The Moral of the Story

I have been knitting again. Great piles of bargain yarn have collected in the living room, and I have spent a lamentable amount of time with hands clicking away, eyes glancing up periodically at a series of Christmas-themed movies, from nostalgic shows like the Waltons and Little House on the Prairie to Hallmark specials as vapid as the programmed messages on most greeting cards. After some reflection on the obvious, I have decided that there is a clear formula to these films. They must include:
1. Orphans and/or widows. Bonus points for including both.
2. Despair. Someone, anyone, must be reminded of the meaning of continued life through whatever it is that transpires, but they must begin with despair.
3. Miracles. The more obviously linked to the traditional Christmas story, the better. (Guiding stars, for instance, are perfect, but those involving Santa are a reasonable substitution.) And it's really best if people are left scratching their heads about how, exactly, hope has been restored.

Daniel and I went out to eat last night, and he remarked in the car on the way there that he wasn't even sure what had possessed me to watch that, well... I think he called it "crap." I had to laugh, but then I explained that I have been too antsy and agitated to just sit quietly with my own thoughts the last few days. I guess want my life to have a soundtrack that isn't my usual mental litany of quandaries, worries and obsessions. I joked with him about the deep message of these films, which he summed up, roughly, as: You must always (but especially at Christmas) keep someone around you who is more miserable than you are so you can be reminded that you are actually fortunate and have no reason to whine.

His tongue was planted firmly in his cheek, of course, but his assessment captures something essential: no matter the circumstances of your life, someone has it worse. Rejoice, therefore. Find your happiness, if you find it nowhere else, springing from the pity you feel for those ill-fated others. Surely if they can find hope and joy, you ought to as well. Wow. Is that what we've become?

I confess that I felt a tear well up in my eye when the two little WWII-orphaned children who had been mysteriously come to live on Walton Mountain one winter heard the voice of their presumed-dead mother from London over the short-wave radio on Christmas morning. I mean, I am not callous enough to be untouched by that sort of joyful twist, but I couldn't help feel a bit manipulated as well. The fact is, I can usually find enough pain and suffering in my own past to make this moment a reason to celebrate... I don't require the pity-inducing services of sundry symbolic orphans and widows, though I would do quite well to remember the very real suffering others endure in the very real world where crises are not permanently and neatly resolved in 120 minutes, give or take a few commercial breaks.

Real joy and peace and hope aren't about sentimentality. Real joy and peace and hope have a whole lot more to overcome in the circumstances of a broken world. They, like my pile of knitting, require a certain persistence and a willingness to get tangled up in the details.