It’s been said, jokingly, that in every movie ever made there are really only ten different plots. Let me give you an example. A woman is in a bad marriage; the man is either abusive or just not a good husband, but the woman is a saint who stays in the marriage because she feels it is the right thing to do. There is, however, a kind, intelligent, good-looking young man down the street who has never quite managed to find that truly special person. Just possibly, this “boy next-door” is someone from her past whom she never expected to see again. When these two serendipitously bump into each other at (insert public location here,) the chemistry is obvious almost instantly. But because she is a saint and he is a good man, they don’t do anything improper, and you feel the tragedy of the situation. The good man is about to leave town or marry someone else he doesn’t love, when miraculously the bad husband is hit by a train or killed in a mining accident. The saint, after a proper time of mourning, is able to marry the good guy and live happily ever after.

I have seen at least one hundred different movies with this theme, and when my son and I walk in on my wife watching just such a “chick flick”, we jokingly call out a  plot number. “Oh, this must be a number 3.” It’s a reference to the movie being so very predictable.

Most of the year, these movies bother me. I can’t watch them because they are usually badly acted, and so corny that I will get up and go do something else.

 At Christmas time, however, my tune changes: I will sit down and watch a cheesy Christmas movie, and even tear up a little as the girl gets the guy, or the children find out there really is a Santa, or [insert plot number of choice].

Why is it that I change so much between Thanksgiving and Christmas? What softens in me so that I go from being sarcastic to openly emotional?

Maybe pine trees and candles lighten my mood. Or maybe being with family more makes me more congenial; (yeah, right)! Possibly it could be the memories of my childhood, or the wonder of Christmas seen in my children’s eyes. Or is it, as the Grinch says, a little bit more?

This time of year, unlike most of the year, I am more likely to hear the story of Jesus, and not just at church on Sunday. Our pastor has been telling us all month that there is a cost to the hope of the season. To us it is free, but God paid an amazing price to reconcile us to Himself.

During this season, as I watch the news every night, I see groups trying to give gifts and food to children and families that don’t have any.  I look around me and see that I am so blessed. God has given me a ministry and a purpose, and a family whom I love and who love me. We have a roof over our heads and food in our refrigerator.

So maybe, instead of being my usual sarcastic self, during this time I am actually remembering to be thankful for what I have been given. Perhaps this is something that should affect all our lives a little bit more.

Merry Christmas.

Of course, I’m talking about the holidays! Thanksgiving and Christmas are just around the corner: so let the craziness begin. Why is it that we can be perfectly sane all year long, but throw in a few days of being with family and all hope of sanity is gone?  What is it about family that can make full grown adults like us act like elementary school playground adversaries?

And the food! If someone doesn’t make the gourmet potatoes or grandma’s green bean casserole, World War Three will break out! In some families, it can come down to who cooks what, and how it is prepared; something like this will make or break the day! 

We put a lot of pressure on ourselves and others this time of year to live up to what is really a dream; the “perfect holiday”. If I think back to my youth, there are a few key things that I remember surrounding the holidays. Being with family, a fire burning in the fireplace, my cousins and I running around the house as all the dads gathered in the living room. Playing games, waiting restlessly for midnight to come, and the smells of food coming from the kitchen as the moms kept a seemingly endless stream of food coming, these all played a part in those special days every year.  We ate the same food every Christmas at midnight, then we opened presents. Throw in the fact that my birthday is Christmas Eve and you get a picture of what I expected from Christmas. But what I have come to realize is my memories of Christmas are a composite of over twenty years of Christmases smashed into a memory of perfection. I am sure some years were not as good as others; I know I got some socks and probably even some underwear as gifts, but those aren’t the ones I remember. I remember the ones that were exactly what I wanted.