The Best Christmas Ever!

     When I was about 7 years old, attending a small neighborhood school, I had a sincere fascination with the custodian at our school who always sat in the boiler room shoveling coal to keep the heat going. James was a handsome black man with the biggest smile and whitest teeth I had ever seen.  He never came out of the boiler room during the school day.  Students passed the boiler room every day going to lunch. I would always smile at James and give him a shy wave and he always gave me a smile and a wave in return. One day, as I was going to get milk for our daily morning milk break, I decided I had enough of this shy wave and smile and decided to go in and give him a big hug. However, as I entered with arms open wide, he stopped me dead in my tracks with “Oh no! Don’t come in here.”  I did not understand why, but I followed his instructions.  We continued to wave and smile at each other. Then one day, James was gone.  Weeks went by and he was not there.  I felt so sad. I finally asked my dad about James and he reluctantly told me that James had been accused of stealing money from the school office and was in jail. I immediately screamed out in tears that he did not do it, that I knew he did not do it! My heart was broken.  Now I knew where James lived in a little shack in the middle of a cotton field with a big oak tree in the front.  We passed that little house on the way into town and I had seen children playing in the front of the house. As Christmas approached, I asked my dad about those children and what might Santa bring them. That was the moment that I realized that Christmas is for the rich. Now, we were far from rich. My dad was minister on a “mill hill” and my mom sewed all my clothes. We only got one or two cherished things for Christmas, but compared to James we were blessed.  I asked Dad if we might help Santa.  I went through my toys and selected a few good ones to give away. I collected toys from neighborhood friends.  I selected one of my dolls and got mamma to make doll clothes from scarps of cloth.  Mamma always made lots of Christmas candy and cookies and this year we packed some into a nice tin and daddy bought some food items from the grocery. On Christmas Eve morning, daddy and I proceeded to drive to James house with Santa’s sack. When we arrived, the little girl who was about my age, came out.  We told them that Santa had come early and had left some things at our house by mistake.  We gave them the toys and food. Daddy visited a while, and I played with the little girl in the yard. I still remember their dirt floors and little two room house. I remember the rusted tin roof. But most of all I remember how happy we were playing together.  I don’t know who was more delighted, me or them!  I don’t remember what I got for Christmas that year, but I remember daddy and me going to James’ house to deliver Santa’s presents. I remember what they got!  It has stayed with me forever. I will never forget that day. It was a life changing moment for me.

     We are all familiar with the story of the child born in a manger surrounded by farm animals, but very seldom do we consider the conditions and realities of that scene.  We don’t like to think about the poverty associated with the birth of baby Jesus, because Christmas is supposed to be a time of abundance.  We don’t like to consider the violence of an empire characterized by Herod killing children, because Christmas is a time of celebration. We overlook the historical poverty and oppression surrounding the birth of the child because it is uncomfortable and doesn’t fit in with what we have made Christmas to be. We ignore the reality of a poor, immigrant family forced to make a dangerous trip and that the child we celebrate chose to live a life of homelessness.

     The Christmas story is a story that we can imagine in our own time.  There is still the reality of poor immigrant families being forced to make dangerous journeys. This story is played out among the Central American migrants homeless at our border towns. It is played out with the Syrian refugees, cold and hungry in northern Greece.  It is played out in our own towns, in an alleyway or on a street corner or a tent town deep in the woods. It is played out with a neighbor working two jobs and still can't pay the bills. However, the analogy is lost on our politicians who keep assuring us that we should not worry about their fate but focus on our own comfort and safety. This is not the message of the Christmas story.

     We keep hearing that there is a war on Christmas and that we must put Christ back in Christmas. We attended a Christmas parade in a small town this year where there were many churches with parade floats. But not a single church had the manger scene. Their floats only had crosses and one float had a confederate flag on the front with  Peace on Earth on the back. What irony! The war on Christmas comes from some of the very people who yell about a war on Christmas. Every year they are upset because they don’t like the cups at Starbucks or someone saying “Happy Holidays!” I somehow don’t believe Jesus would care about the Starbucks cups or how he was greeted. As the scripture says “You strain a gnat but gulp down a camel.”  The war on Christmas comes from within a person’s heart and soul. If we really want to celebrate the true meaning of Christmas, it means forsaking much of our “celebration” and “abundance.” It means forsaking a warm home and elegant meals and tangible gifts. It means abandoning the malls and extravagant spending. It means giving up “over the top” office parties and high expectations for Christmas Day.  Instead, we must take a trip to visit the homeless and feed and clothe them, work in the soup kitchens, house a homeless youth or child, take care of the widow and her children, buy groceries for the poor, help pay medical costs for the sick. We need to visit those in prison and offer them hope and support. Instead of a huge tree ornately decorated in our living rooms, give the tree and gifts to a family suffering from a job loss.  We need to stop telling our children there’s a Santa Claus and involve them in helping us to be Santa Claus for others. And above all, we need to fight for the rights of "the least of these" all year long!  Then we will know the true meaning of Christmas.

     I never saw James again and the family eventually left that little house and it stood empty. It is gone now, but I have thought about them often through the years, especially at Christmas time. Every time we pass the field where that house stood, I can still see them playing in the yard of that little shack with the big oak tree. Talking about James still brings tears to my eyes. How could a man with whom I shared nothing but a smile and a wave, make such an impact on my life? I never knew where the family went. I never knew what fate awaited James. I did know and I still know that James was an innocent man. Above all, James taught me some of the most valuable life lessons I ever learned.  Thank you, James, for helping me understand the true meaning of Christmas.  Thank you for letting me really see poverty for the first time. Thank you for teaching me that the color of our skin does not matter. Thank you for helping me see the unfairness of our justice system. Thank you for gently showing me the inhumanity of man. Thank you for showing me that a smile and a wave can change a life. Thank you for giving me the best Christmas I ever had.