My maternal grandparents lived on the northeast corner of Kanawha and East Main in Lancaster during the 1950’s. It was a huge duplex that sat where Fifth Third Bank is today.
Each year on Christmas Eve, like many families, we gathered at Grandma’s with our aunts, uncles and cousins to share an elaborately cooked meal and exchange gifts. Grandma’s house had a special room set apart for such gatherings; we called it the “front room.” Its hardwood floors spoke their own language. They creaked and murmured, singing along with the symphony of laughter like a percussion section of an orchestra, the heavy thud of work shoes and the staccato pop of the ladies high heels echoed throughout the home.
As grandkids, we weren’t allowed in the front room without an adult. Its towering ceiling easily accommodated an equally enormous Christmas tree whose sweet smelling boughs drooped under the weight of multicolored lights that were as big as lamp bulbs. The entire tree was peppered in a sheath of sparkling aluminum tinsel. Fragile glass ornaments of all shapes and sizes clung for dear life beneath a huge reflective star resting crookedly but proudly atop. Compared to the professionally decorated artificial trees seen today, it would stand embarrassed—amateurish and spindly. But as we arrived on Christmas Eve, I rushed past Grandma’s embrace and into the front room to behold its wonder. I stood in its glow while snow melted off my four buckle artics onto the linseed oiled floor, until Mom caught up to me and wrestled me out of my wool coat with its genuine imitation fur collar.
The sight of the carefully wrapped presents Grandma purchased each grandchild was breathtaking. They were so numerous they spilled out through the wide archway and into the TV room. After dinner, the oldest grandchild had the honor of passing out the gifts according to age, beginning with the youngest. We each took turns opening our gift. Grandma wasn’t a toy-type of person, a history of hard times demanded that our gifts be something useful like socks, but I really didn’t mind. Even as a preschooler I imagined my Grandma shopping at S.S. Kresges, searching for just the right pair of socks for me…for ME, mind you! Later that evening, lost in a sea of cousins, buried in a flood of spent wrapping paper, I felt very special.
Christmas is a great time to reflect on the things that matter most to us. Isn’t it interesting how the thought behind a gift can mean as much as the gift itself? I didn’t necessarily need another pair of socks, but I greatly needed to believe I was special to my Grandmother. Perhaps the greatest gift of Christmas is the fact that we so special to our Heavenly Father that He gave us His Son. He didn’t just give His Son to everyone, he gave His Son for each one. Jesus is uniquely yours at Christmas.
“For unto us a child is born, unto us (to Me…and to YOU) a son is given…”
I am pleased to have you as a reader, my friend. I wish for YOU a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.
Read Ron’s column, Simple Faith, each Saturday on the Faith Page (page 3) of the Lancaster Eagle Gazette, or visit www.lancastereaglegazette.com.