A Lustre of Midday

With a forty-foot evergreen as its centerpiece, Ashland’s Corner Park has been transformed into a shimmering winter wonderland. Long a fan of Christmas light displays, I do enjoy the blow-up snowmen, Santas, and even Minions I’ve encountered this year, yet the display of white lights at Corner Park is breath-taking. Turning the corner from Main Street to Claremont Avenue, I sensed what Clement Moore was describing in his beloved poem: “The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow gave a lustre of midday to objects below.”

Sharing my appreciation for these new lights with a friend, I was surprised by his vehement response (paraphrased): “Who likes white lights? Christmas should be for kids, and kids like – and need – colored lights!” (While I won’t publicly name my friend, those in the know will be able to identify him easily enough). I grew up with the old-school colored bulbs clipped to our gutters and encircling our Christmas tree, yet strands of white lights currently illuminate our tree. Giving it some thought, I suppose I prefer the white lights to the colored ones. But it’s way beyond a preference for my friend – it’s a passion.

However, my friend’s penchant for colored lights is not shared by his wife. Take a look at the glittering Christmas trees inside the Kroc Center, and you’ll see whose preference prevailed! 

Isn’t this symbolic of how relationships, especially marriage, work – or don’t work? How do you put the toilet paper on? Hellman’s mayonnaise or Miracle Whip? Hard or soft mattress? Blanket or no blanket? Late, on-time, or early?

Of course, there are more serious conflicts in marriage. Should we have kids? “No, Rhythm is not a good name for our son.” To spank or not to spank? How can we afford . . .?

Even end-of-life decisions can bring conflict in family relationships. Should the experimental cancer treatment be extended? Is it time to call hospice? What about the DNR order? Cremation or burial? Open or closed?

No matter what kind of relationship we’re in – marriage, partnership, family, even the puppy love of kids – there will be conflict. And playing “rock, paper, scissors” isn’t the best determinant for making critical decisions. 

Writing in “Caring and Commitment,” Lewis Smedes suggests what he calls “permissive caring,” “giving each other permission to be the different sort of person each of them is. They care enough to leave each other alone, enough to celebrate the gifts each brings within his or her character.” In other words, they learn how to set each other free. Smedes understands: “Committed love is a power to surrender our right to get what we desire so that the person we love can get what he or she needs. When my desire conflicts with your need, I will opt for your needs – if my love is committed love.” 

Mike Mason takes a further step: “Marriage at its best is . . . a backwards tug-of-war between two wills each equally determined not to win.” As in, “No, dear, please keep the toilet seat up. I don’t mind at all!”

Whether in marriage or family, work or neighborhood relationships, we are often called to compromise, not in the sense of a dishonorable or shameful concession, as one dictionary definition suggests, but instead, by negotiating a way forward, even if it means giving something up. By articulating each position, we can talk through the aesthetic of white lights in a public space versus the joy of children when surrounded by multi-colored lights. It may end by making space for multicolor Christmas trees in the family room. It helps to remember the assumption of the word itself – “com” (together) and promise. There is a promise inherent in the willingness to find a way forward within our committed love, acknowledging the value of the relationship over the color of the lights.

I do have a potential community compromise that could ease my friend’s angst over the white lights at Corner Park. Wouldn’t it be beautiful to thread the night sky with red lights for Valentine’s Day, green for St. Patrick’s Day, and red, white and blue for July 4^th? What do you think, Mr. Mayor? I know somebody who might help!