A few days after Thanksgiving, I found myself in an existential dilemma. The cast of characters in my proverbial Christmas story seemed unbalanced in fate. This time of year is supposed to be magical and serene, but my narrative struggled to achieve continuity, more Dickens than Hallmark, as I watched life’s imperfections unfold.

Feeling up, then down, then up again, I became resolute in my uncertainty. Not wanting to be alone with such thoughts, I sought solace in conversation with a wiser acquaintance.

After I talked and he listened, then he talked and I tried to listen, his advice finally broke through my grinch-like temperament: “Observe rather than absorb.” I heard the words and knew they were enlightening, though I couldn’t process them fully at the time. I saved them for later.

That same weekend, our daughter Reagan was home from college with two friends. They were staying over and doing what most college students do while at their parents’ home: a lot of nothing. At one point, Reagan was shopping online and sharing pictures of desired outfits with her mother. “Everyone is wearing it,” she said. I rolled my eyes and remarked, “God forbid you don’t look like everyone else.” My words carried a scrooge-like tone, but they fell on deaf ears.

Then, without warning, I remembered being her age. I felt the ghost of Birkenstocks past, recalling the sandals I just had to have in the early 2000s. After all, such footwear was popular then, and “everyone” else was wearing them.

In that moment, I felt compelled to convince Reagan that popularity is trivial. But for now, it mattered to her. I could only observe and be a humbug elsewhere. I knew it wasn’t fair to try to change what can only change itself.

December waited for no one. The holidays suddenly arrived – marked, perhaps, by the 52-inch red bow above my front door or the 643 trips I made to the attic.

On one of those trips, I stood alone among boxes of decorations and became keenly aware of what made my Christmas special. All of it – the decorations, cookies, matching pajamas, wreaths, candy canes, stockings, gifts – was magical because of the person always present in my adult life: my wife, Shannon. The work and tireless effort mothers and wives contribute to Christmas is sacred. I was lucky enough to observe just how blessed our home is.

After lugging the last box down from the attic, my son, Landon, and I drove to my mother’s house to put up her Christmas tree. On the way, we circled the south side a few times – not lost in direction, but in the aftermath of a minor argument with Shannon. The discord had unsettled Landon and me; resolution was needed.

At my mother’s, after an honest conversation about conflict and reconciliation, we put up the tree. Later, we shared the story of my argument with Shannon. My mom recalled her own Christmas stories with my stepfather, Alan, and how imperfection often marked their celebrations. Yet, they always taught us resolution and how to say “I’m sorry” and “I love you.” Talking about it left me – and Landon – feeling better.

We returned home to find Shannon hanging ornaments on one of our many Christmas trees, her pursuit of making our lives special on full display. She came over and said simply, “I’m sorry and I love you both.” I apologized in return. Then Landon and I said, “We love you too.”

I guess what we see depends on what we’re looking for. Through resolution, in its many forms, we never have to look too far.

“God bless us, everyone.”

Clay Bowen is a Columbus native who cooked professionally as a chef in fine dining for 12 years and appeared on the third season of Top Chef. He is also a licensed landscape horticulturist. Email him at [email protected].

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