Desperately Seeking Sanity

by Kerry Blair

It’s 6 AM—22 degrees outside—and I’ve already been up for more than an hour. My mother has the flu. My checking account has about $1.28. My dog has “returned” the plate of sugar cookies she snarfed last night. Verily, it must be Christmastide.

Each year I envision my holiday springing forth like a picture-print from Currier & Ives. Every year I invariably find myself in a production that has clearly been written and produced by Tim Burton. My favorite aunt—she of the double doctorate in deviant psychologies—explained this phenomena to me yesterday in great detail. I would enlighten you masses in turn, but after the first thirty seconds or so, she began to sound very much like an adult voice from Charlie Brown’s wonderful life.

I do, however, remember how the lecture ended. She said, “With all you have to do for so many, it is no wonder you dislike Christmas.”

Dislike Christmas? Me? Not a chance! Being a card-carrying whiner by nature, it is my sworn duty to Grinch around a little, but my heart isn’t in it. Sure, I should be dismayed to have more tinsel on the carpet—and the cats!—than on the tree, but I can’t help but find it rather festive. Perhaps I should be embarrassed to have a kitchen countertop stacked mile-high with ingredients, and yet nothing to take the neighbors. But I’m thinking that if I pick up half a dozen wooden spoons, I can take everybody on the block festive little bags with jars of marshmallow cream and bags of chocolate chips—family memories in the making! (Besides, nobody can deny that fudge tastes best warm from the pan, right? Cut out the middle man, I say!)

Also, I am always better educated after Christmas. If not for my little niece, I would never have known that there are more varieties of Baby Alive in the world than there are actual babies. And I’m not the only one who is wiser. My brother learned just last night that it takes two hours (minimum,) a top-of-the-line computer system, and a degree from MIT to download and install the software required to operate the Dora doll his second daughter covets. Talk about a tender mercy! Give me Baby Alive, any day! I’ll even wipe the chemical “whoopsie doo” off her little plastic bottom before I’ll undertake computer programming. (Side note: I know the kind of people who market these things, but who in the heck thinks them up? And why?)

I sincerely wish I had a great segue here into the “true meaning of Christmas.” Something that would warm the cockles of your heart, if not edify your very soul. But I don’t. That’s what Christmas itself is for. Let its spirit sneak up on you on little cat feet . . . okay, you’re thinking I’m hitting the ol’ eggnog, but what I really am is totally distracted. I’m sincerely trying to blog here, but from the corner of my eye I’m watching a cat stalk the little needlepoint baby Jesus for the six hundredth time this season. Jesus never puts up much of a scuffle, but the cat lives for the game that ensues when I attempt to get the doll back. I enjoy the chase, but even more I like to let him get away. Then, a little later in the day, I am sure to be surprised when I come across the Christ Child replica hidden in the wrapping paper bag, deep in the tree, or behind the cat bowl. (If you think our game is sacrilegious, please accept my apology in advance and know I’ll repent just as soon as I believe it’s warranted.)

You know what? Think about it. Isn’t Christmas very much like the game I play with the cat? Don’t we all get buried under cookies-andwrappingpaper-and tinsel-andprograms-andparties-andbills-andservice-andmovies-andtrees-andprojects-andpresents-andlights-andSantas-and all the rest? But then—often when we least expect it—don’t we come upon a little glimmer of meaning in there somewhere? As dedicated as I am to whining about all there is to do in the next week, I am even more dedicated to the belief that we really can find Christ in everything to do with Christmas. Always. We just need to look.

What is your favorite secular part of Christmas? Since pageants aren't secular, mine would have to be Santa Claus. Or maybe all the lights. (Prescott is Arizona's Christmas City, you know. Everybody come visit!) Or maybe it's shopping for toys. I do love to shop for toys. Or maybe it's the carolers. Or all the cheesy Christmas movies. Or. . . never mind. You tell me yours and maybe I'll shut up!