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…