Wolves, and bears, and Christmas socks, oh my!

Long, long ago in a cabin, located in a valley deep in the north woods, where the streams freeze solid and the air stands still, lived a family of wolves. We ate our meals voraciously, ripping the oatmeal from the bowls like …

No, not wolves, not really, more like bears. No, not bears either. I'm not sure what we were. We were not normal. We clearly shared characteristics with those animal clans, but we didn't fit in with them either. Our family has just always been different.

By my early teen years, I had discovered that I did not really “need” anything for Christmas. Yet, my parents wanted to get me something cool. Socks were perpetually at the top of my wish list, which, it turns out, is not normal behavior.

I first became aware of our differentness one year when I was about ten. That was a few years before we had moved to the cold north woods of Minnesota.

We, as a family, voted to forgo Christmas gifts for our family and help a family in need. I don't know how my mom found out about that family; she was a secret agent I think. I'm pretty sure that family did not speak English.

We, my siblings and I, were beside ourselves with elation to pick gifts for the “needy” kids. We had no clue we were a poor family ourselves. We labored over choices between multiple small toys versus one larger toy. We knew there was a budget to live within and we had to make the money stretch. As kids, we really had no clue how the parents knew when the magic stream of money from Dad's wallet would suddenly stop, but somehow they knew.

Some of that money also needed to go for blankets and candles for the poor family. Their electricity had been shut off and they needed some lights. And food was included in the must get list as well. All that seemed like an annoying way to inhibit good toy purchasing, but we understood it had to be done.

Then came Christmas Eve when we made the delivery. Anticipation of something is often half the fun and that event was no exception. The Buick station wagon was stuffed to a delightfully uncomfortable level and we set out for the poor side of town. Our normally raucous behavior (remember, we were like a pack of wolves) was intensified by the deep emotion that can only be received by giving.

Then it happened. We pulled up slowly to the tiny, dilapidated house that bore the number we were looking for. It was dark and somber. We became still and silent.

Mom went and knocked at the door. Slowly a large family emerged. They were self-conscious, probably even embarrassed. We were subdued by their discomfort. Slowly we began to hand gifts across the little fence and the packages of blankets, which I had resented, felt priceless. The candles became light to their darkness. And the oh-so important toys … were received with subtle delight!

We left in somber silence. Oddly, I don't remember any tears, but there were undoubtedly plenty.

The next morning, Christmas Day, we awoke to find presents under the tree! What? We thought we were not doing gifts this year! There were fewer than normal, to be sure, but I was confused. It took me until I had kids to get it.

When school reconvened and my friends told about their Christmas, I was shocked by how much stuff they had gotten and did not appreciate. Had I changed? Or was I finally aware that we were not normal? I had never felt like I fit in, and at that moment, I knew I never would.

At fifty something, I still don't feel like I fit in. I'm totally okay with that.

More fun than a box of … just pass the box, please.

It's Christmas time and most parents in America will spend far more on toys for their kids than the children actually care for. Kids generally want something to stimulate their imagination and … they want frequent affirmation of inherent value. If you understand that, you can skip directly to the test.

I am not a psychologist, or any -ist for that matter, but I have always been a people watcher. And kids are simply smaller, more honest, versions of people. If you don't get that, go to a park and listen to what the kids say. You will hear, “Watch me mommy! Watch me daddy!”

What does that have to do with Christmas shopping? First off, I am a big fan of blessing my kids, who are now all adults, with cool gifts. So, this is not a Scrooge post. But, there is no value in overloading children with a giant pile of stuff on Christmas morning.

So, parents, you should thoughtfully choose a few gifts and stick with your decisions. Ignore the advertising: it is designed to take your money, not give you joy. Then, be sure to wrap those gifts in big boxes. The boxes are critical, because they will become the star of the show. There is not a lot that can compete with a few good boxes.

Remember the boxes!

You see, a cardboard box is actually a portal into another place and time. This is one of those little-known laws of physics that has been kept as a deep secret. But your kids will know. They will crawl around in those caverns and end up in places like Narnia, or Middle Earth, or the Wild West, or … the options are endless! If you want to ignite a child's imagination, skip the electronics and get them a big box. Books are good too, by the way. But be sure to include the big box.

If you want to earn the Parent of the Lifetime award, crawl into that box with the kids and tell them a story from long ago or far away. You could even read them Curious George. That will do nicely for the imagination, and affirm their inherent value far more than if you purchased a Toy-R-Us franchise!

I think my kids have outgrown the box era, but my granddaughter is a year old. Now, I need a box large enough for a stiff old man to crawl into …

They're Everywhere!

I've seen them running amok in the wind!
I've seen them ram peacefully resting automobiles without provocation!
I've seen them in ditches and roadside bogs!
I've even seen people steal them!
Shopping carts are everywhere and when they escape the safety of the store, anything goes. I think they are not too smart.

There is a special class of person that gathers those errant carts. They are the Cart Shepherds!

Some people are cruel to them. Most people take Cart Shepherds for granted … until there is a shopping cart shortage. Their job has no educational or vocational skill requirements, hence the pay is minimal. It is an often-scoffed first job for teens. Working in the elements day in and day out, personal hygiene is a lesser priority. Often the job is filled by a person with a disability, and for some, that is their version of the American Dream.

As essential as the job is, Cart Shepherds have no social value.

I suspect if the birth of the Messiah was announced tonight, the angel Gabriel would be sent to visit Cart Shepherds! They are hard working, under appreciated, taken for granted, and socially scorned. That is exactly the kind of people God invited to that first Christmas.

One of my favorite parts about the Christmas narrative in the Bible is when the birth of Christ is announced to the shepherds. Like our modern day Cart Shepherds, those folks were considered socially inconsequential. Obviously, God viewed them vastly differently than society did.

So I am wondering: What would happen if I viewed Cart Shepherds the same way God does?

You will find no quirky Christmas traditions here ...

It was nearly a half century ago, but I remember. My, do I remember. It was the first time I had real money to spend on Christmas gifts.

In those days people didn't just give money to their kids. In fact, my brother and I would walk along the highway to collect soda bottles and return them for the three cent deposit. It was a handy way to collect enough money for a box of Pucker Pellets from the red vending machine at the local gas station. Life was different then.

It was in that cultural mindset that I found myself at the local Winns Five and Dime looking for the perfect gifts for my parents. It was a tormenting experience with all the options that were pennies out of my price range. The toy section offered the best selection of options, but try as I might, I could not remember my parents playing with toys.

The decision was inevitable, I had to look in another department for gifts. Ultimately, I found my way into the personal hygiene section. There were some interesting looking items in my budget range. But one by one, items were systematically dismissed because I didn't know what they were. After a painstaking hour of deliberating, I finally settled on the perfect Christmas gifts for my parents. I have good reason to believe that the Supreme Court has probably never put as much thought into a decision as I did that day.

After what seemed an interminable wait … it was finally Christmas day! All the excitement that is wrapped up in a kid's mind was doubled for me that day. I had purchased and wrapped real presents that were under the tree. I was practically a man. When it came time, I believe my parents were actually surprised. Then they opened the presents and were surprised yet again.

Now my budget was a whopping dollar and a half. You can imagine what was not available in that range. I also really wanted to have a gift each for Dad and Mom. So when they unwrapped their gifts and found a new toothbrush and a roll of Certs breath mints, they seemed less than ecstatic. In fact, they seemed confused and a bit self-conscious. They asked if there was a deeper reason I chose those particular items.

I was confused by their confusion. It was cool stuff and they were looking for the deeper meaning. I was nine. There is no deeper meaning at nine. I just thought they would be happy to not have to share a toothbrush. The colors were cool too.

Eventually they realized that I was not hinting at any hygiene problem. It probably took them a few minutes to know I could not possibly have been thinking that hard. I eventually realized what made them so confused. That probably took much longer.

Years later, my wife and I put toothbrushes in the stockings for our kids. Now that the kids are all grown, we still do. It may not sound like a lot of fun, but who doesn't like a fresh toothbrush?

Two Unforgettable Christmas Gifts

Some Christmas gifts mean more to me than others, simply because they touch me deeply. The two gifts that resonate the deepest into my soul are actually the same. Oddly enough they were not gifts at all ... they were my dad.

I have always held my dad in high esteem. Probably too high at times, but that speaks to a different part of the human condition. I used to refer to him as the Iron Man, which had nothing to do with a comic character and everything to do with his determination, will, and strength.

The first time my dad was "the gift" of Christmas, he had a near-fatal work accident. Dad was an iron worker and a ladder gave way, plummeting him thirty-five feet. That was 1970 if memory serves me correctly. He still bears many of the scars from that accident. I was in grade school. The great joy was that Dad came home from a protracted hospital stay, on Christmas Eve! In retrospect, that was probably too early, but I think he was ready to be out of that place as well.

Yes, that is etched into my memory. It's probably etched into my DNA.

The second was quite different. I live nearly two thousand miles from my parents, and a few years back, my dad suffered a stroke. The reality of aging is not lost on me. I have no delusions that I or any of my family will dodge the maladies that are common with getting old. I know we each have a finite number of days and that is that. But a stroke is mysterious. It can leave invisible scars and long lasting effects without warning. And, as if that was not enough, it can be abruptly fatal.

So that December, as my dad lay in a hospital bed in Duluth, Minnesota, partially paralyzed and unable to speak, I frantically scrambled to make emergency travel plans. One of my sisters intercepted me before I made the trip and suggested that Dad seemed to be stable with signs of pending improvement. Her advice was that if I showed up, Dad might give himself up.

If you do not understand what a conundrum is, re-read that last paragraph.

I stayed home. I put on a confident facade for my wife and kids. And I died a little inside.

I resented Dad's condition of helplessness, and I resented my own. I am a boat builder by trade. I have no idea how to fix stroke victims. The image if my dad, Iron Man, in such a condition really got to me. Then I heard a song on the radio. It was a familiar Christmas song that had been one of my favorites from the first time I heard it. You may be familiar with it: Mary Did You Know.

One of the lines in the song says:
The lame will leap,
the dumb will speak
the praises of the Lamb.

I can't say I had any Divine Revelation or assurance of my dad's recovery. It was that it spoke to me at a very deep level and I drew comfort from it. He did recover very well, and Dad was once again home before Christmas.

Consequently, every time I visit with Dad I am reminded of that song. And every time I hear that song, I am reminded of that uncertain time with my dad.

Here is a brilliantly done a cappella version of the song by a group called Pentatonix.

Mary, Did You Know? - Pentatonix