Soap Snow

A few nights ago I stood among hundreds of people outside of Santa’s house, somewhere between Barnes & Noble and Anthropologie, when a foreign whirring sound appeared above us, the skies opened up, and suddenly we were all being showered in soap bubbles. Kids started cheering, people ran out of stores and craned their necks, others extended a hand to the floating suds, clutching bags of clothes in the other hand.

For a moment I found myself caught up in the spectacle, but then I began to feel increasingly removed. I looked at the soap that clung to the ground for a mere second, and I thought about how it could represent so much of what happens in this city, manufacturing something temporary to masquerade as something substantial. I looked at the crowds of people, clutching their shopping bags full of hundreds of dollars worth of items, and I thought of the reasons why so many people are cynical about the Christmas season. After exactly five minutes the rooftop soap machines fell silent, then a man stepped on a brightly lit stage and wished everyone a Merry Christmas before he started yelling about all of the new features in the shiny car displayed behind him.

Waiting to meet up with some new friends, I continued to feel more and more bothered. I even began to jot down ideas I could write about later, about consumerism and empires and the hijacking of a truly meaningful and beautiful story. I began to feel superior to the crowds flowing in and out of the stores, as if I was somehow enlightened and they were not.

And then my phone rang. I spent the next hour and a half talking with a very dear friend from Florida, a conversation that had its serious moments but was thoroughly enjoyable and refreshing.

My phone died before we finished talking, but it turned out to be just in time for the final soap shower of the night. This time I couldn’t help but laugh at the kids squealing in delight, the father who placed his son on his shoulders so he could reach higher, and all of the hundreds of people who seemed to stop what they were doing for just a few moments, staring at the suds twirling and floating through the lights, and pretending that Los Angeles might actually experience a holiday snowfall. When the little girl beside me jumped on a chair and wished everyone a Merry Christmas, I almost started crying. The good kind.

There are all sorts of things to be cynical about this time of year. Our addiction to buying things is a problem, and the way that Christmas is used to feed that addiction is definitely a problem. Not to mention that for so many people holidays stir up deep personal pain related to family problems or loved ones who won’t be sharing in the traditions this year.

But there are so many things to be excited about too. Maybe all the talk about joy and peace amounts to more than overplayed songs and cheesy commercials. Maybe the story about God becoming man and sharing our existence is very real and very present. Maybe anything that draws together families or distant friends is powerful and worth being excited about.

I think I need to repeatedly remember this. It’s so easy to be cynical, and I don’t need to be reminded of my skepticism, but I am compelled by the thought that there is something substantive and lasting beneath all the lights and songs. It took a long conversation with a missed friend to remind me of this, and I’m sure I will need to be reminded again. My hope is that I will find genuine joy in everything that is being shared over the next few weeks, in families that come together for a few cherished traditions, and in friends that are united again over food and hot chocolate and wonderfully cold weather.

Tomorrow morning I leave for Bradenton, so maybe that’s putting me in some sort of sappy sentimental mood. I would like to believe, though, that this new peace of mind and heart, and this giddy expectation for things to come, have something to do with the story behind all the craziness.