Windstorm brings questions to the surface

When the gale-force winds knocked over trees and utility poles a couple weeks ago, like most of the region our neighborhood went dark. As we went to bed we speculated which of our neighbors would get power back first.

By some oddity of suburban development, our house gets its electricity from a different utility company than our next door neighbors, while the neighbors across the street send their monthly power bill to a third utility. It’s extremely rare we all lose power at the same time.

That first blustery night we all went to bed in the dark. Sometime in the wee hours I awoke to see a familiar glow coming through the window. Our fortunate, across-the-street friends were well-lit again, their porch-lights defiantly piercing the pre-dawn dusk.

In my sleepy haze I took this as a good sign even though the face of our alarm clock stayed black as the night sky. Maybe we would join our empowered neighbors in the morning.

It took two days before we did the electrical juice happy dance. It took another week before our next door neighbor turned off the generator and turned on the light switches.

During that time, it was heartwarming to see how our community pulled together, offering each other beds and meals and brightly lit, warm places to do laundry or charge phones.

We expressed sympathy and invited powerless friends and family to share in our electrical abundance and we cheered each time another friend posted on social media that they had the power again.

But while I was tooling through Spokane’s Internet community through a cellphone data plan that defied the loss of electricity, I came across a thought-provoking post. A friend had written a carefully worded caution to the empowered.

She and several of her commenting friends concurred that Christmas lights at such a time was early, obnoxious, and impolite.

Christmas lights flaunted their power to the powerless.

I hadn’t thought of it that way. During our morning runs, Susan and I had noticed so many toppled trees and blackened streets that when we came upon a house with a green web of twinkling lights it not only brightened the yard, it brightened the start to our morning.

Though I’m glad I don’t live next to a light display that would compete with the Griswald family, I thought Christmas lights should always be taken with a heavy dose of the holiday cheer they’re meant to evoke.

Now, it’s true that a lot of people want to keep their Christmas carefully contained within the confines of December and bemoan any hurrying of the holidays. These lights were lit a few days before the Thanksgiving turkey had been cooked or consumed.

Our family decorates the day after Thanksgiving but I just couldn’t find it in my heart to begrudge anyone their lights after so much darkness. That would be true, I think, even if my house were still in the dark.

But the post made me ponder the disparity between those who have and those who don’t. That sentiment doesn’t stop at holiday lights. If we have abundance, at what point does enjoying it become a selfish act that smacks of a lack of compassion?

Where is the line between living a celebratory life and callously rubbing it in the face of a neighbor?

When our children go back to school after the holidays, how many will feel insignificant or less loved because Santa placed more presents under the trees of some of their classmates? How much do we curtail our own gift-giving to keep that pain at bay? How much do we give to prevent it?

When someone is grieving or struggling or sad, a Christmas celebration that lasts an entire month can feel like a year. How much do we temper our exuberance because a celebration can feel like a mockery to those who just can’t celebrate? Do we care?

When I let myself remember a dark time, when joking led to tears and hope was something I hoped to have again, I pause again.

When you’re under water and can’t breathe, knowing someone else has air doesn’t make you wish they were drowning too. But it also doesn’t make it easier to breathe and you certainly don’t want them blowing bubbles in your face. So I thank my friend for making me think and remember.

There isn’t an easy answer to determining when living and loving becomes an insensitive display of excess. But that line exists. Sometimes a celebration is an insensitive act. This season is a good time to consider that with compassion.

During the power outage I don’t think many people who lacked the sweet juice of electricity resented the neighbors who had it, even if they displayed it through early Christmas lights. Those neighbors weren’t flaunting their power. They were celebrating its return.

But I think the reason that celebration could be taken in stride was because many of those neighbors also opened their doors and chose to share.

This season, our community sparked a spirit of compassion and goodwill to men. They checked on each other and offered warmth and light. If every celebration included a compassion-driven quest to share out of our abundance, I think we’d quickly find the line between exuberance and excess.

Jill Barville writes here twice a month. She can be reached at jbarville@msn.com.