I remember being a little weirded out by the idea of Santa Claus when I was a kid. I would think about -- and I mean really ponder -- the lyrics to Santa Claus Is Coming To Town and get a little chill.
He sees you when you're sleeping.
He knows when you're awake.
He knows when you've been bad or good,
So be good for goodness sake!
Honestly, the idea of some old stranger knowing my every move -- and he's not God -- gave me the willies. Sure, I liked the gifts and stuff, but the stalking was another thing entirely.
So there was a certain sort of relief when I came to accept that he was a fun construct and not a real guy. True, I was still sad on the day that the affirmation of that realization was trumpeted by way of derisive laughter by my entire fifth grade class in the cafeteria (a teacher had told us to be good or Santa wouldn't come, and seemingly everyone but me laughed), but life is full of contradictions.
So when I hear someone tell me or someone else that something -- especially something bad -- was meant to be, my heart dies a little.
Because, deep down, I don't believe that there's always a plan in the works. I'll just say it: I don't believe it is, for instance, meant to be that some tragedy strikes. If it was meant to be, that means someone ordered up that tragedy: that child's death, that parent's cancer, that horrible murder. And that seems like a terrible way to make a cosmic point. For what purpose? What lesson is being taught through, for instance, the death of that child that is more valuable to the world than the life of that child? What benefit is derived?
No, I confess, I find comfort in chance, in randomness. It gives me no comfort that a horrible thing is preordained or intended by some invisible actor for some, to my mind at least, misguided educational purpose. Indeed, it makes me angry at the actor who ordered the tragedy. But random tragedy, which no one plans (or at least, no one loving and benevolent plans), which just happens because life (and death) happens. That gives me peace.
