Into the Fire

Christmas has always been my favorite holiday—without really knowing why for a portion of my life. Before knowing why, I realized that Jesus “was born on Christmas Day”. As any Christian will tell you, you can’t really “know” that until you know Him. Jesus. Who He is, was, and will forever be.

We sang Christmas carols—the real ones that are really hymns—at school, in plays, and I knew all the words by heart. You can imagine how they came alive for me when I met the One who was the focus of those beautiful songs.

Christmas was a big event at our house. Dad decorated outside, Mom inside. Over the years we had evergreen trees, flocked trees, and maybe an artificial one thrown in there somewhere, but we all preferred the real ones. We had a huge brick wall around a medium sized fireplace and generous hearth, and every year Christmas cards covered every inch of it in the family room.

Mom and her mom, my grandma who outlived both of her daughters, baked a scrumptious display of Christmas cookies, and my grandma made unequaled Divinity (candy).

Dad was a giver, presents galore for everyone, something extravagant and wonderful for Mom every year—which often embarrassed her because they both had come from such humble beginnings. Gifts for the mailman, the milkman, the paper boy. I leave the mailman Christmas candy in our mailbox because of Dad.

The only thing I asked for that I never got was a horse. We lived in the city, but when I was old enough to understand the absence of such an important gift, I always knew if there was any way they could’ve swung it, they would have.

Dad always brought poinsettias home and after I was established in a home, he’d send one to me every Christmas. I see them and think of him. I still have one which must be about six or seven years old now. It has bloomed a few red leaves at the oddest times of year but never at Christmas—until this year. I just noticed this morning it has some red leaves on it, and, of course, I remember my Dad’s thoughtful gifts of flowers to me, my brother, his granddaughters, and others.

I remember the Christmas after I’d worked full time in preparation for taking my trip to Europe. I had plenty of money, and I bought Dad a valet chair which he had until his death. I bought Mom a set of dishes which went to me after her death. It felt so good to lavish gifts on them for a change.

The Christmas after Mom died was so difficult for Dad, I remember him shielding his eyes at times as tears fell unabated.

Later he found his second wife, and she restored his joy and zest for life, but even more importantly she helped him find Jesus Christ, enabling him to see the difference between religion and relationship. He carried on and loved her with his whole heart just as she loved him. When Alzheimer’s attacked and won the victory over him, his wife was there to lovingly care for him through it all even after a stroke just before Christmas 2005, precluding the saddest Christmas this family had ever spent. However, he had lived 89 years and when he died the following March, he left a legacy few can hope to achieve in that his entire family of kids, grandkids, great grandkids, and great, great grandkids, not to mention his remaining friends and associates, loved, respected, and honored him.

Christmas is the voice of Love. In human form it speaks of eternity, a hope fulfilled for the rescue of mankind. That rescue does not forego trouble, tragedy, or trauma. It does include forgiveness—a redemption so necessary and desirable it’s a wonder more people don’t reach out and take hold of it and never let go.

Jesus Christ is the ultimate of dreams come true. Does that fact make it easy to follow Him? No. I’m convinced nothing comes easy for humankind except sin. To relinquish the so-called control of our lives is tantamount to dying—an equivalent of dying to self. Yes, that self we seek to serve all the time—even with the “good” things we do.

Without Jesus, there is no reason for the season. No Christmas. Only “Happy Holidays”, a politically correct version of a time to spend money, grow sour about the amount of gifts having to be purchased, staff parties with people careful not to mention “Christmas” in their conversations or farewells, school programs which favor contemporary versions of “holiday” songs, Santas, and “winter” trees. What is the point?

I hope for you Christmas is real, meaningful, a time of fresh revelation about a miraculous event which brought us the Savior of the World. It’s a time of spiritual rebirth, renewal, and regeneration of things once dead. Us. Dead in our sins. Let Christmas be more than stress, gifts, and elaborate, wonderful food. Let it be the Truth celebrated anew. Again. Thank you, Jesus, as we look forward to celebrate the day set aside for your birthday.

*This Christmas season, please remember to pray for Kristy Dykes.*