Something’s Troubling Me

Ancient manuscripts offer good advice about not being anxious for tomorrow, but it’s hard to buy into that wisdom at Christmas. Just surviving the season is a challenge.

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The pressure has been building slowly for weeks. It’s that omnipresent nagging feeling inside that something’s just not right. You know what I mean. It’s something you just can’t put your finger on, but you know it’s there. Like wondering if your Social Security number has been hacked and making the rounds in Russia.

Christmas for many, especially men, is like that. It’s traumatic. It’s when men encounter the most dreaded event in life…shopping. Anguish is everywhere. Where’s joy to the world, peace on earth? There’s wailing and gnashing of teeth as the deadline nears. It’s all caused by one universal, unanswered question: “Honey, what do you want for Christmas?”

Shopping is a ritual to endure, like presidential debates. We hear a lot of, “I don’t need anything, want even less.” Such answers are traps for the uninitiated. Postpone the inevitable if you dare, but you know that somehow, from somewhere other than Ace Hardware something expensive must appear under your Christmas tree. But what?

It started last week when I skipped church to buy a Christmas tree. I assumed the little drummer boy wouldn’t miss me and that the angelic host would give me a pass. But my conscience is troubled. Star-gazing wise men from the east who keep sheep are keeping score. Retribution is certain.

I plunge the tree in a bucket of water and wait patiently for an inspirational jump-start. A week goes by. The three kings of the orient fail to show. Fear of recompense for my church truancy builds. I’m troubled. Emerson advices, “Do the thing and you will have the power.” I rebuke procrastination. Instantly heaven and nature begin to sing.

Finally it’s up. “Best tree we ever had,” I say, hoping to set a positive tone. But under close scrutiny from more discerning eyes, it’s pointed out that it’s not a perfect tree. It’s crooked. Anxiety wells up, answers narrow down, while visions of sugarplums dance in my head.

We discuss the situation. Weigh our options. We feel sorry for the tree and keep it. It tends to set a standard for the quality of gifts to put beneath, something less like gold and more like frankincense and myrrh. No self-respecting diamond bracelet would coexist with last-minute sale items from CVS.

Last night the dog and I sat and gazed at the glimmering masterpiece. The tree’s illumination with LED lights evokes images of Miami Beach at night. It’s a yogic experience, one that gets you in touch with your inner feelings. And I need to have some revelation of what to buy my spouse.

I envy the dog. He’s not troubled. If he’s hungry, he eats. If he itches, he scratches. He hears, he barks. Nothing bothers him. He smells, he investigates. If he’s tired, he sleeps. He doesn’t plant, he doesn’t reap. He’s got it made. Dogs provide wonderful life lessons for the troubled at heart.

I talk to my dog. He sometimes listens. Tonight I ask him for gift suggestions for my wife. He looks up, twists his head a few times and rolls over. He’s not troubled. His eyes convey what his voice might say, “What, me worry?”

Maybe it’s the bright lights, but a swoon soon comes over me while heavenly harps of gold wish me a merry Christmas. An apparition seems to emanate from the tree itself. Its ghost-like spirit appears as a woman clothed in a glowing, translucent angelic robe.

In one hand she clutches what appears to be a stack of brochures. The writing is vague; my eyes strain to decipher the text. Slowly it materializes…Windstar Cruises, a Greek Isles Excursion. Instantly the specter vanishes, leaving me alone again with an idea and the sleeping dog.

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In our culture we’re troubled by many things. Lessons from dogs and Christmas trees will often lighten the load. I immediately book the cruise. Angst vanishes.

Christmas is special. Heavenly hosts sing hallelujah and make life simple again. Imperfect trees notwithstanding, all we have to do is receive it. Falalalalalalalala


Bud Hearn
December 17, 2015