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Christmas Past (Vol. 4, No. 41)

I’ve celebrated fifty Christmases.  And, frankly, at half-a-hundred I’m determined to deepen my search for meaning in this most wondrous holiday.  Being methodical and rather tedious, I thought it wise to begin by looking back.

I have distinct memories.  Oddly, when I settle back in my chair and try to remember a particular Christmas, I find it hard to focus on just one.

Worming my way under the tree to scout out which presents were mine, I can smell the dank aroma of pine needles soaking in the water at the base of the tree.  Once totally underneath the branches, I lie very still and look up through the maze of wood and wires and glass ornaments.  In my early years, we had those bubble lights – liquid-filled luminaries that silently gurgled their shadowy patterns across walls and wrapped presents.  And as I glanced down at my pajamas, now with pine needles encrusted on my knees and elbows, I felt my excitement for Christmas morning grow and pondered how to make my exit without knocking over the tree.

Trees changed over the years.  Each year we went on a quest to the Kiwanis Christmas tree lot for the perfect tree.  I’ve heard stories about the painstaking process that many families go through to find the perfect tree.  None of my memories include the details of that process.  I don’t remember anyone squeezing the needles for signs of freshness, or shaking it in a particular way, or hefting it in an effort to determine the sap remaining in its trunk.  To a youngster, it just seemed that we walked to the right tree and took it back to the car.  I’m still amazed at the deceptive ease my dad employed.

Fortunately, the hereditary trait of tree selection was not to be an essential skill.  Sometime in my late grade school years, we went artificial.  I loved that silver foil tree.  It was my job to assemble the topiary marvel.  My mother handled the ornaments.  They were breakable, you know.  No lights were ever strung.  Fire hazard.  Instead, we plugged in a spotlight with a rotating color wheel and watched the aluminum glisten in varying hues.

I remember a few particular presents.  Like my first brand-new, red Schwinn bicycle – my first that had no previous owners.  I can feel the pebbly surface of my new basketball and the way my hands would feel late that same day, numbed by the cold from the West Texas wind as I dribbled and shot at the wooden backboard out in our backyard.  And what boy could forget his first Daisy BB rifle?  And the lecture that all mothers are obligated to give?

But for the most part, my memories about presents center on the ceremony.  Each person would stake out a territory.  Then, “Santa’s Little Helper” would distribute the gifts.  I wasn’t always the little helper, but I do remember how much fun it was to put a be-ribboned package next to a loved one and then scamper back to find the tag on the next wrapped box.

And, I remember long walks through department stores and shopping malls in search of just the right gift for a special person.  Some of the fondest of those walks were in my adult years and usually in a place far from home.  In several seasons, I have found myself in a distant place in the month of December.  Stepping into palaces of commerce, I felt suddenly alone among thousands of people.  Their talk and the incessant Christmas carols on loudspeakers faded into the background.  Nothing was apparent to me but the thoughts of my loved ones.  While thrilled with the discovery of the perfect gift, I came to grips with an emptiness born of loneliness.

And at some moment in those far-away places, I heard a voice telling stories about shepherds and angels and a pregnant girl on a donkey.  No room in the inn.  A baby in a manger. 

And my Christmas pasts merge into that special feeling that I’m sure God intended.  Christmas is a time for bringing people together.  And God reminds us with His precious gift that His greatest desire is to be here with us.

Shine On!

copyright 2004 Joe L. Cope