When we think of Christmas, we think of a tree that we as a
family would go to the woodlot and pick the very best, cut it down and bring it
home, and set it up in the honorary corner. The tree that we lovingly adorned
with everything from a feather to a stocking. Then came the most treasured
adornment. The star, that was stored the year round in a secret place in the
attic. Each Christmas Dad would go and bring it down, and we would all cheer,
and wait impatiently for one of us to be chosen to be the one to place that
silver star on the top most spike. Then on the night before Christmas we would
lie awake, trying to hear the gliding of Santa’s sleigh through the frosty air,
or listen breathlessly to try and catch the sound of the reindeer. It was all
quite a pleasant time full of awesome memories, the special time of year. As I think back on it, I think it was
the time when we were all the happiest. I even remember the time when my
brother told me that santa only brought gifts for the good little boys and
girls. He told me that because he
had helped wash the dishes every evening for a whole month that santa was going
to bring him everything he wished for. I watched him write that letter, sign it
and give it to my Dad who would with a smile on his face say that only they
knew the secret address to santa. We really believed then that santa was real,
and that the red nosed reindeer really did lead his team, and that Mrs. Santa
really did make those gingerbread cookies, or that the elves really were tiny
little dwarves who lived in little underground mansions deep in the Artic
wilderness. But now that I have
grown up from those youngster days, I now know where all those pleading letters
went. But during those times, It was actually fun believing that he was real,
and that he really did have a deep voice, and a white beard, and that he really
had those deep blue eyes, as clear as an Artic spring. The idea that santa was real was what
woke us up in the morning on Christmas day before daybreak to see what he had
left in our stockings. But I think
what was the most special was how Christmas really started. It didn’t start
with the first mention of santa, it really started a long time before that.
With the birth of a little boy in a manger. That baby boy was Jesus and he
would grow up to become the Savior of the world. The story that Dad would read
to us around the fireplace on Christmas was as real to me as anything, even
realer than the thought of Santa. Santa really didn’t do anything to change the
world, he really is only an idea. On the other hand Jesus lived and died for
us. Now that really meant something to a young mind like me. The hardest question
of all was how in the world could someone send his own son down from heaven to
die on a tree for me. After what I’d done. No I wasn’t a really bad boy, but I
had done some things I wasn’t proud of. Like steal a couple nickels from my
brother’s piggy bank, or stuff all my clothes underneath my bed when my mom
told me to clean my room. No that wasn’t no great sin, but it was still a
sin. I knew that I was a sinner,
and that night on Christmas eve, when
I knelt by that small window, and watched the clouds sail across that
frosty moon, the extent of what Jesus had done for me really became a
reality. It wasn’t no great
lightning bolt across the sky, but it was a peace, the kind of peace that passeth
all understanding. As each
Christmas we shop for all the little trinkets that we think we need, and see
that scene with Jesus in the manger, it really doesn’t do justice to the real
meaning of Christmas, not even a tiny bit. If we forget what Christmas really
represents, then we’ve really put a disgrace on the one person who we really
should be celebrating. Anyways, Happy holidays, and a blessed New Year!
