No matter how entrenched I am in the conflicts around Christmas, all it takes is one story to render me sobbing. The
commercial, the book, the
song all retell what happened over a hundred years ago on the frozen fields of France.
Men younger than my four sons were weary of the fighting. It began with a carol. In two tongues, the soldiers sang words that were embedded in their hearts.
Silent Night. Stille nacht.
Their voices lifted out of the foxholes and were carried across the snow. Cold and homesick, the men took the unthinkable step onto the battleground between sparring armies. Waving a white flag of truce, Germans and Americans shook hands, traded chocolates, and kicked a soccer ball.
Benjamin loves the song. He plays it multiple times each December and asks me yet again.
"Who is my favorite artist?"
"John McCutcheon!"
I know that next week his favorite will be different but that does not detract from his enthusiasm today.
When have I paused from a skirmish? Chosen playfulness over retaliation? When have I offered something sweet instead of bullet points?
There is one stark similarity between my resentments and a trench in the snow. You can't see much.
