Opinions

I had the privilege of checking something of my bucket list a couple of years ago when I had the privilege of worshipping at Carey Baptist Church in Moulton, England. The church is where William Carey ministered before he answered God’s call to go be a missionary in India.

For Christmas, I was the recipient of a pineapple planter. It is a decorative ceramic piece--all white--which looks like the round part of a pineapple with an open top for whatever plant you choose to add, and a drainage hole in the bottom. It is lovely. For many years and for various reasons, I have collected pineapples. Initially I was intrigued when I learned the fruits took center stage as Christmas decorations for the American colonies, earning them the title of “The Colonial Symbol of Hospitality.” But I liked them, too, because my college roommate was from a small town in Alabama called, of course, Pine Apple: population 132. I have fond memories of this town which is now only a small collection of charming houses. Gone is the school, and the general store, and the bank. But the two-block main street still intrigues me, bearing a name that belongs in Hawaii.

“Perfection is the enemy of progress,” according to Winston Churchill. It’s the time of year when we try to do too much, change too quickly. Already expectations are lowering, and reality is setting in. The sky is gray, the temperatures cold, and I am coming to grips with the fact that I cannot eat toffee every day. (At least, not a lot of toffee every day.) It’s the mid-January new year letdown. More people die this time of year than on average. I imagine they make it through the holidays, finish off the toffee, take down the tree, look out at the gray weather, decide the New Year is not looking significantly better than the previous one and give up the effort to keep on living. I spoke with my grouchy friend yesterday. This is the same grouchy friend who has cursed my cheerfulness in the past -- and is a source of unflagging pessimism -- so I should have known what was coming. He says there is no cause for rejoicing in the new year. He says the days are growing longer, and that means intolerable heat is around the corner. He says any promises he makes to himself will be broken. “I gave up goals and dreams in the summer of 1971,” he says. He thinks I am a fool. I think he’s right. And I believe this may be one of my best qualities. Because the older I get, the less seriously I take myself. I used to obsess over not looking my best, walking around with spinach in my teeth or toilet paper on my shoe or a tag hanging out the back of my shirt. I used to beat myself up (usually hours later, while doing the dishes or trying to fall asleep) for some dumb thing I said -- something that someone could have taken the wrong way.

While the rest of heaven and nature was singing about the glad tidings of Christmas, my backyard cardinals went on strike. Here they are, dressed like Christmas for 12 months of the year and when the days on the calendar draw ever closer to the 25th of December, the cardinals and their red suits take a leave of absence.