Heartwarming Christmas Blessings

December 2004

Dear Friends:

What a year it has been! The battle to preserve biblical values and defend the institution of the family raged hotter in 2004 than perhaps at any other period in recent history, culminating in last month’s dramatic presidential election. There will be opportunity enough in the coming days to reflect on what transpired in 2004 and to discuss what lies ahead, but now is not that time.

Here again, we find ourselves in the season of celebrating our Savior’s birth, and that is the subject to which I would like to devote this month’s letter. That momentous event, in which the God of the universe took on human form and came to earth to live among us, surely deserves a few moments of reflection and contemplation during the holidays (or, more accurately, the "holy" days). In every way, the miracle of Christ’s incarnation is more significant than any other subject about which I could write. Accordingly, and in keeping with my annual tradition, I would like to share a story in my December letter that captures the spirit of the Christmas season. I hope that you and your loved ones will take a few moments to read it together and then, perhaps, to review the actual biblical account of Christ’s birth as recorded in Luke 2. Without further delay, I’d like to proceed with this year’s reading, which is titled, "The Ultimate Christmas Tip."

• • • • • • • • • • • •

The Ultimate Christmas Tip

Paul J. Batura

In a world consumed by the commercialism of Christmas, we are reminded that the spirit of the season is very often found by just talking with the neighbor next-door.

As a young boy growing up in the shadow of New York City, Christmas unfolded with the predictability of a movie you’ve seen a dozen times.

Soon after the final leaf had fallen, our lovable and overly enthusiastic neighbor, Frank Verni, would eagerly assemble his plastic lighted manger scene — plus Santa Claus for good measure — in the middle of his front lawn. It was quite the display. With every gust of wind, the Angel Gabriel, wired from the gutter on the roof to the oak tree on the curb, would regularly flip in rotation like a gymnast at the Olympics. Bars of "Silent Night" blared from the speaker lodged in the bush beside the front porch. A giant blinking star hovered over the property — no doubt visible to commercial jets landing at nearby Kennedy Airport. As kids, we would laugh at the spectacle until our parents reminded us that the effort — and the depiction of Christ’s birth — were not matters to joke about. (Still, we’d kick each other in a silent gesture of comic solidarity each evening when we drove by the house!) Soon after Thanksgiving, other folks would follow, until the streets of the village twinkled festively as far as the eye could see.

When I turned 14, Mr. Verni solicited my help, asking me to cart the boxes of decorations from his garage and basement to the front lawn. Eager to earn some Christmas money, I enthusiastically obliged. Much to my initial disappointment, though, Frank didn’t pay in dollars — but in retrospect, he did pay in sense. For the duration of the project, I was treated to stories far more exciting than the textbooks of Sister Rosemary’s history class. A decorated veteran of World War II who had joined the Marine Corps (illegally) at the age of 16, Frank had seen the best and worst of mankind. In the biting autumn chill of that late November afternoon, I was regaled with the lessons he learned at Midway, Tassafaronga and Guadalcanal.

"The miracle of America is worth dying for," he told me, pausing at some points, choking up as his mind wandered back to the day he enlisted, December 8, 1941, "but sometimes you have to leave home, let go of what you love and lay it on the line to find out just how precious God’s gift of freedom really is. We can only display these symbols of our faith today because of the men and women who fought and died for that freedom yesterday."

While I knew he was right, I still remember grumbling to my parents that a few dollars for my effort would have gone a very long way! To which my Mom simply responded, "Ah, but a little learning goes a longer way still."

The Friendly Farmer

Just up the street lived another aging neighbor, Fred Reichard. "Farmer Fred," as we called him, had long ago retired from the railroad and had turned his backyard into a fertile field, growing every vegetable under the sun. In my younger days, I’d watch from our side porch as he pushed a huge wooden cart up and down the street, raking up the piles of leaves people had stacked at the end of their driveway. Year after year, he’d grind them into mulch for compost and ground cover, suggesting that it was this effort that explained his annual bumper crop, of which he gave nearly half away! Mr. Reichard’s cart became legendary — and a welcome sight since it meant never having to bag up the leaves on our lawns.

That same year that I helped my eccentric neighbor Mr. Verni, I noticed that the piles of leaves were stacking up despite the fact that Thanksgiving had already come and gone. We had heard that Fred was struggling with a bad hip — but could it be so bad as to sideline him for the season?

You should go over and offer to help him out," my dad said one Friday night, "he could use some young legs."

Silently, my wheels began to spin.

"Maybe this was my chance to earn some elusive Christmas cash," I thought.

Leaning into a cold, damp wind the next Saturday morning, I lumbered over to his clapboard house, but a knock on the door met with silence. Looking around the corner, I spied the empty green cart. The time had come to be proactive.

So, up and down the street I traveled, sweeping and raking and carting away every leaf I could find. As I made my way back home in the darkness, the lights from Farmer Fred’s car turned onto the block. I waved. He motioned me over to the driveway to talk.

"What in the world have you done?" he asked, a smile creeping out of the corner of his mouth. "How kind of you. Why don’t you stop by after dinner and we can settle up."

Assured that my work was finally going to pay off, I ran back across the road with visions of holiday cash dancing in my head.

When I arrived back to the house after supper, Mr. Reichard was watching a rerun of "Andy Griffith," sitting amid the glow of the black-and-white television and the colored Christmas lights that adorned the small table tree in the window. His wife, Julie, greeted me at the door, taking my coat and scarf.

"Have a seat, sweetheart," she said in motherly fashion. "Mr. R. is just so grateful for what you did today."

Clicking off the shenanigans of Barney and Andy, Farmer Fred welcomed me to the living room, to the chair beside the crackling fireplace.

"I was at the doctor today getting tests done," he said, "and when we were finished, he told me that I’d probably be laid up till spring. Just about broke my heart. So much work still to be done — so few people to do it. Ma and I aren’t getting any younger! But then, I saw what you did and realized that the good Lord has blessed us with neighbors willing to help … if only we would ask!"

I nodded, understanding his point, but I still hoped that some compensation was coming at the conclusion of the conversation.

"You’re a young guy," he continued, "but the day is going to come when your mind might be willing, but the joints just won’t give back." He chuckled, but then grew more somber. "I hope you’re lucky enough to live in a neighborhood like this one — where people look out for one another when the tough times come."

I could see a tear running down his cheek.

"Why don’t you grab a bushel basket from the garage," he said, "and go down to the basement and take whatever vegetables and canned jams and jellies you think your mom could use. It’s our way of saying thank you!"

Disappointed, I did as he suggested.

As I turned to leave, he placed his hand on my shoulder, looked me square in the eye and ended our visit with one final comment:

"You know, the man whose birthday we celebrate in a few weeks said it best: ‘In as much as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.’"

I smiled. How else could a 14-year-old respond to such a statement? A firm handshake followed and out the door I went. Once again, I appreciated these words, but words alone wouldn’t give me the funds I needed for the gifts I had hoped to buy for my family. I presented the basket of goods to my folks, while doing my best to hide my discontent.

"You see," my dad said with unabashed exuberance, "good deeds never go unnoticed!"

Sibling Rivalry On the last Friday before Christmas, my brother John excitedly bounded in the door after completing his paper route, his coat and hat covered in snow.

"Look at this!" he exclaimed, pulling from his pockets all kinds of envelopes in varying sizes and colors. "I can’t believe it!" he stammered, knowing that inside each envelope was a tip for a job well done.

Seated at the dining room table, he methodically opened each card, reading the message and recording the gift on a tablet by his side. By the time the exercise was over, he had amassed a virtual fortune of $127.50.

"What are you going to do with all of that?" I asked, as a jealous spirit built up inside me.

"Oh, it’s my Christmas shopping money!" he answered decisively. "Wait until Mom and Dad and Jim, Tommy, Marie — and you — see what you’re getting."

Frustrated and feeling sorry for myself, I put on my coat and slipped out the door, wondering if there was any way possible that I, too, could find a way to earn such "tips" for Christmas.

Like many small towns in America, a temporary Christmas tree lot occupied the corner near the train station. With the rest of the neighborhood quiet, and for want of anything else to do, I decided to walk by and see if there was anything going on. I fantasized that just maybe someone had dropped a wallet — without identification — full of cash! As I approached, I could see that the clear bulbs, strung from post to post, were swinging wildly in the evening storm. A fire was blazing inside a large oil barrel, valiantly trying to keep the attendant warm. Holiday music from a little battery-powered radio on the bench near the fence could still be heard above the howling wind.

"What brings you out here, young man?" the grizzled proprietor asked, "Surely you’re not looking for a tree by yourself?"

"No," I said, "I was just looking."

"Looking for what — to catch a cold?" he shot back.

"No, I just like looking at Christmas trees, " I replied somewhat insincerely.

"Well, if that’s the case," he said, "take a look at this one!"

With all his might, he lifted from the line a magnificent 15-foot tree, its branches nearly as wide as it was high. I could only imagine living in a house with a room large enough to fit such luxury.

"Some day," he said, "some day, you might have such a tree."

Since I couldn’t even raise two nickels for a gift for my parents, I couldn’t fathom the possibility. But as I turned on my heels to leave, I spotted a grouping of trees that looked more like scrawny bushes.

"Ha!" I joked with him, "those are more my style."

Barely three feet tall, they were reminiscent of the infamous Charlie Brown tree from the TV special, a bit spotty — but still green and standing upright, though snow was weighing heavily on their branches.

"Do you want those?" he asked incredulously. "They won’t sell. I’ll probably grind them in two days come Christmas Eve."

Never one to pass up anything free, I accepted. Lugging the four trees home in the snow, my route took me past some of the houses of the oldest folks on our block. So consumed by my own worries the last few weeks, I hadn’t noticed something blatantly obvious this time around. Four of the homes, all owned by widows, were void of visible Christmas decorations, with the exception of a wreath or two and a ribbon on a front porch post.

"How sad," I said under my breath. "I hope that never happens to my parents." At that moment, I passed Farmer Fred’s house and spied the small tree in the window. I remembered our visit — and his parting comment, quoting Jesus’ admonition to His apostles:

"In as much as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me."

"Of course!" I realized, filling up with a surge of holiday spirit like George Bailey on Christmas Eve, "these trees should go to Mrs. Fox, Mrs. McCabe, Mrs. McGrath and Mrs. Gorman! They probably don’t have trees — now they will."

At full tilt, I ran home and blurted out my plans to my parents. They loved it.

"Let’s build some stands in the basement," my dad said, "and see if we can’t dig up some extra lights from our decoration stash."

In an hour or two, the preparations were completed. The next evening, I made the rounds, bringing a lighted tree and some cookies my mom had made to the widows of our street.

Each visit was met with overflowing appreciation, hugs, stories and tears. Mrs. Fox said the fresh scent of pine carried her back to her first Christmas as a newlywed, when they cut a tree from the land of a childhood home. Mrs. Gorman sat silent for a moment, later remarking that twinkling lights hadn’t lit their living room since her husband, Bob, had passed away 10 years ago. And Mrs. McCabe told me the tree was the first ‘gift’ she had received for Christmas in over five years.

As I left for home and looked back over my shoulder, this one small corner of our street had been transformed. The darkened homes glowed with festive lighting. The spirit of Christmas was alive and well.

So busy was I in the pursuit of earning monetary "Christmas tips" that I had missed the fact that all along the "tips" were actually right before my eyes in the form of godly wisdom from my neighbors who knew the Christ as King. I was looking for cash — when instead, I should have been listening to the words of Frank and Farmer Fred.

"Rings and jewels are not gifts," wrote Emerson, "but apologies for gifts. The only true gift is a portion of thyself."

How often at Christmas do we look forward to giving and receiving the gifts that only money can buy — when instead, it is the invaluable gift of ourselves that will hold fast and firm when the ways of the world try to pull us apart. Over a century ago, the poet Christina Rossetti summed up the spirit of giving come Christmas. May we remember it all year long:

What can I give Him,
Poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd
I would bring a lamb.
If I were a Wise Man
I would do my part;
Yet what can I give Him?
Give my heart

• • • • • • • • • • • •

I’d like to thank Paul Batura, who works in my office here at Focus and is author of a fun new book entitled Gadzooks!, for contributing that uplifting and personal reflection from his childhood. Perhaps you can identify one or more individuals within your own circle of influence who are in need of a little love and compassion this Christmas. Such a project might be appropriate for your children aged 10 or older. If so, I hope you will take some time to share it with them. Not only will others be blessed by your kindness, but, as Paul discovered, it is likely that you will be blessed as well.

Let me simply conclude this letter by wishing you and your loved ones a very blessed Christmas from all of us here at Focus on the Family. How thankful we are that Christ’s birth — in that cold stable more than 2000 years ago — represents the turning point in a story that will culminate with His triumphant return to call His children home and to restore what has been broken since the Fall. Now that is a reason to celebrate — not only this season, but all year long!

From our house to yours, Merry Christmas!

Sincerely,

James C. Dobson, Ph.D.
Founder and Chairman

P.S. We are deeply grateful to those of you who have supported us through your prayers and finances over the past year, and we are looking forward to what God has in store for 2005. If you have met your obligations to your local church and feel led to make a donation to Focus at this critical time of year, we would love to hear from you.