To paraphrase W. C. Fields: All things considered, I’d rather have the Blizzard Christmas of 2010 to the Norovirus Christmas of 2007 (when our entire family took turns being violently ill.). Although the terrible driving conditions meant some family members had to leave our Boxing Day dinner early—so we didn’t have our annual opportunity to systematically check-in, easily my favorite Christmas tradition—two members of our far-flung family stayed an extra day. A treat. Being housebound also meant all those special holiday leftovers were especially appreciated and grandchildren’s toys entertained their owners and their doting aunts and uncles and grandparents.

And, of course, we were lucky: We didn’t lose power and this drafty old house, which shook and swayed every time a stiff wind roared past, kept us (relatively) warm and dry. And when we ran out of coffee—ohmygosh!—we could simply climb over the snow banks of Union Square to buy locally roasted French Roast.

The people of Scituate, a seaside town south of Boston, were not so lucky: homes and businesses were flooded, two houses burned down, dozens of people had to be evacuated from the chest-high water.

Maureen Trayers, who lives next door to one of the burned homes, and whose own house was heavily flame-damaged, said this as she was being rescued: “We just had Christmas. And it’s all still in there.”

Presumably, at that very traumatic moment, as she’s climbing into a rescue vehicle, by “all” Ms. Trayers meant the presents and the gift cards, the tinsel and the wrappings, the decorated Christmas tree, stockings; cookies and a turkey and eggnog.

But I’ll bet that very soon she’ll realize that, yes, the wonder of the winter solstice, of light in the darkness, the hope of a peaceful, promising new year, the blessings of being alive and together and safe; yes, Maureen, all that is still in there. In you. In me. In all of us.

There’a a little beauty parlor on Somerville Avenue that’s hung some cheesy, glittery Christmas ornaments in its large, plate glass front window. Feeling glum a couple of days ago, I’d walked past that window just as the morning sun struck those ornaments. And the world—at least my teeny part of it—was transformed.

OK, I thought. Instead of viewing the asphalt and concrete and heavy traffic of Somerville Avenue as portents of doom and destruction (which is what I’d been doing), maybe I should instead look for something that speaks to the GLORY of my species.

And, immediately, there it was: the brand-new bike lanes of Somerville Avenue. Truly, those lanes are a miracle, a gigantic break-through, yes? (Unfortunately, there were no riders on the bike lane when I had this revelatory moment. That would have made this Ah HAH perfectly cinematic!)

As somebody noted at yesterday’s meeting for worship—which preceded Friends Meeting at Cambridge’s always tear-producing Christmas pageant—when the Holy family knocks on the door of that crowded Bethlehem  inn, it’s a “metaphor” for letting in light/joy/wonder/God. We get to choose if we open that door.

And how often.

Haven’t we heard this story before? A gentle and Spirit-imbued man, a traveler, a stranger, by his powerful yet graceful presence, shakes things up, challenges the complacent and the easeful, but then dies much too soon.

For me, Elphas Wambani was such a man. (And Elphas would roar at being paired with You Know Who!)

A Quaker from Kenya, Elphas had come to this country a few years ago to study at Episcopal Divinity School—and, although his Kenyan Quaker/FUM tradition was decidedly programmed, to worship at decidedly unprogrammed Friends Meeting at Cambridge.

From the very first time I met him, Elphas pushed my “I’m not doing enough; I should be. . . ” button: Enormous pain about his country, its AIDs epidemic, and how little I have done, how unfair it is that I have so much; you know, the usual White American Woman’s Guilt.

At his memorial on Saturday, a gathering for EDS and FMC folks, I reflected on that disquiet: And I think it’s because he was so gentle, so loving, such a man of faith, that I couldn’t discount his witness. His presence keenly reminded me: Yes, Patricia, there is a Kenya. And a Bangladesh. And a . . . Had he been a hectoring, rhetoric-spouting guy, had he been angry or unpleasant, how easy it would have been to not allow myself to acknowledge his reality. And my own.

Tragically, Elphas died in his sleep this summer at age fifty-four, after returning to Kenya. Such a loss. So unfair.

But there is such joy to be reminded that, yes, gentle and loving are so powerful they can change the world. Because, yes, we have heard this story before.

Saturday morning, I invited my husband to join me to shop at a crafts fair and to pick up our Christmas wreath.

He declined. “We’ve gone there for several years,” he pointed out. “It’s always the same.”

Exactly!

This holiday season, more than ever, I relish same-old, same-old. Aside from not sending Christmas cards (“[Sending Christmas cards is] expensive, and time-consuming and environmentally unfriendly” declared The Boston Globe‘s Miss Conduct yesterday.), I joyfully repeat my holiday traditions.

Why?  It’s not just because lately it seems as though the loonies have taken over my country. Or that my father died. Or that my writing’s stalled. Which make keeping my balance and perspective and equanimity hard sometimes, so that same-old feels safe. Not entirely.

It’s also because when I light a candle  or deeply breathe in the living, green, verdant smell of our Christmas wreath, I connect with the billions of my species who feared/fear the dark and the cold and mortality, yet remain hopeful but yearning.

And I am finding enormous comfort in that connection.

As I see it, the two most important things about repeats are so absurdly obvious that their implications can be easily overlooked. The plain but pregnant facts are, first, that a repeat allows a piece to be heard twice; and second, that it makes the music twice as long.

Hearing the music twice is an advantage if the piece is complex, subtle, original, profound and at the same time terse.

John Gibbons, liner notes, The Goldberg variations of Johann Sebastian Bach.

A terse writer, I copied out this passage years ago because I loved the string of adjectives preceding it.