Houston, we have a problem...Life on Mars looks eerily familiar.

You know how they say "Watched water never boils"? I've often wondered if that means that neglected water actually boils faster or if it simply eventually boils, unlike 'watched' water which never boils? It's a valid question, right? Well, apparently, 'un-watched' holidays get here faster than 'watched' holidays.  I think Christmas got here faster than Friday does in the course of a typical week.  We've already had a little snow down here, which is remarkable to say the least and my niece has already found where I hid her stash of presents.  It is officially Christmas.  I've had to parry questions about gifts and divert begging about how much longer the wait will be.  And that was just my parents.
I was on the floor playing with my niece the other day and we were putting the furniture in this dollhouse I used to have when I was her age.  It is supposed to be a log cabin style house with a country store downstairs.  There is a small plastic pot-bellied stove which fits into a corner and I was explaining to her that people used to use that to stay warm.  I showed her where the wood was put into the stove through the tiny door at the front, and where the pipe fit which funneled the smoke through the chimney.  "How did Santa fit down something that little?" Oh. Crap.  "Ummm......" She waited expectantly.  "Ahhhh....."  I could see her doubt in my abilities begin to grow.  "That's a great question.  For your mother."  Hey, at least that meant she was paying attention to my explanation, I suppose.
I'm hoping sincerely she never meets this one little boy who came into the library a few months ago, even if he was as cute as the devil.  I would say he was about four, as it was during school hours and he didn't appear to be quite old enough yet, anyway.  He was dressed to the nines in a little button-up 'man shirt' and khaki pants.  Unlike most kids who just have clothes on, he was 'dressed.'  His mother left him standing at the desk for a moment while she went outside to get the library bag out of the car.  Striking up a conversation as I checked out the books, I asked if he was going to receive a visit from the Easter Bunny.  "Yeah, I guess."  Then he leaned into the desk and looked at me intently.  In a very conspiratorial whisper, and as if attempting to help ease the burden of my ignorance, he said, "But you know, its really just my parents."  I was still laughing when his mother returned and recited to her the information I had just received. I asked if he had put that one together on his own; she replied that as far as they could tell, he had.  "How long do you think....."  "S-A-N-T-A?"  "Yeah."  "This year will probably be the beginning of the end, we think."  Sad, I know.  But it was still funny.  And, truth be told, I liked that kid.  He was logical and level headed without being a know-it-all.  I just hope it is a few more years before my niece meets anyone that pragmatic.
But, as logical and pragmatic as I like for things to be, come this time of year, I'm just as much of a push-over as the next girl.  I get all weepy every time I hear 'Silent Night' or 'Joy to the World.'  Heaven forbid I hear some kid sing 'Away in a Manger,' no matter how off-key it might be.  I love Christmas music; in fact, if no one else is around, I'm 100% okay with playing it in June or July.  So, it is a bit odd to find a 'traditional' carol that I'm not too fond of.  However, for some reason, 'I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day' had never really been one I cared for too much.  I use 'had' because I changed my mind last year.  I caught a re-run of an Christmas program with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir with guest Edward Herrmann.  For some reason, I've just always liked him anyway.  He played a great grandad in the Gilmore Girls.  I've always loved Longfellow's poems, but to be honest, I never really paid much attention to the words of  'I Heard the Bells.'  Then, on this program, I learned the story behind the words, and suddenly the meant something more. 

There are some who argue that because there is pain and suffering in the world, because we endure deprivation, sorrow or loss, there must be no loving Father in Heaven.  It is claimed that those who believe otherwise live in a fool's paradise, using religion as a crutch to avoid reality.  There is nothing more real than pain, anyone can attest to that fact.  Yet, it is as C.S. Lewis once wrote, "...ponder for a moment that the great religions were first preached in a world without chloroform."  That Longfellow, or anyone else for that matter, could live through the experience of mortality and still find joy is a testament that there is hope.  It is not an avoidance of reality, but rather a recognition of  what reality truly is.  Mark Twain once said that a pessimist is just an optimist who never arrived.  That joy can be found in the sound of ringing bells, a joy at nothing more than the mere sound, or the fact that one can hear, that joy can be found in feeling the heartbeat of a small child as you rock him to sleep, that joy can be found in listening to Handel's Messiah or a four-year old sing "Give, Said the Little Stream,"  that joy can be found in dandelions as well as orchids is a proof that there must be a loving Heavenly Father.  I have a hard time believing that joy developed during an evolutionary process.  It does nothing to perpetuate a species or ensure survival.  What other purpose can it serve than to remind us that we are loved?  Those who populate the scriptures from which we teach hope did not teach of a Savior of all mankind from the comforts of well-furnished ancestral halls.  If pain were the only reality, joy would not exist.  That joy can exist in spite of pain, and sometimes because we have experienced pain and yet somehow survived, is neither naive nor idealistic.  It is, in some ways, a rather sobering fact.  Joy is not superficial, nor is it transient.  It is sometimes masked by loss or sorrow, but, unlike pleasure or even simple happiness, it is not lost unless it is relinquished.  That is what is so moving about Longfellow's poem, now.  Not necessarily the words, but the conviction which was found in the pain which became the source of those words.  "God is not dead, nor doth he sleep...."  Merry Christmas, everyone.