I’m driving through my neighborhood a few nights ago and come to realize that Christmas is upon us. Given that I had been in rehearsals for six weeks and now perform in a stage production where Christmas is tossed around more often than the F-word in a Tarrantino movie, perhaps I should be troubled that I am only now coming to that realization. But not as troubled as when witnessing the awful carnage of holiday tradition littering my neighbor’s front lawns. 
Seriously, my street looks like Achmed the Dead Terrorist detonated in the seasonal aisle at Wal-Mart.
Let me clarify: I’m no Scrooge (no offense, David Lambert). I appreciate the expression of joy my fellow homeowners display during this time of the year. Furthermore, I share that joy myself and would never intend to discourage others from demonstrating it. Having said that, while the expression of such joy is always legitimate, the execution is often less so. It’s like when your four year-old brings you their latest artistic achievement in crayon. You love it, it is beautiful, you proudly display it on your refrigerator. Well, that’s my neighborhood at this time of year — one big, ugly refrigerator.
So, burdened with the conflicting joy of the Christmas Spirit coupled with the dreadful, can’t-take-your-eyes-off-it fascination one experiences driving past auto accidents, I pull into my garage, say a little prayer as the door descends and enter my home content in knowing there is love in the world even if it is not always pretty.
Then my friend Steve Lindsey posts this on Facebook:
Brad Stephens 