The day after Thanksgiving is usually when I begin decorating for Christmas, but on Nov. 25, I turned to my husband on the verge of despair.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t think I have it in me.”

The sound of those words, in my voice, was enough to startle me out of my funk. This may feel like the season of triage, but we are better than our worst fears. Character is revealed not by who we are when things are going our way but in the people we become when everything seems to be going wrong. Never have I been more worried about the future of this country, but I’m no quitter.

For me, hope starts with Christmas.

I traipsed down the basement stairs and opened the holiday storage bins to drag up everything — and I mean everything — with the help of my husband. I could tell by the look on his face that he was a little surprised by my request after I’d just told him I was in no mood, but he’s been married to me long enough to trust the conclusion, no matter how I get there.

A partial list of the holiday haul:

• The fake Christmas trees, plural. The one in the front window holds all the White House Historical Association ornaments. The larger one, in the family room, is laden with decades’ worth of handmade ornaments. It looks ridiculous, and I love it.

• The front-door wreath, which requires my weight in D batteries to twinkle. Leave it there.

• The small wooden creche from my childhood, boxed with the elves wearing striped pajamas and smiles of hysteria on their plastic faces. The elves originally arrived at our home in the 1960s, wrapped around bottles of dishwashing detergent. I keep thinking it was lemon fresh Joy because that’s what Mom often used, but maybe I just like saying lemon fresh Joy. Anyway, Mom soon promoted the elves to stand sentry next to baby Jesus in the made-in-Italy Nativity scene that rested on top of our TV console.

Only once did I ever suggest to Mom that elves were not in attendance at the birth of Jesus. “Oh, really,” she said as she looped the elves’ arms and sat them cross-legged next to the three wise men. “And you were there, were you?” How does an 8-year-old argue with that?

• The crayon-colored cardboard Santa I made in first grade. His arms and legs are connected to a string that dangles between his legs. Pull it and he appears to be dancing, if by “dancing” we mean what happens after Santa has consumed a half-dozen boilermakers.

• The stockings to be hung by the chimney with care, especially because the fireplace is electric and has no chimney and is so hot that our dog, Franklin, starts panting whenever he sits in front of it for more than five minutes, which he often does. We try not to think about what that says about his judgment, as he is perfect in every way. We just slide him toward us and say, “Good boy.”

The stockings are the thing right now, because they force me to keep trying.

After every grandchild’s birth, five times now, I pull out the bin of felt and design a stocking just for that child. I have to update the stockings this year. Leo and Jackie now have hair, and Carolyn and Milo are just old enough to notice the felt faces that will return their smiles.

“Look at that,” I said to my husband this week, pointing to the 16 stockings — of course, Franklin has one — dangling from our mantel. “Look at who we’ve become.”

As is the case with most marriages, we started out so much smaller, but love has a way of helping us grow. For a little while, I’m going to focus on that.

Happy holidays, plural, to those who celebrate. To all of you who are struggling this time of year, may the season land gently.

Connie Schultz is a syndicated columnist and the author of two books.