I just hate Christmas!” I have heard so many people say exactly that, surprisingly some of them Christians.
When I hear condemnation of the commercialization of Christmas, I have to agree. However, as Christians we may risk killing the joy of Christmas in our zeal to hammer into people “The Reason for the Season.”
That dilemma was solved for me years ago as a young boy when I discovered the real meaning behind sacrifice and sharing right in the midst of all the gift-giving and celebration of Christmas.
In the Christmas season of 1951 my father, like other steel workers in Birmingham, was trying to juggle the effects of layoff due to frequent union strikes. I was oblivious to all that because we were provided all the essentials and warmth of a loving family and a good home. All I knew at age 9 was an all-consuming desire for my first bicycle that Christmas.
One early December night I inadvertently overheard my parents discussing our financial straits and the bleak outlook for that Christmas. My father tried to comfort my mother by assuring her he could pick up a few jobs with a small electric company during the strike and do some odd jobs at night.
Upon hearing that my heart sank, and I talked myself into believing I didn’t really need a bike. I never mentioned it again that season.
The lesson of sacrifice I learned would not have been as insightful had I not already seen the lengths my father would go to in providing for us. The year before I had expressed my desire for a basketball goal and backboard.
There on Christmas morning was the bright orange metal rim leaning against the fireplace. It wasn’t in a box like the ones at the sporting goods store, but it looked the same. Most came with a cotton net, but mine for some reason was a better net made of nylon.
When I went to lift it I discovered the difference. My father had handcrafted the rim out of solid steel, whereas commercial models were fashioned out of hollow metal. The back was heavy steel and the net hooks expertly welded in place.
He had meticulously woven a net out of nylon parachute cord from his World War II mementos. Part of the fun that season was having the opportunity to help him fabricate my backboard and erect it in the backyard.
I spent many days with my friends playing basketball in my backyard and never noticed any difference in my handcrafted goal until after an unusually severe windstorm.
Neighborhood and school goals were blown down and broken. My father just took a heavy hammer and straightened the small dent out of mine. Years later when I left home for the military that nylon net was still hanging smartly.
But it was the Christmas of 1951 that impacted me so deeply. There on Christmas morning leaning against that same fireplace was a new, shiny, red Western Auto-Western Flyer bicycle!
Somehow my father had managed my unexpected miracle.
The time-frozen moment for which I am eternally grateful was not feeling the smile on my beaming face, but rather the look of joy in my father’s eyes. In that brief moment I saw all the joy that comes from sacrifice and investment of time and effort spent to produce joy in another’s life.
As he helped me take my new bike down the front steps, I glanced down at those strong hands full of creases, nicks, scars and dark work-lines. I wondered how many were there on my behalf. I stole a quick look back as I rode off and saw my father waving with a broad triumphant grin on his face.
My eyes unexpectedly flooded with tears as I tried to steer my new bike realizing I wasn’t having all the fun.
That Christmas is the reason I continue to struggle with Christmas gifts.
I listen closely for hints throughout the year. If that doesn’t work, I’ll still walk the malls and fight the crowds perchance to find that special gift. I find in that process the real meaning of Christmas, for it takes the focus off me and places it on another person I love and care for.
I can stand in the middle of a Christmas Eve crowd and smile inside and out comparing that to my earthly father’s sacrifice and example of giving.
Christmas reminds me of sacrifice and of nail-scarred hands, hands scarred on my behalf because of God’s love. Every Christmas reminds me of God’s perfect gift, the unwrapping of it and the need and joy of sharing it — that’s when the fun begins.
Editor’s Note — Jay Spencer Hurd is education minister at First Baptist Church, Clanton.
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