Christmas in my family involves a lot of traditions. Traditions we followed for years at home when my sisters and I were small and traditions we’ve established for ourselves separately during years we’ve been unable to gather.

Many of these traditions involve music and film. We’re not exactly unique in this; most families I know make some effort to watch certain specials every year, Rudolph, It’s a Wonderful Life, White Christmas; or to listen to seasonal music, including Handel’s Messiah, which, despite being more about the resurrection than the birth of Christ has that glorious Hallelujah Chorus in it.

Two traditions from my childhood that I have carried with me, shall we say religiously, are the Albert Finney musical adaptation of A Christmas Carol, Scrooge and Gian Carlo Menotti’s opera, Amahl and the Night Visitors.

Most people know Scrooge’s tale but few are familiar with Amahl.

It is the story of a young boy and his mother living in poverty, visited on the night of Christ’s birth by the three kings, stopping for a breather on their journey to Bethlehem.

Amahl is an ornery, energetic kid who also happens to be crippled. The visit from the kings sets off all manner of excitement for the boy and his mother and their entire shepherding community, but the intrigue of the visit is punctuated by the kings’ explanation of the reason for their journey.

They are hauling themselves across the world to drop off a load of jewels and precious oils on a baby they’ve never met because a star in the sky has announced to them that a prophecy has come true. A savior has been born into the world.

Amahl’s mother is appalled. Here she sits in a freezing hovel with her beloved son and his disability, no food, no firewood, no hope of surviving the winter in any comfort, and these guys stop over, take advantage of their hospitality, meet and enjoy her child’s company, and they’re taking riches to some brat born of a prophecy that cannot be proven to her.

But Amahl believes. And with the innocence of a 10-year old child (are 10-year olds innocent anymore?), he offers up his crutch to the kings as a gift to this savior.

And then of course, the miracle happens. Amahl begins to walk.

Miracles

The importance to me of preserving these family Christmas traditions is simple. I need to be reminded that miracles happen. As the charity solicitors tell Scrooge, “Christmas is a time of year when want is keenly felt and abundance rejoices.”

In winter the contrast between joy and pain is so stark, so clearly visible, that if I didn’t have these reminders I’d probably lose my mind.

Perhaps it could be argued that the crass commercialism of Christmas is what makes poverty and depression stand out so badly this time of year, and I’m sure this is true. But I’m not so sure that’s really a bad thing, at least to me. The contrast forces many of us to look for hope–for signs of humanity, acts of kindness, reminders of miracles.

I think that there is a message in Christmas that can reach people, at least in this country, whether we believe whole-heartedly in the truth of the story of Christ or not. The message is hope. Not necessarily hope for the big things, like Peace on Earth, or an end to global warming and terrorism, but a deeply personal hope.

If, in the face of plastic santas, crowded malls, and soup kitchens with lines wrapped around a city block, we can open our eyes and minds to possibilities–search out and grab hold of things that give us of hope–we can find inside ourselves the energy and inspiration to believe that we can change our lives and maybe make a small difference in someone else’s.

Like Amahl, we can take a risk and trade in our crutches for faith–in ourselves or in our understanding of God–and believe that something good could happen.

I guess maybe what I’m saying is my Christmas tradition is hope. When Scrooge flings open his shutters and rejoices in the realization that he still has time, that nothing is final, and everything can change for the good, I’m standing beside him, throwing my hands in the air and believing.

There’s your cheesy holiday entry. Merry Christmas.