Margaret's Bench -- January 2007
In the commercial world, the Christmas season has a long youth
and a short old-age: born in mid-autumn, weaned the day after
Thanksgiving, and dead by the close of the New Year's Eve sales.
In the church calendar, Christmas is the shortest season of the
year. It begins on the first stroke of December 25 and ends
twelve days later, at midnight on January 5, Epiphany Eve.
David and I like to give our Christmases a longer, more robust
retirement. Our tree usually stays up well into the Epiphany
season, and our holiday cards have been known to appear in
friends’ mailboxes on the very cusp of Lent. In that tradition –
even now as the plastic evergreens and red bows in the stores
stagger thankfully back into their boxes and the giant pink
Valentine hearts with lacey borders come swaggering out –
visions of the Christmas season, commercial and otherwise, still
dance in my head.
I like the Budweiser holiday commercials. I like the big horses,
the big old fire truck, the big fir tree, the snow, the bridge,
the country road. During most commercials, our TV is muted, but
I’ll take the mute off for Bud, just to hear the bells jingle
and the ooh-aah vocals. A moment of peace and beauty. God bless
them, those commercials aren’t even trying to get me to have a
beer. I’m sad to see them go.
But I’m happy for a respite from holiday commercials that show
family and friends gathering and greeting with pure,
unadulterated joy. In my younger days, I did at times meet a
loved one after a long absence with happiness as clean and
bright as new snow. Today, my feelings in relationship are never
that simple, are always sharply faceted with light and dark, joy
and pain, love and regret. Part of growing up, I guess, leaving
Eden behind, and living in the world of the Incarnation.
In this world, God is human-born in the company of animals and
angels, shepherds and kings, the young and the old, the wise and
the foolish. It's in this world that my own mixed-up heart can
also serve as a place of new birth, hold a manger for the Baby's
bed. I wouldn't go back to Eden, not even if I could.
But every once in a while, in one of
those fatuous, other-worldly commercial holiday
reunions, some advertising genius constructs a moment that
slices through the years to penetrate that young heart I still
carry deep inside. Then the clear witless joy pouring from the
screen sets off a feeling of loss so great, I have to look away.
I’m also happy for a respite from commercials about the perfect
present, given and received. Teasers that show a gleaming new
car with a bow on top as the perfect way to show one’s love to
the spouse (and one’s wealth to the neighbors). Tear-jerkers
suggesting a string of diamonds as the perfect expression of
enduring love.
My own presents – given and received – aren’t perfect. As a kid,
I was pretty good at giving the perfect gift to a family member.
Or so I imagined. Today, I’m certain that I don’t know anyone
well enough to give them the perfect gift. I only hope a glimmer
of goodwill clings to my offerings, adds a little extra shine,
wins them a kind reception.
 |
|
|
|
For a remarkable prayer about
being known and in companionship,
see the opening verses of Psalm 139,
posted this month on the
Lectio + Haiku page. |
|
|
|
|
|
And when I open a present to find proof that the giver doesn’t
really know me, can’t see past the static created by our two
personalities to what lies below the surface, then I hope for
the grace to receive the gift in the same spirit I’d like my own
received. And for the heart to accept what it means to be alone
and human. Along with everyone else.
This year, David gave me a book of Roz Chast cartoons and an
odd, disturbing pendant he found on a Goth web site: a dragon,
alive, evil, and triumphant, coiled from top to bottom around a
St. George cross.
A gift that makes me laugh. And a gift that makes me
uncomfortable, then starts me puzzling about the nature of faith
and fable, and the intertwining of good and evil.
Well, okay, maybe David does know me, just a scratch or two
below the surface.
Here’s wishing you joy in the New Year, and new adventures, and
many chance meetings on the road,
-- Margaret
|
