And the Shelf He Rode In On (Part III)

In the Bleak Midwinter - Beth Whitney (mp3)
Where Are You Christmas? - Faith Hill (mp3)

Part One -- "The Origin of Laura Jane," wherein I mention our transgendered hero/heroine, Nicole Kidman, late night elf pornography, and Gmail

Part Two - "Bad Dad," wherein I experience the stages of grief, emotionally abuse my daughter, and am reminded why the Christmas season is so despicable

My second daughter continues to write to Laura Jane, our transgendered Elf on the Shelf and the ever-present reminder of a failure of my fatherhood.

She wrote that damn elf five times in November, each time desperately (but as patiently as her little heart would allow) anticipating Laura Jane’s response. My eldest hasn’t mentioned Laura Jane. We’re fairly certain she’s aware that the elf has no clothes, so to speak, and she's hinted as much, but we can’t be sure, and there’s no easy way to ask that question without giving it away.

And this story, split into three lengthy parts, sums up why I tend to despise “special” days, most especially Christmastime. We create these days where things have to be more. They have to be bigger, and better, and greater, and more important. Why? Because people need bigger, and better, and greater, and more important. Because normal isn't good enough.

This is proof that too many people allow their everyday to slip into something bad, something negative and undesirable. They then look to Special Days to rescue them from their monotony and boredom. It's like the abusive spouse who justifies his daily cruelties by being super-sweet on birthdays and anniversaries. I prefer trying, sometimes feebly, to value each day and to not save up my happy karma for Special Days, but rather to celebrate my joys whenever I can find them.

Wednesday, Bob wrote about being sick of winning. But isn’t Christmas, like, the World Heavyweight Champion of Days? Haven't we manufactured Christmas into nothing more than winning? Our entire fucking economy depends on it, fer cryin' out loud. Families depend on it to spend time together, to invest in one another, to think of one another first for a change. Moms (and some dads) need it to get out of the house at midnight on Thanksgiving as some sad proof that they must really really love their families.*

[* -- On the day after Thanksgiving, one of my friends had written on Facebook, “I’m in Target at 3:42 a.m. I can’t believe HOW MUCH I LOVE MY CHILDREN!” If you aren’t bothered by this leap in logic, I pity you. Fortunately for him, some 30 people responded that they, too, were out and about, and that they, too, desperately loved their children enough to invest in Black Friday.]

Christmas has become some maniacal race. It’s become competitive. It's become about winning.

How we got from the story of a family who couldn’t afford a room in an inn and had to sleep in a barn, to elves on shelves made in China but born in the North Pole and who mess up houses and hide and write emails that make children cry is truly beyond my grasp, but almost nothing about this holiday makes me feel one bit more religious.

My goal isn't to sap your joy, dear reader. If you find Christmas in Walmart, bully for you. I'm actually a bit jealous.

For me, however, the only times in this month-long stretch when I feel closer to God, or like a somewhat better version of myself, is at the dinner table with my family and in church singing hymns... and neither of these are seasonal.

And then, finally, at 11 p.m. on Christmas Eve, we get our service when I finally get the chance to feel undistracted, undiluted joy. Our standing room only church of people raise candlelights above their heads as they sing “Silent Night.”

That service is the very opposite of Black Friday. We pause. We reflect. We listen. And we do it all together in the middle of the night as a way of finally -- one hour before the Most Important Day of the Year -- clarifying for ourselves what the whole damn day is really supposed to inspire in the first place.

Not iPads, not a Lexus in the driveway, and not something from Jared.
Families. Huddled together.
Candlelight.
The acknowledgement of a world in desperate need of hope and meaning.
A communal feeling of love surging through people like a strong gust of wind, carried through them from the notes of a pipe organ or a hammer dulcimer or the sound of a choir.

Christmas finally arrives, deux ex machina, and rescues us from the previous 30 days of misguided obsessions and pepper-spraying our fellow consumers. And nothing, no matter how much bile and bitterness and anger they invoke in me leading up to that evening, can shake the power of the Day itself. It's bigger than we are, and we can't ever completely screw it up.

For that, I am eternally thankful.

I Want to Believe

Lighting Candles - The Weepies (mp3)
Believe - The Bravery (mp3)

NPR has this series called "This I Believe," where ordinary joes and janes get on and spew out their belief in one particular aspect of faith, life, culture, or other. I generally tune out on these things. Nine times outta ten, it's not particularly worth my time. Thus, karmically speaking, this post is probably doomed to bore, but that's precisely perfect for the topic at hand, one that appeals more than proclaiming what I DO believe, but rather what I so desperately WANT to believe.

I want to believe one woman can step into the D.C. school system with passion and vision and turn around the most notoriously awful inner-city school system in the country. I want to believe it takes a person like that -- clueless to politics but convicted of her certainty and willing to push into the inevitable head winds of opposition -- to affect substantial change. I want to believe that, if she manages by some miracle to succeed, teachers' unions stop embarrassing our country by placing the security of lazy or burned-out or incompetent teachers over the importance of the education of our nation's children. If Michelle Rhee's plan to arrange merit-based pay passes, the number of teachers who will choose the safety of lower salaries to avoid the scrutiny of their performance is going to be a clarion call for just how fucked up our educational system truly is. AT THE MOMENT: Belief beats pessimsm by a few feet.

I want to believe John McCain chose Sarah Palin for deeper reasons than the hope she could steal a few Angry Hilary Supporters from Obama. AT THE MOMENT: Belief is on an iron lung, but it's not dead. I don't know enough about her yet to lack all belief that this could be true.

I want to believe the return of football to television will add some much-craved superficial joy to my weekly existence. I want to believe the college season will be filled with awesome games and dramatic turns of event, and that the NFL will bring some great moments. But mostly I'm resigned to thinking that all football outside the SEC will involve one decent team, a lump of mediocre fluff, and a bottom-heavy suck-fest. AT THE MOMENT: After watching the Big Ten, ACC and Big East all embarrass themselves on Saturday -- including my beloved Tar Heels roughing out a 7-point win against McNeese f*#kin' State, I'm resigned to believe college football will be depressing with the exception of the SEC.

I want to believe Barack Obama will not lose the election based solely on a funny name and extra pigment. I want to believe that, were Obama and McCain forced to switch bodies ala Trading Places, the election numbers would come out the same because America actually pays attention to what these people say and to their hopes and aims for this country's future. I want to believe if McCain wins it won't be merely because he was white.  AT THE MOMENT: C'mon people. We all know better. And I promise this isn't me being all left-wing political. It's because I've heard or overheard at least a dozen conversations in the past months that scream the reality out to me.

I want to believe I'll one day write a novel. It doesn't have to be bought by Penguin or Random House. It doesn't have to get Hollywood production companies competing for the movie rights. It just needs to be something that has a beginning, an ending, a story that links the two in ways that most readers can understand, a character or two that I'm proud of having created and led through the journey. AT THE MOMENT: Hope is neck and neck with fear, with laziness stretching out on the track ahead of them, waiting to stick out a leg and trip one of them up.

I want to believe people are inherently decent and born that way. A friend of ours believes, as do many people, that we are all born evil thanks to the notion of Original Sin. She believes it is the responsibility of adults to protect them from the very worst in themselves and in their nature. I believe we're born good, and the adults are merely working to keep from fucking us up any more than they absolutely have to. AT THE MOMENT: Aw, I have no choice. This is as central a part of my worldview as believing in God or in the importance of fathers in the lives of their children. Fortunately, this is a "Did Adam and Eve have belly buttons?" kind of question that can be debated forever without proving anything.

"Lighting Candles" is from The Weepies' second album, Hideaway. "Believe" is from The Bravery's most recent album (or double album if you bought the version I did), The Sun and Moon (Complete). Both can be purchased through iTunes or Amazon.com's mp3 site. The former is solid. The latter is better for only a couple of songs.