The third installment of Christmas stories I have chosen to share with you this year is a poignant reminder that the joyful promise given to the world on that first Christmas was not a completion. It was only the beginning. The culmination of the promise was the cross and resurrection wherein the promise of our eternal life was sealed. Suffering, death and sorrow may still have power over our earthly lives, but not in the eternity of our heavenly home. That is the full promise that commenced on that First Christmas and it is the theme resonated in today’s story authored by Barbara Estelle Shepherd:
When our twin daughters were toddlers and Scotty was still a baby, my husband, Dick, and I dug into our meager Christmas fund to buy a dime store angel for the top of our tree. Esthetically, she was no prize: the plastic wings were lopsided, the gaudy robes painted haphazardly, the reds splashing over into blue and purples. At night, though, she underwent a mysterious change – the light glowing from inside her robes softened the colors and her golden hair shown with the aura of a halo.For six years she had the place of honor at the top of our tree. For six years, as in most families, Christmas was a time to be especially grateful for the wonderful gifts of God.
And then, in the seventh year, as summer enfolded us in her warm lethargy, I became aware of a new life gently stirring beneath my heart. Of all of God’s gifts this seemed the culmination, for we had long prayed for another child. I came home from the doctor’s office and plunged straight into plans for a mood-setting dinner.
That evening when Dick walked in, candles flickered on the table and the children took their places, self-conscious in Sunday clothes “when it was just Wednesday!”
“Oh-oh,” he grinned, “Mother’s up to something – one of those special dinners again.” I smiled and waited till halfway through the meal to make the announcement. But I got no further than the first informative sentence.
“You mean we’re going to have a baby?” squealed Miriam. Milk overturned and chairs clattered. Doors slammed and Dick and I were alone with our happiness while three small Paul Reveres galloped wildly over the neighborhood shouting their news to everyone within lung distance.
Summer and fall sped by as we turned the spare room into a nursery and scraped and repainted furniture. December came again; and once more we were on the verge of Christmas. Then one morning, eight weeks too soon for our nursery to be occupied, I was rushed to the hospital.
Shortly past noon our four-pound son was born. Still groggy from the anesthetic, I was wheeled – bed and all – to the nursery to view Kirk Steven through an incubator porthole. Dick silently squeezed my hand while we absorbed the doctor’s account of the dangers Kirk would have to overcome in order to survive. Added to his prematurity was the urgency for a complete blood exchange to offset RH problems.
All that long afternoon Dick and I prayed desperately that our son’s life be spared. It was evening when I awoke from an uneasy doze to find our minister standing by the bed. No word was spoken, but as he clasped my hand, I knew. Our little boy had lived less than twelve hours.
During the rest of that week in the hospital, grief and disbelief swept over me by turn. At last Dick came to take me home. He loaded my arms with a huge bouquet of red roses, but flowers can never fill arms that ache to hold a baby.
In the street outside I was astonished to see signs of Christmas everywhere: the decorated stores, the hurrying shoppers, the lights strung from every lamp post. I had forgotten the season. For the sake of the children at home, we agreed, we would go through the emotions. But it would be no more than that.
And so a few days later Dick bought a tree and mechanically I joined him and the children in draping tinsel and hanging glass balls from the branches. Last of all, on the very top, went the forlorn dime store angel. Then Dick flipped the switch and again she was beautiful. Scotty gazed upward for a moment, then said softly, “Daddy, this year we have a real angel, don’t we? The one God gave us.”
And Dick and I, in our poverty, were going to give Christmas to our children – forgetting that it is always we who received it from them! For, of course, God was the reality in tragedy as He had been in our joys, the unchanging Joy at the heart of all things. Scotty’s words were for me like the light streaming now from the plastic angel, transforming what was poor and ugly on the surface into glory.
“Perhaps they are not the stars, but rather openings in Heaven where the love of our lost ones pours through and shines down upon us to let us know they are happy.” – Author Unknown
Have an AWE-full Weekend!
William J. “Bill” Bacqué