Luke Chapter 2

People ask, “Are you ready for Christmas?” I don’t know what that means, but I suspect it has to do with shopping.  It starts with the crazy hours and crowds of Black Friday, and it doesn’t get any better until after Christmas.  But we can dream can’t we?

I'm dreaming of a white Christmas, just like the ones I used to know. You probably have heard Bing sing White Christmas a few times; maybe you have even seen the movie starring Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye.

The Christmases I used to know were a lot closer to Crosby and Kaye than Costco and Kohl’s. My family didn’t go Christmas shopping very much – maybe once or twice a season. We stayed home and played games and watched TV. We went skating and sledding, and we built snow forts and snowmen. And after we were done playing outside, mom would take the broom and sweep the snow off of us before she let us inside, where there was hot chocolate on the stove and a bag of marshmallows on the counter.

The hardware store downtown would open its second floor to the public a couple weeks before Christmas. In that hardware store attic, 30 steps above hammers and nails, brushes and paints – the tools of toymakers – was a children’s treasure house. There were dolls and dishes, trains and trucks. Children, accompanied by their parents, would plod through the aisles wide-eyed and prod the merchandise.

Wayne, my father-in-law, who has been gone almost twenty years, used to do all or most of his Christmas shopping on Christmas Eve. He would always buy the same gifts for Rhonda’s three brothers and me.

About twenty-five years ago Wayne got all the guys matching maroon sweatshirts. I don’t know what the others did with theirs, but I still have mine, and it proudly shows its age. The elbows have thinned and the shirt has lost some of its form, while the function has improved. Even though holes have appeared out of nowhere and the seams are beginning to separate, I won’t part with it. I don’t own a more comfortable article of clothing or one I am more attached to.

Rhonda washes it by hand, as it still sheds a rosy color. Does she think of her father, as the water turns red? Does her heart bleed a little? I wonder if any of the gifts I give will still linger when I’m gone. I would not guess a sweatshirt.

The wrong gift is quickly discarded with disdain, but even the right gift may not survive decades of stress and hand wringing. Toys break, cash is spent, and we eventually forget about most everything else. There is also the problem of what to get the person who has everything. The answer is you get them nothing – well almost nothing.  

As I think about my own children and grandsons I know what I want from them – nothing that money can buy. I selfishly crave their time and love, and I freely offer mine. Please don’t misunderstand me - I have appreciated all the gifts I have received over the years, but they are no match for memories, time and love shared.

So what’s Christmas all about? Charlie Brown’s friend, Linus, knew. It’s here in black and white.

Luke 2:8 – 14  KJV

“And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flocks by night.  And lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, ‘Fear not, for behold, I bring unto you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the City of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.’ And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God, and saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.’”

That’s what Christmas is all about.

Knock Knock

Saturday I turned the handle and opened the door to the corncrib (refashioned as a crude garage) to look for a tool. The problem with having several buildings is that there can be several places for things to hide. As I was looking on my workbench, my eye caught the sight of a large, furry shape curled up on a mat next to the wall.

I froze, not because I was afraid (okay, maybe a little bit), but I thought perhaps I had been able to enter the building without waking the animal from its slumber. That was unlikely, as I can be quite noisy when I enter a room, and my rummaging on the bench would have roused a bear from its state of hibernation. As I studied the animal I surmised that it was a raccoon in a deep slumber or possibly dead.

I retreated to the barn to get something with a long pole and a sturdy implement. Although I considered getting a shotgun, I felt that it wouldn’t be very sporting of me. When I returned to the corncrib, I was not surprised to find that the fur had not moved. I gave it a nudge or two with the business end of a shovel without any response. I then flipped it over for closer inspection. The animal had buried its head beneath its plump body as it surrendered to its fate.

Although I have prematurely ended the life of varmints I have found trespassing in my buildings, I felt no satisfaction in finding this large predator who died without much effort on my part. I am not a hunter, nor do I judge those who do. I will, however, protect the defenseless birds in the barn. That has meant doing battle with weasels, skunks, possums, muskrats, fox, coyotes and raccoons. One afternoon I even witnessed an osprey enjoying a chicken dinner in the barnyard. As birds of prey are not within my sights, I watched as if I was viewing a nature program. The bird eventually flew away (the osprey that is – that chicken never flew again).

I concluded that the raccoon had become trapped in the corncrib after I repaired a large hole near the foundation. It was the largest trap I had ever set, albeit unwittingly.

I carried him up to the house on the shovel, as I wanted to show my kids whom were coming over later in the day. I wasn’t trying to show off any trophy of my exploits, but rather to let everyone see what comes up from the woods and ravines near our farm.

I had a couple projects I needed help with and both my son and son-in-law are handier than I am. One of the tasks involved a bathroom door that wasn’t latching properly. The door would close, but it wouldn’t lock or latch, which considering what goes on in a bathroom, isn’t ideal.

I had got used to this situation, but now that the kids have their own homes and a new perspective it was brought to my attention that perhaps twenty years is long enough for a door that won’t latch. Plus, there is a twenty month old child who, when he comes to visit, sees nothing wrong with pushing a door open at the most inopportune moments.

Using a drill, hammer and chisel, they were able to correct the problem. I now have to get used to the new way of opening the bathroom door on the inside. Instead of a gentle pull, a turn of the handle is now required. It’s a good thing I can know how to do that; otherwise I could become trapped in there.

Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

Is it you, or is it me? We’ve grown apart – we barely communicate, and we hardly ever see each other. Our correspondence is almost non-existent. I write you, but you never write back; you used to slide into my house once a year (usually when I was asleep) and throw some presents under the tree and leave. Although I no longer need you to bring me stuff (I can buy my own now), would it hurt to stop in and talk for a few minutes when you’re in the area?  Tell me, is that any way for someone to act? Perhaps it’s normal for you, but I don’t like it.  

I realize this is your busy time of year – I guess everyone’s busy. We used to be quite close, you and I. What happened? Is it something I said? Surely, you must know that I forgive you for all those undelivered gifts. As I have matured, (yes, even me – check the list) I realize that no one gets everything they ask for and that sometimes the answer is no (I was probably too old for Marvel the Mustang anyway).

It doesn’t seem that long ago when I would crawl up on your lap and we would talk. While it’s true I no longer expect to sit on your lap, I certainly don’t want you sitting on mine. To be honest, from the pictures I have seen you seem to have gained weight. Why it’s true that nobody likes a skinny Santa, morbidly obese just isn’t healthy. Perhaps you should consider walking between the houses that are in the same neighborhood, much like the mail carriers do. Most houses don’t have chimneys anyway, try knocking on the door; I think you’ll find that many people would be happy to see you.

I don’t really need anything, but if you come by the house this year can you drop off a normal Christmas tree? My wife found this short, sparsely limbed, artificial thing, and it’s standing in the corner pretending to be a Christmas tree. I tell you Santa, if this continues I won’t be surprised to see a blue, aluminum fixture sitting on a top of a table in a year or two.

You know it takes two to keep a friendship going. I suppose I could write more than once a year, but if you never write back what’s the point? When I see you at the shopping malls you hardly acknowledge me. A wink or a nod would be nice. Last year you waved at me, and I had hopes that perhaps we could have a coffee or a hot chocolate together, but like I said you don’t answer my letters.

I don’t remember exactly when it was that you and I lost touch – but I think it was about the same time when little Jackie Paper and Puff the Magic Dragon quit being life-long friends.

As the song tells it, “A dragon lives forever, but not so little boys, painted wings and giant’s rings make way for other toys. One gray night it happened, Jackie Paper came no more.”

It seems Jackie and I grew up. You know when I think about it Santa, I guess it is me. I’m sorry.

Supply Line

I don’t sleep-in any more, and Thanksgiving is certainly not the day to lounge too long, as there is much to do (or so I’m told). I had hoped to sleep until 7:30 or maybe even 8:00, but when my wife’s alarmed voice woke me from the other side of the house, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.  Hearing your name called with a loud voice accompanied with a plea to come quickly does not lend itself to peaceful slumber.

With no time to throw on acceptable attire or even a sash, I flew through the house and down the stairs. I found Rhonda in the back hallway near the bathroom sloshing around in a depth of water normally reserved for a bathtub. After being instructed to grab a towel and start sopping, I was told that she had been in the family room when she heard the sound of water gushing. Upon entering the bathroom she saw water shooting our from under the vanity. Now Rhonda’s no plumber, but she immediately recognized that as a problem. This is about the time when she started to holler for me.

I did the best I could under the circumstances (I was startled from a deep sleep, fumbled with my glasses, couldn’t find the light and couldn’t decide what weapon I should grab). By the time I got downstairs Rhonda had taken matters into her own hands and ran to the basement to shut off the water main (she also knows where the fire extinguishers are).

One of the water supply lines under the sink had burst allowing water to flow unfettered at full-blast. The water quickly flooded the bathroom floor and then escaped out the door, past the bookshelf and down the hall to the laundry room. We attacked the standing water with mops and towels. Then there was the matter of the bookshelf.

We surmised that the water had most likely found its way underneath the freestanding shelf. We decided to unload the shelf and then move it (instead of the other way around). The bookshelf is about four feet wide and six feet high with six shelves (seven if you count the top, which was stacked with photo albums). The shelf was full of books and binders, and we wanted to avoid an unassisted move to the basement through a rotted floor.

I was amazed and entertained with the contents of the shelf.  Among a set of encyclopedias, dictionaries, old textbooks and how-to and help-for guides, I found a plant-growing guide in the shape of a wheel, which could be spun for directions on water, sunlight, etc.  I had bought it in St. Cloud in 1980 after Rhonda had given me an English Ivy for my birthday. I glanced at it briefly, hoping that there was a suggestion on how to handle too much water.

There were travel guides of places we have been to and places we hoped to get to (I kept my eyes open for warm and dry climes). I saw church directories that had pictures of families with little children who now have children of their own. Then there were the photo albums containing pictures of my children now grown, and family members long since gone.

It was Thanksgiving morning and Rhonda, and I were busy doing something we hadn’t planned on, but we were thankful. We were thankful the line hadn’t burst while we were away, and the bookshelf had provided numerous reminders of our many blessings.  Thanksgiving is not the day to lie around in bed, as there is much to be thankful for (or so I was reminded).

Wink and a Nod

Because I am very near-sighted, I must wear corrective lenses (glasses or contacts) so I can see anything that is further than six inches from my face. In fact, if I drop my glasses I am unable to find them until a good Samaritan shows up (hopefully without stepping on them) to help me locate them.

When I want to get a closer look at something I will (depending upon my mood or situation) either take off my glasses or look over the top of them (I’ve seen people lift their’s up and look under them). If I have my contacts in I will put on a pair of strong reading glasses (or grab a magnifying glass) to get a better view. 

As I can’t do without my lenses I go to the “Eye Doctor” about once a year.  The last time I went I met with a doctor young enough to be my son, and even though I was completely comfortable in his ability to do his job, I left (as I always do) feeling like I had made some poor choices.

I sat in a chair and stared at some letters on the wall. He then put a series of lenses in front of my face and asked me to choose between one lens and another, and then that lens and another, and then two different ones. Finally, I had to admit I really wasn’t sure (as I had become distracted by trying to see how many words I could come up with using the letters). I hinted that perhaps we should start over, as I may have made a mistake. The good Doctor Young, or the young Doctor Good assured me that he had double-checked my responses and was confident he had a good understanding of my vision needs.

Next came the selection of frames for my new glasses. As with anything else, fashion dictates the choices of frames available. Despite my best efforts and the guidance of the fashion-forward man helping me, I fear I failed in my attempt to be mistaken for Stanley Tucci; instead I may bear an uncanny resemblance to Larry Fine with facial hair and glasses.

I guess it doesn’t matter though, as neither of my grandsons seem to like me wearing glasses anyway. Micah, the older one will say “Pa, glasses off,” while his brother, Jonah, will just look the other way as if I was someone unworthy of his attention and beneath him somehow.

The boys’ dislike of mine or their grandmother’s reading glasses may have less to do with the style and shape of the frame than the obstacle they see in front of our eyes.

I find it fascinating that when two people, no matter what age, come face to face they look into each other’s eyes. We seem drawn to one another’s eyes and when we do a connection is established. Indeed, the eyes have it.

My grandsons smile at me when I blink and wink at them, and when they do I am filled with love and joy. William Butler Yeats said, “…Love comes in at the eye.” I can see that.