mary van milligen

It’s that time of year again.  All of our favorite Christmas films and songs own the airwaves.  My husband and his brother fondly recall all of the lines to A Christmas Story. I annually smile thinking of my own brothers forcing themselves to have soprano voice boxes as they screeched the “Sisters” song from White Christmas.  And anyone who knows me understands that I have particular Christmas carols that are musts.  Nat King Cole’s version of “The Christmas Song” and the lyrics of “And so I’m offering this simple phrase, from kids from one to 92” still steals my heart, Sinatra’s perfectly tuned voice soothes my soul when I listen to “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas”, and the oddly matched but perfect harmonious pair of David Bowie and Bing Crosby performing “Little Drummer Boy” habitually gives me chills. These sounds ignite heartwarming instants of nostalgia for me; however, my heart always resides in Bedford Falls.

When I was about 9 years old, I watched It’s a Wonderful Life for the first time with my grandfather.  It was playing on PBS, and I originally sat down next to him in our family room just to have some bonding time. It was a black and white film; it was of no interest to me.

But, as I continued to sit there, I was reeled in by the story.  The main female character’s name was Mary, so that obviously drew me in momentarily.  But I surprisingly didn’t relate to Mary as much as I felt a connection with the man she had her eyes set on for life, George Bailey.

His character is a good-humored man that simply did the right thing.  He was rattled by familial obligation, but he owned those responsibilities, even though it forced him to drift away from his personal dreams and plans to see the world.  I, even at that age, admired him for that.  I still do.

George Bailey doesn’t see his own value, but he eventually learns that he has it.  We all need to see that we, too, are George Bailey.  We may not get an opportunity in life to display valiant efforts in heroism like his brother Harry, we may never possess the lucrative lifestyle of Sam Wainwright, and as hard as we try, our own plans of seeing the world may take a detour.  Yet, it doesn’t mean that we have not lived.

We, like George Bailey, can allow ourselves to see the tiny ripples that have become waves of differences that we have made in other people’s lives.  We can acknowledge that we matter.

The film It’s a Wonderful Life isn’t seasonal for me.  It is my life. The microscopic moments of love and compassion aren’t lost on me.