|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|||||||||
|
|
|
|||||||||
|
|
||||||||||
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
||
SPRING
2001 George A. Crispin
Woodbury Monthly Meeting
Order, predictability, dependability. These are qualities I like. Their opposites make me nervous. I suppose were I present at the Big Bang when the universe was created I would be likely to ask with trembling agitation, “Where is this all going?” Matter flying off in all directions, absence of patterns or obvious destinations. This would be chaos. It would make me nervous.
Life is sometimes like the Big Bang, or so it seems. Things flying off in all directions at once. This Christmas season was like that. One year I could not face all the last minute running around at Christmas looking for the right presents, so I did my shopping in August. Even wrapped the gifts by November. It turned out the presnts were all hopelessly out of date, not what people wanted. My smugness turned to depressing defeat.
Each Christmas season I think it will be different. This year I was retired. None of the “up to the last minute” stress of one’s job. No, not this year. The college semester was over by the second week in December. Two whole weeks to prepare for Christmas. What could go wrong? Thus, I could plan orderly shopping tours, dine out, decorate the house, stock up on food and firewood, and have time left over to read that novel over the break. So I thought.
Our one trip to the mall this year left me jangled for days. Unbelievably crowded. One could hardly go two steps before someone appeared just in front walking a fraction of the speed you desired. Long lines. Noise. Children wanting to see Santa Claus, but overcome with a fear that defies persuasion or threats at the last minute. Decisions. Decisions. The right color, the right size? Will it match what we already have? Can we afford it? Remembering the list of extraneous things, like wrapping paper, scotch tape, bows.
Finally, the last straw, parking. The mall parking lot is turned into the Indianapolis 500. Just as you are about to pull into the spot you have been waiting for, in the time you feel you could have read Anna Karenina, someone dashes in ahead of you. Now you must drive around for another fifteen minutes.
The Christmas party. Chaos, thy name is Christmas party. First, a piano player cannot be found, so we must sing, if we sing at all, without accompaniment. No one seems to know who is in charge, including the one in charge. The order of the program has been changed about as many times as the weather report for that day. For the potluck there are three dishes of scalloped potatoes, and there are only so many ways to scallop potatoes. The program begins, how would one know amid the din. Participants have forgotten their places. The order has been changed, yet nobody seems to know, or care. A child is crying. It takes minutes to find the mother. The child can still be heard in the other room. A story is read. It has nothing to do with Christmas. People sing off tune. A string of lights goes out; no one can get them to relight. Chaos reigns.
What we see in life often depends upon what we look at, or what we look for. What is focused upon grows. What appears to be chaos may be order. What appears to lack direction may have a destination after all. The Big Bang make have looked like cosmic soup, but it got us here. In all things there is a higher level and if we raise our sights we may come to see it.
It was a wonderful Christmas. Crowded, noisy, chaotic, yes, but wonderful all the same. I saw it in my son’s eyes. The wonder of Christmas. Everything to a three-year-old at Christmas is new, and filled with mystery, anticipation, and wonder. Above the din and crowded stores, if you listened, were Christmas carols. The air was filled with the scent of Christmas candycanes. People were in the way, but they smiled at strangers. Once when I spotted a parking spot, easily within reach before anyone else, I stopped and let another person have the spot. The unexpected gesture was first met with amazement, then a wave of the hand in appreciation. I decided not to hurry. This was irrational. But is Christmas a destination, or a journey? If a journey, then the trip is the joy. Why rush?
The Christmas party was the most chaotic in my memory, but the memory that will last is the joy that it brought to the faces of the children. Happiness, laughter, joy. With the anticipation brimming over, they could hardly contain themselves. Off key, they sang their hearts out, “This little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine!” Out of order, they spoke their simple lines with a open sincerity and they gleefully distributed tiny gifts to all Friends. I remember the Christmas parties of my youth and to this day those memories warm my hearts. Perhaps these children, sixty years from today, will remember this Christmas as their children or grandchildren run around screaming and squealing with delight. Perhaps those memories will warm their hearts as my memories do. Yes, the cosmic soup got us here, the Mona Lisa, the Holy Bible, heart transplants, computers, and all the rest. From what appears chaos there is latent a creativity and order in things that we do not always see. A child’s Christmas may be chaotic, but in it there are the seeds of unlimited goodness which may be passed on to their children as well.
RETURN TO TABLE OF CONTENTS
Last modified:
Wednesday, February 18, 2004 at 08:19 AM
