I’m finally giving in. The retail stores have been pushing it since the week after Labor Day. Which, if I’m honest, kinda ticks me off. The ads and flyers have been coming in the mailbox for weeks. We’re not even midway through November and I’ve heard of some friends who have already drug out the tree from the basement.

“I just couldn’t wait,” they said.

Marion and I were sitting at Sam’s last week. We happened to get there not long after noon. This automatically meant that I was hungry and had to have something to eat. So, we grabbed two of the $2.50 pizza-slice-and-drink combos. We were living in high cotton.

Anyway, across from our fluorescent lit romantic table and beyond the beeping cash register lines, there stood a mountain of gaudy, glitzy, and gargantuan Christmas decorations. Deer. Elves. Stars. Disco balls. I think that there was maybe even a dolphin.

Really?

I was feeling very cynical. “I don’t see how they sell any of that crap.” I actually referred to the store’s effort at Christmas as a load of crappola.

It got to me because, one, Christmas was almost two months away. Two, every piece on display was so extremely ornate that it was ugly. To me these decorations cheapen the season. Three, there was no Santa. And four, it’s not about Santa, deer, and elves anyway. We all know that argument well.

But this week, something shifted for me. I’m giving in. I’m ready.

It helped that I had my first fire of the year in my fireplace a few nights ago. That deep south arctic air mass moved in on us and gave us all a bone-cold chill. The fire felt great. The crackling and popping sounded wonderful. A good fire has a way of soothing in me even the worst of my Scrooge moods.

Having a fire paved the way for my seasonal transition.

I started thinking about the cookies and the presents to buy. I’ll eventually bring out the tree and put lights on it, but not until after Thanksgiving. Say what you want, but that’s my rule. I’m giving in to the spirit of Christmas, but the tree is gonna wait.

I’m ready for the spirit of the season that changes us into decent human beings. I want to see children dressed in robes and fake beards. I’m ready to hear the harmonies that come from the voices of young carolers. And soon we’ll be singing the familiar words of ancient tunes to celebrate the season.

I’m guessing that Graceland is already in lights. I know that the Biltmore has already started giving Christmas tours. The tree in Pine Mountain will be lit on Friday night. And I should probably pull down the Christmas coffee mugs at my house.

Why not? It’s time.

I was looking through Spotify for some background music while I was out in my shop. Alabama came up on my search, and in particular their Christmas album. This is not your usual “chestnuts roasting” kind of Christmas music. Their music is more like my memories of home. I figured it might help me find Christmas. The voice of Randy spoke to me.

I hit the play button.

I still believe in Santa, which means I believe in the joy on a child’s face. The mystery of a gift that seems to appear in the night out of nowhere. The love that goes into that gift, and the warmth that gift will bring long after the gift itself is gone.

This is the season that changes a harsh spirit into kindness. It is the season that gives us a reason to hope beyond our sorrows. It is the merriest season of all; and all that joy, and all that hope, and all that kindness doesn’t come from an Elf in lights. The preacher says it comes from Joseph and Mary’s boy.

Christmas memories. These are the images that stay with you until you’re old and grey. We’d pull up to the house after dark, on a Sunday night after church, and seeing our Christmas tree all lit up in the front window; that was such a good feeling. I could sit in the living room with all the lights out and stare at that tree for hours. Dreaming. Wishing. Hoping.

It seems now that I almost knew then that I had better hold on to those memories because Christmas would never be like that again. And it turns out that Christmas does change. It’s never like it used to be. Not like when I was little. Not like when my kids were little. But the memories connect the old to the new, and somehow Christmas is still the same.

Then there were the candles in the windows. Those white plastic “candelabras” that stood in perfect tiers on the windowsills of homes all across the rural south. Five candles, I think. One candelabra in each window across the front of the house. Most of them used a white light. The brave went for blue or green light bulbs.

A candle in the window says, “Come on in.” Inside this house there’s a warmth where everyone is welcome. Inside this house there’s laughter, and cookies, and chocolate covered cherries. There’s a light in the window that invites the Light of the world to live here.

All of this I’ve been telling you came from the music. I didn’t hear every word that day in the shop, so when I got in my truck to drive up to Newnan, I called that album up on Spotify again. I listened to the whole thing. Every word. Twice. And I’m listening to it again as I write this lame attempt at a story.

You see, the spirit of Christmas is not about the time of year. The joy of Christmas is not about how many lights you can string together. The gift of Christmas is not about how many yards of colored paper you use to wrap all the Amazon boxes under the tree.

It’s not that. Which is probably why I have a hard time getting into the “retail” spirit of the season. We all know it’s more than that.

The gift that means the most is not inside a box. The real gift of Christmas is inside our hearts.

That’s the way Alabama sang it, anyway.

They close the album with “Christmas in Dixie.” They say that there’s snow in New York City. Sunshine out in LA. In the Windy City the kids are all out of school. Motown is on the move. From Jackson, Mississippi to Charlotte, Caroline…

No matter where you find yourself, Christmas comes and with it, peace on earth. Christmas sets the stage for a season that is far different than any other. The snow falling through the pines of Fort Payne, Alabama brings a quiet to the soul that says, “I love this time of year.”

I may not see any snow this year. The weather doesn’t accommodate the deep south very often. Besides, it’s supposed to be 75° today.

But that’s okay. It’s that time.

You know you wanna play the album. 1985 version.

You’re welcome.