Through the Holiday Hubbub

The doorbell resonated through the holiday hubbub at 805 east 8^th avenue, one cool, crisp Christmas eve. Parents’ urged their children, “Answer it! Answer it!” Ronnie and Mary dropped everything and darted to the door. They flung it open. And what to their wondering eyes should appear? Actually, nothing, at first. Then, looking down, they saw a life-sized doll and a huge Texaco truck.

They stared with amazement at each present wrapped in ribbon. The two darted outside and scanned the front lawn and the night sky. Mary thought she heard bells jingling. Ronnie believed he heard something too. But the gift giver was nowhere to be found!

Ronnie and I still discuss the joy of that evening. Who delivered the gifts? How did they get there? Though we have our hunches, neither really knows for sure. 

As a small child, I must admit, I loved getting more than giving. As years passed though, I grew to appreciate the gift of giving. I waited and watched. Would they like the present I prepared or purchased with them in mind? Would they notice the effort spent on wrapping the present just right? Positive responses enhance my excitement of giving—both then and now.

God stood on the doorstep of humanity long ago. He rang the bell and left His Gift. The Package wasn’t decorated with ribbons or fancy paper. Nor did a mysterious donor deliver the Gift. This Present, dressed in swaddling clothes, lay in a manger: Baby Jesus, born of the Virgin Mary, God’s gift to each of us.

Ronnie and I received the gifts gladly that year. Our parents didn’t force them upon us. We naturally brought them into the house and began to play. I doubt we paid much attention to the wrappings. 

The doorbell continues to ring this Christmas. God sent His Son. He sent the Perfect Gift with us in mind. He desires our positive response but will not force us to receive His Present or His Presence. Rather, He waits and watches for our reaction. He wonders. Will we unwrap His Presence?

Through all of the hubbub, I pray we will hear the bell, open the door, and invite Him into our homes and our lives this Christmas.

"Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is Christ the Lord" (Luke 2:11 Niv). 

A Most Valued Gift

Through a series of events, I found myself alone one Christmas morning. Though I say alone, self- pity and I were getting pretty cozy. By mid-morning, I began to tire of her company. Her vicious cycle of lies left me less than merry.

The Gift

There’s been a shift of climate in our home. It seems sudden. But looking back, it’s been a gradual, slow brewing, change. Sometimes, intense. Other times, calm. It’s been building steam for the past, oh, thirteen years. But today, it is official. We have a teenager in the house. 

With fond memories, I remember the labor and delivery nurse’s words as this child entered our world: “12:04, baby boy!” After experiencing three miscarriages, Zane Robert DeMent, was a precious gift from God. Although he has changed in many ways, height, weight, emotions…smells, one thing has remained constant. He is truly a gift. 

I watch him shoot hoops in his new shoes this morning. No longer a little boy but still, he calls me to look his way, “Mom, watch me dunk it!” Still wanting, longing for my attention. Glad I can offer praise this morning. Because, it seems like lately, all I offer are demands: Do your homework. Finish your project. Clean your room. Put away your laundry. PLEASE USE DEODORANT!

He makes his way over to me, and squeezes me tight. I say, “I love you, Zane,” “I love you more,” he returns. He may never know how wrong he is. 

“Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.” 1 Corinthians 13:4-7 NIV.

A Goodnight Sleep

The stage is set. My three youngest are crashed. Sheets, blankets, chairs and a broom handle create an elaborate gazebo type fort. Pillows and stuffed animals cover my floor.  My kids fall asleep, impressed with their design. I don’t care that my house is turned upside down. Nothing is going to interfere with my plans.  Not even my oldest, the stay up late whenever he gets the chance, leave the TV and lights on all over the place, son can foil my strategy.  He is spending the night with a friend, running their electric bill up, I muse. And then there’s my hard working husband, the only one who can’t sleep in tomorrow. He fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.

It’s only me and my book now. And even its riveting pages are no match for my nodding head. I fall asleep somewhere near the end of Chapter 19. But this beautiful sleep ends abruptly with the sharp ring of my husband’s cell phone. Who in the world is calling at this hour? My husband stirs but remains sleeping. I guess I drift off again myself. Yet, like a recurring nightmare, the phone blares out again. This time I get up. I don’t recognize the number so I slip back to bed. Got to be a wrong number, I reason. 

Miraculously, I return to my slumber. About twenty minutes later, I hear a faint tap, tap, tap on our front door. I must be dreaming. But there it goes again. Our dog, Jack, starts barking (obviously oblivious, along with our midnight caller, that this is my first chance in weeks for a good night sleep). The doorbell rings. Scrambling to find my clothes, the bell rings again and I hear a familiar voice, “Mom? Mom? Mommm?” Why is it never, “Dad? Dad? Daaaad?” Apparently, my first born is a victim of a failed sleepover. He walks in, moans about his stomach hurting, moseys over to the couch and falls asleep within five minutes. My return flight to dreamland would not come as easy.

I grab my book, click on a small light in the living room and scan Chapter 19 to locate where I left off. A couple hours later, I am ready to catch my flight again. I position my pillow just under my head and hold on tight. But, my flight is barely off the runway when my youngest walks in, crying, desperately in need of a Band-Aid for an earlier injury on his big toe.

“The best laid plans...,” I think. My long anticipated night of sleep is not to be. I know that now. There’s always coffee, I smile.  A few hours later, my husband delivers my consolation prize cup of java. “Offer ya a lousy cup of coffee?” he smirks. 

Securing the mug, I hug my husband and we survey our four children sprawled on the floor and couch.  We smile. I’m warmed by more than the coffee. I wouldn’t trade this for the best night sleep in the world.