To my right stood a lighted, plastic blow mold Santa, with bright red splotches on his nose and cheeks. The four foot figure stood on the yard of my neighbor, along with Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and Frosty the Snowman. These vintage molds always reminded me of my childhood, when I would see them on rooftops and front yards throughout the neighborhood. Today, they had been replaced by inflatable lighted Santas and snowmen. Somehow, they didn't have the same warmth and charm of the plastic blow molds of yesterday.
This year's Christmas was different -- from a season of anticipation and excitement, to one of observation and reminiscing. I hated living in the past, but lately I had been having a hard time living in the present, with its pre-programmed, 24-hour Christmas music and the start of holiday shopping a month before Thanksgiving arrived.
I had helped decorate the house with false enthusiasm -- putting up the tree, displaying Santas, hanging stockings over the fireplace, swaying garland and wreathes, and stringing lights on the bushes in the front yard. But the process had left me wishing the boys were home to help. Many of the ornaments hung on the Christmas tree were from their childhood or from our time in Michigan when Liz and I were just starting to share our Christmases together.
A passing car brought my thoughts back to the present, and I discovered I had walked many blocks from home. I crossed a street to stand before one of two churches in our neighborhood. I had always enjoyed walking past Our Redeemer, with its contemporary architecture, highlighted by a towering cross that was the main fixture on its outer sanctuary wall. Thin, vertical stained glass windows embraced the cross on either side. Tonight, its stone façade was beautifully lit by a flood light that shown on a wooden nativity scene, complete with Mary and Joseph, the baby Jesus, wise men kneeling before the stable and an angel watching over all.
I paused for a moment, then decided to sit on a stone bench to enjoy the Christmas scene. As I looked at the gentle faces of Mary and Joseph, I wondered who was responsible for creating them -- surely someone from the congregation with an artistic touch. But also someone who understood the dignity and reverence each character had for the baby Jesus. As if to say, "Welcome my God, my Lord, and my Son!" For some reason, this sentiment brought a tear to my eye, and I realized many people today have completely missed the meaning of Christmas. Instead of an offering of myrrh, frankincense and gold they came armed with video games, phones and new tech.
Instead of improving my sour mood, the worn appearance of Mary and Joseph seemed to confirm that Christmas had lost the culture war, to be replaced by Black Friday sales and gift cards. It wasn't just the commercialization -- I longed for Christmas carols and being a kid again. I missed going to church with my mom and dad, and returning home to Christmas presents under a real tree. Something had pulled back the curtain, and with it, the magic of Christmas.
With a sigh, I decided to get up and head back home, where Liz was probably wondering why I had left so suddenly. As I stood, my footing slipped on a patch of smooth ice and I crashed to the ground hitting my head on the sloped sidewalk leading to the church narthex. As I closed my eyes, I remember looking to the heavens and thinking "when did it start snowing?" Then darkness.
Unknown to me, a snow flake sent from the heavens above, and briefly illuminated by the lights shining on the nativity scene, gently landed on my face.
* * * *
"A little higher, Tim!"
My dad stood at the foot of the ladder and directed the placement of the wooden frame above the pulpit. It wasn't an easy task as I had placed the ladder inside the raised stand, but had to lean against the wall because there was so little room to open it.
"How's that?" I asked, looking down on my dad, who for the first time in my life looked smaller than me.
"Perfect," dad said. " Now get down before your mother returns and tells me how dangerous this is, and how I shouldn't let my 10-year old son fall and break his neck."
My father was a quiet man of average height, with a strong face, peaceful eyes and thinning hair with a curl that would never stay in place, unless he used an extra dose of hair tonic. He stood below me with his hands on his hips, a look of approval glinting from his blue eyes. Years ago, at the request of our church, he had constructed the star in his workshop, and displayed it every year for everyone to see. I loved seeing it on Christmas Eve as we sat in church singing "Silent Night" and "What Child Is This?"
I carefully climbed back down and bounced the ladder down the pulpit steps until it was safely on the floor. Placing the ladder against the wall, I stepped back and looked up at my handiwork. Above the pulpit hung a five-pointed wooden star. It was five feet tall and covered by garland and large Christmas lights. Although we had boxes of colored lights to decorate the church Christmas tree, all of the lights we used on the star were white. Each bulb was protected by a silver, star-shaped foil bulb protector. We also had them on our Christmas tree at home to keep the bulbs from burning the tree when they got too hot.
"Let's turn the lights on and see how it looks!" I raced to the wall, found the extension cord, plugged it into the wall, and raced back to dad. We stood there with pride on our faces and some relief that the job was finished before mom came back.
"That's so cool dad!" I said, alternating my view and appreciation between the star to our left and the church tree to my right. Other members of the church had decorated the tree and put pine boughs on each pew a few nights before. Finally, I thought, Christmas had arrived in church!
Dad patted my shoulder, walked to a church pew and sat down. "Come here for a second. I want to tell you something." My dad wasn't one to do a lot of talking, so I began to wonder if I had done something wrong.
"Yeah?"
My dad looked up at the Christmas tree, which was much taller than the one we had at home, and said "See that angel?"
My eyes searched the tree, traveling right to left, then from bottom to top. Colored lights and ornaments adorned the tree (the ladies club had made ornaments from left-over fabric and hung them from the branches). But I didn't see an angel.
"Look higher."
Eventually my eyes found the top of the tree, where an angel was perched looking down on the empty church pews.
"I see it!"
"An angel atop your tree shows that you have a strong spiritual side, you are a kind soul and that people will turn to you in times of need. The people of our congregation want the world to know that Jesus was all of those things. Now look at the Advent candles that we've lit for the past four weeks. They are a reminder that God is coming and that you and I should prepare for his birth. And finally, look at our star. The star means you have a strong belief system, you think of yourself as a strong leader and you have a strong moral compass."
I glanced away from the star and noticed dad was looking at me. I wasn't exactly sure what he was telling me, but I knew it was important. "Those three things -- the angle, the candles and the star -- have always made Christmas special. I know some day you will feel like Christmas has lost its meaning, like it did for me. We get so busy getting ready for Christmas that we forget why we celebrate it."
He paused and grabbed my small hand in his. The only sound coming from the church was the sound of an ambulance racing down West Avenue toward St. Francis Hospital.
"There will come a time --when your mom and I are gone -- that you will stop believing in Christmas. Trust me. You get distracted... there are kids and work that get in the way. When that time comes I want you to remember the meaning of the angel, candles and star. Just like the three wise men and shepherds in the fields who heard the story of his birth, you will find Christmas and the baby Jesus is inside you, waiting for you to find him again."
I sat there thinking about what my dad had said. I believed him, of course, but I doubted I would ever stop believing in Christmas. It was all around me. The lights, songs, presents and family. And yes, Jesus. I had stopped believing in Santa, but I would never stop believing in Christmas!
"There you two are," echoed an impatient voice from the back of the church. It was mom letting us know that it was time to go. "The ladies are done wrapping the candy for next week's children's program. So, if you two are done with the decorations, let's go. There's a lot to do at home yet, and I feel like we are running out of time."
As I stood and turned to prepare to unplug the star, I heard dad say in a voice that began to fade, then disappear, "Don't stop believing in Christmas, son. Just look inside yourself."
* * * *
"Just look inside..."
My eyes opened to the sight of snow flakes -- big, fat and wet snowflakes -- falling from the sky. I lay there on my back trying to remember what had happened. Then a pain from the back of my head reminded me of my fall.
I rolled over and got to my knees, shaking snow from my face and hair, then briefly stood before sitting again on the bench. I needed to see if I was going to be ok. I didn't think the fall had knocked me out, but it had left me dazed and in a little pain.
As I sat there, a memory of a Christmas from fifty years ago started to come back to me. At first it was just an image of my old church, then a Christmas tree and finally a star that my father had made. And with the images, came the words he had told me -- "don't stop believing in Christmas."
What was that all about?
Had I stopped believing in Christmas? Maybe I had. At least, the true meaning of the holiday. My fall had somehow triggered a conversation I had forgotten.
Before me was the same nativity scene, but for some reason it seemed different. Instead of a worn and tired Mary and Joseph, I saw joy in their eyes as they glanced down at the baby Jesus. The faces of the wise men and shepherds, who had traveled so far, were in awe of the Christmas miracle.
My father had said Christmas was a time of celebration -- and that there is a gift inside each of us. These gifts - our voice, our minds and our bodies -- are beautiful because Jesus was born in a manger so many years ago. How was it possible he foresaw this day when I would fail to see the beauty that is in this moment and the people around me every day?
I stood and carefully walked to the street and headed toward home. Before I entered the darkness of the night, I took one last glance at the star shining above the manger. Despite the falling snow, it remained easy to see, as if giving me one last memory of my dad.
A few minutes later, I walked through our back door and into the kitchen. As I removed my snow covered jacket and shoes, Liz walked in asking me where I had gone. As she approached, I could see the concern in her eyes and on her face. "Where were you -- you had me worried," she said, wrapping her arms around me.
I smiled and hugged her back. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have just left like that. But no need to worry. I went to see someone who helped me believe in miracles again. It's been a long time, but I really mean it now when I say Merry Christmas."
Liz looked at me with her warm, brown eyes and said, "Merry Christmas to you too... it's a wonderful time of year."
