| It's A Family Tradition Part 1 written by Bob McDonald |
The older I (RHS ‘66) become, the faster my pace of
life becomes. If I did not know any better, I would
assume that hours have been eliminated from time.
A twenty-four hour day now seems like a fourteen-
hour day. Life in the world of today goes by at such
a hectic pace. How ironic is it that we pay bills on-
line because we do not have time to drive to drop a
bill in the mail? How ironic is it that we email our
friends and relatives because we do not have time to
communicate with the personal touch of a
handwritten letter or even a telephone call? I never
will forget the first letter my mama wrote me when I
was a freshman at NC State. “Hi son! I’m your
mother. Remember me?” Her question made me stop
and think about what was most precious to me: my
home, my family, and most precious of all, my
mama. Forget the excitement of sitting in the stands
with forty thousand plus fans going ape over
Wolfpack football. Forget the new college buddies
who later became life-long friends. Forget the
exciting challenge of preparing for a new career.
Forget the college girls I had dated. Forget the new
restaurants and their cuisines I had eaten. Forget
the big city nightlife of Raleigh. Mama’s
handwritten question put me on the front seat of
Wayne Ussery’s (RHS ’66) 1953 four door
Oldsmobile as we rolled south down Highway #1 on
my way to Rockingham the following Friday. I
seriously doubt I would have gone home if Mama
had emailed me (this communications vehicle was
not readily available as it is now). It would have
been too convenient to simply email a reply. How
ironic is it to use a drive-thru window when we do
not even have time to stop and go in to eat, of all
things, fast foods? Time flies by in this hectic world
of today.
However, I can remember times in my adolescent
years when time seemed to stop. I can remember
looking at the big white-faced clocks on the
classroom walls of Roberdel Grammar School and
convincing myself that they either stopped or were
running backwards. I wondered if: a) the recess bell
would ever ring, b) the lunch bell would ever ring,
and c) the dismissal bell would ever ring. I can
remember looking at a calendar and wondered if: a)
summer vacation would ever arrive, b) my thirteenth
birthday would ever arrive, c) my sixteenth birthday
would ever arrive, and d) high school graduation
would ever arrive. As a college student, I often
wondered if: a) the last class on Friday would ever
end, b) the weekend drive home would ever end, and
c) the school year would ever end. Likewise, as a
working summer college student in the Martha Baum
plant of J.P. Stevens in Rockingham, I often
wondered if: a) the daily shift end would ever end, b)
the work week would ever end, and c) the summers
that began so titillating and exciting but became so
dull and boring with so many freedom restrictions at
home with Daddy and Mama ever end. Yes, I
wished my life away while living in Rockingham
under the roof of my parents as life sometimes moved
at a snail’s, no a slow snail’s, pace. Yet, time
seemingly came to a halt and stood still for five to
six minutes in our living room yearly. The culprit
behind this time warp was the observance of a family
tradition.
Every Christmas at our house was a Norman
Rockwell painting. Gary (RHS ’71), Ken (RHS ‘68),
and I eagerly looked forward to the first Sunday after
Thanksgiving. At this date in time, family tradition
and Mama demanded that Cecil (RHS ’41) and sons
scour the McDonald woodlands in search of the
perfect Christmas tree. It was not an easy find.
The sandy soils of Rockingham made an excellent
bed for growing pine trees, blackjack oaks, and
sandspurs. On the other hand, a cedar tree needed
an ample supply of water to develop into the
perfectly shaped Christmas tree. Generally, we
would find the prettiest trees in the swamps and
branches on our land. Occasionally, we would
venture behind Grandpa Scott’s house and cut one
off the banks of Ledbetter Lake. Daddy would let
my brothers and me take turns at the handsaw as we
cut the tree down. Likewise, we grabbed a branch
and helped Daddy carry the tree back home or back
to our car. Once we stuffed the tree into the trunk of
our 1953 Plymouth, the fun was just beginning. We
could hardly wait to get back home, open the car
doors, and scream for Mama to come see our
treasure. Daddy, Gary, Ken, and I knew Mama
would be even more excited than we.
The artificial Christmas tree had just been
invented. The tree came in all heights and extremes.
Some trees were so large that they could only be
assembled in the location you intended to display
them. Yet, the most stylish tree was a small, shiny
aluminum tree that could be placed on a table in
front of the picture window of a living room. This
little tree required a three hundred and sixty degree
rotating kaleidoscope of bulbs that illuminate an
ever-changing array of colors. Many homemakers
bought into this new concept but not my mama.
Christmas was Mama’s favorite time of the year.
My mother lived to give. She gave all year long to
anyone in need. Yet, she generously and unselfishly
gave during the Christmas season. Seeing her family
unwrapping and opening gifts on Christmas morning
was her ultimate joy. There was nothing artificial
about my mama. Her emotions were always real and
so were our Christmas trees. It was a family
tradition. “Hurry up, Cecil, let’s get that
Christmas tree standing and in the house!”
Once inside, our excitement reached another level.
As careful as Gary, Ken, and I tried to be, one of us
would always drop and shatter a large aluminum
ornament. Mama would always remind Ken and me
to hang our ornaments high and leave the lower
branches for little Gary. Christmas lights were no
different then than now. Every year for reasons not
known even to Thomas Edison, several bulbs always
failed to light when we plugged the strands into the
wall socket. Never fear, Mama had a colored variety
of replacement bulbs that she had probably
purchased in July for this anticipated power failure.
Gary, Ken, and I would stop decorating long enough
to find our Christmas wish in the Sears & Roebuck
Catalog. Just name a toy and we could tell you its
catalog page number. Finally, with no more
decorations to hang, we brothers stepped back and
admired our artistry. It was just a short matter of
time before the smell of cedar and the feeling of
Christmas spirit saturated the McDonald home. A
live Norman Rockwell decorated Christmas tree was
a family tradition. “O Christmas tree! O Christmas
tree! How evergreen your branches!”
December in McDonald Community and
Rockingham was “the most wonderful time of the
year!” Everyone was so light-hearted and cheerful.
Even the teachers at Roberdel Grammar School were
in a festive mood. All of the kids at school always
worked hard but had fun practicing for the annual
Christmas P.T.A. program. One year, the
McDonald brothers had prominent roles. Gary was
one of Santa’s elves, Ken was Rudolph, and I had to
memorize and recite ‘Twas the Night Before
Christmas! I had the additional pressure of reciting
lines for the children’s Christmas play at McDonald
Baptist. Every year, our Sunday school teachers
always called on Becky McDonald (RHS ‘64),
Sandra McDonald (RHS ‘64), Donna Long (RHS
‘65), and me to play the characters with the most
lines. Not ever did we have the lines down pat on
final rehearsal, only hours before the curtain call.
Yet, some way, some how, we memorized lines just
well enough to adlib our way through the gaps in our
memory banks. I am not sure we always carried the
drama in the direction intended but everyone seemed
pleased with our performances. Becky, Donna,
Sandra, and I always did well enough to receive our
brown paper bags of nuts, fruits, and candy as we
exited the church.
The McDonald family always loaded up in our 1953
Plymouth and drove to Rockingham to see everyone’s
Christmas lights and decorations. People in the
country decorated for Christmas but most lived so
far off the main road that you could not see their
houses not to mention their decorations. The
highlight of our Christmas trip to Rockingham was
driving downtown to see Santa and eight tiny
reindeer on top of Hallum’s Furniture Store and
Rudolph with his nose so bright in the lead slot.
With the reassurance that Santa had arrived in
Rockingham and had a short layover for milk and
cookies and hay for his reindeer before taxiing down
the take-off runaway on Hallum’s roof, Gary, Ken,
and I were ready to go home and get all snuggled in
our beds. It was a family tradition. Finally, Daddy
and Mama could answer our one repeating question
for December. “Tonight! Santa is coming tonight!”
Ken always managed to be the first family member
to wake up every Christmas morning. He always
had to “take aspirin for a headache,” “use the
bathroom,” or “get some water to drink.” Each
mission included a peek under the Christmas tree. If
Santa had already delivered our presents, Ken would
wake Gary and me to give us a spy report. Daddy’s
rule was no one was allowed to look under the tree
until Mama had gotten us out of bed. The “no look”
rule was tough to follow but not nearly as tough as
the “look but no touch” rule enforced by Daddy.
This “look but no touch” demand made time
practically stop.
The McDonald brothers had one final annual
family tradition to endure and work through before
Daddy and Mama would turn us loose under the
Christmas tree. We all gathered in the living room
as Daddy fetched his Bible from his nightstand.
Gary, Ken, and I knew what was coming. We had to
sit still and act attentive as Daddy read Luke 2:1-20
from the King James Version of the Bible. In short,
the scripture told the Christmas story describing
characters and circumstances according to Dr. Luke.
It was a family tradition. As kids, this exercise
seemed like a total waste of toy time. We heard the
same story using the same words year after year after
year. In fact, this same story was repeated in
December in Sunday school classes at McDonald
Baptist. In the ‘50s and ‘60s, everyone everywhere
told the story of Christ. Politically correct was a
phrase not yet coined. The birth of Christ was
proclaimed in song and drama on every school stage
in the county. When the teachers at Roberdel
Grammar asked for volunteers for different Nativity
roles, some wise guys would always crack, “Nelson
(RHS ‘65), Johnny (RHS ‘66), and Tonya (RHS ‘ 70)
are good shepherds (the last name of these two
brothers and sister was Sheppard)! No guy wanted
to be Joseph since most boys would never have a
girlfriend and certainly not a wife even if it were only
acting in a play for one night. Everybody wanted to
be a wise man. It was just cool to wear a purple robe
and walk with a crown on your head.
Meanwhile back at home sitting in front of the
Christmas tree, we brothers had a tough time with
King James’ language and reasoning. Why did
Joseph have to pay taxes to a place he did not even
live in? I had heard Daddy complain about paying
county taxes, state taxes, and federal taxes but it
was taxes for Richmond County, North Carolina,
and the United States. At least, some logic did
exist in our tax system. I bet Daddy would have
really gotten ill if some government official had told
him to go to Bennettsville and pay taxes to Marlboro
County and the state of South Carolina.
Furthermore, please do not tell this World War II
veteran that he had to pay taxes to another country.
Was Mr. Augustus confused about this tax thing in
the Bible? These guys were confused about
governments. Who puts a governor in charge of a
country anyway? Who would want to live in the
country of Syria if a Governor were in charge?
President Eisenhower would not let that happen in
America! Governors are in charge of states and
Presidents are in charge of countries.
Even the language describing Mary and her
situation was confusing. I wonder who and when the
word “pregnant” was invented. Even as an eight
year old kid, I knew what pregnant meant.
According to King James’ description, Mary was
“great.” Thank goodness someone changed the
definition of “great.” If it still meant “pregnant,”
Tony the Tiger would have never been able to sell
Kellogg Cornflakes, at least, not to kids. As Daddy
read the Bible, I wondered what else did Mary have
with her on the trip to Jerusalem? She brought “her
first born son” fourth. What were the other three
items she brought with her? Another word in the
Scriptures about Mary confused me. She put
swaddling clothes on Baby Jesus. What do
swaddling clothes look like? Do you dress a child in
swaddling clothes if you are going to let him
swaddle? I had only heard that word when someone
read the Christmas story from Luke. Apparently, no
one else knew what it meant either. In every
Christmas play I had ever had a role in or had seen,
the baby doll used as Jesus was wrapped in a plain
baby blanket.
I was not as nearly confused about the shepherds
Daddy read about in Luke. However, I was stumped
about one task the shepherds were doing. I never
had to do any “abiding” while completing chores on
the farm as a kid. Of course, Daddy only worked me
during the daytime. Maybe if I had to feed the horse
or chase Uncle Carl’s cows at night, I could have
done some “abiding in the fields … by night”. Yet, it
is perfectly clear that the shepherds had to watch the
sheep sleeping in an open field at night. I am
thinking that the biggest worries the shepherds had
were probably wild dogs, foxes, or bobcats attacking
and killing small lambs. If one of the shepherds had
owned my bulldog Zeke back then, the sheep farmers
could have gone to bed at dark and slept all night.
Daddy had always said Zeke could whip anything
that walks on four legs. Yet as Daddy read the
Christmas story, I understood the shepherds would
experience an once-in-a-lifetime phenomenon that
holy night. In fact, the moment would be more
frightening than fighting off a pack of wild dogs,
more frightening than being attacked by a rabid fox,
or even more frightening than pulling a lamb from the
claws of a bobcat. Yes, this terror the shepherds
experienced that night was a visit by an angel. In
fact, the shepherds were so scared that the King
James Version of Luke’s writings states the visit
made them “sore.” My brothers and I have been to a
bunch of Halloween Carnivals at Roberdel Grammar
School, have been chased by dogs, and have been
close enough to reach out and touch the horns of
Uncle Carl’s charging white-faced Hertford bull but
never have we been as afraid as those shepherds were
that night. The angels scared these guys so badly
that Luke said, “They were sore afraid.” I have been
afraid many times in my life but never so afraid that
it made me “sore.” Reckon you can become anymore
afraid? I do not think so.
As I grew older and matured, the Christmas
Nativity scene and the Christmas story took only an
entirely different meaning. As a kid, Christmas was
a family tradition my brothers experienced every year
as we sang Christmas carols, dressed as wise men
and shepherds, and sat on our living room couch
every Christmas morning not hearing a word Daddy
was reading as we fidgeted and strained our necks
trying to determine what surprises awaited us under
our real Christmas tree. As an older, learning
grammar student and a young Christian, King
James’ language delivered a new understanding of
these “good tidings of great joy.” The Christmas
story was a true event in which God sent his Son to
live among us through a miraculous birth. As stated
in John 1:14, “And the Word was made flesh, and
dwelt among us …”. Christ experienced all the
human emotions we do. The birth of Christ did not
just happen by chance. The prophets of the Old
Testament had forecast the birth of Christ years
before. The shepherds were surely surprised! Not
every night does an angel speak to you with hundreds
or perhaps thousands of other angels singing in the
background, “Glory to God in the highest and peace,
good will toward men.” The shepherds were so
excited that they arose from the fields and went to
Bethlehem looking for the “Saviour, which is Christ
the Lord.” In fact they were so excited after finding
“Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manager”
that the shepherds became the first missionaries.
They “made known abroad” all the eyewitness
testimony seen and “which was told them
concerning” Jesus Christ, the Son of God. The true
meaning of Christmas became as plain as the nose
on my face. God had a plan for worldwide
redemption and it began with the birth of his Son to
a carpenter and his virgin finance’ in a cattle stall
over two thousand years ago. This ultimate
Christmas gift is not a Schwinn bicycle, a Daisy air
rifle, a Barbie doll, a diamond necklace, the keys to a
sports car, or any materialistic item. The language
of King James so eloquently but so simply describes
the ultimate gift and the motive of the giver in John 3:
16. “For God so loved the world that he gave his
only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him
should not perish, but have everlasting life.” God’s
gift to mankind is truly the gift that keeps on giving.
life becomes. If I did not know any better, I would
assume that hours have been eliminated from time.
A twenty-four hour day now seems like a fourteen-
hour day. Life in the world of today goes by at such
a hectic pace. How ironic is it that we pay bills on-
line because we do not have time to drive to drop a
bill in the mail? How ironic is it that we email our
friends and relatives because we do not have time to
communicate with the personal touch of a
handwritten letter or even a telephone call? I never
will forget the first letter my mama wrote me when I
was a freshman at NC State. “Hi son! I’m your
mother. Remember me?” Her question made me stop
and think about what was most precious to me: my
home, my family, and most precious of all, my
mama. Forget the excitement of sitting in the stands
with forty thousand plus fans going ape over
Wolfpack football. Forget the new college buddies
who later became life-long friends. Forget the
exciting challenge of preparing for a new career.
Forget the college girls I had dated. Forget the new
restaurants and their cuisines I had eaten. Forget
the big city nightlife of Raleigh. Mama’s
handwritten question put me on the front seat of
Wayne Ussery’s (RHS ’66) 1953 four door
Oldsmobile as we rolled south down Highway #1 on
my way to Rockingham the following Friday. I
seriously doubt I would have gone home if Mama
had emailed me (this communications vehicle was
not readily available as it is now). It would have
been too convenient to simply email a reply. How
ironic is it to use a drive-thru window when we do
not even have time to stop and go in to eat, of all
things, fast foods? Time flies by in this hectic world
of today.
However, I can remember times in my adolescent
years when time seemed to stop. I can remember
looking at the big white-faced clocks on the
classroom walls of Roberdel Grammar School and
convincing myself that they either stopped or were
running backwards. I wondered if: a) the recess bell
would ever ring, b) the lunch bell would ever ring,
and c) the dismissal bell would ever ring. I can
remember looking at a calendar and wondered if: a)
summer vacation would ever arrive, b) my thirteenth
birthday would ever arrive, c) my sixteenth birthday
would ever arrive, and d) high school graduation
would ever arrive. As a college student, I often
wondered if: a) the last class on Friday would ever
end, b) the weekend drive home would ever end, and
c) the school year would ever end. Likewise, as a
working summer college student in the Martha Baum
plant of J.P. Stevens in Rockingham, I often
wondered if: a) the daily shift end would ever end, b)
the work week would ever end, and c) the summers
that began so titillating and exciting but became so
dull and boring with so many freedom restrictions at
home with Daddy and Mama ever end. Yes, I
wished my life away while living in Rockingham
under the roof of my parents as life sometimes moved
at a snail’s, no a slow snail’s, pace. Yet, time
seemingly came to a halt and stood still for five to
six minutes in our living room yearly. The culprit
behind this time warp was the observance of a family
tradition.
Every Christmas at our house was a Norman
Rockwell painting. Gary (RHS ’71), Ken (RHS ‘68),
and I eagerly looked forward to the first Sunday after
Thanksgiving. At this date in time, family tradition
and Mama demanded that Cecil (RHS ’41) and sons
scour the McDonald woodlands in search of the
perfect Christmas tree. It was not an easy find.
The sandy soils of Rockingham made an excellent
bed for growing pine trees, blackjack oaks, and
sandspurs. On the other hand, a cedar tree needed
an ample supply of water to develop into the
perfectly shaped Christmas tree. Generally, we
would find the prettiest trees in the swamps and
branches on our land. Occasionally, we would
venture behind Grandpa Scott’s house and cut one
off the banks of Ledbetter Lake. Daddy would let
my brothers and me take turns at the handsaw as we
cut the tree down. Likewise, we grabbed a branch
and helped Daddy carry the tree back home or back
to our car. Once we stuffed the tree into the trunk of
our 1953 Plymouth, the fun was just beginning. We
could hardly wait to get back home, open the car
doors, and scream for Mama to come see our
treasure. Daddy, Gary, Ken, and I knew Mama
would be even more excited than we.
The artificial Christmas tree had just been
invented. The tree came in all heights and extremes.
Some trees were so large that they could only be
assembled in the location you intended to display
them. Yet, the most stylish tree was a small, shiny
aluminum tree that could be placed on a table in
front of the picture window of a living room. This
little tree required a three hundred and sixty degree
rotating kaleidoscope of bulbs that illuminate an
ever-changing array of colors. Many homemakers
bought into this new concept but not my mama.
Christmas was Mama’s favorite time of the year.
My mother lived to give. She gave all year long to
anyone in need. Yet, she generously and unselfishly
gave during the Christmas season. Seeing her family
unwrapping and opening gifts on Christmas morning
was her ultimate joy. There was nothing artificial
about my mama. Her emotions were always real and
so were our Christmas trees. It was a family
tradition. “Hurry up, Cecil, let’s get that
Christmas tree standing and in the house!”
Once inside, our excitement reached another level.
As careful as Gary, Ken, and I tried to be, one of us
would always drop and shatter a large aluminum
ornament. Mama would always remind Ken and me
to hang our ornaments high and leave the lower
branches for little Gary. Christmas lights were no
different then than now. Every year for reasons not
known even to Thomas Edison, several bulbs always
failed to light when we plugged the strands into the
wall socket. Never fear, Mama had a colored variety
of replacement bulbs that she had probably
purchased in July for this anticipated power failure.
Gary, Ken, and I would stop decorating long enough
to find our Christmas wish in the Sears & Roebuck
Catalog. Just name a toy and we could tell you its
catalog page number. Finally, with no more
decorations to hang, we brothers stepped back and
admired our artistry. It was just a short matter of
time before the smell of cedar and the feeling of
Christmas spirit saturated the McDonald home. A
live Norman Rockwell decorated Christmas tree was
a family tradition. “O Christmas tree! O Christmas
tree! How evergreen your branches!”
December in McDonald Community and
Rockingham was “the most wonderful time of the
year!” Everyone was so light-hearted and cheerful.
Even the teachers at Roberdel Grammar School were
in a festive mood. All of the kids at school always
worked hard but had fun practicing for the annual
Christmas P.T.A. program. One year, the
McDonald brothers had prominent roles. Gary was
one of Santa’s elves, Ken was Rudolph, and I had to
memorize and recite ‘Twas the Night Before
Christmas! I had the additional pressure of reciting
lines for the children’s Christmas play at McDonald
Baptist. Every year, our Sunday school teachers
always called on Becky McDonald (RHS ‘64),
Sandra McDonald (RHS ‘64), Donna Long (RHS
‘65), and me to play the characters with the most
lines. Not ever did we have the lines down pat on
final rehearsal, only hours before the curtain call.
Yet, some way, some how, we memorized lines just
well enough to adlib our way through the gaps in our
memory banks. I am not sure we always carried the
drama in the direction intended but everyone seemed
pleased with our performances. Becky, Donna,
Sandra, and I always did well enough to receive our
brown paper bags of nuts, fruits, and candy as we
exited the church.
The McDonald family always loaded up in our 1953
Plymouth and drove to Rockingham to see everyone’s
Christmas lights and decorations. People in the
country decorated for Christmas but most lived so
far off the main road that you could not see their
houses not to mention their decorations. The
highlight of our Christmas trip to Rockingham was
driving downtown to see Santa and eight tiny
reindeer on top of Hallum’s Furniture Store and
Rudolph with his nose so bright in the lead slot.
With the reassurance that Santa had arrived in
Rockingham and had a short layover for milk and
cookies and hay for his reindeer before taxiing down
the take-off runaway on Hallum’s roof, Gary, Ken,
and I were ready to go home and get all snuggled in
our beds. It was a family tradition. Finally, Daddy
and Mama could answer our one repeating question
for December. “Tonight! Santa is coming tonight!”
Ken always managed to be the first family member
to wake up every Christmas morning. He always
had to “take aspirin for a headache,” “use the
bathroom,” or “get some water to drink.” Each
mission included a peek under the Christmas tree. If
Santa had already delivered our presents, Ken would
wake Gary and me to give us a spy report. Daddy’s
rule was no one was allowed to look under the tree
until Mama had gotten us out of bed. The “no look”
rule was tough to follow but not nearly as tough as
the “look but no touch” rule enforced by Daddy.
This “look but no touch” demand made time
practically stop.
The McDonald brothers had one final annual
family tradition to endure and work through before
Daddy and Mama would turn us loose under the
Christmas tree. We all gathered in the living room
as Daddy fetched his Bible from his nightstand.
Gary, Ken, and I knew what was coming. We had to
sit still and act attentive as Daddy read Luke 2:1-20
from the King James Version of the Bible. In short,
the scripture told the Christmas story describing
characters and circumstances according to Dr. Luke.
It was a family tradition. As kids, this exercise
seemed like a total waste of toy time. We heard the
same story using the same words year after year after
year. In fact, this same story was repeated in
December in Sunday school classes at McDonald
Baptist. In the ‘50s and ‘60s, everyone everywhere
told the story of Christ. Politically correct was a
phrase not yet coined. The birth of Christ was
proclaimed in song and drama on every school stage
in the county. When the teachers at Roberdel
Grammar asked for volunteers for different Nativity
roles, some wise guys would always crack, “Nelson
(RHS ‘65), Johnny (RHS ‘66), and Tonya (RHS ‘ 70)
are good shepherds (the last name of these two
brothers and sister was Sheppard)! No guy wanted
to be Joseph since most boys would never have a
girlfriend and certainly not a wife even if it were only
acting in a play for one night. Everybody wanted to
be a wise man. It was just cool to wear a purple robe
and walk with a crown on your head.
Meanwhile back at home sitting in front of the
Christmas tree, we brothers had a tough time with
King James’ language and reasoning. Why did
Joseph have to pay taxes to a place he did not even
live in? I had heard Daddy complain about paying
county taxes, state taxes, and federal taxes but it
was taxes for Richmond County, North Carolina,
and the United States. At least, some logic did
exist in our tax system. I bet Daddy would have
really gotten ill if some government official had told
him to go to Bennettsville and pay taxes to Marlboro
County and the state of South Carolina.
Furthermore, please do not tell this World War II
veteran that he had to pay taxes to another country.
Was Mr. Augustus confused about this tax thing in
the Bible? These guys were confused about
governments. Who puts a governor in charge of a
country anyway? Who would want to live in the
country of Syria if a Governor were in charge?
President Eisenhower would not let that happen in
America! Governors are in charge of states and
Presidents are in charge of countries.
Even the language describing Mary and her
situation was confusing. I wonder who and when the
word “pregnant” was invented. Even as an eight
year old kid, I knew what pregnant meant.
According to King James’ description, Mary was
“great.” Thank goodness someone changed the
definition of “great.” If it still meant “pregnant,”
Tony the Tiger would have never been able to sell
Kellogg Cornflakes, at least, not to kids. As Daddy
read the Bible, I wondered what else did Mary have
with her on the trip to Jerusalem? She brought “her
first born son” fourth. What were the other three
items she brought with her? Another word in the
Scriptures about Mary confused me. She put
swaddling clothes on Baby Jesus. What do
swaddling clothes look like? Do you dress a child in
swaddling clothes if you are going to let him
swaddle? I had only heard that word when someone
read the Christmas story from Luke. Apparently, no
one else knew what it meant either. In every
Christmas play I had ever had a role in or had seen,
the baby doll used as Jesus was wrapped in a plain
baby blanket.
I was not as nearly confused about the shepherds
Daddy read about in Luke. However, I was stumped
about one task the shepherds were doing. I never
had to do any “abiding” while completing chores on
the farm as a kid. Of course, Daddy only worked me
during the daytime. Maybe if I had to feed the horse
or chase Uncle Carl’s cows at night, I could have
done some “abiding in the fields … by night”. Yet, it
is perfectly clear that the shepherds had to watch the
sheep sleeping in an open field at night. I am
thinking that the biggest worries the shepherds had
were probably wild dogs, foxes, or bobcats attacking
and killing small lambs. If one of the shepherds had
owned my bulldog Zeke back then, the sheep farmers
could have gone to bed at dark and slept all night.
Daddy had always said Zeke could whip anything
that walks on four legs. Yet as Daddy read the
Christmas story, I understood the shepherds would
experience an once-in-a-lifetime phenomenon that
holy night. In fact, the moment would be more
frightening than fighting off a pack of wild dogs,
more frightening than being attacked by a rabid fox,
or even more frightening than pulling a lamb from the
claws of a bobcat. Yes, this terror the shepherds
experienced that night was a visit by an angel. In
fact, the shepherds were so scared that the King
James Version of Luke’s writings states the visit
made them “sore.” My brothers and I have been to a
bunch of Halloween Carnivals at Roberdel Grammar
School, have been chased by dogs, and have been
close enough to reach out and touch the horns of
Uncle Carl’s charging white-faced Hertford bull but
never have we been as afraid as those shepherds were
that night. The angels scared these guys so badly
that Luke said, “They were sore afraid.” I have been
afraid many times in my life but never so afraid that
it made me “sore.” Reckon you can become anymore
afraid? I do not think so.
As I grew older and matured, the Christmas
Nativity scene and the Christmas story took only an
entirely different meaning. As a kid, Christmas was
a family tradition my brothers experienced every year
as we sang Christmas carols, dressed as wise men
and shepherds, and sat on our living room couch
every Christmas morning not hearing a word Daddy
was reading as we fidgeted and strained our necks
trying to determine what surprises awaited us under
our real Christmas tree. As an older, learning
grammar student and a young Christian, King
James’ language delivered a new understanding of
these “good tidings of great joy.” The Christmas
story was a true event in which God sent his Son to
live among us through a miraculous birth. As stated
in John 1:14, “And the Word was made flesh, and
dwelt among us …”. Christ experienced all the
human emotions we do. The birth of Christ did not
just happen by chance. The prophets of the Old
Testament had forecast the birth of Christ years
before. The shepherds were surely surprised! Not
every night does an angel speak to you with hundreds
or perhaps thousands of other angels singing in the
background, “Glory to God in the highest and peace,
good will toward men.” The shepherds were so
excited that they arose from the fields and went to
Bethlehem looking for the “Saviour, which is Christ
the Lord.” In fact they were so excited after finding
“Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manager”
that the shepherds became the first missionaries.
They “made known abroad” all the eyewitness
testimony seen and “which was told them
concerning” Jesus Christ, the Son of God. The true
meaning of Christmas became as plain as the nose
on my face. God had a plan for worldwide
redemption and it began with the birth of his Son to
a carpenter and his virgin finance’ in a cattle stall
over two thousand years ago. This ultimate
Christmas gift is not a Schwinn bicycle, a Daisy air
rifle, a Barbie doll, a diamond necklace, the keys to a
sports car, or any materialistic item. The language
of King James so eloquently but so simply describes
the ultimate gift and the motive of the giver in John 3:
16. “For God so loved the world that he gave his
only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him
should not perish, but have everlasting life.” God’s
gift to mankind is truly the gift that keeps on giving.
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