Now I’m not saying the world’s coming to an end. Remember that, please. But, folks, it sure is different from the one I grew up in two and a half generations ago.

For once I am not talking about the culture, in which trash even somehow invades the shows that aren’t trashy. No, what I’m talking about is the fact that people these days seem to find it impossible to build up to a big moment, to defer enjoyment, to savor the journey. In fact, unless maybe for blood-test results, you rarely have to wait for anything these days. Even food is fast. So why should Christmas be an exception? Life nowadays goes full speed ahead, and, if you don’t notice that, you don’t remember the old days.

I do. I just can’t help harking back to the 1930s and 1940s when Christmas was Christmas, and it didn’t really happen until December 25. And the 12 Days of Christmas came afterwards, not before, in the form of 12 Christmas sales days. Now we barely have 1 Day of Christmas before all eyes turn to the New Year.

Even the churches went along with this. Many had a season called Advent, that gave each of the four Sundays before Christmas its own meaning, part of which was getting ready for the big day. We still have Advent in some churches, but mostly it consists of reflecting Christmas up to a month ahead of time, with the decorations already in place, and a faint air of impatience about it all. (“Can’t we get this moving a little faster, please? Hey, I have 2010 to plan for, you know!”).

Advent used to emphasize repentance and making a new start. That’s a little too serious for these days. Can you imagine a TV Special with that theme? Well, yes, maybe, if you can visualize skimpily-clad girls dancing to “Wake, Awake, for Night is Flying,” or “Come Oh Come Emmanuel.” What am I thinking? The way things are going, that might happen this week.

Anyway, back to my reminiscing. Except in stores, decorations rarely went up until the week before Christmas. I see now what a labor of love it was for church members to give up one night of that precious last week to put up the smilax and wreathe the pine ropes around the candlestands. Things got really tight when Christmas fell on Monday or Tuesday, but I remember them valiantly laboring away late on Sunday to get the Christmas decorations up for that night.

My father was a pastor, and went crazy about Christmas. He was perhaps the first in town to hold a midnight service on Christmas Eve, and it was always standing room only, because we also had the best music in town: two or three choirs, special instruments, a wonderful organist, and great effects, new every year. These were not electric but things like special made-to-order paintings, and one year a live Nativity in the front that lasted for the whole service. (They were careful not to put me in it.)

Christmas Eve was a standout for us kids, because the choirs and instruments practiced one last time around 7 p.m., and then we were treated to a hamburger dinner (not then a fast food cliche) at a nearby restaurant, paid for by a generous and deep-pocketed member. There was only one service that night and that was the midnight one. The only light was by candles, and everyone in all the choirs carried one.

There was a little bit of a risk here — the city assigned a fireman to stand in the back of the church throughout the service. However the only incident I remember was when one of the kids was horsing around in the choir as we lined up. His candle caught on fire the hair of the girl in front of him. Thank goodness for Mrs. Fugate, the choir mother, who jumped on the girl so fast she thought she was being attacked.

After the choir processional, it was all Christmas magic, crowded shadowy presences in the pews, flickering lights in the dark, gorgeous music, all hearts beating to the Spirit of Christmas. It hadn’t already been drained away for weeks ahead of time. Everybody celebrated together the greatest event in history. (And whether you are religious or not, you must admit the birth of Jesus probably ultimately had more of an impact on history than any other recorded event.)

To be allowed (after a certain age, probably about seven or eight), to help make it happen was a magical experience for me. Right up there with getting up the next morning — and finding for the first time our own huge Christmas tree in the little sitting room, miraculously having appeared there after we went to bed the night before, after the service. Not to mention the piles of gifts that had suddenly materialized under the tree, mainly holding what I wanted most of all — books! (Except the year I got my dog Spot, the absolutely most magical Christmas of my childhood.)

Anyway, does anyone do all that anymore, on Christmas Eve? My parents must have stayed up all night (after the church service yet!) to get everything done, a labor of love. I’m sure they were exhausted the next day, but I don’t remember noticing. The reason I’m sure is because that’s how we did Christmas for our own children a generation later.

Starting Christmas right after Halloween, or, at the latest, right after Thanksgiving, seems to me to leach much of the mystery and otherworldly excitement out of it all. But I could be wrong. Because the real meaning of Christmas for those who recognize it — the love of God for His creatures — can never be lost in the end, no matter how tired one may get of the trappings.

So, to both my readers — a most blessed Christmas, fresh and new every year.

Maude McDaniel is a Cumberland freelance writer. Her column appears in the Times-News on alternate Sundays.