IT IS WINTER; I STAY IN MY HOUSE [Sat 1-4-26]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Reflections of An Old Man—IT IS WINTER; I STAY IN MY HOUSE [Sat 1-4-26]

 

It is winter. I stay in my house.

Winter makes hermits of us all.

I think of Thoreau beside the pond called Walden. I should get that book out and read it again. I read it first in college, in the spring time of my life. I knew it was a classic. I knew thus that I should appreciate it. I suppose I did, but I cannot remember. I just wanted credit for the class. And a good grade.

Now I am past the point of needing credit, of any kind. 

I do not need a good grade, either. I do not need others to tell me that my life is worth living. Either it is or it is not, regardless of what others think. I do not need their grade. 

Thoreau was a hermit by his choice. I am a hermit by winter’s choice. Winter’s choice has, however, become my choice. I stay in my house.

The winter is outside, in the snow, in the tracks of the deer, in the disappearing tail of the rabbit, in the quick flash of the fox, in the slow snore of the bear, in the bare space in the cold air where the hummingbird used to hover. The winter is in here, too, in my house.

There is the cold air of absence here, but there are also the tracks of memory, the disappearing tale, the quick flash of understanding, the slow snore of acceptance, the question about spring, about when it will come, if it will be early or late, if the bushes will still flower, or if the deer, in the empty gnawing of their winter, will have killed them with desire, desire for one more meal before the boom of the hunter’s gun. 

I stay in my house. I look out the window at winter, and I wonder about the spring.

John Robert McFarland

IN SYNCH WITH THE UNIVERSE [R, 1-1-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter—IN SYNCH WITH THE UNIVERSE  [R, 1-1-26]

 

I recently came across a column that I started for New Year’s Day 12 years ago. I did not finish it, however, so I did not post it. I was only 77 then, so I thought the mentioned Quaker was old. Here is the 2014 column:

I know of a man, a Quaker, 90 years old, who, when he awakes in the morning, lies in bed a while “getting in sync with the universe.” I would like to do that, but when I awake in the morning, I need to get in sync with the bathroom, without waiting for the universe to come around. Maybe that’s the difference between Quakers and Methodists.

I’m not very often in sync with the universe, and it’s usually my body, or some part of my body, that is the cause of my dis-synchronicity.

It is the first morning of the new year, 2014, as I write this. I grew up with the understanding that what happens the first day of the year will be the agenda for the rest of the year. Grandma Pond always served cabbage on New Year’s Day, for that meant one would have money the rest of the year. If gas is money, then she was right; otherwise, not so much.

What I most need to do in this new year of my winter season is to get rid of stuff I don’t need for the future. [And perhaps work on making my sentences less convoluted and obfuscatory.] Maybe that is how one who cannot lie in bed in the morning gets in sync with the universe, by getting rid of stuff the universe doesn’t need.

Since the Salvation Army and the recycling center are not open today to receive my excess t-shirts and newspapers, I am looking through file folders, the kind that hold papers, those things that only old people remember, those thin sheets of stuff on which we wrote great ideas in the days of yore, with a thing called a pen, and putting into the “office paper only” basket those paper sheets on which are written literally thousands of wonderful ideas for stories and books and poems and sermons that will never come to screen, and which now do not look nearly as insightful or necessary to share as they did at the time I wrote them down.

That’s where the 2014 column ended. I recall that I felt slightly sad and nostalgic about discarding all those writing ideas. Now I can only wonder why I hung onto them for so long.

Anyway, now that they’re gone, I’m looking forward to getting into synch with the universe.

John Robert McFarland

“It’s not too late unless you don’t start now.” Barbara Sher

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

DON’T BOTHER POPEYE [T, 12-30-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Feverish Mutterings of An Old Man—DON’T BOTHER POPEYE [T, 12-30-25]

 

Is it possible to have Christmas without Jesus? Well, sure, most of the world just did.

Is it possible to have Christ without Jesus? I hope so, for I do.

Is it possible to have Jesus without Christ? I hope so, for I do.

Is it possible to have God without Jesus? I hope so, for I do.

Comedienne Kathleen Madigan, Irish Catholic by culture, has a delightful schtick called “Don’t Bother Jesus.” In prayer, you go first to the rosary. Then to the priest. Then to your guardian angel. Then to your personal saint. Then to the BVM [Blessed Virgin Mary]. Only if all those fail to solve your problem is it okay to bother Jesus.

Being a hillbilly Methodist, it has never occurred to me to bother Jesus at all. I’ve always gone right to God.

But, it would be wise to pay no attention to my beliefs. I hold totally opposite views of God. I believe both in Borden Parker Bowne’s Personalist God, and Paul Tillich’s “ground of being” God.

Can they both be God? Well, why not?

I call God “Father” and also agree with Tillich that “…as soon as you’ve said ‘God,’ you’ve lost God.”

We get into a theological pretzel when we get orderly and logical about God. God is nowhere and everywhere. God is beyond pain and feels our grief. God is the lamb of sacrifice and the high priest who makes the sacrifice… or is that Jesus? Or is that Christ? Oh, who knows?! God is Mystery. As Martin Luther cried, “Let God be God!”

Or as God themself/herself/himself said “I am who I am.” [Exodus 3:14]

Or was that Popeye, the Sailor Man? Could they both say that? Well, why not? God can speak through Popeye as easily as any other way.

Just don’t bother Popeye until you’ve tried Jesus.

John Robert McFarland

 

 

 

  

CHRISTMAS IS NEVER OVER [Sat, 12-27-25]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter—CHRISTMAS IS NEVER OVER [Sat, 12-27-25]

 

There is nothing as NOT over as Christmas.

That, of course, contradicts what the world’s best mother-in-law, Georgia Karr, always said, about 2 pm on Dec. 25^th. Georgia would slump into an easy chair and say, “There’s nothing as over as Christmas.”

Any mother or wife, and some fathers, too, understand what she meant. There is such a long leadup to Christmas. Buying and decorating and cooking and wrapping. Then, suddenly, in a flurry of bright colored paper, it’s all over.

But Christmas has a way of coming back. It’s never over. I know people who even start on the afternoon of Dec. 25, making notes about next year, what to cook, how to decorate, what to give as gifts, whether to wrap or not wrap. [1]

Georgia was right, about this Christmas, about Christmas afternoon. But Christmas is never over. It keeps coming back, not because we always forget vow to celebrate less hectically next year, but because it is the genesis of the Christian story. The Christ story starts with Christmas, the advent of the Presence of God in human form, and it never ends.

I used to say that I went into the ministry because I wanted to preach a Christmas sermon. I knew that Christmas contained all the meaning of the universe. I wanted to share that meaning. I spent a career trying to figure out how to do it.

Paul Mallory, our friend and pastor when we lived in Iron Mountain, MI, said, “I know that nothing about our celebration of Christmas is historically or theologically accurate, but I love it all.” Accuracy is not the point. Accuracy and reality are not always the same thing.

Christmas is the central celebration of Christian faith—yes, more than Good Friday or Easter—because it is the recognition and celebration of the Presence of God in the world, that we are not ultimately alone, alone in the universe, alone without meaning, alone without love.

Being alone is the ultimate despair. That is why breaking a relationship is a sin, which needs forgiveness. The ultimate sin, the unforgivable one, Jesus said, is the sin against the Holy Spirit, because breaking the relationship with God leaves us utterly alone, completely in despair.

Loneliness is not necessarily reason for despair. But aloneness is. I don’t mean alone without human relationship. Every human relationship will eventually be broken. Also, humans can be a real nuisance, get in the way of the Presence of God. Breaking the relationship with God leaves us devoid of love.

Once more, I’ll repeat what our granddaughter said when she was four: “Santa and Grandpa are a lot alike. Santa has a bald head, and Grandpa has a bald head. Santa has a white beard, and Grandpa has a white beard. Santa brings toys, and Grandpa brings toys. But Grandpa is better, because he stays and plays.”

God is not some universal Santa, skimming over the top of the world, stopping long enough to throw some goodies down the chimneys. In Jesus, the Christ, in the Holy Spirit, in the Presence, God stays and plays.

Christmas is about the Presence of God, not the presents of God. It is the Presence that makes us at home in the universe. It is the Presence that we need. It is the Presence that makes us real.

John Robert McFarland

1] The issue of rapping or not rapping usually does not occur at Christmas, but what to wrap or not wrap is important. [See, that’s why we should read columns instead of listening to podcasts.] {I loved that kind of word play when I was a young preacher… apparently now that I am an old non-preacher, I still do.}

 

THE COMATOSE WARD

 

Another of my Christmas eve sermons. The Christian Century editors entered it in one of those “best of the year” contests by Associated Church Press, and it won, but, being churchly, there was no money or fame connected to the prize. Length warning: 2800 words]

 

THE COMATOSE WARD

John Robert McFarland

 

            He had never seen Jesus like this before. There he was, standing beside the bed, looking very unlike the pictures in the Sunday School papers.

            The Rev. Dr. Jackson Peter Taylor lay flat on his back in what he thought of as “the comatose ward.” It did not surprise him that Jesus had appeared there. Ever since he came across the theory of “the messianic secret” in the Gospel of Mark, during theological school, he realized that Jesus had a fondness for showing up in unexpected places. Jesus especially liked to reveal himself to people who would keep their mouths shut about it. The comatose ward was perfect. Of course, Christmas eve was the perfect time to pull something like this; hardly anyone was around.

            The Rev. Taylor liked being in the ward. When the stroke first hit, they put him in a private room. That was a joke. The last person who needed privacy was a paralyzed comatose stroke victim. He assumed it was really to give his family privacy to mourn his approaching demise. But J. P. Taylor knew he was not going to die yet. He still owed God, and he was sure God would make him drop his coins in the turnstile before allowing him into the big-top. That was something most Christians, with their “cheap grace” ideas, would never understand.

Even though it was usually credited to Spider Man, it was this Jesus, who was standing beside his bed now, who had first said it: “Of the one to whom much is given, is much expected.” Jack Taylor wished to high heaven that it really had been Spider Man instead of Jesus. He didn’t owe Spider Man anything. He preferred to go ahead and die and get this over with, but he knew that he had been given far more than he had yet paid the expectations on.

            Once the people in the white coats had realized he was not going to “check out” right away, and the people in the suits had found out that the insurance policy his church had provided him was not as comprehensive as the salesman—a member of the congregation—had claimed, he was moved to the ward. There were six beds, each with a breathing lump of flesh like himself. J.P. thought it was a great arrangement. It was shared privacy, which was better than lonely privacy or forced fellowship. He hoped his ward-mates were getting a good look at Jesus standing beside his bed. It would be a great event for them not to talk about with one another.

            The Rev. Dr. Taylor was sure that it was wonderful irony that the congregation that had “stroked” him so little in all the years he served it had finally given him “a stroke to last a lifetime,” just three months before retirement. The Christmas eve services were to be his last, and this it was four months off around the world with just Molly. The trip was a present from their sons and daughters-in-law. Well, now he would make a trip around the universe, assuming God would ever let him get at it, and Molly would make the trip around the world with her sister.

            In one of those unknowingly prescient moments that seem to come more frequently with age, he had told her that if anything happened to him, he wanted her to take her sister and go ahead and make the trip. “OK,” she had replied, with a shrug. He remembered that shrug now with such pride that his shrinking chest expanded until his sheets quivered. That was their type of love—made of steel. It could take whatever came and go right on without missing a beat. He knew it was the gift of that love that put him in debt to God, even now.

            Good grief! Maybe Jesus had come to collect. It had never before occurred to The Rev. Taylor that Jesus might be God’s bag man. What else would he be doing here? But how could Jesus insist that the beleaguered minister continue to answer “the call” here in the comatose ward?

            “Oh, no,” groaned the parson, silently, of course. “Don’t tell me I have to be a good example! That’s too much to ask of anybody.”

            The Rev. Taylor was always good at doing, but the thought of doing by being is enough to strike terror even in those in whose brain waves “the rough places are made smooth.”

            Seeing Jesus in the flesh, as it were, was a very different experience for the preacher. He had often spoken to others, in pulpit and out, of how God had become in-car-nate, “in the flesh,” in the person of Jesus. He had never really thought, however, that it was supposed to happen more than once. Yet, no doubt about it, here was Jesus, beside his bed. What a fantastic illustration for his Christmas eve sermon… and then he realized… he was not going to get to preach about this at all. He was in the comatose ward.

            “Damn,” he thought. “Every time you get a good illustration, there’s some reason you can’t use it.”

            It was like the other day when his associate pastor had come to serve him communion. That had always been The Rev. Dr. Jackson P. Taylor’s job in the past—to take Advent communion to all the patients and shut-ins. He loved doing it, even more than he loved preaching, and he loved preaching almost as much as chocolate-covered graham crackers. He would sit and chat, letting the other person steer the conversation, listening to their fears, coaxing forth their joys, just being there as the representative of the Body of Christ. In the course of their time together, he pulled the packet of wafers and flask of wine and the little glasses from his pockets. He worked the words of the communion ritual into their conversation naturally as they went along, talking of old times and the problems with children and hopes for the church. Then he broke the wafers and poured the wine. They shared as three friends having lunch together—the person, the parson, and the Christ.

            Now here was this nincompoop Charles Compworth, who had apparently learned absolutely nothing in nine years as his associate. He bustled into the room, The Rev. Mr. Efficiency, himself. He did not even remove his overcoat, a black cape with a fuzzy yellow cross on each lapel. He carried a fitted valise, which he plopped onto the end of the bed, snapped it open, and then proceeded to pull out the most godawful assortment of religious bric-a-brac that Jack Taylor had seen in forty years in ministry.

            There was a plastic cross. Charles snapped it together and set it on the rolling tray table. There was a purple stole with gold scroll work, which he draped around his neck. There was a tray for the wafers and a flagon for the wine and a three-footed stand on which to put them. There were two candles with electric switches on their bases. Jack Taylor was sure Charles Compworth probably even had spare batteries for them. There was a purple banner, with a misspelling of “Hallelujah” worked into it in gold, which The Rev. Compworth hung on the IV pole. There was a bell, which The Rev. Mr. Ridiculous—as Jack Taylor was now calling him in a rage under his totally bland exterior—actually rang before he broke the wafers.

            Charley Compworth grabbed his leather-bound, India-paper ritual book from an inside pocket of his cloak, raced through the communion service, broke a wafer, ate it, and drank the wine.

            “Hey, where’s mine?” yelled Jack Taylor, but of course the offensive right pastor did not hear a thing, did not even realize that J.P. Taylor, who had talked to him every day for nine years, was trying to say a thing to him now.

            “Come on, Charley, you idiot, give me the bread and wine. You can’t do communion by yourself. We wouldn’t call it communion if you could. We’d call it ecclesiastical solitaire. You’re doing it all wrong. Pour some of the blood of Christ down me so I can choke and get the hell out of here.”

            The Rev. Mr. Compworth, of course, simply left. Watching him, J.P. Taylor remembered why he had always insisted on doing communion for the sick himself. He did feel a pang of sympathy for his long-time associate, though. Charley was trying to do the work of both pastors in a church that should have had four anyway. Naturally he was in a hurry. He knew he was next in line for the bed that his old mentor held down now. In Charley’s case it would be a heart attack, of that his senior pastor was sure. No wonder Charley did not even want to look at him. It was too much like peering into the mirror of the future.

            Well, that was Charley’s problem. Now Jackson Peter Taylor had to deal with his own problem, which happened to be standing beside his bed. He wondered briefly if Jesus had simply come to get him, swinging low to swoop up a favorite son and him on home. That would be nice. If was so nice that it was highly unlikely. That only happened to lay people. Ministers were subject to law, not grace. When they answered “the call,” they forfeited all claims to grace, even to salvation, of that J.P. Taylor had been sure for years. Lay people rode to heaven on the backs of ministers who themselves were not allowed through the pearly gates; they were just sent back for another load.

            “And good Lord—pardon the expression, Jesus—they have been coming in here looking for a ride even when my back has been sticking out of this heathen hospital gown. If I can’t go to heaven, can’t you at least send me to hell and get me out of the comatose ward? It’s almost Christmas. Can’t I have just this one little present? I can’t go around the world with Molly, I know, but can’t I at least get out of here? People come in here, and they think I can’t hear a thing, just because I can’t say a thing, and they babble on.

            “So, what do they say?”

            J.P. Taylor was answering before he realized that there was something a bit unusual about having Jesus standing beside his bed and asking questions like that.

            “Well, like the time Charley Compworth was trying to comfort Molly. He said, I don’t know what to say. Molly knows Charley well enough that she doesn’t have to be reminded of how stupid he is. And the other day this cleaning lady was in. she looked at me and said, I understands you used to be a preacher. I wanted to be a preacher once, but they said girls couldn’t do that. Then big tears began to run down her cheeks, and she wiped them on my sheet. Sam Mason, the chairman of the trustees at church, was in. He ought to be chairman of the trusties at the jail. You know what he did? He stood right there, where you are now, and he whispered, Jack, you’re the only person I can tell this to. I’ve been embezzling at the bank. I had to do it to pay the bills for my mistress. She’s twenty-three years younger than I am, and nobody knows about her. Isn’t that a fine howdy-doo?”

            “What did you tell him?”

            “Well, nothing! You know I can’t say anything. I’ve had a stroke, for Pete’s sake, no offense intended to St. Peter, of course. I’ve been to his church in Rome and all, you know…”

            J.P. Taylor knew he was getting in deeper all the time, but Jesus did not really seem all that interested in his peccadilloes, not nearly like the people in the church who claimed they were following Jesus all the time. That stuck the Rev. Mr. Taylor as being not a little strange.

            “What did Sam Mason do then?” asked Jesus.

            “Well, he got down beside the bed on his knees. Began to cry and beg my forgiveness. Darndest thing I’ve ever seen. Then he stood up, and he dried his eyes on my sheet, and he took my hand and said that he knew he had done wrong, and he was going to repent and fly right. Walked out like a new man. I wish Charley Compworth was an embezzler; might get a new start for him, too. Well, not meaning that I really would want Charley to sin, you know…”

            This talking to Jesus was tricky business, thought Jack Taylor, but he seems to sort out the wheat from the chaff pretty well… But Jesus was continuing…

            “You still owe, you know,” said Jesus.

            “Well, yes, I was thinking about that when I first saw you standing there. It’s because of Molly, isn’t it?”

            “Yes. No man deserves love like hers, or love like mine, either. Besides, you’re a minister. You have to pay thrice for all your sins.”

            The Rev. Dr. Taylor was almost sure Jesus was hiding a smirk in his beard, but what if he was not? What if he was serious? This pay-back for both blessings and sins was double jeopardy.

            “So you’ve come to collect, huh?”

            “You’ve got it. However, the collection is that I’m not collecting. You have to stay a while longer.”

            “Oh, no,” groaned the weary pastor. “Can’t we work out a deal or something? You know, like when I was little, and I told you I would never do it again, whatever it was.”

            “By your definition of little, you were little up to the age of sixty-three, since that was the last time you made that promise.”

            The Rev. Mr. Taylor knew he’d been had.

            “Okay, give it to me straight. I’m not going to die, right?”

            “Right, but it’s only for a little while. You can die soon, but not quite yet. There are too many people who need you yet.”

            “Need me? Unless you intend to work a miracle, and I’m not saying you can’t, of course, I’m not going to be any good to anyone. I’m stuck here in so much white I feel like I’m in one of those little glass Christmas houses that you shake up and there’s snow all over the place.”

            “Don’t you see, Jack? That’s the point! Would Sam Mason have confessed to you if you could have talked back? He’s been embezzling and womanizing for years while you were his pastor, and he never said anything to you before. Would that cleaning lady have shared her broken dream with you if you’d been bustling down the hall like the elder version of that ass, my servant, Charles Compworth?

            Ouch! That hurt, thought the increasingly less reverend Jackson Peter Taylor.

            “And what about Charley himself? He doesn’t say anything because he doesn’t know what to say. But he’ll eventually figure out what he should say, because for the first time in nine years you won’t be giving him better lines than he can think up on his own. With you silent, maybe he’ll be able to think up what he needs to say, in his own words.”

            “But I was called to preach, not to lie here in the comatose ward!”

            “I was called to preach, not to die on a cross. When I was born in that stable, Jack, was that for crucifixion? I didn’t want the cross any more than you want this bed, but it came with the territory. Do you think you can follow me, Jack, and only have the shepherds and the wise men and gold, frankincense, and myrrh, and not take the cross, too? Sometimes the best preaching is done by listening, Jack. Sometimes the best giving is done just by being quiet and taking.”

            The words were gentle, but they reached deep.

            “Okay, boss,” breathed J.P. Taylor. “You’ve got me as long as you want me. Whenever you want to change the deal, you know where to find me.”

            “Right,” said Jesus. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Merry Christmas, Rev. Dr. Taylor, and get back to work.”

            Jesus was already gone when the nurse flung the door open and marched in to do bed check on the six occupants of the comatose ward. She came to Jack Taylor’s bed last.

            “What in the world? Who’s been in here, anyway? Some ninny nurse took your poor arms and stretched them straight out and forgot to put them back. Well, Christmas eve, and you can’t get decent help, I can tell you that.”

            Go ahead, tell me, sighed Pastor Taylor, as the nurse pulled up a chair…

 

 

 

WHEN FATHER RODE THE MAIL—1926

[When I was preaching, I wrote a short story each year to use as a Christmas Eve sermon. This is the one which has been most published, in various periodicals, and which I reprint here every year. 900 words. It's an actual-fact story.]

                    

WHEN FATHER RODE THE MAIL—1926

John Robert McFarland

            Before the green hills had become the spoil banks of the strip mines, when United States highways were graveled ribbons and mules still pulled the plows, where the Wabash meets the Ohio, my father "rode the mail." 

            It was not a regular job.  The people in the hills read slowly and wrote only when they had something important to say.  A postage penny was a lot of money.

            Once each week or two, however, the letters and circulars for the folks in the hills mounded up until they filled a leather mail-pouch.  When the papers peeked over the bag top, my father unhitched the mules with which he had been grading the roads since he was twelve, saddled up his horse, and clucked a "giddyap" out toward the cabins where no roads dared to go. 

            The trackless hills, where the woods are deep, are cool and pleasant in the haze of summer.  When the autumn comes, though, the heavy rains dump the soggy maple leaves down upon your head.  The water sneaks in between your hat and the collar of your coat. Then the hills hunker down and close in and say, "Beware."

            It was on such a day that Father lost his way.  So when he crossed a clearing and saw a cabin, it was both relief and fear that ran with the rain down along his backbone.  From underneath his dripping hat he hailed the gray, unpainted shack. 

            "Helloooo, the cabin," he called.

            No answer.  The owner must be in on such a day, he thought, or else the cabin was deserted.

            His right foot had left the stirrup and was half-way over the horse's rump when he saw the shotgun.  Only one barrel, but it was big, and it looked straight out at him from where the door had cracked open.  Off the saddle, he waited.

            "What do y' want?" a thin voice from behind the shotgun demanded.

            Father thought fast. 

            "I'v brot your mail," he called. 

            "And I need a place to git dry," he added.

            The shotgun held its place, and so did Father.  Finally, however, the muzzle lowered toward the rough boards of the porch, and Father lowered himself to the ground.

            "Come," the cabin called, and Father went.

            Inside the door he met the oldest, frailest-looking woman he had ever seen.  A hound dog that must have shared her birthday lay in front of the fireplace.  A table, a ladder-back chair, a bed, the shotgun, a shaker chest, and a stool were the cabin's only other occupants.

            The woman was still wary. 

            "I don't git no mail," she said.

            Father fished into the pouch and hooked an old circular.  He pushed it out across the gap between them.  A thin, veined hand took

it and held it close to two slow eyes.  The eyes were satisfied.  The hand pointed to the chair. 

            "Sit," she said. 

            Father sat.  He wondered a little at how the old woman had read the circular while holding it upside down.

            She brewed some tea.  They sipped and sat before the fire until the silence of the roof reported that the rain had gone.  They did not talk--just sat and sipped together--the very young man who was only beginning, the very old woman whose life was ending. 

            Father said, "I'll be goin' now.  I thank you for the shelter and the tea." 

            The frail old hands picked up the circular as he left.

            From then on when Father rode the mail, he put into the pouch an old sale bill, or a circular, and he took it to the little cabin in the clearing in the woods.  Each time the young man and the old woman sat and sipped in silence.  Each time Father noted that the "mail" of his last trip had been tacked up on the wall.

            When the winter comes, the rains stop, but the sky is gray as slate sometimes, and the wind sneaks past the button sentries.  In those cold days, Father was especially glad for the cabin and the fire and the tea and the silence.

            A week before Christmas, Father put an old catalog into his pouch, along with all the cards for others on the way, and set out to ride the mail.  He took the catalog to the cabin.  There they sat, the silent young man and the quiet old woman.  As Father rose to leave, the old woman spoke into the silence.

            "It was good of y' to leave your own family and come out to see me on Christmas day," she said.

            Father looked at the walls around him.  There was no calendar, only the circulars and sale bills winking back at him in the firelight.

            Father did not ever talk very much, but many, many years later, when he told this story to his children and grandchildren, he said, "I guess she never did know it wasn't really Christmas day."

            Perhaps he never knew it really was.

 

 

 

THE MIRROR OF CHRISTMAS-1954

[Another Christmas eve sermon. As usual, too long for this column, at 2000 words, so put it aside until you have extra time. When writing, I was meaning to pull them together into a book entitled The Years of Christmas, so I added the year in which the story was set to each title.

 

THE MIRROR OF CHRISTMAS-1954

John Robert McFarland

 

            Miller Raymond knotted his Christmas tie.  He was very careful as he slipped the knot.  The paint was dry and trying to flake.  At last, he had the knot balled and the tie spread.  He gazed at it for a long time as he stood before the mirror, recalling the many Christmases that had passed since the one when he was eleven years old, just a couple of months short of twelve.  His mother had been so young then....

            Being almost twelve meant that he was almost a man, at least in the Raymond clan.  Miller knew what that would mean when he opened his presents on Christmas morning--long underwear, a flannel shirt, four-buckle galoshes.  He wanted to be a man, but he wanted Christmas, too.  Everyone knew that "Christmas is for kids."  He had heard that all his life.  It's a great idea when you are a kid.  "Maybe when I get far enough into being a man, I won't miss Christmas," thought Miller, "but I don't want to give it up yet."

            So, he set his hopes on the Christmas Eve Sunday School gift exchange.  That was the one place where he might get by with being a kid for one more Christmas.  In the Sunday School gift exchange, he surely would receive a toy or a book or a puzzle or a game...  Even one of those little boxes where you rolled BBs around and tried to get them all into the little holes in Santa's nose and ears and hands--even one of those would give him something to do on the long Christmas afternoon while the grown-ups snored and snorted in their chairs.

            The whole family went to church on Christmas Eve, even Uncle William.  Uncle William was not used to going to church, however, so he could not take the entire evening.  About halfway through the recitations, he would slip out.  It was not until he was almost ten that Miller realized Uncle William always came back in, at the time of the gift exchange, but did not return as Uncle William.  Miller wondered a little, as he approached twelve, if perhaps he had become a man when he first recognized Uncle William's dual identity.

            In the Sunday School classes they had drawn names.  Each person had brought a gift for the one whose name she or he had pulled from the offering basket.  They were all anonymous, those gifts.  It was a great point of honor to be sure no one ever knew who was the giver in the Sunday School gift exchange. 

            Miller loved Christmas Eve because it was such a perfect mixture of the expected and the unexpected.  The service was always the same, so it was warm and comfortable and fit everyone there.  Through the entire evening, though, there was an undercurrent of excitement building. 

            The high point of the evening started when the minister acted like it was all over.  In the very middle of his thanking people for coming and wishing them a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year and saying he was looking forward to seeing them again at Easter, there was the sound of sleigh bells.  Then the door behind the pulpit burst open, and Santa Claus himself would fill it full with his red suit and white beard and shouts of "HO, HO, HO!" 

            The minister acted really surprised, as though this didn't happen every year, and he said, "Why, it looks like we have another visitor.  What could he be doing here?" 

            The little children would chorus in reply, "The gifts!  He's come to hand out the gifts!" 

            Then    Santa took over.  The minister always sat down in front of the crèche set, like he was making sure the holy family didn't see the people make fools of themselves.

            The first gift would come out of Santa's bag.  It was for the minister d his family.  It was usually something like a picture of the Last Supper that they could plug in and haloes would come on above Jesus and the disciples and the wine in their glasses would look like it was sloshing around.

            Then Santa "ho-ho-hoed" over to the Christmas tree.  He would cajole the teen-aged girls, in their new red and green dresses, to come up and help him hand out the presents.  Finally, Santa began to call out the names. 

            There were gag gifts for the men, but never for the women.  Women got handkerchiefs or perfume, regardless of who had their names.  A man got gloves or shaving lotion if a woman had drawn his name.  If a man bought for another man, however, he got a hula girl doll for the dash-board of his car, or a gross of vitamin pills, or a hair brush if he were bald.  One year Mrs. Taylor got a bottle of hair dye, of a blond color just like her hair, and it took the minister half a year to get her to come back to church.  That's when the handkerchief and perfume tradition for the women got started.

            Santa kept calling out the names, and Miller's excitement mounted.  What would he get?   It depended entirely on who was doing the giving.  But it was someone in his own class, so the chances were good that it would be a toy or game or book.  It might not be expensive, but it would be a Christmas gift for a kid.  The Christmas Eve service reminded him of how wonderful it was to be a kid at Christmas, and that was now what Miller wanted more than anything else in all the world.

            Miller smirked when he saw Ozzie MacNamer open his gift.  Ozzie's eyes opened up about three sizes, and he wheezed out three "Gee, whizes" in a row.  It had taken Miller two months of allowance to buy the exact Lionel switch engine that fit Ozzie's set, but it was worth it.  He didn't like Ozzie that much, but to be able to present the perfect gift on Christmas Eve, with no one knowing you'd done it, that was truly something special.

            Santa began to get hoarse, the girls slowed down, the pile of gifts was almost gone, and Miller was still waiting.  A slow dread, like a personal fog, began to close in around him.  Before the last package was handed out, he knew for certain that there was none for him. 

            "Who didn't get a gift?" called Santa, pulling a handful of green and red pencils from his pocket.  Several of the middle-aged men, who didn't come to Sunday School, raised their hands, and Santa gave each one a pencil, with admonitions that they should come to Sunday School next year and get in on the exchange.

            Tommy Mason was sitting beside Miller.  He nudged him with his elbow.  "You didn't get nothin!  Raise your hand."

            "No, Tom," muttered Miller.  "That's okay." 

            But it was not okay.  He sat in silence in the back seat of the car as the rest of the family chatted about how beautiful the service had been.

            They were taking their coats off when his mother said, "You're awfully quiet, Miller.  Didn't you like your gift?"

            How could he tell anyone, even his mother, that he had received no gift at all?  He felt ashamed somehow, guilty, as though he had committed some crime and was being punished, but he had no idea what he had done to deserve such awful treatment, to be left out.  She waited, and he had to tell someone...

            "It's not fair," he muttered.  "I got Ozzie that engine , and it took two months allowance.  Some jerk drew my name and didn't even get me anything.  He was there, too.  I was the only one in our class who didn't get anything, so somebody came and got a present and didn't give one.  That's not the way Christmas is supposed to be."

            He stood there and fumed.  Now he knew for sure that Christmas was for kids and he wasn't one anymore.  He didn't much like being a man. 

            His mother did not hug him or tell him everything would be all right.  That was not the way they did things in the Raymond clan, especially if you were a grown-up.

            "Go on to bed, Miller," she said. "Tomorrow is Christmas morning.  Don't spoil it for the little ones."  He trudged off upstairs.  As he did so he heard his mother ask his father to take the mirror off the wall and prop it up on the kitchen table for her.  It seemed a strange request. 

            The house was warm on Christmas morning, but strangely absent were the usual smells, roasting turkey and baking bread.  Mrs. Raymond normally got up very early on Christmas morning to start the special dinner preparations.  The kitchen, however, was cold, even though her hair was wisping around her head and her eyes were red-rimmed with sleeplessness, and the kitchen table was a mess.

            The little children were pleased with their toys and games and delighted that they were allowed to dig into the fruit and candy in their stockings.  Those treats were usually not allowed until after Christmas dinner.

            Miller did his best to look satisfied with his flannel shirt and galoshes.  When all the presents under their tree had been opened, Miller's mother put a hand on his arm and pulled him aside.

            "There's something for you in the kitchen," she said.

            Miller followed her to the kitchen, so strange in its coolness and disorder.  On the table were old rags and cracked tubes of drying paint and stiff little brushes.

            Miller could barely remember them.  When he was very little, he recalled, his mother used to paint pictures.  He vaguely recollected a story from his grandmother, of how her talented young daughter had wanted to be an artist, but fell in love with Miller's father and had given up that ambition to raise children.

            On the table was an old sheet of newspaper.  Miller's mother pulled it away to reveal what lay beneath it.

            "I had some trouble with it," she said, "because my paints were so old, and the brushes were stiff, so I didn't have time to wrap it, but here it is.  It's a special Christmas present for you."

            In the middle of the table lay a tie.  Miller recognized it as one of his father's ties, an exceptionally wide, dark-blue tie.  But now it was decorated with a strange design.  Lines and swirls, in every possible color, almost covered it.  It was the strangest looking thing he had ever seen.

            "Now that you're a man, or at least almost," his mother said, "you need a tie to wear on Christmas.  Pick it up and hold it up to your neck."

            Miller did as he was told, but as if he were in a trance.  How could he ever wear such a thing?  Even the very old men did not wear such odd ties.

            He held it to his neck.  His mother came and stood beside him and pointed at the mirror, which was propped up on the other side of the table.  They looked into it.

            Miller's eyes shot open.  Before him was the most amazing scene, painted right onto his tie.  

             There was the nativity story, with the baby Jesus, and Mary and Joseph, and the star and the shepherds and wise men, and even a camel.

            There was also a boy, in a flannel shirt and galoshes, kneeling there with the others.  His mother had painted onto the tie what straight-on looked like just a hodge-podge of lines and lumps.  When you looked into the mirror, however, there was the whole picture of Christmas.  His mother had sat up all night with a mirror and old paints, in a cold kitchen, to paint him a present.

            "You see, Miller," she was saying, "Christmas is like a mirror.  When you look at the Christmas scene, you see yourself reflected back.  If your heart is full of bitterness over being left out, all you see is a strange design that makes no sense.  But if your heart is full of love, you see yourself in that story, and you know that you belong there."

            "Miller, are you ready?" his wife called gently from the door.  Miller was startled back to the present.  It is amazing how that tie seems to grow, he thought.  Now when he looked into the mirror, he not only saw its original nativity scene, but forty years of Christmases that had come since.  Here was another Christmas Eve now to add to it.

            They drove through the soft snow to the nursing home.  His mother was getting weak now, but she could still sit up in bed.  Miller unhooked the mirror from the wall of her room, sat down beside her, balanced the mirror so they could peer into it together, straightened his tie.  Then they looked into the mirror for a long time.