December 2013

NOTE: Our children's pastor asked if I would write a Christmas story for him to use, and so I did. The following is loosely based on my father’s experience as a child, in that his family really did not celebrate Christmas. He never had a Christmas tree in his boyhood home.

Robby’s Christmas Tree

Robby’s wish was simple: he wanted a Christmas tree. In his very own house. In his very own living room. With ornaments that sparkled and candles that lit up the faces of his brothers and sisters. Probably not with presents beneath it, though. That would be just too much to ask. He knew that. Just the tree. That would do.

But it really wasn’t all that simple. Not at all. Robby’s Dad wasn’t much on Christmas. He said they didn’t need it.  In fact, his family never celebrated Christmas. Never had, as far as Robby knew. No decorations. No cookies. No presents. And certainly no tree. Not ever.

Robby wasn’t sure why that was, exactly. Even though he was only nine, Robby knew that times were hard. The year was 1932 and his teacher said what was happening was called a depression. Lots of people didn’t have jobs and if you didn’t have a job that meant you sure didn’t have any money for stuff like Christmas. Some people didn’t even have enough food, so Christmas was out of the question.

But, really, since his family lived on a farm and there were lots of evergreens all over their land, why couldn’t they cut one down for a Christmas tree? Just a little short one? They had had popcorn, didn’t they? They grew some ever summer and it wouldn’t cost that much to use that, would it? Mother had a needle and some thread and he knew people used those things to make popcorn strings and hang them on their trees. They’d done it at school, after all. And maybe they didn’t have any shiny store-bought ornaments like he’d seen in the Sears & Roebuck Wish Book, but they had some paper and glue, didn’t they? They would make some ornaments! If the tree didn’t cost anything and the decorations didn’t, either, how could Dad say no?

Feeling confident that his father couldn’t possibly object to his plan, Robby convinced his older brother, Jim, to help him do the deed. The snow was pretty deep but they were big, strong farm boys and they borrowed Dad’s ax and traipsed on outside. All around them were trees of all sizes, each begging to be chosen. Robby found the best one of the lot and he and Jim took turns chopping. Dragging it back across the field, Robby was beside himself with excitement and anticipation. Wouldn’t his sisters be thrilled? Wouldn’t mother just be the proudest mom?

Dad spotted them before they got to the back door and he kind of exploded. He refused to allow them to take the little tree inside. Punished them for taking the ax without asking. And sent them to bed early with no supper. “Why?” sobbed Robby to Jim. “Why is Dad so mean? Why is our family the only one around with no Christmas tree? Sometimes it seems like Dad doesn’t even like us, his own kids. Doesn’t seem right.”

Jim didn’t know the answer to that for sure. Their Dad had always been quiet. He didn’t say much, even to his wife or his kids. And he always seemed to be a little bit mad at everybody. “Dad’s kinda worried all the time, Robby. I heard him tellin’ Ma that we might lose the farm. It’s happening to some of our neighbors. Maybe you just better stop bothering about a Christmas tree. We’re not ever getting one and you know it.”

With his empty stomach rumbling away, Robby had a hard time getting to sleep. He remembered a small paper his buddy, George, had given him at school. The paper had some story on it about a tree, didn’t it? Even if Dad wouldn’t let him have a tree, at least he could read about one. It was still light enough, so he fished it out from under his bed. There was a verse from the Bible on the paper. It said, “He himself bore our sins in his body on the tree, so that we might die to sins and live for righteousness; by his wounds you have been healed” (1 Peter 2:24). “That couldn’t be a Christmas tree,” Robby thought. ”But it sounds important. I’ll ask George about it when I see him at school tomorrow.”

Robby did ask George. And George told him about Jesus. How Jesus came to earth as a baby, God’s perfect Son, on that first Christmas. How He grew up, obeyed His earthy dad, and told lots of people how to get to heaven one day. And how Jesus died on a tree, taking the sins of every person in the world on His Own Self.

While he was a boy, Robby never did get to have a Christmas tree. He had to be content to enjoy the ones at school. But when he was grown he made sure his own children had the very best tree he could find - every single Christmas. There were sparkly ornaments and some made by his little ones, icicles and strings of popcorn. And, oh yes, even a few presents for his kids under those trees. But Robby always remembered that very most special tree he’d learned about on the Christmas of his 9^th year. And, in his heart, he knew that one was the best Christmas tree there ever could be.

 

The Talking Tree

I love Christmas movies. Some people say they’re hokey, sappy and way too cheesy. Maybe, but they are still one of my favorite December (November, even??!!) activities. They nearly always have happy endings and that pleases me. Some are uplifting though most, even I will admit, tend toward the overly sentimental. But I don’t care. If there’s ever a time for that, Christmastime is it. Angels. Sparkling stars. A little snow. And everywhere a shiny Christmas tree.

In one movie I watched this year one of the main characters tells the other, “You know, Christmas trees tell the story of our lives.” And as I decorated the little somewhat scrawny one I have in Montana, I had to agree. Unless you only have one of those fancy-schmancy, fluffy, poofy color-themed ones, each ornament you hang brings you back to another time, another place and another very special person.

"It comes every year,” said writer Marjorie Holmes of Christmas, “and will go on forever. And along with Christmas belong the keepsakes and the customs. Those humble, everyday things a mother clings to, and ponders, like Mary in the secret spaces of her heart."  Let me clue you in on some of the “ponderings” of my Christmas heart, ornamentally speaking.

My oldest ornament was my mother’s, now a rather bent, glittery cardboard baby buggy. It signaled that I was coming to join the family, and I guess the fact that she kept the buggy and passed it on to me years later meant she was happy about it! Somewhat worse for wear, there’s also waving plastic Santa who has to be tucked way back in on a branch because he’s lost his ability to hang from one. Mom saved a green felt stocking, too, that the first grade me “sewed” together. That one is relegated to the back of the tree due to its now really-tattered state.

The two Christmases we spent in Germany, courtesy of Uncle Sam and the US Army, are commemorated by traditional German wooden baubles. The daughter who technically came into the world on US soil, but possesses a German birth certificate, gets those one day.

Three tiny, beautiful little girls in their Christmas finery grin at me and are placed front and center of my tree every year. Those same darlings – as a 4^th grader, a 1^st grader and a Kindergartener - each have their own photo spots on simple golden canning lids, surrounded by glued-on white paper doilies, reminding me of how kind the folks at East Troy Bible Church were to include us newcomers in their 1983 Christmas decorating.
Chicago Cubs fans, include the ones in my house, are fond of saying “there’s always next year” and that’s true for the Cubs ornament – a yearly reminder that while those particular ball players might not (yet!) be winners, the ever-patient, ever-hopeful fans in my house who love them, are.

Bob’s late sister crafted some sparkly crystal wreaths that catch the light and remind us of loved ones who left us way too soon. Remembrances from Cathy, a dear friend who made it her tradition to craft and give an annual family ornament often cause a shiny tear or two to fall as I see her handwriting on the back of each very special piece.

Then there are the trips. In 1999 Bob & I traveled to Israel, an excursion of a lifetime for us, and a couple Bethlehem nativities are there to make us think of when we walked the streets that Jesus did. The dolphin and starfish aren’t swimming in Florida, but their presence makes us wish we were, guided by one of my passions – lighthouses. And then, of course there’s an entire other little tree full of tropical treats commemorating our two Hawaiian Christmases - and the precious boy who first made us grandparents there!

We can’t forget the bison from YNP, the Montana bears, the western boot – all reminders of God’s grandblessings (as a friend so aptly puts it!) to us and the privilege of spending so much time watching them grow from teeny-to-tall in breathtaking Big Sky Country.

A couple Christmas pretties that now spend the holiday on my tree used to reside with my parents. They aren’t the most gorgeous or the most valuable, at least in the monetary sense, but I feel pretty sentimental about them. They are a tangible remnant of and connection with my past, my childhood, and my now departed and most beloved mom and dad.

McDonald’s might not be represented on your Christmas tree, but it is on ours. Our little logo’d lunch bag helps us to be grateful to the Lord and to Bob for all his labor during his 30 year career with the corporation, the dedication to which supported our family, sent three girls to school and allowed us to show the country and many of its treasures to them.

Mr. Charles Schulz, he of “Peanuts” fame, once lightly quipped: "Christmas is a box of tree ornaments that have become part of the family." Yup, and my family, my life is on that tree. How about yours?

 

 

 

 

What's in a Name

 

Christmas is coming early to our family this year. And we’re getting a Peanut!

No, not a relative of Planters Peanuts’ Mr. Peanut. But she’s a relative of ours and we are already in love.

Our youngest daughter and her husband are expecting baby #3 - this one a little girl - in mid-December. We would have been thrilled with a third grandson, but are so excited for this female variety (after having three daughters ourselves, my husband and I know how to do the girl thing!). Her parents have dubbed her “Peanut” for the duration of gestation, though I  assume she has another for-real moniker, one that mom and dad are just not yet revealing.

But, you know, even if Baby Girl’s name actually ended up to be “Peanut,” it wouldn’t change our affection for her. She belongs to us, is already a full-fledged part of our family. Doesn’t matter what she looks like, if she’ll be tall or tiny, brunette or blond, brown-eyed or blue – we love her through and through.

Her other grandma and I were discussing this phenomenon recently—how we’ve never laid eyes on this child, never met, never touched her.  Haven’t seen her smile, haven’t heard her make a sound (another assumption: I expect she will make plenty of those!!). We’ve seen blurry, fuzzy-to-us sonogram images of this wee one, but don’t know who she  resembles, the shape of her mouth or the type of her temperament. Yet we are completely, totally, absolutely smitten by this God-given miniature marvel. She’s part Durgan, part Larson—and in our hearts, that’s all it takes to make this Peanut precious, no matter what her real name is.

When Jesus Christ came into the world many Christmases ago, this precious God-Man came with many names. The angel told His mother, Mary, to “give Him  the name, Jesus,” and that He  would be called the “Son of the Most High” and  the “Son of God.” The shepherds were told He was “Savior” and “Messiah, the Lord.” We know Him as “Emmanuel, God with Us,” “Prince of Peace,” “Light of the World,” the “Beginning and the End.” There are over 200 names and titles ascribed to Jesus, each one reflecting His nature, His character and His work.

This Image of God loves us in spite of us. We belong to Him. We are His. He knew us completely before we were born, knew our peculiarities, our peccadilloes—our sin—and loved us anyway, enough to leave His throne in heaven and come to earth on a heavenly rescue mission.

Dear Lamb of God, in Your Great Name we thank you—and we thank You for our own new little lamb, Miss Peanut!