Not that I’m in a Bah Humbug kind of mood, but Christmas has lost some of its luster.

Wait! Hear me out, says the women who hasn’t - and probably won’t - deck the halls of the Schindler casa this year. (In my defense, the miniature Husker-themed tree stays up year round, so one room is decorated.)

I like Christmas, the story of peace, joy and love brought to the world with the birth of Jesus. Listening to the story of his miraculous entrance in the world gives me hope and makes me realize how precious life is.

I like spending the holiday with family and loved ones, relaxing and reminiscing. It’s a reminder of unconditional love and sacrifice.

These things bring a sense of much-needed peace that isn’t always present in this crazy roller coaster ride called life.

More and more, though, during the holiday season, I am transported to one of Dr. Harwick’s English classes at Hastings College, where he introduced a Lawrence Ferlinghetti poem, penned in 1958, that still resonates.

“Christ Climbed Down” examines the commercialized version of Christmas and how we misconstrue the reason for the season. If you’re not familiar with the poem, Ferlinghetti wrote:

Christ climbed down

from his bare tree this year

and ran away to where

there were no rootless Christmas trees

hung with candycanes and breakable stars

Christ climbed down

from his bare tree this year

and ran away to where

there were no gilded Christmas trees

and no tinsel Christmas trees

and no tinfoil Christmas trees

and no pink plastic Christmas trees

and no gold Christmas trees

and no black Christmas trees

and no powder blue Christmas trees

hung with electric candles

and encircled by tin electric trains

and clever cornball relatives

Christ climbed down

from his bare tree this year

and ran away to where

no intrepid Bible salesmen

covered the territory

in two-tone Cadillacs

and where no Sears Roebuck creches

complete with plastic babe in manger

arrived by parcel post

the babe by special delivery

and where no televised wise men

praised the Lord Calvert Whiskey

Christ climbed down

from his bare tree this year

and ran away to where

no fat hand-shaking stranger

in a red flannel suit

and a fake white beard

went around passing himself off

as some sort of North Pole saint

crossing the desert to Bethlehem

Pennsylvania

in a Volkswagen sled

drawn by rollicking Adirondack reindeer

with German names

and bearing sacks of humble gifts

from Saks Fifth Avenue

for everybody's imagined Christ child

Christ climbed down

from his bare tree this year

and ran away to where

no Bing Crosby carollers

groaned of a white Christmas

and where no Radio City angels

ice skated wingless

thru a winter wonderland

into a jingle-bell heaven

daily at 8:30

with midnight Mass matinees

Christ climbed down

from his bare tree this year

and softly stole away into

some anonymous Mary's womb again

where in the darkest night

of everybody's anonymous soul

He awaits again

an unimaginable and impossibly

immaculate reconception

the very craziest

of second comings

Like Ferlinghetti, I do not like how commercialized the season has become, how many have lost sight of the true meaning of Christmas. I don’t want to stroll through stores at the end of July and be reminded there are only 21 more shopping Saturdays until Christmas.

Sometimes, I feel like Charlie Brown: Does anyone know what Christmas is all about? Cue Linus and Luke 2, 8-12.

My hope is everyone experiences the true joy of that holy night, lessons in living and giving and loving, without the stress of creating a picture-perfect illusion that graces social media.

In our imperfections, may he bring love’s pure light to you this season.