re cheering us on. Give it all you’ve got. Hang ‘em like you’ve got ‘em. Sing joyful Christmas tunes even if it is July. Let all your songs employ.
And then repeat. Repeat. Repeat the sounding joy.
Merry Christmas.
LaRayne Topp
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