On Christmas Eve at 8:00 a.m. Frank Chase put the key in the lock of Jingle Town, his Christmas store.
For a moment the kid in him wondered if today, by any chance, the ornaments in his shop might all come alive and sing and dance around. Not that he would enjoy that. He wasn’t a singing or dancing man. Especially this year, as his store was failing.
First came the Christmas story, then came the Christmas store. Even AI doesn’t know how many Christmas stores there are in North America. The number is incalculable, it says, as there are so many seasonal pop-ups. But one estimate puts the number of brick-and-mortar shops at 8,000.
Frank had bought Jingle Town from the grimmest looking man in the world, who claimed he had to sell because he was dying of cancer. Now, three years later, that guy was living it up down in Barbados, and Frank Chase was dying—at least financially. Turned out the former owner had cooked the books, inflating sales in the off season which was, oddly enough, winter. The peak season was summer when the vacation town swelled with tourists.
My own province of Ontario has upwards of two dozen Christmas stores. My home town, Bracebridge, has none, but the town just north of here, Huntsville, has a beauty, along with another nearby town, Coldwater. As the latter boasts a population of only 1400, I guess the customers must come from afar, like the magi.
Frank Chase stepped into his shop and gazed around. Bling, glitter, tinsel, kitsch, schlock … what was the point of it all? He’d make more money in the junk business. Anyway, he was finished. He’d put Jingle Town up for sale in the spring. It wouldn’t sell, and then he’d have to change its name to Jangled Nerves.
The largest Christmas store in Canada is near Niagara Falls. The largest Christmas store in the world is Bonner’s Christmas Wonderland in Frankenmuth, Michigan. A petition to change the town’s name to Frankincense unfortunately gained no traction. How about Frankenstein?
Frank Chase was not a particularly religious man. That was not why he’d bought the shop. It was just one more in a string of bad business deals. Who could tell when a guy might get lucky? Not this time.
While my own town of Bracebridge has no Christmas store, we have something even better: a Christmas theme park called Santa’s Village. In 1955 local citizens thought Santa might enjoy a summer retreat in the heart of Ontario’s cottage country, which happens to be on the 45th parallel, halfway between the equator and the North Pole. Santa liked the idea so much that he had his elves build, not just a cottage, but a whole village full of rides and games and other things to spend money on.
The centerpiece of Frank’s shop was a giant, seated, stuffed Santa in red coat, black belt and boots, the works. This piece alone was worth a pretty penny. But again, who would buy it? Moved by an odd impulse, Frank knelt before Santa, rested his head on the plush lap, and said, “Nick? I could use a miracle. How about it?” Then, feeling silly, he quickly stood up.
Every year Santa’s Summer Sleigh, departing from Santa’s Village, chugs up the Muskoka River as far as Bracebridge Falls. Santa’s Sleigh is full of bagpipers playing Christmas carols. Imagine Jingle Bells on bagpipes and you’ll get an idea of how mind-bending is this event.
With still an hour to go before the store opened, Frank entered his broom closet of an office and popped a K-cup pod into his coffee maker. Double-double with powdered cream and Sucralose. Picture of his life. Feet up on the desk, he pondered the day ahead, hopefully his last in this jingly hell hole.
Of all the world’s Santa’s Villages, perhaps the coolest is in Lapland, just inside the Arctic Circle. Billed as Santa’s ‘Official Hometown,’ here you can visit his post office, hobnob with the elves, drive a team of reindeer, and “experience the magic of Christmas every day of the year.” Nevertheless, tourism falls off sharply in summer when the sun is always up. People want Christmas to happen in the dead and dark of winter.
Through his office door, Frank’s eye was caught by something shiny on a far shelf of the store. Something about this shininess wasn’t normal. More like a mystic glow. Puzzled, Frank rose to investigate. Whatever it was, it was in the angel department, where angels of all shapes and sizes hung out on wires like tawdry trapezists. But tucked away among them, there it was. A crèche scene with all the standard figures: Mary and Joseph, shepherds and kings, ox and ass. And of course, the babe in the manger.
Naturally, the city of Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, has a Christmas store. Even Bethlehem, Israel, has a Christmas store in Manger Square. But it also has something even better: the church where Jesus Christ was born. Not that He was born in a church—there were no churches then—but the Church of the Nativity stands over the cave where He came into the world.
It was the baby who was shining, glowing away like nobody’s business. “What …?” said Frank aloud. Not what, said a bell-like voice in his head. Who. And for the second time that day Frank Chase dropped to his knees, as the voice continued …
In our increasingly secular culture, what is this obsession we have with lighting up the night for weeks around December 25th? I’m not against Christmas stores, markets, or villages. But as you bask in the glow of your decorations this year, let your heart be filled with the true Light of the World. For what the heavenly voice said to Frank Chase, He says to you:
Unto you is born this day a Saviour, who is Christ the Lord!
Glory to God in the highest!
