A Different Christmas Story

It’s quiet; it’s after midnight and the only sounds in my office are that of the keyboard as I type, and behind that the steady backbeat of the clock, layered over the constant humming of the furnace fan.  Our little family’s early Christmas Eve is now over for another year – the meal has been prepared, eaten, and put away; the presents shared, opened, and enjoyed, then stacked neatly under the tree; the traditional nightcap watching of It’s A Wonderful Life behind us now too, George Bailey back in his rightful place adored by his small community still singing Auld Lang Syne with Zuzu in his arms…

I should be sleeping – I’ve been up since 4:30 with only a slight dozy sleep just before dawn – a headache keeping me company these last few days as I wind down into the holidays, tapped out or under the weather – it’s too early to tell, and I’m not sure it makes a bit of difference one way or the other the net result the same – but there are more Christmas events ahead so I soldier on.

The Christmas Story. Isabelle Brent

A look back at this time of year is common, seeing where we’ve come from and how far we actually made it from a year ago vs. where we thought we’d be.  Some have had very rough stretches compared to you, so you’re thankful for where you are – it could have been worse, so it must not have been that bad.  I know I’m not where I thought I’d be from my view last year looking forward, but at the same time I’m not sure I could have told you where exactly I’d thought I’d be.  Most days I’d say I might have thought I’d be happier than how I feel these days, not entirely certain I know what that means as I write it – but sure it’s how I really feel, my sense of purpose strained in the latter half of the year.  And now as I stand at a self-imposed crossroads of sorts I feel enough alone that I’m nervous about the next step.

Not paralyzed by fear, but not head-down charging forward with a Devil-may-care attitude either.  Somewhere in between trying to rationalize decisions while searching for a path in the darkness, the shackles of prior commitments weighing down my progress and keeping me prisoner for a while longer still.  But I can taste the sweetness of the air on the other side of the bars, and hear the birds softly singing in the morning sun, and if I close my eyes I can feel the radiant warmth as it feeds my soul.  Another day crossed off on the wall; another day closer to freedom. 

We create these walls that keep us in, masters of our own destinies, but we blame others for there existence because it’s easier than having to face the truth that we’re not perfect yet despite our delusions.  And we’re not alone, the more we reach out and connect with others the more we understand none of us is being honest about who we are and where we fit, our stories thrown together hastily in our youth and added to as we matured but never purposefully scrapped and rewritten, so we carry with us pages from each revision and cut and paste them together into some patchwork quilt of deception but its comfortable and familiar and so we hide beneath it’s weight and pretend we are safe when deep down we know we are in need of a good and honest editor with a fresh red pen and a willing heart.

Some find that editor too late and their book ends with jumbled pages; a few are keen and continually edit as they write, perfecting the story as it is written, but the majority are too stuck reading the words of their lives to be able to see that they are the author behind them and that the ending isn’t waiting for them behind the next page but rather sits in front of them on the blank page – the adventure yet to be chosen. 

It’s Christmas; a time for celebration with friends and families, and a time for traditions and routines that bind the Holidays into memories to be shared and cherished.  And while the turkey and mistletoe and carols and bells maintain the past and carry it into the present and on to the future, perhaps we should take a moment or two this season to reflect about those routines and traditions we have been carrying along personally, privately, the ones deep inside that only we know about, and see if they are serving us or if we are serving them.  Too often we forget that we have choices in how to think, act, decide and believe and instead continue holding on to what we have always known, never questioning the validity or truthfulness of our values and our ways; blindly following the pack instead of blazing our own new trails.

It’s Christmas – or it soon will be – and as you go about your familiar routines of the season take a moment and stop and take stock of exactly where you are as opposed to where you think you are – do it while you’re opening that present from Aunt Mildred – the one you can feign excitement over without missing a beat – no one will notice if you take an extra minute and maybe lose yourself in a stare as you sort out your place at that very moment – there will be plenty of time for wrapping paper and bows and too much food and drink – but how many more pages of your story will you write before you pay a bit more attention to the author and stop to see if what is being written makes sense to you?

George Bailey was lucky.  He had Clarence to wake him from his delusion and allow him to see the reality that was his Wonderful Life.  Most of us never recognize our guardian angels, and miss the hints they keep dropping for us.  Maybe I’m not tapped out or under the weather at all, maybe I’m being urged to stop these days to see what it is that I’ve been missing right in front of me.  As you open your presents this Christmas, take the time to open your eyes to the reality around you.  You might be surprised at the gifts you find…

Christmas Wonder

Frosty white trees line the dark street, and snow banks loom on either side, waiting to envelope cars should they stray too far to one side or the other.  The cold snap of last week is now behind us, that too-early blast of arctic crispness reminding us we are indeed alive, a question you ask yourself more often when you can’t feel your extremities.

We’ve shoveled and brushed and broomed the driveways and sidewalks and have put Mother Nature back in her orderly place; thanks for coming, but just stay out of the way a little and we’ll all get along just fine, thank you very much.

The calendar says we’re getting close to Christmas, the media are relentless in their reminders of the dwindling number of shopping days and the avalanche of flyers and ads that arrive daily in the mailbox should provide me with enough wrapping paper for more than a few Christmases, and I’d be green and saving the environment at the same time, never mind a White Christmas these days, just to counter-balance the marketing and redundant packaging of goods we’d all be better off just skipping the wrapping paper altogether.

But that defeats the purpose, doesn’t it? The surprise, the mystery, the wonder of what awaits inside the present? Imagine a world where gifts were placed under the tree in all their naked glory – no wonderful streams of coloured ribbon, no tangled mass of bows, and sticky tape and textured papers to woo the senses and slow down the curious child inside.  No suspense, no wonderment – just instant gratification.  Immediate consumption of yet another consumer good, the meaning and message behind the gift lost in the swell of more and more and more please!

The lights on the Christmas Tree throw layers of tiny shadows to the wall beyond, creating a wonderfully soft glow to the room.  I’m sitting trying to recapture the feeling of Christmases past, remembering the details, the people, the places, the presents, the fun and honest easiness of family gathering together.  It hasn’t felt like Christmas yet this year, and I don’t know why. 

The decorations have been up in the house as long as they usually are, both trees decorated and slowly filling beneath with shiny parcels and festive gift bags; the malls and stores are filled with stressed shoppers and tired carols blasting from tired speakers somewhere overhead.  The snow and cold and darkened skies have all arrived on time.  The reminders are all there, but I’m still missing something.

Maybe the fact that the boy is now in high school and we don’t have take home art projects and concerts to remind us of the fast approaching deadline is important, or maybe we’re not bombarded these days as we were in the past with requests for Santa and letters and stories at bedtime…

The world stands currently saddened by unthinkable tragedy, and tries to make sense out of the senseless.  A nation mourns and wrings its hands, and wonders where it went so wrong.  Everyone can relate this time, and the unfathomable pain at this time of year sends many to a deeper silence attempting to find some tiny thread of meaningful purpose amid the confusion and loss.

There is no making sense of this, there is only acceptance of the reality, and the need for compassion and caring words of wisdom in a time where many will attempt to use the events for personal motives and political traction – a direct disconnect from the shared human experience we were meant to shoulder together at times like these, when communities were smaller and more isolated from the rest of the world, when the healing could start more quickly and there didn’t exist a need for the play-by-play of the events so openly discussed and broadcast as freely as a ballgame on some warm summer evening…

The silent stillness outside calls my soul.  It’s quest for remembrance of seasons past still strong, but tempered now with thoughts of others.  I’ve been looking for signs of the season outside it seems, waiting for something beyond to trigger a feeling inside, instead of the other way around.  It’s not about the appearance of things that signals Christmas, or the date on the calendar long circled in red, or the baking and presents and traveling plans – those are all part of the equation, it’s true, but it is the reminder that this is a time for Joyful celebration and Hope and Faith all surrounded and wrapped up with Love; of Goodwill to all men, and Peace on Earth - timely wishes to be sure.

The Christmas Tree lights still twinkle in the dim light of morning.  The darkness will be followed by the light; it always has and always will.  A mourning nation will feel differently this year, perhaps not as jolly or merry as in year’s past – and that’s a good thing.  Maybe it’s time to feel a little more subdued this season, less Santa and more Saviour, less festive and more Faith, less presents and more Present.

May you all find what you truly need this Holiday Season – whether wrapped in paper and tied with ribbon; hidden in a stranger’s face as you pass on a busy street; or safely tucked inside memories of year’s past, and may the true Spirit of the Season reside in you and stay with you.