For much of my Christian experience I was taught and believed that traditions were wrong. Only a few months ago, I read the words of a mega-church pastor, a popular author and speaker, who demeaned tradition and spoke patronizing about those unenlightened people and churches who embraced tradition. The scripture usually cited is Mark 7:8-9, which reads,

It started off as a good idea; take the out of town guest – The Wife’s best friend from California — to Callaway Gardens to see the Christmas lights. The plan was to leave the house around 5, drive to Callaway, eat an early dinner, and then catch the open air trolley for a peaceful hour-long tour of the over 8 million lights. Maybe even have the trolley stop off at Santa’s Village for a mug of hot chocolate and some warm cinnamon cashews or pecans. That was the plan at least. It didn’t quite turn out that way.

Where did this Santa Claus come from?

Not from the New England settlers. The Puritans banned any kind of festivities on Christmas – too “Catholic,” they said, and you know that leads to idol worship. In his journal, Thomas Jones, master of the Mayflower, indicates that Dec. 25, 1620 was just another work day.

Let’s see where this Christmas story begins. Oh, yes. Now, I remember. It started with my godmother, Mary Nell, who was shopping with me back in the summer.

God’s special envoy told Joseph, “They shall call him Emmanuel, meaning ‘God is with us.’” From that birth onward — the birth of Jesus — there has been no doubt, only proclamation, that we are not alone on this planet. God is with us!

The call came about 10:30 p.m. last Friday night. It had been a full evening with a wedding and reception following a full day. I was just about to head to bed when the phone rang.

For some, it’s the smell of pine in the house. For others, it’s the smell of red and white peppermint sticks. Still others believe Christmas smells like cinnamon, eggnog, Honey Baked ham, hot apple cider or the dampness of snow-covered shoes in front of a roaring fire.

Do you know of any kids out there who are making mud pies? Have you seen any kids lately with stained hands, dirty fingernails or a smudge of wet dirt across their shirts or faces?

We dream of a white Christmas. Santa’s outfit must be red and white. The wise men gave gifts including gold. We want to hear those silver bells. But the color that stands out the most and gives the most is green. It’s the only color that we not only can see but also can smell. Take a deep breath the next time you walk by your green Christmas tree.

“Did you see The Lockhorns this morning?”

“You mean, ‘If you really loved me, Leroy, you’d buy me a riding vacuum cleaner’?”

Give Michael Vick a break. Okay, maybe it wasn’t the most civilized or politic thing to do, giving a “double-bird” to Falcons fans following the 31-13 drubbing the New Orleans Saints administered to the Atlanta team a couple of weeks ago.

“Sorry, my foot was in your way,” I yelled out after the large black suitcase that just ran over my little toe. Trailing behind the tall lady in the Armani suit was an overstuffed behemoth on two wheels. The Samsonite suitcase was pushing her at breakneck speed helplessly in its grasp along the concourse. The beastly bag seemed to have a will of its own.

Life is wearing me out. Nothing is simple anymore. And despite what some may think, I am just a simple girl at heart.

How do you choose a doctor? Most of the readers of this column have made moves from one city to another, and have had to line up a new doc for the family. It’s not an easy task.

In last week’s column, I asked my fellow Christians not to have a heart attack if some department store employee wished them a “Happy Holiday” rather than a “Merry Christmas” because we all know from where the cha-ching of the cash registers comes: the birth of Jesus Christ.

Years ago, I was a young student at East Tennessee State University. My American History professor, whose name, sadly, I cannot now remember, said, “You can tell the greatness of a nation by the ‘open gate’ indicator. That is, when the gate is left open, do people flood into a country or do they flood out? The more the people flood into a country, the greater the nation.”

The Boy called home last week and asked, “Dad, what do you think I should give Mom for Christmas?”

Being the great dad that I am, I had the perfect answer: “Son, all she wants is to spend some time with you. That will be the perfect gift, and it won’t cost you anything.”

It may come as a surprise to you that America’s most successful planned city has never been written up in the region’s prestigious urban glossy, Atlanta Magazine.

The mid-afternoon sun of a waning Saturday streamed through the sparkling windows of the soda shop and cast its spotlight on quite a sight to behold.

This year the calendar allows for the first Sunday in December to be the first Sunday in Advent, the church’s official celebration of the birth of Jesus and the church’s anticipatory reflection of the coming again of Jesus — that time which will be the culmination of time and history, according to Christian doctrine.

A little boy came home from a birthday party and his mom met him at the door.

“How was it?” she asked.

He showed her all of his candy and souvenirs, and the mom said, “Wow! You hit the jackpot! Did you say 'thank you?'”

For once, a television network and a book publisher appear to have made a good, ethical choice. O. J. Simpson, acquitted of the murder of ex-wife Nicole Brown-Simpson and waiter Ron Goldman in criminal court and found liable for the same in a civil court, was to have been featured in an upcoming Fox two-part series which detailed how Simpson would have committed the murders “if he did it.”

For richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, for better or worse were the marriage vows I took. No one said anything about becoming a minimalist. If they did, I would have remembered it. Don’t know what a minimalist is? Me neither — had to look it up.

Just a few critical days before the recent election, John Kerry spoke these fateful words at Pasadena City College: “You know, education, if you make the most of it, you study hard, you do your homework and you make an effort to be smart, you can do well. If you don’t, you get stuck in Iraq.”

Every year as crisp cold weather approaches, I find myself thinking back on the Thanksgiving days of my childhood.

On the first morning following a night’s hard frost that arrived to kill the kudzu and finish off the raggedy remains of summer gardens, Daddy would step out on the porch, fiddle with the zipper on his jacket, and then when fastened into his coat, gaze out on the glimmering frost. He’d draw in a lung’s worth of the nippy air and then smile, his green eyes twinkling brightly.

Thanksgiving 1963 was no fun. No amount of turkey and pumpkin pie could remove the deep, down empty feeling many people felt, especially me, after the assassination of President John Kennedy. He was gunned down on Friday, Nov. 22, while parading through Dallas, Texas on a motorcade.

Today let those wiser than I lend us their expressions of thanksgiving.

No matter what your faith, something here might inspire the most important part of the celebration: gratitude to God who has provided us with everything. Hoping that the younger members of your household could do the honors, I include some that children can read easily.

It took a few minutes before I realized there was a problem. It had been a hectic week already. On Monday, I had flown to Illinois and met with several people throughout the day before holding services that evening in the town of Tolono where we are planting a new mission church. On Tuesday, I had an early lunch with three people from the new church prior to the one-hour drive to the Bloomington airport and the return flight to Atlanta.

At first I thought it was hoodlums. Every neighborhood has them, regardless of how affluent. Kids that follow no rules, have no manners, and seem like they have no parenting. No matter if I left one light on or all of them, the results in the morning were always the same. My expensive landscaping was quickly being destroyed.

The future story of the rise and fall of Peachtree City will surely feature the flawed human urge to heap layer after layer of improvements on a good thing until it collapses of its own weight.