Christmas on Olympus

Last night we attended a Christmas party in one of Riverside's newer and higher-elevation neighborhoods. We arrived late thanks to the weekend parking lot that is the 91 freeway, so it was after dark. The home was gorgeous...and huge. It didn't just have a driveway; it had a parking lot. Several pools, one lagoon. A tiki bar. A peristyle garden. And a moat. These friends are older, around retirement age. It's the sort of dream home at which they can host their large family reunions, or just sit out front and view the entire inland empire from a wicker love seat.

Some of our friends of decent but not vast means look at a house like this and wonder "what have I done wrong?" My wife and I tend to look at the same house and think "nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to clean it." It's natural, perhaps, to want more than what you have. But at Christmas time, I am more likely to look with gratitude on what we have. For many years, I wallowed in stuff while living alone, and wanting nothing more for Christmas than a year-round companion. When I finally married a few years ago, my already-dwindling Christmas wish list became a chore to fill, because I really don't want for much.

Would I like to be a debt-free homeowner? Sure. Would I like a palace on the seashore? Meh. I've lived all over the world, worked in some exotic locales, and enjoyed most of them, at least for a time. I could live in a mansion or a cardboard box, if the company is good and the Internet is reliable. I don't envy those with more or better stuff than I have; I just appreciate when they invite me in for some hot cocoa and singalongs around the piano.

I've spent several Christmases in the last fifteen years as a recently laid-off worker, wondering when the next job will come along. And I'm mindful of those who are in that position this Christmas. I'm mindful of those who have given up time, health, even their lives to serve our country and its citizens, the grateful as well as the hostile, and the families who gave them leave to serve. I'm mindful of those who will spend this Christmas far from home and from those they love. The Internet can close that distance in many ways, but there is no substitute for a hug and a kiss.

I saw an article this week about a soldier who returned home, severly wounded. The sign on the hospital room door announced in no uncertain terms that this was a pity-free zone. Hope and love cast out fear, and even in the midst of great trial, there is room for hope and happiness, if we'll allow it...just as there can be despair in the heart of luxury, if we allow it.

Wherever you find yourself this Christmas, look for something that makes you happy.