I was almost four years old in early summer of 1950. My dad was building the church in El Cajon, Calif., on the corner of Avocado Street and Washington Boulevard. I remember the dirt being moved by tractors and the concrete trucks lumbering up to the property. It was fun watching the concrete (looked like gray, rocky mud) slide down the chutes and splash onto the ground. I remember the walls being built and watching the big machines called "cranes" putting the funny-looking things called trusses on the walls.
Those memories are vivid in my mind. I can tell you a lot more about that project but I would rather talk about Christmas in 1950. I was four years old.
Dad worked as a janitor five days a week from midnight to six in the morning, attended college during the day and was full-time pastor of a church. As kids, we didn't understand dad's schedule and wondered why he slept so much in the afternoon. But when Christmas finally arrived, we knew Dad would have time for us. He always had time for us at Christmas.
On Christmas Eve, Dad explicitly told us, "Go to sleep and don't get out of bed until morning. The first one of you to wake up can come and wake the rest of us up."
But my older sisters, Gena and Janice, were smart! They knew what "morning" meant. The next day started one minute after midnight, so guess when they woke us up? You're right: We all got up at 12:05 a.m. on Christmas Day. (The next year Dad said we couldn't get out of bed until 6 a.m.)
The tree was about the right size. That meant it could hold or hide all the presents mom and dad had for the five of us kids. (There were eventually 10 of us.) We didn't have much money so it wasn't hard to hide what we could buy. My two younger sisters were Darnelle and Sharon, with Sharon being the baby. I was the only boy at the time and I remember wondering, "What did Daddy get for me?"
When it was my turn to open my present, Dad reached way behind the tree and in back of the big chair. When he brought his hand out I could not believe my eyes! It was a Lionel Choo-Choo Train set! It wasn't wrapped up but who cared? I was hoping beyond hope that I could have one. I didn't believe in Santa Claus (we always referred to "Santa Daddy" or "Santa Mommy") and didn't think we had enough money to buy a train. But there it was -- bigger than life! I was one happy boy and my world was complete! Dad helped me set it up and I drove mom crazy with the locomotive whistle and the smell of smoke. (We had to put drops of sewing machine oil in the smokestack to make smoke come out.)
Now I am 76 years old, I still don't believe in Santa Claus and I don't look forward to receiving gifts for Christmas. Have I lost the joy of Christmas? Heavens, no! My life is complete and I more fully love the Spirit of Christmas -- Jesus. I also understand the joy of giving. Somewhere over the years, and it must have been a gradual change, I found that it is truly more of a blessing to see someone else's face light up as I give to them.
This is what Jesus, the Creator of the universe, did for us. Leaving heaven as God, He came to be born as a human like me. But unlike me, Jesus was never selfish. He didn't search for fulfillment to make His life worthwhile. Instead, He came to give Himself in order to make our lives worthwhile. He gave His life on the cross to re-establish eternal life for us. Enduring rejection, misunderstanding and the hellish pain of crucifixion, He showed us how to live, how to love and how to give.
Remember: Jesus' entrance into the world as the Christ-child cannot be separated from His death on the cross 33 years later.
I encourage you this Christmas season to think less of stuff, more of others and, especially, more of Jesus. Jesus wasn't born in December but this celebration is still supposed to be about Him. Stuff will wear out but your relationship with Jesus Christ, our Savior, will last forever. MERRY CHRISTMAS, friends.
-- S. Eugene Linzey is an author, mentor and speaker. Send comments and questions to [email protected]. Visit his web site at www.genelinzey.com. The opinions expressed are those of the author.