Grandma T. had this poem in her collection
My mother was an ordered soul
In calm, unhurried way.
She turned her Christmas fruit cakes out
Before Thanksgiving day.
She soaked the fruit and raisins
In a bowl of good grape wine
To help the cake she later baked
To ripen in its time.
My life is much less ordered
In a muddled, hurried way.
I rush from task to deadline
Through each new hectic day.
But sometime near Thanksgiving
When it's time to mix the batter
I tell myself, "Slow down a bit.
The deadline doesn't matter."
For Christmas, like a fruitcake
Needs time to ripen slowly,
Needs time to steal into your heart
With spirit kind and holy.
And change us just a little bit,
That we may bring our best
To offer, like the kings of old
Unto our newborn Guest.