The Parable of the Socialite and the Christmas Calendar

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, is the Christmas season maybe just too busy?”

Josh spoke thus:

A socialite was looking at the calendar.

“I can’t fit it in,” the socialite said.

“You have to fit it in,” the socialite’s social secretary said, “You’ll have to move something else.”

“What am I going to move?” the socialite asked, “I can’t move Thanksgiving.  Thanksgiving is passed anyway, but you know you would have put Thanksgiving on the chopping block.”

“Thanksgiving will always be safe,” the socialite’s secretary said, “Thanksgiving is the launching point.”

“It seems less so every year,” the socialite said, “Every year the kickoff is earlier.  First it was Santa Lucia when things kicked off.  Remember that?  Saffron buns, wooden clogs and candles.  Oh the candles!  Such a pretty festival!  Children singing and candles.  You can’t go wrong with children singing and candles.”

“The children singing and candles are still on the calendar,” the socialite’s secretary said, “No worries there.”

“Good,” the socialite said, “Because I love the children singing and the candles.  Which reminds me, the Christmas choir in the cathedral, we’re still doing that, right?”

“It wouldn’t be Yuletide without the Christmas choir in the cathedral.”

“More singing and more candles!” the socialist said, “That was a nice kickoff, when it was the kickoff.  What was next, do you remember?  Was it Saint Nicholas Day?”

“I think it was panto,” the socialite’s social secretary said, “The pantomime was the week before the choir in the cathedral.”

“You’re right!  It’s Puss N’ Boots, then it’s choir in the cathedral.”

“Don’t forget The Nutcracker,” the socialite’s secretary said.

“Oh no, we mustn’t forget the ballet!” the socialite said, “No singing, but lovely music and lovely dancing and lovely, lovely women.”

“Who doesn’t love a ballerina?” the socialite’s secretary said.

“Indeed,” the socialite said, “So where does that leave us?”

“Well, there’s Saint Nicholas,” the socialite’s secretary said.

“There is, Saint Nicholas,” the socialite said, “And the Christmas market.  More candles.  And candies.  And cakes.  And lots of wood.  Carved wood.  Painted wood.  Assembled wood.  And eggnog with brandy.  We need to find a way to combine the eggnog and the brandy and a ballerina or two.”

“In the meantime, there’s this new event,” the socialite’s secretary said.

“Does there need to be?” the socialite asked, “Is there time?  I mean, really, is there time for another?”

“It’s Nelson Mandela,” the socialite’s secretary said.

“But it’s his death,” the socialite said, “That’s a funeral, that’s not a party.”

“In Africa it’s a celebration,” the socialite’s secretary said, “It’s a ‘moving on.’”

“Like an Irish wake,” the socialite said, “Without the whiskey.”

“We could keep the whiskey,” the socialite’s secretary said.

“No, whiskey won’t do,” the socialite said, “It’s Nelson Mandela.  Let’s do a candlelight vigil.”

“With children, and singing and ballerinas?” the socialite’s secretary asked.

“With quiet dignity,” the socialite said, “Like Nelson Mandela would have done.”