HATING CHRISTMAS

Bevy Mae and me live on a cul-de-sac with a lot of old people everywhere. Some of the houses are empty; folks go to Florida, mostly. Some travel to second, third, or fourth  homes located only God knows where. None have Christmas decorations. It’s too much work when people are old and no one comes to visit.

A black kid who must have spent a lot of time making Christmas candles came to our house yesterday. He displayed his wares and gave what I thought was a carefully memorized pitch for the homeless.

How much? I asked.

Most folks give twenty dollars, he said.  I held an iPhone at the ready pre-dialed to  911 in case he tried to rob me.

After looking the boy over, he seemed like a good kid, so I put the phone away and paid the money. The last thing he said as he stepped back to leave was, Thank you, sir, for answering the door. It means a lot at Christmas.

I wondered if I should tell him that the reason people weren’t answering their doors was that they had already left town, most of them.  No, I thought. Better not tell him that.

People live in my neighborhood who I think must be more paranoid and racist than me. Some no doubt refused to answer, because they darn well aren’t going to deal with a door-to-door salesman at Christmas-time.  Especially if they look like someone who might hate them because they are unable to feign even a little trust — a little kindness and love —  during Christmas season.

It’s scary when strangers approach the house who are male, black, and have never been seen before.

Christmas is supposed to be white as snow, right?

What if I misjudged the young man? Is it wise to tell someone just because they present well that the neighborhood is empty? Their friends might come back to pillage and loot.


Cul-de-sac where Billy Lee lives.

Yeah, it’s going to be a crummy Christmas.

Here are ten things I worry about that make this end of year holiday season especially depressing  — and it’s not the weather, which right now is grey and overcast.

1 –The GOP raised taxes on 25% of the public. Guess who made it into that illustrious group? Me.  I’m in — according to a questionnaire about finances conducted by the New York Times. 

2 — The president left the White House without wishing the country a Merry Christmas!  It’s another campaign promise the oinking chief-commander broke.  What good is being free to say Christmas if the president won’t say it? Everyone should be used to his lying-ways by now. Sorry — the fat-man continues to irritate me. 

3 — Will the president start World War Three on Christmas Eve? It’s just one more thing to worry about. I’m not going to bed with visions of sugar plums dancing in my head this time. Will he obliterate North Korea because they tested bombs and missiles, something the USA has done thousands of times? Who the hell knows? 

4 — Will he fire Robert Mueller, a decorated Marine veteran and arguably one of the most honest men in government? Or will he perhaps fire a random person on Christmas, because, why the hell not? 

It’s Christmas, people! The orange-man demands results. He doesn’t mess around when it comes to making America great. He fired the former FBI director James Comey, because his attempt to clear Hillary Clinton three days before the election failed.

You’re fired! quacked the presidential duck. He did it for Hillary. He really did. He was helping an old friend. That’s all it was.

I watched him say so on television. Maybe it was fake news. I can’t tell anymore. .

5 — One of the best gifts? Trump gave Americans the precious gift of the ObamaCare Repeal. It’s what he said. I saw the video on the nightly news. He promised to replace it with something way better.  Can’t wait to open that present. Unaffordable healthcare is a wonderful thing. It prevents countless thousands of Americans from going to hospitals where they risk being hurt by doctors who are only in it for the money. 

6 — Family members who have shopped say the crowds in the stores are minimal. Despite the commercial hype on billionaire-owned media, store sales have crashed. 

7 — The stock market noticed. It’s down. Yes, Russian oligarchs  are playing games by pulling out money. It’s a fun prank, especially during Christmas.

Why not?

I confess; I cut back on Christmas spending. The economy can go belly-up — I really don’t care. I don’t put money in the stock market; I don’t vacation in Vegas. The wealthy are on a shoplifting-spree, like under former President Bush. The greed of his fellow-travelers crashed the country in 2008.

The current fool’s friends are worse. So will be the results. How long will profiteering take to cut the legs off the middle-class this time around? Not long, methinks. 

8 — Churches campaigned for the biggest boob ever to run for the highest office ever in the history of the world ever — and of all human-kind, ever. He’s huge, the orange fat-man.

Churches organized bus-runs to take congregants to hear Franklin Graham  “on tour” pretend to anyone who listened that he was politically neutral while he ranted against witches (like the unnamed evil Methodist, Hillary) and abortion.



Omarosé Onée Manigault-Newman predicted that people would bow before the new leader before history as we know it ends. Omarosa is one of the many misfit toys the orange man fired during his climb to ultimate power. 

How can anyone go back to those crazy churches should their bozo-president actually screw-up everything at Christmas? The allure of Christianity rides on the back of a thrice-married billionaire who went bankrupt in the casino business, of all things.

Somehow the president hadn’t learned that casinos don’t make money, they launder it. It’s a big difference.

When things go to hell in a handbasket (as they certainly will), which churches are going to get the most credit?

If the orange-clown kills millions of people to make a point, who gets the pat on the back? Jesus? 

9 — I have sons who have made more money than I ever imagined was possible back in those times when I held them as babes in my loving arms. To a man, they think things are just fine. No worries.

Yes, health insurance is expensive, but think about this one thing for just one minute. Now is not the time for stupid, right?  Rich people don’t buy health insurance. They don’t need it. Anyone who hoards fourteen-thousand piles of one-million dollars per pile (like the president claims) doesn’t worry about a $200,000 hospital bill. Billionaires spend more on Rolex watches. 


Video clip of recent Navy UFO sighting here.

10 — During the past week, the media informed the public on three different occasions that at this moment in time when the Russians are dismantling the United States, UFOs scramble over the skies of the world on every continent. Is there anyone out there who hasn’t heard the ominous rumblings of UFOs late at night while they are trying to sleep?

Since the last news report days ago, not a peep has been heard from the media. Not a line of warning by the replicants who sit in the seats of media-power. They are life-like, aren’t they?

So Perfect. So Desirable.

They seem to never mispronounce words or make grammatical errors. Sure, they screw-up. They do.  Listen. Sometimes they say boob-el instead of bubble. That’s how you tell.

None of this is happening, right?

Surely everyone understands by now. It can’t be happening.  Not now.  Not ever. 

Cover eyes, ears, and mouth.

Stop screaming.

Why don’t you believe?

I’m a pontificator, for Christ’s sake. 

I’m trying so hard to warn you.

NOTHING IS REAL RIGHT NOW.

Billy Lee

MERRY CHRISTMAS

What’s interesting to me about Christmas is that the man who rescued the world from the soul-destroying power of sin started life as a helpless baby. He slipped into history unnoticed and overlooked, I suppose, but his anonymity didn’t last more than a few hours.

According to the Christmas stories in the Bible, he was visited by both angels and people; Herod, the Roman administrator of the town where he was born, when he couldn’t locate him, gave orders to kill all boys under two, because the stories visitors were telling scared him.

People are afraid of babies. It’s not unusual. Sometimes — from ancient history until now — people kill them; who knows why? Everyone has their reasons.

An ex-girlfriend once called to tell me she was pregnant. At the time, it seemed like the worst news of my life.

Babies are miracles; gifts given in love.

Yesterday, the child she carried — the baby who changed everything in everyone’s lives — won a golf tournament in Florida. He will be celebrating Christmas with us in a few days.

The first time I saw Billy Lee Junior — a few months after he was born — I knew he carried my genes. The love I felt — in a doctor’s office of all places — came close to killing me; my heart pounded almost out of my chest when first I saw his beautiful face; his perfect feet; his tiny toes.

Jesus lived into his thirties before the prejudices and hatreds of his era coalesced to destroy him. He told us why he was born — he came to save the world, not judge it, he said.

He came to bear witness to the truth — that God is love, as the Bible says.

Somehow, by some miracle, I know it’s true.

Billy Lee

 

 

 

 

JESUS

In a few days a baby named Immanuel will be born in a refugee camp north of the Syrian border in southern Turkey.  Another named Jesus will be born in the desert south of the Texas border-crossing in northern Mexico.

In the next two weeks babies will be born in every impoverished backwater over all the Earth, and some of them will be named after Jesus of the Bible — the ”savior of the world” prophesied by the ancients — a man tortured and executed because he enraged the religious leaders of his time.    

Why did some of the most powerful rabbis in Jerusalem turn against Jesus and convince their Roman administrators to execute him? Wasn’t it because he told them they didn’t know what they were doing; that they didn’t know what they were talking about?

Two thousand years ago people living in the Roman territories of the Middle East didn’t challenge authorities, at least not to their faces. Brazen confrontation was something leaders weren’t used to and didn’t like.

Jesus claimed that despite impressive learning and years of study and prayer, some religious scholars knew less than they thought about Scripture and what it meant. They knew almost nothing about the nature of God and His plans for humankind. A few acted like instruments of Satan, he said. They lorded their power over common people and demanded respect, even as they supplicated themselves before their Roman rulers.


Billy Lee has offered a gold star to anyone who can find the word Jesus on a Christmas card sold at their local grocery. The Editorial Board

Anyway, one place where babies named Jesus won’t be born on Christmas day 2015 will likely be the Trump Towers. Folks who frequent locations like these have access to private rooms in the best hospitals. Some might choose to birth their children at home, yes, but their homes are palaces and luxury-suites — many with 24 hour on-site medical services, including doctors and nurses. 

The homes and suites of billionaires can be busy places, probably, but they never smell like refugee camps. And it’s unusual inside the USA for billionaires to name their children Jesus

Let’s not sugar-coat. The United States has a sordid history of doing bad things to good people. It has a record of murdering its best people: prophets like Abraham Lincoln and Martin Luther King, for example. It has a record of ”bombing the s*** “ out of people (a.k.a. Donald Trump) — as the history of Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Vietnam, the Ho Chi Minh Trail, and the bloody highway of death out of Kuwait reminds those who have been paying attention. 

By remote control the USA recently unleashed Hellfire missiles on 700 occasions; sometimes on innocents — people with whom we are not at war — which have cooked by-standers alive with their ungodly heat.

Some modern, right-wing evangelical ”religious leaders” — if anyone can say the words with a straight face — enrich themselves with lucrative book deals. Some write crap to capitalize on the fears of common people who don’t have the sense to know they are being played. 

Some fill their mega-churches with armed goons to protect their lucrative fiefdoms and the absurd sums of tax-free money they scam from congregants every single week.

Please note: I said, some.  

Why go on? 

Everyone knows it’s true.

Some who claim to be Christians have become almost useless to the building of a Kingdom of Heaven on Earth.

Do Christians live in America?  Of course. Tens of thousands do; maybe hundreds of thousands. But not millions. No way. Not by the way we behave; not by the way we display our culture and values to the angels of the world who watch our every move; or to God who knows our hearts.

Did anyone watch the GOP debate last night?  Did anyone watch that pantheon of the gods (as CNN visually-hyped it in their relentless and — can we admit? — ludicrous lead-up advertising) who fought each other tooth and nail to prove which of them would be the most heartless leader of them all?

It’s not insanity, people. It’s evil.

What does America require, an exorcism?

Because it seems to me as if our nation behaves at times like it’s possessed.

If you were Jesus, would you permit your name to appear on Christmas cards in a mega-store that treats Christmas as just another opportunity to make a lot of money? I don’t know if anyone would. During my Christmas shopping yesterday, I couldn’t find a single card with Jesus’s name on it. It surprised me.

Fortunately for us, God’s ways are not our ways, the Bible says. God is love. He has made a really simple request: love all people, including our enemies, as we love ourselves. 

It’s a hard truth — that Jesus expects everyone to love unlovable people. I admit, I’m not good at it. No one is. But it’s something we can do to make a better world.

The Holy Spirit of Christ Jesus will help us to love others, Scripture promises. Together we can love others, especially at Christmas, when we try.

I believe it’s true.

Billy Lee

NO GOOD DEED…

Disclaimer by the Editorial Board:  The following story, No Good Deed… is a work of fiction by Billy Lee.  Events and persons depicted in the story exist only in the imagination of the writer and have no connection to living persons or actual events.


Christmas bulbs in a row


The old woman ahead of me in the checkout lane at the grocery sat in a battery-operated three-wheeler and struggled to move her purse off her wrist into the front basket. She couldn’t do it and gave up. She was grossly overweight; she couldn’t maneuver — her fat arms were black and blue right down to her fingernails. Diabetes, I thought.

I wondered if I should help, but she soon stopped and let the purse dangle where it was, on her wrist. It was a bad angle. It would be awkward for me to reach for it; and besides, it was her purse, a personal item she might try to defend. It was a good bet she fought this fight every time she shopped. No big deal. Let it go.

It was her own cart that she sat in, from the looks of it. She probably had used it for years. Held together by duct tape and bubble gum, it was dirty; a yellowed eggnog color; depressing to look at.

The cashier at the register — a black college-aged girl — finished the tally; the old woman sitting in the beat-up cart fumbled unsuccessfully to open her purse; the line of shoppers behind us continued to grow. It was busy. It was Christmas. I was in a hurry. What the heck… I reached over to the card reader and inserted my card. I’ll get this, I said. Merry Christmas.

The old lady looked up at me and said, thank you.

You look like you have enough to worry about, I said, beaming. We’ll make it one less thing.

Yes, she said. I worry about so many things these days. She fell silent and looked down. Something drippy fell from her mottled face into her lap. The eyes of the young black woman working the cash-register grew large and began to sparkle from tears, which she tried to hold back.

She would tell me later she had just immigrated from Ghana, Africa. She has stories, that girl, I would think to myself. The African regained her composure and gathered the old lady’s items.

As the cashier and myself exchanged a sympathetic look, the old woman with the black and blue arms and drippy face reached for a button on her cart and sped away. She didn’t remember to collect her receipt. I don’t think she felt embarrassed. Maybe she thought I might change my mind; make her pay for her own groceries, or something.

The cashier rang up my stuff. It was all good. I started to get that warm glow one gets when they’ve done something for someone, especially a stranger.

A melodic accent from somewhere out of Africa interrupted my reverie, Oh, look! Here is a bag of things. Are they yours? I think I forgot to give them to that person.

We checked the contents against the old woman’s receipt. Yup, they weren’t mine.

The cashier grabbed the bag and ran down the long aisle of the store to search for an old woman driving a beat-up mobility scooter with a missing bag of groceries. The folks in line behind me started to stir. A few threw unfriendly looks in my direction. My warm feeling turned to heat, then dread.

The cashier returned; she hadn’t found the customer. Since I had the receipt, I decided to take the groceries. If the old lady returned, she would be unable to convince anyone the groceries were hers, I reasoned.

I began to worry. It was Christmas. Undercover cops — temporaries with little training or empathy — lurked pretty much everywhere. They loved to patrol the parking lots, someone once told me.

What if store security decided to stop the old lady in the busy lot? What if they intercepted her before she could rendezvous with whoever was driving her home? Maybe she lived alone nearby, and there was no one to escort her. Minus the receipt, they might arrest her for shoplifting.

They might already have her in a little room somewhere, hidden from the public, to interrogate her. That’s why we couldn’t find her. I loosened my collar as my mind began to race. I felt sweat bead on the top of my head.

She would notice — under the intense pressure of  questioning — one bag of groceries was missing. And she couldn’t produce the receipt. He took it, she’d realize. It was the old man!  I could hear her screaming. She was cursing me — the old codger who had stood behind her and had the audacity to jump into her business for no good reason.

Of course she had the money to pay for everything, she screamed at the SWAT team as they held her down; as they restrained her. Of course she did. She didn’t need that smelly stranger’s credit card. And he stole a bag of her groceries! Arrest him!  It was he, the grey-beard, who robbed her; it was he who took her receipt; it was he who confused her — and the cashier!  He got her arrested. It was he, he, he — an old FART! — not her!

I imagined her anguish. By now she must realize that she would spend Christmas in prison; behind bars; isolated; alone; cold; away from family and a warm fire in the hearth — for I just knew she had no money for lawyers or bail.

I thought I could hear her weeping. I could hear her, but I would never be able to find her. No one else could hear her cries for mercy, no one would ever step forward to defend her and confirm her story. Take her out of here, I heard the arresting officer boom. Thief! 

My parting words to the cashier were short enough. I hurried to my car and drove out of the busy parking lot, quickly, furtively. I cast a side-long glance into my rear-view mirror. No flashing lights. No siren. An old red van with a tree tied on top pulled up behind me.

It was Christmas; the most wonderful time of the year.

Billy Lee


Christmas bulbs in a row