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This is the story of one man’s struggle with a terrible case of the humbugs.

There are just a few people who do not like Christmas. Even when it is not your personal religious holiday, there should be enough "fa-la-la" to go around.

However, for more than 35 years, it was a personal struggle to truly celebrate Christmas. It was one of the high holy days of my faith and profession, yet it often felt like a burden.

It seemed to be my job to help people find special meaning. People expect a lot of the church at Christmas. It is a great amount of work. For me, it was the season of giving and giving. At the end of each Christmas, I gave out.

Part of the problem was too much knowledge.

For example, the first Christmas could not possibly have occurred in the winter. It does not compute. The biblical story does not tell of three wise men visiting the manger in Bethlehem. Every time I saw a snow-covered crèche with three wise men, it made me cringe.

Then there was Santa Claus, confusing for children and a burden for the economically strapped.

There’s also the fact that, for a substantial segment of our population, Christmas is depressing. They are reminded of lost loved ones. There are missing children. We have overstretched our time commitments. We expect more happiness than is realistic.

There was sorrow for those in sorrow.

Personally, there was spending money on all the gifts, worrying about budgets and giving to the needy. Along with family commitments, my wallet and my spirit were close to empty by the end.

One day, it all became clear. My goal was trying to make Christmas perfect for everyone, and that is an impossible goal.

It is an inherited trait. My mother tried to do the same thing. She lived with several major "shoulds" about Christmas. It should be magical. It should be overwhelming. People should get just the right gift wrapped in just the right way. Christmas Eve dinner should be just right.

Perfectionism spoils Christmas, or any day, for that matter. Too many of us have made the holiday a big production, with sugar plums and everything nice. It is, or ought to be, a time of joy, family and reflection.

Over the years, my struggle with Christmas was born of my own unrealistic standards of performance. My expectation was to make it wonderful. In the process, it became more of a chore. It was a burden, not a blessing. Some of us are fettered by the chains of Christmas past.

There are people who enjoy doing all of those things expected. They find them fun. For years, I envied those folks who found joy in nonstop celebrating. For them, Christmas is not a duty, but a delight.

The irony is that in an attempt to make the holiday so magnificent, we may end up making it seem like getting a flu shot.

Four years ago, I had the least-perfect and most transforming Christmas ever. I spent it in the intensive-care unit at Stanford Hospital. The medical folks did their best to make it as pleasant as possible. But I missed the caroling, the lighting of candles, the murmuring of children and the sense that it was lots of work for a brief time of overindulgence.

I missed the hustle, bustle and stress of the day.

My family took my gifts and a full Christmas dinner into the hospital. My granddaughter crawled up onto the bed to hug me between the many tubes in my arms and wires on my chest.

I was stuck. I couldn’t give anything. All I could do was receive.

Looking back, it started a string of the best Christmases I’ve had. It was filled with family, friendship and gratitude. In the midst of pain and the terror of facing my mortality, I was surrounded by love. This time,

I accepted it. Christmas is about being a gracious recipient.

Christmas is not about giving perfection — it is about receiving love. That is true, theologically and traditionally. It doesn’t matter what you know about Christmas. What matters is how you accept the gift of peace on earth and new life for a new year.

• Mike McLellan can be contacted by calling and leaving a message at 830-4201 or e-mailing him at DrMikeM@sbcglobal.net.