Christmas Reflections

Jeff and I were asked to either find a story, write a story, or share a Christmas story in our adult Sunday School class two weeks ago and it had to have a happy ending. Since Jeff was working alot, trying to catch us up and get ahead financially for when he's off a week in January while we're at our IMB Candidate Interview Conference, I decided to write my own memories, and below is what I shared. I want to give God all the glory and credit for loving each of us so undeservedly. I wasn't planning to share this with anyone except for my class and my parents/siblings, but I realized there are a few of you out there, friends and loved ones alike who may be able to relate and appreciate the lengthy epistle posted below. I pray each of you had as merry of a Christmas as we wound up having. I did write this before Christmas.

PART 1:

Christmas. Just the sound of that word brings a smile to my face. Images of times gone by reel, frame by frame, through my mind’s eye. Sounds of joyous songs ring in my ears. Tastes of buttery goodness linger on my lips, and feelings of warmth and security course through my veins.

With a father who chose ministry before money, there was always an abundance of one and a serious lack of the other. I never noticed it in my early years, though, for we always packed up the car and headed to Daddy Dick and Mama Lavinia’s big, old, yellow, colonial plantation home in rural North Carolina. That house, for the longest time, epitomized Christmas for me. We always seem to arrive around midnight when the world was asleep and our sojourn was solitary and enchanting. All 6 of us children would fall asleep nestled against one another, packed into our ’79 station wagon, while dad alternated the radio between Christmas tunes and oldies. We’d snuggle deep into our coats because, to keep himself from nodding off, dad would roll down his window to let in a current stream of artic blast. Between that frigid air attacking our little faces and the steady rhythm of him slapping himself to stay awake, we’d doze pretty peacefully, if not completely warmly, until we safely arrived.

My grandmother would have all her little candlestick lights peeping out each window, twinkling their midnight welcome. The Christmas tree was always lit in the foyer, and my sleepy be-robed grandparents would greet us, my grandpa with a “hello der” and my tiny grandmother with gentle hugs, and both would help gather the sleeping youngest and tuck us all safely into bed. My grandpa would tell us to close our eyes because in the morning “Santy Claus” would come.

It was almost magical, except for the fact that we knew Santa Claus wasn’t real and that Christmas wasn’t really about him.

I honestly don’t remember much about those early Christmas days except for the food and family. My grandmother was a typical genteel Southern born and bred lady. We’d wake up every morning to pancakes, sausage, eggs, bacon, biscuits, fruit, toast, and cereal, and then she’d spend all morning cooking and prepping for our big Christmas lunch, or dinner, as a proper southerner would say. Supper, fyi, is the evening meal.

For little kids who had to eat spaghetti four times a week because it could feed, and feed, and feed some more the miniature army of growing boys and solitary girl, going to our grandparents house, eating name brand sugar cereal, being allowed to watch Nickelodeon and cartoons on two t.v.’s stacked one on top of the other (if Elliott could sneak the remotes away when Daddy Dick wasn’t looking), and drink soda more than just on Saturdays was a holiday like no other.

Once I was upgraded to the adult table, I’d always choose to sit by my grumpy old grandpa. He didn’t have any patience for the boys, but if he was reclining in his easy chair, he’d let me comb his few strands of hair drenched in tonic, and give me a quarter for my efforts. At the table, he mostly let his garrulous children talk while he solely focused on his plate and black coffee, but occasionally he’d chuckle and mumble something sarcastic under his breath, and I’d always strain to hear what would get a rise out of him.

I guess the tradition of trekking up to North Carolina ceased when money grew tighter, the family grew larger, and dad was loathe to leave the church behind because of her demands on Christmas Eve, for as I grew older, new traditions replaced those at my grandparent’s house.

We’d hang our single strand of colored lights up to outline the A-frame of our parsonage, and then we’d drive around looking at other houses whose lights glittered against the black night. We’d walk next door from the parsonage to our sparsely attended Christmas Eve service, dad would force me to participate in a horrible rendition of whatever song I had to croak out or play the piano to, my brothers would snicker at me from the back pews, and then we’d practice gingerly walking home again with our candles still lit, as I vowed never to let anyone convince me to embarrass myself in public again. It was a contest to see who could make it home without the wind blowing the candle out. We were allowed to open one present after the service, and it was usually from the sibling who picked our name. Every year I hoped Alex got me, for he was the only one who kept my miniscule family of Barbie’s slowly growing.

Because our grandparents would send us 40 dollars each (a wealth of riches we hardly knew what to do with), we always tithed on it first, then we were allowed to buy our “person” a gift, and then use the leftovers for ourselves.

Every year dad would tell us that we were going to have a small Christmas, smaller than the year before, and even in my childhood, I always wondered how it could possibly get any smaller than it already was.

On Christmas mornings we weren’t allowed to get up before 6:00, and if one of us woke up earlier, we’d be sent right back to bed. Santa Claus, a.k.a. the “Christmas Angel” had our presents each piled (piled being a very generous word here) orderly on a chair or sofa along with our candy-filled stocking. We were allowed to look at those “piles”, but not open any which were wrapped, until every family member had awoken and gathered in the living room with mom’s homemade cinnamon rolls.

I remember my parents trying to set an example of giving and thinking about others. Once my dad dressed up like Santa Claus and drove down the road to a very poor family’s home, which was really more like a one-room shack with no heat or running water. The mother’s rumored name was Coota-Gal and she had about 8 small children, none of whom we had ever seen at school. My dad had a sack full of wrapped gifts he passed out, and yet the thing that I have never forgotten was him coming home and saying was that even after he distributed the gifts, there wasn’t a smile to be seen on a single face. That made me really sad. Wasn’t giving and receiving supposed to bring joy?


Today, being married hasn’t changed much in the way of having a surplus of money to buy Christmas presents with or even decorations. What didn’t affect me as a child has sometimes bothered me as a mother and wife. I want to be able to give my children things. I don’t think I ask for much. At least, I don’t think I do. I wanted to be able to give my little girl a Christmas dress, I wanted to get my son a bow tie to match his daddy, I wanted to string lighted garland across the mantle, I wanted a pretty Christmas tree, I wanted to have a little gift for each extended family member coming to visit, and I wanted to make Christmas stockings for each member of my family.

But, when the harsh reality hit me that we wouldn’t be able to do many, if any, of those things on the list, I had to consciously decide whether I was going to let disappointment ruin this Christmas season or force us to focus on the bountiful blessings that we do have and remember those with much, much less.

In talking to my mother, I realize things could be much worse. She reminded me of a Christmas when she and my dad were first married and in seminary. They only had one child and five dollars. On Christmas Eve, they bought a leftover tree and went to K-Mart to buy some plastic army soldiers for my brother and that was the end of their five dollars. My brother never knew the difference and he was simply a happy little appreciative fella.

I say that I don’t want to have a materialistic outlook on life. I say that I know Jesus is the very true reason for the season. I say that everything I have is really only on loan from God anyway, and it all belongs to him. I say that I care about those less fortunate than me. I say that I have a very generous and giving heart. I say that I chose my husband from among all the men in the world because he truly understood what it meant to live a simple life fully focused on doing the work of the Lord. I say that my life is full of happiness, peace, joy, and contentment. But, do I really live like I do? Or do I still maintain a rather warped focus that selfishly twists my pure desires into a falsehood that claims I can only be happy this Christmas if my little wish list is met?

Christ wasn’t born so that my wish list could be checked off. Christ didn’t suffer so that I could give myself and my family presents on his birthday. Christ didn’t die so that my focus would be self-centered and inwardly motivated. Christ didn’t rise again on the third day so that I could buy decorations and make stockings. Though none of those things are sinful, as they exist apart from my desires, Christ’s purpose, as I have been reminding myself when the outlook seemed grim, was to come to earth to live as a man, to die nailed on cross-beams of rough unfinished wood, to voluntarily take on the penalty of a painful death he didn’t deserve because of my sins, and to rise victoriously from his dank tomb to prove that our Great Redeemer is omnipotent, good, all-mighty, and just. Christ’s birthday, for me, should be about him, not about me.

It’s so easy to get caught up in even the obligatory pressure of giving to others. Am I giving out of a true desire to give, am I giving because I’m expected to, or am I giving because I know they’ll have something for me? I must examine my motives, and then ask myself the most important question I can ask this Christmas season. Instead of…what can I give myself, I should ask: What will I give to Christ this year on his birthday?

For me, it is to give up the selfish prideful desires that are not motivated by purity or integrity.

PART 2:

As I sit here several days later, I am in awe of Christ’s willingness to bless in spite of ourselves. The verse comes to mind, found in Matthew (6:33) - - “Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and all of these things will be added unto you.” I see the lesson I was to learn. God was trying to solely get my focus on him and off myself. And then he had something unexpected in store for me.

For you see, almost every single thing on my so-called wish list was met. My sweet mother and sister-in-law both sent my baby girl a Christmas dress, so she has even more than I hoped for. My mother sent me beautiful material so I could get my homemade stockings done. My mother-in-law sent gift cards so we were able to find an almost matching outfit for my littlest man. One of my brothers, his wife, and her parents all descended like busy little Christmas elves on my house yesterday. They brought decorations and adorned my house. One helped me figure out that dratted bobbin on the sewing machine and even stitched up my stockings. Another ran errands to the store for me. Yet two more raked up massive quantities of leaves in the yard. In a whirlwind of activity which I could barely keep up with, they brought love and blessing like I didn’t deserve. And in a snap they were gone with hugs and kisses.

It all didn’t dawn on me until they had left. I sat on the floor, looked at everything they had sacrificially done for me, and cried. Though God sent his son for a far greater reason than my temporal happiness, he saw fit, this Christmas, to answer those now purified desires. I am so grateful, for his love reigneth in the lives of those who wanted to bring blessing to our home.

Thank you, Jesus, for your tender love and mercies.