C.S. Lewis Was Too Cynical About Christmas

As a child in the 1950s, I had a different experience. My parents were Christmas addicts. The season was glorious. It began the day after Thanksgiving and rolled on through early January with wreaths, creches, Advent calendars, elf charts, midnight Mass, cards, gifts, and hours of carols. My dad spray-painted our tree silver each year. At night, it was alive with glistening ornaments, lights and the promise of marvels to come. I also learned, from hands-on experience, that those fluffy white clouds surrounding our Nativity scene and Baby Jesus weren’t made of cotton but of hundreds of thin, intensely sharp strands of spun glass.