Have a wonderful Christmas!

Merry Christmas to kids everywhere who last night tightly squeezed their eyes and strained to hear reindeer footsteps on the rooftop. They finally fell asleep in a bed full of warmth and full of dreams. And Merry Christmas to all of us who wish we could

still believe in a Santa Claus.

Merry Christmas to those who stood at midnight masses and proclaimed loudly a joy to the world. And to those exchanging hearty handshakes and greetings of fellowship across all churches and all denominations last night and today. Affiliations aside, a Christian is a Christian. Faith is faith. May you all follow you own North Star. May you sleep in heavenly peace. May you follow the path of the Magi and smell the incense and myrrh. There is a reason they became known as Wise Men.

Merry Christmas to those standing alone and humbled while pausing in front of a manger at a nativity scene. In the quietness of their thoughts they will take faith in knowing a Saviour was indeed born for all mankind some 20 centuries ago.

And Merry Christmas to the secularists. You need it more than anyone. Step back and behold the miracle. Be awed. Be humbled. Be quiet. Please, be quiet.

Merry Christmas to those preferring “Merry Christmas” over “Merry Xmas.” We get the part that the latter actually dates back centuries with the “X” being derived from an ancient Greek word variation meaning “Christ.” At least that what our research discovered. But, after all, He is referred to as “Jesus Christ” and not “Jesus X.” Right?

Merry Christmas to the 50, 60, 70, heck, 80-something “kids” who still get a kick by stealing some moments and going down the basement to play choo-choo with those big clunky oversized Lionel trains that we loved so long ago.

Merry Christmas to children who still have fun building stuff like Tinker Toys–not needing a plug, battery, digital card, net hook-up or what have you to do so. Umm, they still do make Tinker Toys, no?

Merry Christmas, God bless those lovable little devils, to all the toddlers out there who will choose to play not with the $500 kitchen play set their first-time parents bought them for Christmas but instead with the cardboard box it came in.

Merry Christmas to all the sleepy dads out there who built the, yeah right, “just follow the simple and easy directions” Barbie Dream Castles into the cursed wee hours of last night. And then realizing it was worth it after when seeing their daughter’s eyes

sparkle like moonlight on a snow drift this Christmas morn. The dreaded words “adult assembly required” can be downright scary. And does anyone out there have any extra batteries and an Allen wrench?

Merry Christmas to those putting up with developing incipient rigor mortis while standing endlessly in a checkout line that seemingly never moved. Sometimes destined to languish while stuck in a crowded checkout lane when all movement is suddenly suspended for an interminable amount of time whenever the cashier yells out those dreaded words: “Price check, needed!” Do you often end up in one of those lines, too? For what seems like hours at a time? To those always getting stuck with the shopping cart that has a wheel that always jams and makes funny clickety clack noises about every third revolution. Yeah, that one. Every store has some. It’s like a law or something. Merry Christmas to those having to park in another county away from the desired store and having to flag down a taxi to get there. But hey, c’mon, admit it. You know it was all worth it.

Merry Christmas to all of the determined, credit card waving parents who were able to track down the hottest toys of the season. One is called L.O.L. — basically giant plastic globes containing layers, think onion skin, that kids tore apart to get to little compartmentalized toys inside. Of course, it seems that there several hundred thousand such different little dolls and outfits to collect that children are coveting. L.O.L. is exactly what the toy manufacturers and investors are doing all the way to the bank. Last year’s hotter-than-a solar flare toy called a Fingerling returned. Of course, there are now several hundred thousand different ones to collect. Just kidding, a little. Last year Fingerlings became the Beanie Babies and Cabbage Patch Kids of yore. A Fingerling was a cleverly engineered and genius marketing top ploy. It should be studied in college economic classes. The colorful creatures cling to the little fingers of wide-eyed children. Sensors and such allow them to react to gestures and sounds. They gab, kiss, snore and even fart. Just think parents — and, wink, grandparents — you got the kid a toy that farts. At about 12 bucks a pop. Or toot, more like it.

Merry Christmas to the parents who — damn the weather, wet clothes and sniffles — will let their anxious kids outside in the snow to ride those spanking new sleds like sleek wings across the clouds. And, don’t worry, there is plenty of snow to come. We live

in northeast Ohio, remember?

Merry Christmas to all recovering addicts. The key word, of course, is recovering. Keep at it. There are many success stories out there. Merry Christmas to all of those who are just plain depressed. The holiday blues, as it is called. Being mentally downtrodden is a real and serious condition. But chins up. You are never alone. Especially during the holidays. Never forget that. That tall shadow you see belongs to someone standing behind you, ready to help. A hand is always reaching out.

Merry Christmas to all the paycheck-to-paycheck parents who somehow, some way — without completely blowing their credit limit! — balanced their budgets like a Ringling Brothers high-wire act to buy enough to cover the entire floor in front of the Christmas tree. And they’ll do it again next year because if feels so good to do so. Those out there who don’t fully understand that feeling must have never had children or grandchildren. You have no idea what you missed.

Merry Christmas to all the senior citizens who will quietly sit and rock in a chair tonight recalling Christmases spent during the Depression and a World War. They will recall cracking walnuts and whittling a Christmas tree decoration out of a simple piece of wood with a pocket knife given to them by their own grandpap. They will open the scrapbooks of their souls and wonder where oh where did so many Christmases and calendars go. Somewhere off in the distance in the back of their minds they will hear Bing Crosby dreaming of a white Christmas. They will suddenly feel very sad and very old.

Merry Christmas to the senior citizens on fixed incomes. Standing in front of a store front trying to determine whether they can go without less food or less medicine until the next not enough Social Security check, they will nevertheless hear a familiar ringing bell. They will reach out and deposit a handful of coins and perhaps some glove lint into the Salvation Army kettle. And they will feel good about helping others.

Merry Christmas to those who served our country, especially our dwindling number of World War II veterans. And to those currently serving, especially afar from home on this blessed holiday. God bless you and thank you. Nowadays there are times when it might seem you aren’t appreciated. You are. Christmas candles are lit for you. Millions upon millions of true Americans are behind you.

Merry Christmas to the Pittsburgh Steelers and their fans. How does it feel having to depend on the Cleveland Browns — the Cleveland Browns? — to possibly deliver a belated Christmas gift this coming Sunday afternoon. You gotta love the circumstances.

Merry Christmas to kids everywhere — including those wishing for just their two front teeth–who will stand in front of the oven today with grandma and make cookies the old fashioned way. Merry Christmas to all the moms and grandmas out there who cook, cook and cook but never seem to sit down to actually enjoy a meal because they are just too darn busy. Pause and take a bite or two. You deserve it. Knock down a stiff snort of egg nog too while you are at it. Or two. Maybe take a sip — wink, wink — of that crystal clear “special recipe” hootch in a Mason jar on the back shelf. Hey, nobody is watching.

Merry Christmas to the “old” kids among us who still know how to make a snow fort, a snowman and a snow angel. Can you remember the last time you did any of that? Been a while, huh?

Merry Christmas to the favorite uncle who will carve the turkey like a chef school graduate. And to the favorite aunt who never forgets to bake a pumpkin pie. Or two.

Merry Christmas to those feeding the hungry today including those at the Banquet of Salem. You folks are angels.

Merry Christmas for fruit cake. Nah, just kidding!

Merry Christmas to the senior citizen who will stand today in front of the gravestone belonging to a lifetime sweetheart. Wind will run through the naked branches of tired and creaking trees standing sentry in the cemetery. Melting snowflakes will meld with tears on a cheek of a very lonely person. The widows and widowers will bend down and delicately place roses on graves. They will stand — some will kneel creakily — and say a silent prayer on a silent night. They will then straighten up and brace themselves for another day, another Christmas, without a spouse. The emptiness will be ceaseless. The wind will continue to run. And rose petals will catch the snowflakes and the tears.

Merry Christmas to all of those who know, truly know, that the best gifts don’t come with a ribbon and wrapped in shiny paper. They don’t come with a return slip. They don’t come with a designer label. They aren’t endorsed by a handsomely endorsed

handsome athlete or celebrity. They don’t come with Lotto jackpots. We know what those gifts are and maybe we could all start giving a few more of them ourselves. Like affection, courtesy and companionship. Or course, some new golf balls on Christmas are always nice. Even if they all end up getting hit into woods or lakes. Darn slice!

Merry Christmas to anyone like myself who is blessed with the best father a son could have and was blessed, so very blessed, with the best mother a son could have ever asked for. Pop is closing in on 96. The legs have slowed but, dang, what a mind! He is sharp as a jagged piece of hardtack and as up on current — and past for that matter–events as anyone you will ever meet. Goodness, think of the repository of precious memories he carries! And cherishes. Love hearing the stories of his growing up in southern California and of his time defending our grand country.

Merry Christmas to the best daughters, my daughters, a father could have. Memories of cuddling and carrying the youngest out of the maternity ward nearly 29 calendars ago are as vivid as Crayola’s brightest colors. Now she is an educated and confident business professional forging her own path through life. Sigh, but it does seems like it was just last Christmas when we were leaving cookies and milk out for Santa Claus and, yeah, making snow angels out in the yard. But sometimes you do have to stave off melancholia and it can be a struggle because life doesn’t come with a pause button. Memories can be as unique — and fleeting — as snowflakes. Each is precious. Savor that and don’t let those moments melt away. And then always move forward into the future.

Merry Christmas to a now 10-year-old smiley face of a grandson named Layne William who was plotting to video tape the arrival of Santa Claus last night when everyone else was asleep. We will see how that worked out. Merry Christmas to his little sister, a sandy-haired 6-year-old spitfire named Lydia Marie. Grandpa’s girl has been a true gift.

Merry Christmas to the best siblings a brother could have and the best buddies a guy could ask for. Thank you all so very, very much. A very merry Christmas to everyone reading this. May peace and joy and spirit come your way. May contentment come into your life if missing now. If empty, may your heart be filled with smiles and the warmth of the sun and fellowship. Let chestnuts roast on an open fire. God rest ye merry gentlemen indeed. Hark the Herald Angels are singing and play on, oh Little Drummer Boy, play on. Pa rum pum pum, pum….

And to all, don’t forget to feed the birds.

— J.D. Creer, original version appeared in 2004