Even before Thanksgiving just past Halloween, I’m

thinking about how I love Christmas on the road.

 

For forty-two years I was locked into where I was and

responsible because I was the pastor, somewhere, any-

 

where, for the traditions. Last year, my wife Chris, our

Chocolate Lab Boomer and I spent Christmas Day on

 

the eighth day of our trip west in Bisbee, Arizona.  We

checked into the motel with  a great view of the

 

mountainous southlands, and  unlike Mary, Joseph and the

baby Jesus, we got in. With the dog still in the backseat,

 

we headed downtown and found the only place open, a bar.

Thank heavens it was on the first of at least three tiers of

 

downtown, which was actually the downtown part of uptown.

Parking  across the street from the bar, we wished our

 

dog Boomer, Merry Christmas, walked into the establish-

ment, cozied up to the bar, ordered drinks, bent an elbow and

 

hoisted glasses in praise of the birth of our Lord, sampled a

few of the well-beyond-prime-time-home-made-appetizers

 

(“Hey, Doll, I made those especially for tonight,” the gal at

the end of the bar shouted), at least the sauerkraut remained

 

hygienically sour, sang a ditty or two to Jesus with the

community of faith gathered for communion, mumbled the

 

Lord’s Prayer to ourselves, shouted “Hey, Ya’ll, Merry Christmas!”

and headed back to the  motel for the Silent Night.

 

When we stopped, Boomer jumped out of the backseat and

wagged his tail.  My wife slipped into the motel and I took

 

one more glance at the southwest mountain range just

north of the Mexican border as the sun exited stage left.

 

I just stood there in the cold, crisp desert air and hummed

“All is Well, All is Bright” as fast rising moonlight reflected

 

that gorgeous sight and the dog announced with a bark

that he wanted to go in, so we, too, slipped in for the night.