Chicken Soup for the Soul Christmas (5 page)

“. . . And he was born in a stable, 'cuz there was no room for him in the church.”

Reprinted by permission of Jonny Hawkins. © 2007 Jonny Hawkins

Dad's Christmas Gift

T
his is Christmas: not the tinsel,
not the giving and receiving, not even
the carols, but the humble heart that receives
a new wondrous gift, the Christ.

Frank McGibben

It is that time of year again, and I find myself caught up in the hustle and bustle of the holiday season just like the rest of the busy, last-minute shoppers. Christmas carols are softly playing over the loudspeakers in all the stores, but they can scarcely be heard over the other noises.

“Have a good Christmas!” “No, honey, you can't have that, and besides Santa will soon be here!” And who could forget the all-too-familiar lament, “I'm so tired of this. I can't find anything. Everything is picked over.”

I'm not at the mall, though, to buy last-minute gifts. I'm here to make a “deposit.” I sit for a moment and watch as the busy shoppers, families, frantic husbands, young lovers, and the occasional teenager all rush about, loaded down with bags. Some of them display bright, smiling faces, while others are wiping the sweat from their brows, cursing the fact that they decided to wear their winter coat, even though there is no snow on the ground.

I gaze around and wonder if this creation was meant to be. Certainly, this was not part of the master plan two thousand years ago when God sent the newborn baby Jesus to redeem and save us.

How is it that we allowed ourselves to get so caught up in the commercial aspect of this joyous holiday season?

Oh, sure, the mall does its part by putting out the very beautiful nativity scene with the brightly colored garments, the realistic animals, the cute baby Jesus—and who could forget those interesting wise men!

I turn my head toward this year's nativity display and watch the little children pointing at the donkey, oohing and ahhing over the manger. It is obvious they appreciate the true meaning of Christmas at this exact moment. Many of them will take part in Christmas pageants in their own churches, while other families, unfortunately, cannot provide a Christmas with gifts and a large feast for their children.
A sad reality,
I find myself thinking out loud, and then I say a silent prayer for those innocent kids who may never have anyone teach them the true meaning of the holiday season.

I look around and see that the merchants are all smiling and full of glee. Sales are down this year—people have moved to other parts of the country—but things are going great today. Yes, they are on par with last year's sales for Christmas Eve. Again, I muse, surely this could never be God's plan.

I turn my attention to the other end of the mall and see one of my coworkers. She looks tired and frazzled.
No wonder,
I think to myself,
she has been preparing for the holidays
since early November.
My coworker put up her tree weeks ago, and now dust is settling on the stairway garland that she painstakingly put in place with the tenacity of Martha

Stewart. I let my mind wander back for a few moments, and I recall a conversation I had with my daughter as we left this woman's house three weeks earlier. As we walked back to our car, Emily looked up at me and said, “Mommy, how come we don't have our tree up yet? Won't Christmas soon be here?”

“Yes, honey, it will—in three more weeks.” Then I thought of the best reason to explain why our house still looked bare.

“Darling,” I said, “your birthday is next month. I think when we take down the tree, I'll put up balloons and streamers and decorate the whole house for your party.”

“Don't be silly, Mommy. My birthday isn't for a long time after Christmas. It would be foolish to decorate so early!”

“Oh, really? Do you know why we have Christmas?”

“Gee, Mommy, you really are being silly. Of course I know why we have Christmas. It's Jesus's birthday.”

“Exactly, my dear,” I replied. “And if you think it is silly to start decorating for your birthday three weeks early, don't you think it is equally foolish to start decorating for Jesus's birthday too soon?”

She nodded her head in agreement and gave my hand a little squeeze. It was our silent understanding that we both knew and understood the true meaning of Christmas.

My thoughts quickly came back to the present as my coworker approached me. “Taking a little break, are you?

Have you got all your shopping done?” she asked.

“As much as I am going to do,” I told her. “I'm not here to shop. I just have a deposit to make.”

“Oh, well,” she said, “I have no money left to put in the bank. In fact, I just had to take more out to pay for these few gifts I had forgotten about.” She laid down several large packages that weighed heavily in her arms.

“I wish my crowd would give up this gift-giving thing.

You can't buy anything for ten dollars now. And what do you get for a teenage boy anyway? My nerves are gone. I can't wait to get back to work to get my check—God knows I'm gonna need it.”

I sat in silence as she bent to retrieve her parcels, but as she turned to leave, I said, “Maybe we can get together over the holidays. Give me a call, and I'll prepare a nice
meal for us all.”

“That would be perfect,” she shouted as she waved her one free hand and made her way into the nearby sporting goods store.

I glanced at my watch and gathered up my gloves, my purse, and my thoughts. I decided that the time had arrived. I would put it off no longer. My eyes started to fill with tears as I made my way through the center of the mall. I was here to carry on a tradition that my poor father had started so many years ago. Each time I thought of him, my heart ached a little more, especially at Christmastime.

This year would mark the fourteenth anniversary of his death. He had been a loving and generous man who always found time to help others. Financially, he was probably the poorest man in our hometown, but we had the richest family—in love, in giving, in caring, and in understanding the needs of those who were less fortunate than ourselves.

I reached the “kettle” and was greeted by the smiling faces of two Salvation Army officers.

“God bless you, my love, and Merry Christmas!” said the man in the neatly pressed uniform. His eyes were like twinkling stars, and he was grinning from ear to ear.

“God bless you, too, and Merry Christmas to you and yours as well,” I replied as I deposited a twenty-dollar bill into the plastic ball. I was doing this now, not only in memory of my father, who always made the annual trip to the Salvation Army kettle, but also for my own son and daughter. Hopefully, they would carry on the tradition when I passed on, knowing that they, too, had been taught the true meaning of Christmas as my dad had taught me— the gift of knowing that it is indeed better to give than to receive.

I joined the throng of the other shoppers and made my way back home. My family would be waiting for me. I envisioned the scene that would greet me. My husband would be standing over a piping hot pot of soup (all ready for the friends and family who would show up tonight after the late evening church service). My son, Luke, would be busy belting out the newest Christmas carol he had learned to play on one of the many musical instruments he owned. (God had truly blessed him with the gift of music.) Emily would be waiting at the top of the stairs with the baby Jesus in her hand. She would greet
me
with an emphatic, “Mommy, it's time now to put the baby in the nativity scene. What took you so long?” I'd scoop her up and say, “Yes, it is time, sweetheart.” Then I'd move into the living room, freshly decorated with trinkets and treasures from past Christmases together, and as I would watch my daughter carefully lay the Christ child in the manger, I'd bow my head and say, “Merry Christmas, Dad, and Happy Birthday, Jesus.”

Kimberly Welsh

The Gift of Time

W
hat wisdom can you find that
is greater than kindness?

Jean Jacques Rousseau

I was a Christmas baby, and today was my tenth birthday, making it extra special. After opening our presents and eating Christmas brunch with Mum and Dad, my big sister Gail and I scooted upstairs to our bedroom to try out some of our gifts. She was placing a stack of 45-rpm records on the spindle of the record player, and I was about to model another of my new sweaters when Mum called up to us.

“Carol! Gail! Are you two dressed yet? We're leaving soon to visit your grandmother. Hurry up! She'll be expecting us!”

Gail and I exchanged pained looks. Don't get me wrong: we dearly loved our Gramma White, but visiting a nursing home on Christmas Day was not our idea of fun. We shrugged our shoulders in joint resignation and started to get dressed.

Gramma White had been living with us for the past three years, but a month ago she fell and broke her hip. During her hospital stay, Dad and Mum held a family conference and explained that Gramma could not return home. She needed greater care than we could provide. When she was released from the hospital, she was transferred to a nearby nursing home. Mum visited her almost every day. Gail and I dropped in to say hello a few times on our way home from school. The white metal beds and side tables were all the same, and everything else was painted in varying shades of pale green. Gramma usually remembered who we were, but sometimes she didn't, and we would coax her into conversation by talking about the old days at the cottage. The dry air was always too warm and tainted with the odors of illness and aging. I felt uncomfortable standing next to her bed in a large room filled with other old people. Our visits were usually very short.

Christmas was Gramma's favorite time of year. As the holiday season approached, the decorations hung by the staff made her aware that this would be her first Christmas away from home and family. She felt very sad. So to cheer up Gramma we told her we would bring Christmas to her. It was time to keep our promise.

Gail and I came downstairs to the kitchen where Mum approved of our outfits and put the finishing touches on our hair. It was just a five-minute drive to the home.

We entered the lobby area where the communal Christmas tree was lighted, but the hallways were empty, and our footsteps echoed hollowly in the stairwell as we walked to the second floor. When we passed the long line of beds in the ward, I noticed most of the patients were sleeping and that we seemed to be the only visitors. When Gramma saw us, she smiled and responded happily to our hugs and Merry Christmas wishes. She was enjoying the day! We had a wonderful time while opening gifts, telling tales of Christmas past, and even singing carols.

Dad also noticed that few of the other patients had visitors. He remained quiet and seemed deep in thought while we continued to chat with Gramma. Then he excused himself and left the ward.

He returned carrying some cartons of ice cream and paper cups from the cafeteria. He explained his plan:

Christmas was a time for family to celebrate the joy of the season together with loved ones. If, for whatever reason, family and friends couldn't be there for some of the other patients, then we would substitute and bring the spirit of Christmas to them. While Mum stayed with Gramma, the three of us went visiting. Dad took Gail and me across the hall and explained our mission to the nurse, who was more than happy to assist. He went back to visit with Gramma while the nurse took Gail and me around the ward.

As a shy ten-year-old, I was very nervous at first. I didn't know any of these people, and they didn't know me. Sadly, some of them were a little confused and even uncertain about what was so special about this particular day. The nurse escorted me to the bedside of my first challenge and pointed out the patient's name taped at the foot of her bed. After a moment's hesitation, I summoned the courage to introduce myself and offer her some ice cream. Although the memory of her name has faded over the years, I still recall our conversation. She declined the treat, but smiled and told me she had a granddaughter about my age who lived out West. She asked me to sit and tell her what I got for Christmas, and when she found out it was my birthday, too, she hugged me!

That first successful stop helped me overcome my stage fright, and as I moved from bed to bed, the heartwarming smiles and kind comments from each resident gave me confidence. I really began to get into the spirit of things. I especially remember my last stop.

I had just two cups of ice cream left, and I was saving one for myself. The occupant of that final bed was a very frail-looking woman. A halo of soft white hair framed her heavily lined face, and her head was sunk deeply into the pillow. She appeared to be asleep. I sat in the chair beside her bed and said softly, “Merry Christmas. Would you like some ice cream?”

Her eyelids fluttered and then opened wide, revealing a pair of bright blue eyes. She frowned, then fixed her gaze on me and spoke hesitatingly, “But I don't have any money.”

“That's okay,” I replied. “They're free.”

“Oh,” she said, as a bright smile spread across her face, erasing decades of age, “then I'll have two.”