I watched George Bailey's fiasco again. Not because I was uninformed about how it ends, but because I knew. The comfort of seeing his day go from desperate to abundant is a message I can gulp down like mulled cider on a nippy night. Perhaps I should say sip, because I did not play the movie at 1.5 speed the way my son does when he wants to finish quickly. I tasted every snowy scene. 

George began his Wonderful Life with aspirations of travel, and greatness. Yet the needs that tugged his heart tethered him to Bedford Falls, solving ordinary dilemmas like paying the mortgage. His wife Mary is a quiet force, knowing when to bide her time and when to shake things up. Their routine is at once quaint and magnificent. What labels can we affix to a marriage with four healthy children, a home that provides shelter, a community that greets you by name when you walk down the street? George learns the immensity of their value when those givens disappear. 

George is visited by an angel. Not the kind with a halo and beatific smile. A somewhat frumpy man with a kind heart shows up to bring George the vital news that his life is worth grabbing with both hands. 

I watched so that I can remember again. Bring into focus the audacity of stepping into those sequential seconds of service. Not because it makes me grand, or rich, but because when wonderfulness blankets us like a snowfall, we can be blinded by the great beauty on every side.