Getting What We Wanted, Wanting What We've Got

"I got nothing that I asked for--
but everything I had hoped for. . . ."

--Author Unknown

I like a gift as much as the next person, and have been fortunate throughout my life to have received more than I probably deserve. My Christmas's have been rich in presents. But as I have grown a bit older, the appeal of things, and still more things, has begun to wear off. Maybe I already have enough, or, as the poet William Blake once wrote, "too much." Maybe its time for a yard sale.

I know, I sound a little like Mr. Scrooge. Or maybe a lot. Of course, there are still things that I want. I inherited from my father a love for shiny new cars, for instance. I don't like used stuff. Unlike Sabrina, who shops for clothes at Goodwill and Building 19, I prefer Brooks Brothers. I still have an "overweening love" for books--I love that expression "overweening"--and compact discs are a great but so far a controllable temptation. OK, I covet a mantle clock.

But, generally speaking, I have more than I need, and the things I want have begun to be less of a material and more of a spiritual nature. I love a road trip. Give me the Black Hills of South Dakota or the Blue Ridge Mountains. I would love to have more opportunity to travel, to experience new places and people. I treasure my trips to Transylvania and Eastern Europe, my visit last summer to Germany, and I look forward with great anticipation to my return to England over the holidays.

People are more precious to me, especially as I begin to lose some of them.

My visits in our Partner Church village in Romania have brought home to me just how much I have of a material nature. I have more than enough. They have little. Yet, they are rich in ways that I am not.

A deeper spiritual life beckons to me. If only there was time!

I constantly tell you you must make the time in your lives for what is most important, but I know how difficult that is. I know how often I fail at it. I know how to vegetate in front of a TV as well as anyone. I know the distractions of the modern world. As the cartoon character Pogo once said [in paraphrase], "I have met the enemy, and it is me."

But happiness does not lie in things. We know that; at least, I think we do, in spite of our efforts and all the evidence to the contrary. It does not even necessarily lie in getting what we want. As Garrison Keillor once put it with truthful convolution, "Some luck lies in not getting what you thought you wanted, but in getting what you have , which once you have it you may be smart enough to see is what you have wanted had you known." You followed that, right?

An old poem says,

I asked for riches, that I might be happy
          I was given poverty that I might be wise. . . .
I got nothing that I asked for--but everything I had hoped for. . . .

This is not an argument for stoicism in the face of a bad or unhappy marriage or partnership or family situation. It is only an argument for waking up to the giftedness of the lives we so often take for granted, or with a kind of bored complacency. The trick is not necessarily in getting what we wanted, but in learning to want what we've actually got,--possibly even to love what we've got.

My colleague Frank Rivas tells a wonderful "Cautionary Tale" about this dilemma:

My little sister, Renee, was ten years younger than I. When she was in kindergarten, I considered her to be the most obnoxious child on this planet.

So, I decided to get her a lump of coal for Christmas. I know that people generally consider it Santa's responsibility to give lumps of coal to bad little boys and girls, but I had learned over the years not to trust Santa's judgement. I'd seen it over and over again; the old man went easy on little kids.

So the responsibility fell to me. I searched the yellow pages, went to the nearest coal yard, picked out an exceptionally large chunk, wrapped it nicely in a box with a bow, and placed it under the Christmas tree.

Our family encouraged recipients to lift, shake, and guess at the contents as soon as the gift was under the tree. Renee was fascinated. What gift could weigh so much?

By our Christmas morning tradition, the gifts were sorted into five piles; then, one at a time, going around the circle as many times as neces- sary, we opened our gifts for everyone to see.

Renee opened mine first. As she unwrapped ribbon, paper, and box, her excitement grew. My excitement grew too; the moment of reckon- ing was at hand.

From her first glance at the coal she loved it. She screamed with delight and hugged me profusely.

How was I to know that only a week earlier, in her kindergarten class, she had learned to grow colorful crystals on coal? How was I to know that this would be her favorite gift?

And speaking of God, in this season which commemorates God's miraculous intervention on behalf of the Maccabees of Jewish tradition, and God's miraculous but humble appearance among us in the Christian incarnation: isn't it often the case that the God we wanted is not the God we've actually got? A poor, helpless, threatened babe in a manger, literally a feeding trough? Come on. Another colleague, Stephen Edington, once wrote about the Christian view of Jesus' messiahship,

The Messiahs we want and the Messiahs we need: the Messiahs we oftentimes want are those who will do it for us. The ones we need are those who will point us to our own strength as individuals, and the strength that comes from human sharing and interaction. The Christmas story is the story of a God refusing to send what was wanted, and who opted for what was needed instead.

This is not a new problem. Fra Giovanni, writing to a friend in 1613, said

I salute you. There is nothing I can give which you have not, but there is much that, while I cannot give you, you can take.

No heaven can come to us unless our hearts find rest in today. Take Heaven.

No peace lies in the future which is not hidden in the present. Take peace.

The gloom of the world is but a shadow; behind it, yet within our reach is joy. Take joy.

And so at this Christmas time I greet you, with the prayer that for you, now and forever, the day breaks and the shadows flee away.

I hope that I am not revealing anything too shocking when I say that my life isn't perfect, either. Surprise! My family isn't perfect, either. I am not a perfect parent or partner. I struggle to look on the bright side, too. I am sometimes defeatist about life, too. I don't always appreciate what I have or what I am. Though I love them, I don't always find it easy to appreciate my children. I'm not always satisfied with what I have achieved in life. I'm sometimes a lousy friend. I'm not always as sympathetic as I should be. And I can be belligerent and think bad thoughts, too.

Usually that is when I have been feeling that I am underappreciated, or that ministry and Waldorf education [Sabrina's vocation] just aren't as lucrative compared to other occupations as I wish they were. Often it is when I know that I have fallen short of my own ideals, but rather than convict myself--guilty as charged--I look for someone else to blame.

It is when I am feeling sorry for myself and convinced that I haven't got what I wanted that I usually act this way. But assuming that I am not clinically depressed, I know that I hold the key to my own change of attitude.

And in my better moments, at those times when my mind is clear and I am being honest with myself, I understand that the problem is mostly with me. I am the enemy. And at those times, when I am able to see all that I have, when I am smart enough to see it, I realize how crazy and stupid I have been, and I begin to see how desperately I have wanted exactly what I've got, and how lucky I am to have it. I want to hold that thought and never let it go, but I am realistic enough to know that I won't always, and that I will need to be reminded again and again and again to be thankful for my life, for all that I have received which I will never be able to pay back, for all that I will never appreciate enough or love enough.

The late Christopher Moore, founder of the Chicago Children's Choir, once wrote,

If we fill our lives with things, and yet more things,
If we feel that we must fill every moment that we have with activity,
When will we have the time to make the long, slow journey across the burning desert, as did the Wise Men?
Or sit and watch the stars, as did the shepherds?
Or brood over the coming of the child, as did Mary?

For each of us, there is a desert to travel,
A star to discover and follow,
And a being within ourselves to bring to life.

May your holidays be bright; may they be filled with time for the discovery of all the gifts you already possess; may you be lucky enough to realize that they are what you have always wanted, if only you had known; and may this knowledge make you rich beyond measure, in this holiday season and throughout all the year to come. Amen.

The Rev. Harold E. Babcock