Merry Christmas everyone! Two weeks ago, after praying about my Christmas blog, I awoke with a fictional story in my head. (With concepts I have never considered and terms I don’t know) I wrote the story as I envisioned it upon awakening. Tears came often, though it’s not particularly sad. I hope you see it as I do: a delightful story about a boy . . . and a Christmas gift explained, perhaps only as Jesus can. kcs
I should be snuggled in bed, but as my family sleeps, I tiptoe downstairs, the smell of stale popcorn and pine guiding my footsteps as much as the soft Santa nightlight and dying fireplace embers. I walk past the poinsettias lining the foyer, past the big wreath hanging over the wooden nativity, and finally stroll under the mistletoe atop the arched doorway leading into the family room. Our nightly gathering place seems eerily serene without the twinkling lights and the family din.
Like a Christmas thief, I slink into Dad’s big oversized chair where I have a bird’s eye view of yuletide magic–the chimney embers fading with the night from the stocking-adorned brick fireplace, and nestled beside it, a ceiling high, ornament-bright, Christmas tree.
One of Mom’s small china plates, decked out in green and red cookies and flanked by a glass of milk, awaits Santa on the hearth, left by my little brother Jeff, or Jeffy, as I call him. Colorful presents with sparkles and bows spill well past the Christmas tree, topped by a drooping, oversized star balanced above the popcorn strings our family threaded at the dining room table.
Jeffy loves Christmas. Makes him the happiest kid on the planet. Me, I like it. Mostly because I get toys and stuff, but also because I like watching my brother have fun. Sometimes I feel cheated there’s no Santa for me. Oh maybe to some extent, but I’m too old for Santa, really. Twelve. Not too old for the Christmas spirit. At least that’s what Mom says.
I close my eyes, thinking I’ll sit here until Dad comes down to eat his cookies and distribute a few Santa presents, but my stomach rumbles at the thought of the cookies, probably the largest and most garish I’ve ever seen. They must scream “buy me” to mom’s who want to impress six year olds like Jeffy or to Christmas greenhorn ’s, if one exists on the planet. Still, the cookies are for Dad, and I promise myself not to eat them, even as I think about it.
I rise from the chair and immediately fall back. In the dim light of the embers’ shadows, a man sits on our sofa!
I pull back and gasp! He isn’t Santa by a whole lot of belly inches, and he just sits there smiling like he’s at home, one arm propped up on a sofa cushion. After I gather myself, I immediately stand, step to the side of Dad’s chair, and prepare to run. That’s when I notice his clothing—a long white robe with a gold sash. Never have I seen someone dressed like this. Never have I seen someone who seems to . . . to glow.
“I hear you want to interview me,” The stranger scoots to the front of the sofa, clasping his hands atop his knees, looking for all the world like he belongs here.
“Are you serious? How did you just materialize out of . . . ? Who sent you?” I laugh, nervous. “It was Joey, wasn’t it? I’ll get him for this.”
“No, Joey didn’t send me. He’s in St. Petersburg with his parents and sister, Leah, for Christmas.”
I grab hold of the chair back. “How did you know that?”
“I know everything, Matthew.”
“Is this a joke? How do you know my name?”
“No,” the man says. “It’s not a joke.”
The interview. It was for an assignment. Our teacher told us to interview and write an article about someone we knew, and, okay, I fudged. I waited until the last minute, so I made up a discussion I supposedly had with Jesus. She said it wasn’t acceptable, because we were to interview someone alive, someone we knew. And besides, my questions were totally superficial.
Oh really! “I do know him,” I had argued. “Give me one more chance.”
Her look spoke an emphatic, “No!” But then she turned. “Get a Christmas interview with Jesus, and if it’s decent, we’ll see.”
“Maybe you’d like to interview me now,” he says.
What kind of a get-up is a robe and sash, even for Christmas Eve? Is he supposed to be some kind of fit, new-age Santa—or Jesus?
“Wh. . .who are you?” I stammer. Afraid to stay, afraid to run, and especially fearful Jesus is here because I lied. About him! Whoever he is, the man’s aura has an undeniable sense of calm, and every good thing simultaneously, so much so that I cannot help but stay.
Could this be . . . “Is it really you?”
“Yes, I’m no new-age Santa,” he answers my unspoken sarcasm.
As he holds up his hands, I see the faint light through the puncture wounds in his palms, and my lower lip drops. Jesus? Two steps forward and my misgivings vaporize. Obvious holes!
My knees sort of buckle and a nervous tick I sometimes get over my left eye comes upon me. “Wait, I’ll be right back!” I run to get paper and pencil, afraid he’ll be gone when I return, but he isn’t. He’s smiling, telling me how he loves to spend time with me. In fact, he says he loves that I talk with him every morning and sometimes during the day.
“So, what did you want to ask me?” He settles back like there’s no place he’d rather be.
Guess I’m really going to do this. “Well, for one thing, I need to know about Christmas. I mean, I know the Christmas story about the angels, the manger, the wise men and shepherds coming to see the baby Jesus. . . uh, I mean, you.“
Jesus points to my paper and pencil. “You don’t need those.”
I toss them by my chair.
“You’ll remember every word of our conversation until you’re very old,” he says.
His eyes seem to burn into mine and I can’t stop gazing at Him. The need of his touch is so overpowering, I rush to the sofa as He arises. The fullness of His white garment and His ample arms fall around my shoulders like rings of love. I bawl like a baby, for what reason, I have no idea. When I pull away, he kisses one of my cheeks and then the other. “We are brothers, you know. Always talk to me.”
“It’s so good to see you in person.” I dry my eyes on my baggy tee shirt. “Millions of people would love this. Why me?”
“You’re one of only a handful of people who ever claimed to interview me, and since you didn’t, and you need to, I thought I’d keep you honest.” We both laugh.
When I sit down in Dad’s chair, he asks, “So what’s your first Christmas question, Matthew?”
“Well, tell me about the beginning, before Christmas, before everything,” I say, feeling the need to pinch myself, but ignoring it.
That’s easy. The beginning was before the world began. When there was just Father and me.”
“Wasn’t that lonely?”
“Oh no! Father and I are filled with a remarkable love. So regardless of what we’re doing or where we are, we love. And since we’ve created everyplace we go, we just enjoy our creations.” He actually flashes a mischievous grin, but I am too awestruck to return it.
“Did you live in heaven then?”
“Oh yes, of course, we needed a place to live.”
Of course he lived in heaven. What a stupid question.
“There’s no such thing as a stupid question.” Once again he answers my thoughts.
My eyes are as saucers. “What exactly do angels do? Are angels around us now?”
“Oh yes, angels surround us.” He gestures around the room and actually nods a couple of times. “Angels guide, engage, and protect my people—from themselves, from each other, and especially from Satan, the evil one. Angels have many wondrous attributes, one being their astounding beauty.”
I consider these glorious creatures, and finally say, “I know my questions aren’t really about Christmas; there’s just so much I want to know.”
“They are about Christmas.” His eyes twinkle like that other patron of Christmas. “You’ll see how it all works together.”
“Okay, then, tell me about when you or rather God, or, um, when humans were created?”
His eyes move heavenward and his body relaxes. “One day Father decided to create special beings he called people. They would have hearts and be in our image, and they would love us as we loved them.” His smile literally casts more light into the room. “So, day by day we began establishing what you know as the universe.”
“What about the people? Adam and Eve?” I ask.
“They’re coming.” He grins at me. “But first we had to create an environment they could live in—planets, moons, atmosphere, sun, stars . . . every vector in the galaxy had to be planned.”
I sit forward, riveted.
“Layer upon layer, we crafted, over more years than you can fathom. We were creating out of that deep vacuum spoken of in Genesis. ‘The earth was without form, and void; and darkness was on the face of the deep.’ He spreads his arms. The blackness was our blank canvas.”
The incredulity of His words nearly dwarf His presence.
“We set things up strategically, making sure it would all work together, and then, Bang! everything materialized as Father intended. He even fashioned a way we could ride intergalactic flows.” He smiles at what must have been a beautiful memory. “In that very beginning we had so much fun.”
I shake my head, mesmerized, so happy to be sitting here.
“Even for us, this was new. The Bible says that a day is as a thousand years, but that’s really just a number because before man, time didn’t exist. Suffice to say, your beginning is not Our beginning. And, time as you understand it began when the first humans, Adam and Eve, bit into the apple in the Garden of Eden. The first sin.” He stops. “Are you getting this?”
I nod. “Time began after Adam and Eve and sin.” I repeat His words. “An amazing statement. So many amazing statements! This will blow my teacher away.”
He smiles and continues, “Because the essence of Father and I are love, we never even postulated Sin in the Garden. Everything was perfect. Almost as magnificent as heaven: blue-green rivers, and oceans with crystal crests, glistening mountaintops, and long, lush valleys, and the blueness of an uninterrupted sky, dotted by perfectly visible galaxies, deficient of structures and pollution and even mankind.”
“It’s hard to imagine.” My thoughts race through my narrow band of travels. “Was it anything like Alaska?”
Jesus laughs. “Much nicer than even that. However, sin caused even the atmosphere to change. Father had given Adam and Eve only one small, now-famous tenet: Do not eat of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.” He lowers his head and I suspect that happens each time the Tree comes to mind.
“That Tree had to exist, because human beings had to be given a choice to obey Father. Or not. I remember Him saying, ‘I cannot force my will on them. I want them to love me simply because I love them. They must come to me as a gesture of our love for each other.’ And, if not for Satan’s deceptions, it would have worked.” Jesus looks away, remembering, no doubt, that time when Earth was paradise.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”
“Oh no. It’s okay.”
I shrug, not sure it is. “Can I get you anything?”
“Actually, I’d love something to eat.” He looks toward the kitchen. “Just something simple.”
I walk to the hearth. “How about some Santa cookies?”
He eyes me shyly. “Speaking of forbidden fruit. Those are for your dad?”
I walk the plate to him. “He’ll understand.” I make a face at the dollops of color. “Do you even want them? They’re heavy on icing.” Setting it on the sofa cushion, I go back for the milk.
He eyes the cookies. “The essence of Christmas,” he says, dryly.
“They’re awful looking, aren’t they?”
He takes a bite.
“One thing I don’t understand,” I say, setting the milk on a table by the sofa. “You said time didn’t exist. I thought time had always existed?”
“When earth was created, its axis rotated, which humans eventually hypothesized, then used as a gauge. However, in the early period, earth and the galaxies that surround it didn’t subsist in time as you understand it. They lived in God’s time, which is really outside of time.”
“It sounds plausible; it’s just mind blowing.” Something implausible—watching Jesus eat a cookie! He lifts the plate in my direction.
I shake my head.
“Go ahead,” he says. “You’re hungry.”
Two of three cookies are left. “I’ll have one,” I say, walking to retrieve it. “Since you don’t get my way very often.”
“I’m always here, Matthew. Holy Spirit alerts me every morning when you pray or when you need me. Just like with the interview.” He wipes his mouth with the cuff of his sleeve just like me. “But, you’re right, I don’t often come in the flesh. Speaking of flesh, let me explain the ‘time’ thing in a way you might understand.” He sips the milk and sort of swishes it in his mouth. “That Rudolph cookie was a little heavy on the sugar.”
I can’t believe He said that, and I’m sure I wear a stupid look. It’s just that He’s such a regular guy.
“Father created time all at once. One day it didn’t exist, the next, it did. Imagine a storybook with picture frames that continue through every second of every day. Except that this storybook has players—people—who are writing their own script. And while Father set the storybook in motion, he didn’t dictate what would happen in each frame, which serves as the seconds, hours, and years of a person’s earthly history. Father and I can look down into the frame and see what you’re doing—past, present, and future. If you’re making a huge mistake in June of next year, We set things in motion that could counteract the consequences of that wrong choice, always encouraging you to act in your best interest. Yet if you don’t listen, we don’t interfere.”
I nod, trying to imagine Jesus and Father God peeking down into my life as it fast forwards like movie screen on boxcars.
“And really, that’s the simple version,” he says. “Because, the fervent prayers of a righteous person can reverse anything.”
“That explains so much. I never understood it when people would say, God . . . well, you . . . knows our yesterday’s, today’s, and tomorrow’s.”
“I’m glad it’s clear to you.” He breaks the second cookie and brings me the largest half.
“Thank you, Jesus.” I bite into it. “But there’s another thing that isn’t clear.” I am chomping through my question. “You said time didn’t begin until after Adam and Eve sinned. I would’ve thought time began when you created earth.” I swallow hard.
“Time wasn’t needed then. Like heaven, earth was a Paradise outside of time. Adam and Eve were pure and Father actually walked side by side with them.”
His tone changes. “It’s difficult to understand the holiness of God.” A thoughtfulness comes over him and he hesitates. “God is detached from evil and sin; if you dwell in it, you’re separated from Him. And all mankind dwells in it. The Apostle John wrote that God is light and in Him there is no darkness.’ That’s true. We are moral perfection. Our hearts—our very beings—are light and love.
“After Adam and Eve became creatures of sin, Father was daily confronted with the thing He abhorred the most. Sin not only brought death into the future generations of his precious creation, but they were lost to him forever. He had to find a way to redeem them.”
His Christmas cookies gone, Jesus walks the dish to the fireplace. I wonder what Mother would think if she knew the Messiah, the true King of Christmas, had eaten Rudolph and half an elf on our best china.
“Mankind had no future.” He looks at the empty plate. “They were now as devoid of God as this plate is of cookies.” He places the china on the hearth and returns to the sofa. “To redeem mankind, Father came up with the time/frame concept, which put earth on a different plane, if you will, from heaven. Father no longer walked with man, but He could teach them about goodness and sin through ‘time.’ He did this by creating the laws of the Ten Commandments, which no one could fully obey. Not the Jews of latter day or the Gentiles of today.
“But there was icing on God’s plan of salvation. It wasn’t sugar coated like those cookies, that wasn’t possible. Sin had to die. And the only thing pure enough to remove it had to be as light and as white as a Christmas snow.”
“Enter you!” I pump my fist in the air. “Christ Jesus.”
He nodded. “As mankind’s Messiah, I was born to a woman and became human. My birth was prophesied throughout time in the Old Testament and revealed in the New Testament: God’s sinless Son would shed His blood for Godless men.”
“I’m sorry, Jesus.” I hang my head.
“Don’t be sorry. Be happy.” His tone is gently firm. “Now Father sees you through a filter of light, forever forgiven, and, once again, God’s friend. The New Covenant covering of my blood redeems all people back to Father, if only they believe.” His voice is now very soft. “Back to a holiness and love they previously couldn’t understand.”
“The gift of Christmas.”
“Yes,” He practically whispers.
“Jesus.” I whisper, too. “Thank you for Christmas, and for coming.”
“You’re welcome, Matthew.”
“Help me to be more like you.” I wrestle tears as I crawl down the sofa and throw my arms around his neck. “I’m so glad you came tonight.”
He kisses the top of my head as his arms encircle me.
“I love you so much,” I say, tears covering my face. “I know you love me and I’m just grateful for all you’ve done.”
“I know you are, son. I love you more than you know.”
I pull my tee-shirt up to wipe my eyes and nestle into his chest. “Thank you for all this, but I have one more question.”
“Okay, that’s why I’m here.”
“Tell me what happened that first Christmas in heaven, before you came to earth as a baby? I know the Christmas story of your parents, Joseph and Mary, and your birth, but what was it like in heaven—before you left?”
I feel a chuckle in his chest. “Well, first of all, we had a feast. Everything in heaven begins with a feast. The archangels Michael and Gabriel were there, other angels, the Seraphim and Cherubim. Father. It was grand. We love parties in heaven. Don’t let anyone say otherwise.” I pull back, beaming, to look at his face. Something about a heavenly party makes me smile.
“But, it was bittersweet,” he says. “I would be a fetus for nine months, not separated from Father, but not walking with Him either. And when I did surface, I would be a baby. But, I was excited to go, and Father wanted me to go. As I mentioned, He was anxious to have His beloved people in heaven and that couldn’t happen until we liberated them.”
“I’m grateful you came,” I say, “but if you had been my best friend, I’d have said, ‘Don’t do it!'”
“And I would have said, ‘Get thee behind me Satan.'” He sort of laughs and I try to remember the story he refers to.
“I said that to Peter,” he says, “one of my best friends. He told me I couldn’t die for mankind.”
“St. Peter. I remember now. Glad you didn’t listen.”
“Even back then, I knew you’d feel that way.” He nods knowingly and continues, “I longed to become human, and believe me I’d seen the future through time in the storybook frames, so I knew it would be agonizing. But, like Father, I wanted those who loved us to reside with us.” He pats my shoulder. “But, yes, I had reservations. I was, after all, the Son of God. I sat on a throne, exalted. Seraphim sang above me, ‘Holy, Holy Holy, is the Lord of hosts, the whole earth is full of His glory.’ And the building shook when I spoke and it filled with glorious smoke. It still does.”
“Wow! That sounds awesome.”
“I guess it is, but it isn’t some fantastic ritual. No. It’s a testimony to who we are and it portrays the pureness, the holiness of God.”
I crawl to the opposite end of the sofa, to see his face. “I can’t imagine going from heaven to earth. That’s backwards. No wonder you had reservations.” Facing Jesus, I pull my feet up in front of me. “You left a throne to be born in a barn, with a carpenter for a father. Nothing wrong with that, but it’s a long way from being the Son of God.”
“I would have done anything.” Jesus leans forward and rests his hands on his knees.
“Actually, you did everything possible–designing the universe, leaving heaven, dying horribly.” I hesitate. “But you got to choose your own mother.”
Jesus tilts his head and laughs. “Well, that’s only partially true. I agreed, but Father chose Mary. She was amazing. A perfect mother. Always knew exactly what to do. Even today, Father allows Mary’s vision to be seen around the world. People adore her, and so do I.”
“Matthew!” My dad calls from the stairs. “Do I hear you in there?”
“Dad!” I look at Jesus, stricken.
Jesus leans over and squeezes my foot. “Your interview is well complete.” He winks at me. “Now you understand, Matthew. Everything Father and I did, we did for you. For all of you. I love you, little brother. Merry Christmas.”
“I lov . . . “ My mouth flies open as Dad walks in. It is now officially Christmas morning.
“What are you doing in here?” He shuffles into the room in his slippers and pajamas. “Do you know what time it is?”
My eyes move from one corner of the room to another. His aura, His glow! He’s gone. Jesus! Be cool. “Hi, Dad.”
“Did I hear you talking to someone?” He’s carrying a poinsettia that he sits on the hearth.
I look at the opposite end of the sofa and glance around the room again, crestfallen. “I was talking to Jesus.” I shrug.
Dad sort of laughs as he looks at the empty cookie plate. “I suppose Jesus ate the cookies?”
“As a matter of fact . . .”
“Couldn’t sleep, huh?”
So glad I couldn’t. “No. Not really.
He walks over and musses my hair. “You still feeling cheated because you’re too old for Santa.”
“No!” I practically scream. “I have something so much better than Santa.” I look away, missing Jesus already, trying not to cry. “Jesus visited me tonight.”
“Well, I’m glad,” he says. “I just wish he’d left me a cookie.”
“Really, that’s what you care about?”
“Hey, bud, I’m just joking. I don’t care that you ate the cookies.”
“I don’t care about the cookies or the presents. I just wish people would think about who Jesus really is and what He did for us.”
Dad sits in his chair. “You really have been thinking about this.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Do you believe Jesus is like us?”
“Well,” my Dad hesitates. “He’s God, but He came to earth in an ordinary way to an ordinary family and worked an ordinary job for thirty years before starting His ministry. So, yes. I think He’s like us. And I think that was the whole idea. Now we know the person advocating for us in heaven has been here and done this just like us.”
“Can we do something special for Christmas this year? Something to honor Jesus for coming to earth as a baby.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Can we just love everybody? Maybe not say negative things about not even one person. Try to love even the people we don’t like.”
Dad walks to the sofa, sets beside me, and puts his arm behind my shoulders. “I think you’ve finally outgrown Santa,” he says. “I’m very proud of you. After what Jesus did for us, the least we can do is love those who are sometimes unlovable.” He hugs my shoulders.
I nuzzle against him. “Did you know God and Jesus sometimes get their feelings hurt?”
“Well, I never thought about it, but it makes sense,” he says.
I put my head on His shoulder. “The Virgin Mary was an awesome Mother. Did you know that?”
“Well, she does get a few accolades.” He pats my head and chuckles. “I’m beginning to think maybe you had a real conversation with Jesus.”
“He’s real, Dad.”
“Do you love Him?” I ask.
“With all my heart.”
“Good. I want you to be in heaven with me.”
“You sound pretty sure you’re going.” He musses my hair again.
“I am, Dad. I know how much Jesus loves me. He even knows I lied to my teacher about that interview, but He didn’t scold me. He actually helped me.”
“You spoke to Jesus about your botched assignment?” His voice rises with each syllable.
I shrug. “Well, yes. Sort of.”
“That’s good.” He’s thinking about something, I can tell. “One thing I hope you always remember, Matthew–Jesus is always with us, whether we see Him or not. And for all the cookies and presents in the world, the love of the Father through His Son Jesus Christ is the real gift of Christmas.”
“I know, Dad.” Tears flood my face and I throw my arms around his neck. “He did so much for us.”
“He certainly did, Matthew.” He hugs me tight. “I don’t understand what happened tonight, but I think I like it.”
When I pull back, a chime causes my head to turn toward the hearth. Nothing. Suddenly, as I’m wiping my tears, a mesmerizing light my dad doesn’t see moves up through the roof. Spellbound for a second, I finally point to the hearth. “Look, Dad!”
Dad turns and grins at me. “How’d you do that, Matthew?”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Well, someone did.”
I laugh, gregariously, loving the fact that the cookie plate is now piled with those awful green and red cookies. Loving Jesus.
“So, how’d you do that, Matthew?”
I look at my dad, wanting him to know the truth, but knowing he can’t accept it. “Some things a guy keeps to himself,” I say. “You taught me that.”
“That’s true,” he says, walking over and picking up the plate of cookies, offering me one.
“I got an elf,” I say, holding it for him to see.
He looks at his. “I got Santa.”
I crunch into my cookie and look up, up, wanting desperately to see Jesus, wishing I could see heaven. Choking back tears, I am humbled and overwhelmed, like I’d wished on a star and received every Christmas miracle imaginable. I silently pray: “I’m so grateful you made me an honest boy, Big Brother. Thank you for coming tonight . . . and for coming before. And, Jesus, thanks for the cookies, too.”
“So, you ready to help me set out Santa presents?” Dad has already downed his cookie.
“Dad, I can’t believe I was so upset about Santa when I had Jesus all along.”
Dad puts his hand on my back. “I love you, Matthew. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, Dad. I love you too.”
Karyn Cantees Stagg