At the height of a Colorado mountain snowstorm, the real Santa Claus blew in through the rustic front door of the main lodge at the YMCA camp in Estes Park on Christmas Eve 1969. It took two bulky men leaning against the door to get it closed from the inside as they fought the wind and the accumulating snow around the threshold. Shaking like a giant white dog and brushing the drifts from himself to reveal that he was not the Snowy Abominable but indeed Santa in all his red regalia, the visitor “Ho Ho Ho-ed” his way around the room that was filled with open-mouthed cheering children and families. We had gathered, both relations and friends, for what the adults hoped would be a memorable Christmas together at the lodge. And was it ever.

When it was my turn to receive a gift, the jolly old guy reached dramatically waaaay down deep into the sack and pulled out an item that remains in my care to this day. My Minnie Mouse alarm clock. Of course that’s what I wanted for Christmas! I just hadn’t known it until that minute! And being the saavy somewhat suspicious 8-year old that I was, I secretly scanned the room for any missing fat old men just to make sure this was the genuine article and not somebody I knew in a costume. Nope. Everybody accounted for.

We locked eyes, Santa and I. And I knew it was him. The real McCoy. Handing me a Minnie Mouse clock.

He also passed around presents to the adults — boring stuff like bath salts and aftershave. One guy, though, got a package wrapped in clear cellophane that looked like Santa shopped at a mountain tourist trap but I had a hard time reading the label upside down. Finally figured out the letters except I had to have somebody explain later what they meant. R-O-A-D A-P-P-L-E-S. Okay. So Santa had a sense of humor. I could live with that.

Childhood Christmases were a parade of sweet memorable times. Naturally, not every one of them had the sense of adventure with the real Santa Claus swooping in upon us through a blizzard, but there was no child more loved, cared for, and shopped for than Yours Truly. I get embarrassed by that sometimes. The only offspring of two professional doting parents, all I had to do was whisper or mention in passing that it might be a good idea to pop (fill in the blank) onto my Christmas list. One year when I was browsing the toy aisle at the Boulder Hardware store while my dad was shopping down a different aisle, I ran across an enormous life-size Old English Sheepdog stuffed toy and pointed it out to the dear dad whom I tracked down immediately. And reminded him about it a couple times on the way home. Lest he forget, of course.

It came to pass not many days after our trip to Boulder Hardware, the week before Christmas in fact, that my beloved grandma died at our home from a long terrible illness. Morning, noon, and night were filled with grief, the tinseled tree in the living room window abandoned. We and many other family members traveled to her funeral in Houston, a group of us eventually arriving home to Colorado on Christmas Eve as tired adults tried their best to provide holiday joy for myself and young cousins who were staying at our house. There, sitting amidst, no, towering over other more modest gifts, was that dumb life-size sheepdog. I named him Rags and had him for years but never loved him like I should. He was a reminder of my privilege in the face of the suffering of others. That Christmas changed me. Not entirely, but enough to open my eyes to see others around me differently. Sympathetically. Empathetically. Even the tiniest bit unselfishly.

Autumn 1974 found us living in Bentonville, Arkansas on Magnolia Lane — a new subdivision established firmly amidst older homes whose occupants probably wanted nothing to do with the newcomers who had purchased property on what had undoubtedly been a farm. Every house had a magnolia tree planted in the front yard by the builder to stake our claim. At any rate, the mixture of old and new, I’m sure, could be jarring if you were averse to sudden transitions and transplants acting like they owned the place. I am here to tell you I did not notice any of that.

When school started in the fall at B’ville Middle School (go Cubs!) the two primary things I remember had nothing to do with academics: 1) I acquired an Arkansas accent on the first day and 2) Band class consisted mostly of the introduction of the marching band fundraiser. (If you’re not familiar with the culture of southern marching bands, oh my dears, let’s talk. It’s intense. Most directors were like drill sergeants and the boot camp aura was strong.) We were all tasked with selling as many $3 Christmas candles as possible, so along with my new friend from the clarinet section I determined to outsell the whole room. Door to door. It was a contest. A serious one. We were rabid with the fever of competition, though I cannot remember why.

Long story short — we won. And I can’t remember what we won. The thrill of victory and worldwide fame I suppose.

The primary reason we won is that we cared not what doors we knocked upon, what downtown stores (actually in the south it’s “uptown” not “downtown”) we entered to plead our fundraising cause to owners and unsuspecting patrons, or which hard-sell techniques we had to employ to accomplish our goal.

It was this go-get-em philosophy that led me one afternoon to spontaneously march up the ramshackle steps and knock on the door of an old white house with peeling paint which was just around the corner from my own brand new 1974 model home on Magnolia Lane. That was 51 years ago. A day I would never forget.

I still remember the smell. I hesitate to use the word, “smell” when “aroma” seems nicer, more compassionate. But it was not an “aroma,” friends. It was a knock-you-off-your-feet . . . atmosphere. It was a young mother who couldn’t have been even a decade older than myself. She smiled and invited me in with a welcome I had not been afforded when hawking my wares on the porches of the new brick domiciles just down the street. It was a home the likes of which I had never entered. It was cluttered, possibly dirty, but maybe I was just overwhelmed with the differentness. It was crowded with little children. Smiling children. A couple of them shirtless due to the stifling heat still hanging in the Arkansas autumn air. And it was dim. Only a couple of lamps were on and had no shades. It couldn’t have been 30 seconds before I began making excuses to leave, knowing this was not where I should be raising funds, but the young mother asked me to wait. She found her change purse and began counting coins, pennies many of them. Honestly, I don’t remember what words I uttered (please, Lord, let them not have been stupid), but I knew she shouldn’t be spending those pennies on a ridiculous Christmas band candle. She needed that money for food and light bulbs and power bills and laundry detergent and maybe some bleach. But I stood there like a tree stump. Turns out she did not have enough. And boy was I relieved. I thanked her for her time, smiled weakly at the beaming children, and started for the door. “Wait,” she said. “Can you come back tomorrow? I think I could find enough by then.”

WHAT WOULD YOU SAY TO THAT? Being 13 and in a strange situation that may as well have been outer space, I said, “Sure.”

The next day I practically crawled back up those falling-down front porch steps of hers and knocked halfheartedly on the door hoping she wouldn’t hear and I could say to myself, “Well, at least I tried.” Nope. No such luck. One of the older kids answered and let me in. Sure enough she had $3 exactly and I handed her the ridiculous candle, thanked her and turned to leave. “Wait,” she said. “Let’s light it!” She had one solitary match ready and lit the candle. The oohs and ahhs from the children and that flickering flame are as etched into my soul as surely as anything ever has been. In the dimness of that hot room, the candle glowing as strong as the naked light bulbs, we were all mesmerized. Whether or not she saw my tears start to well up I do not know, but after these 51 years I can tell you now that the hand of God touched my skinny little shoulder that day. I had seen wretched poverty — great need hidden behind joy. And I had seen Him.

At this time of my life it is my privilege to be involved in a Christmastime ministry of my local church called Project Shoebox. I sort of fell into it I guess. No, that’s not true. God allowed me to be in the right place at the right time to say “yes” to a need and I’ve spent a few years learning the ropes and enjoying myself immensely in the process. When I am prepping boxes as gifts for local schoolchildren across the street, I thank the Lord for the good folks of our church who donated the items in each box and I thank Him for each child who will receive one. With a firm belief in the “ripple effect,” it is my hope and prayer that this thrilling gift for each child will so positively influence them and their families that they see right into the hearts of the givers and seek after God because of it.

In 1974 I sort of dropped the ball because I was a kid — that family in the old white house needed support. So I think of them sometimes as I’m looking at the stacks of cheerfully wrapped boxes our church family provides here in this place, in this day. And I am grateful for another chance. Thank you, Nampa First Church of the Nazarene.

In speaking to the Israelites as recorded in Deuteronomy 15:11 (MSG) God reminds us:

There are always going to be poor and needy people among you. So I command you: Always be generous, open purse and hands, give to your neighbors in trouble, your poor and hurting neighbors.

Want and need are all around. In the laughter and tears of children. In the determination of good mothers and fathers and grandparents and caregivers to provide for them. In scenarios that look okay on the surface but aren’t. And God asks us to care. To remember that flickering flame from a $3 band candle in a room with joyous children and their young mother who struggled with her pennies to give it to them.

Christmas peace to all of you, friends. Christmas hope to all of you. It’s October, I know. Make a plan to rejoice. If your perspective needs jostling a bit or even a sharp kick, remember the words of this old hymn, “O Come, Little Children:”

O come, little children, O come one and all
O come to the cradle in Bethlehem’s stall
And see what the Father from Heaven above
Has sent us tonight as a proof of His love
O see in the manger, in hallowed night
A star throws its beam on this holiest sight
In clean swaddling clothes lies the heavenly Child
More lovely than angels, this Baby so mild
O there lies the Christ Child on hay and on straw
The shepherds are kneeling before Him with awe
And Mary and Joseph smile on Him with love
While angels are singing sweet songs from above
While angels are singing sweet songs from above

Much love,

MM