[Faith-talk] Christmas Day Daily Thought Message for 20/13

[Paul]

Hello folks and hope you all are having or had a merry Christmas.  I'm writing this a bit early as, praise God, I'll be going out to dinner at a little family's home which is a member of the congregation of Calvary Morning Light, a Calvary Chapel congregation for dinner and fellowship beginning at perhaps 2 p.m. eastern time, so hence the somewhat early hour of this message.

As promised yesterday, here's a reminiscence of Christmas at the home of Billy and Ruth Bell Gram's house.  Written by Ruth herself and Gigi Graham Tchiridjian, it is simply entitled "Christmas At Our House," rendered as follows:

Do you ever have oysters for breakfast?

We do, once a year, on Christmas morning.

Perhaps you wonder why we have them then.  When I go to the grocery store the day before Christmas and ask for oysters, I like to tell the man when I'm going to serve them.

"Oysters for breakfast!" he says, and he is very puzzled.  Then I explain that my mother always served oyster stew for Christmas breakfast when I was a girl in China.  It was a family custom.  And when my father, who is a doctor, decided that it was time to bring his family back to America, we brought back the custom of oysters for Christmas breakfast, too.

Let's say that it's Christmas morning.  The tree is over there by the window with the presents beneath it and its branches loaded down with warm-colored lights, candy canes, ornaments, and the smallest gifts.  And here in front of the enormous fireplace--big enough to stand up in, when there's no fire--are the stockings, one for every child and cousin.  The presents have to wait until after breakfast, but the stockings are for now.

After the stockings come breakfast, and you know what is on the table today, don't you? Oysters, floating in a big steaming stew.  (Waht to know a secret? Personally, I don't like oysters for breakfast.  I never did, not even when I was a girl back in China.  But the stew part is fine).

Our children think breakfast takes forever on Christmas morning.  Never do the grown-ups eat so much.  They sit around and drink cup after cup of coffee, and then lean back and talk about how long it's been since they were all together, and they even waste precious minutes looking out over the valley and saying what a lovely day it is.  But then comes the wonderful moment when finally they're through, and they get up, scraping their chairs on the floor, and everyone goes back into the living room to open the presents.

It takes a long time because everyone wants to see what everyone else has received.  But finally the very last package is opened.  The floor is a heap of paper and ribbons and the grown-ups are saying, as they did last year, that there's really too much and that next year they will have to buy fewer presents.

And now comes the moment that's really Christmas.  The fire is snapping.  Christmas music is playing softly on the record player.  Everyone makes himself comfortable, some on the floor, some in chairs, some on the window seat.  It's time for the Christmas story.  Father opens the Bible to the second chapter of the book of Luke.  When he begins to read, the room is suddenly still with a special stillness that it has only at this time on Christmas morning.  We are very quiet as we listen again to the wonderful story.

(Gigi, Ruth's eldest daughter, tells this story of her son's reaction to the family traditions).

Christmas arrived with all the joy, excitement and anticipation that usually accompanies this happy holiday.  Our children had been making endless lists for weeks; and each time I was shown another one, I would reply automatically, "Wait until Christmas."

Finally, all was ready, wrapped, and packed for the trip to North Carolina.  The closer we got to the mountains and grandparents, the more excited the voices in the car became.  The first glimpse of "home," as we drove up the winding drive, and the warm welcome that awaited us--along with the homemade apple pie and a cozy fire--all added to our excitement.

This excitement, and the anticipation of all that was yet to come, built to a crescendo on Christmas Eve, as each child (and adult) hung his or her stocking in front of the large fireplace.  My daddy gathered all the children around and called Santa, at the North Pole--just to make sure he had received all the lists and everything was in order--then wished him a good and speedy trip.  Just as the children were all being hurried off to bed, Santa's sleigh bells could be heard above the roof.  (They were donkey's bells hung on the chimney and rung by my younger brother at the appropriate moment).  Needless to say, sleep didn't come easily to the children that night.

Christmas morning arrived, and everyone rushed down to the kitchen, dressed in their Sunday best.  By tradition, no one is allowed into the living room until all have gathered and finished eating.  The children tried to be patient, as the grown-ups slowly drank their coffee and munched their rolls.  Just as the last drop of coffee was being downed, my daddy decided it would be better to read the Christmas story before the stockings, instead of later.  Amid sighs, he began to read the beautiful story.  Even though the children listened, I am afraid they didn't hear much that morning.

Then, to make matters worse, my decided pictures should be taken as each child entered the living room, so the children were told to line up and enter one by one.  This did it.  My eldest son looked up at his grandmother and said, in total disgust and exasperation, "Bethlehem was never as miserable as this!"

And there you have that Christmas reminiscence, which I hope was an enjoyable read for you.  The mountains of western North Carolina where the setting of this story took place are indeed impressive in the Applachian chain, followed closely by Tennessee, Virginia, West Virginia and Kentucky in that order.  Anyone who has ever been in a car and traveled U.S. 21 from Asheville to Boone probably knows very well that the roads are very rough with hairpin bend after hairpen bend.  It's a hundred miles between the two communities, and just a few miles north of Boone, is the community of Deep Gap, N.C., where the late country guitarist Doc Watson was born.  I can say this from personal experience because I've traveled that route, though in no way did I drive a car.

And now may the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob just keep us safe, individually and collectively, in these last days in which we live.  Lord willing, tomorrow there will yet be another Christmas daily thought message.  Yes, the season doesn't "officially" end until I think, January 6.  Your Christian friend and brother, Paul