Happy endings win

 I’ve never liked stories with sad endings.

When I was little, that used to mean any story that made me feel sad at all. Especially a story where anyone died. I remember having many conversations with my mom as I was growing up, in which I would be ranting about how some movie or book was terrible, and she’d be playing the devil’s advocate, like the grandpa character in The Princess Bride, encouraging me to look for the meaning in it, or at least be rational and recognize that Life Isn’t Always Fair.But I didn’t want to be rational. I just wanted happy endings.

Now that I’m old and ponderous, and have a more eternity-oriented perspective, my definitions have changed a bit. A sad story isn’t a story in which people die–in fact, those are some of my favorite stories now (to name a few: Harry Potter, Van Helsing, Little Women). I’ve accepted by now that death is a part of everyone’s story–a part of life–and death can give a certain level of meaning to things.

No, a really sad ending, to me, is one where sadness is its own meaning. Where pain is romanticized, and death is the end of the end, and serves no redemptive purpose. Where the bad guy gets away–or worse, the hero is consumed by anger and takes ruthless vengeance on him. Like Bridge to Tarabithia or The Call (which if you haven’t seen–don’t bother).

I think people like to watch movies and read books like that because it’s nice, sometimes, to feel things, and have those feelings reflected in them–even if what you feel is unpleasant. We like to be surprised, too, by endings that aren’t predictably convenient or feel-goody. And something in us is intrigued by darkness.

But honestly, what do stories like that really do for us? All they do is make us bitter, cynical, scared, wondering what we missed. They don’t elevate us, like good art should. Good stories need happy endings.

But–I can hear you saying it–sometimes life is just sad, isn’t it? Sometimes we feel hopeless, or angry, or let down and bitter. Stories that amplify those things can fit our perception of life, because they are a very real part of being human. So how can I justify my argument? Because pain may be a part of life, but stories that glorify pain and leave us sitting in it are pointless, hollow.

As my definition of a sad ending has changed, so has my definition of a happy one. And although my reasons have changed, I find that I still firmly believe that happy endings are superior to sad ones.

Because what do good stories–happy endings–do? They take us somewhere, teach us something. They connect us to other people. They give us something to hold on to, something to believe in that goes beyond even death and loss.

In story, pain for pain’s sake says, “This is all there is, and it’s easier not to try to see past it.” And sometimes it feels that way, doesn’t it? People say love is pain, beauty is pain, pain makes us human–and sometimes it’s delicious in a kind of sick way, to cocoon ourselves in pain and let it be the center of our universe.

It’s satisfying to see the bad guy get “what’s coming to him,” because it gives us closure. It’s darkly thrilling to see the serial killer escape the police. It can be almost comforting to see the starring couple cheat on each other or get divorced, because judging their failure puts us on guard against unrealistic expectations for our own relationships. But all of that is just so shallow, and ultimately purposeless.

Love isn’t pain–love is giving your heart despite the risk of pain. Beauty isn’t pain–beauty is strength that endures through pain. Pain doesn’t make us human–our ability to rise above it does. Sadness isn’t beautiful if it doesn’t give way to hope.

What pain and sadness are meant to do is point us toward the things that are truly good. Good stories should do just that.

It’s like Sam Gamgee says to Frodo at the end of the Two Towers:

“It’s like in the old stories, Mr Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger they were, and sometimes you didn’t want to know the end, because how could the end be happy? But in the end, it’s only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass–and when the sun shines it’ll shine out the clearer.

Those were the stories that stayed with you, that meant something, even if you were too small to understand why.

But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn’t. They kept going, because they were holding on to something… That there’s some good in this world, Mr. Frodo. And it’s worth fighting for.”

This is one of the greatest moments in literary and film history–this moment where Sam declares his hope against the chaos around him, and you know, somehow, that everything is going to be okay. Even darkness must pass.

And if you know the Lord of the Rings, you know that this moment is followed by still more turmoil, as the kingdoms of Middle Earth prepare for all-out war. Heroes fall in battle and sustain life-altering wounds, friends turn against friends and fathers against sons. The world is almost overcome by shadow– but in the end, light and life win, like they always do.

The victory comes at the cost of painful remembrance, lost innocence. For many, it’s stained with loss and brokenness, and the in-between, messy parts that we don’t see, are spent trying to cope with that sadness. At the end of the Return of the King, Frodo reflects: “There are some things time cannot mend, some hurts that go too deep…”

How true that in this life, we will never fully escape pain. But victory is sweeter when we know what it cost, and let the pain of it move us forward–into the hope of a future where pain is a memory, and nothing more.

A happy ending isn’t an ending that isn’t sad at all. It’s an ending that doesn’t let sadness have the last laugh.