All About Christmas

[Guest guest]

I hoe this doesn't offend anyone.

>Seeing Jesus

>by

>

>

>In 1962 I was preaching in Indianapolis, Indiana. I was single,

>and it was Christmas time. I was headed home to Michigan to

>enjoy the holidays with my family. It was an extremely cold

>day, and it was snowing. The wind was howling out of the

>North, blowing thick clouds of fine flakes across the

>road - it looked like a blizzard. The roads were icy in

>places, and there was little traffic. Somewhere near

>Ft. Wayne, Indiana, I saw a soldier standing under an overpass.

>He had a green army cap pulled as tight and low as possible

>over his head, his collar was pulled up around his ears, his

>hands were shoved down in his pockets, and he had a stuffed

>duffel bag standing beside him.

>

>I was driving a Chevrolet Corvette, and I was going very

>fast - faster than I should have been, considering the road

>conditions. As I sped by, the soldier jerked one hand out of

>his pocket and raised his thumb. My Corvette had two

>seats - not a front and back seat, but two seats side by

>side - and I was in one of them. The trunk was big enough to

>hold three loaves of bread and a pound of lunch meat. Not

>only was my limited trunk space stuffed full with the

>clothes and boots I would need for my stay in Michigan, the

>front seat was stacked high as well, with the presents that

>I had purchased for my folks and my nieces and nephews.

>

>When I saw the soldier, I was going much too fast to stop,

>and I was well down the highway before I gave it much

>thought. I told myself that I couldn't possibly get him and

>his duffel bag in the car - I debated about the terrible

>inconvenience and delay it would cause if I did, and by the

>time I decided that perhaps I ought to at least offer to

>help, I was two miles down the road and out of sight. But

>my Christian conscience really went to work on me. It was so

>cold, traffic was almost nonexistent - he was a soldier -

>and it was Christmas. The inner battle raged for another

>three miles. Finally, I decided I would never get any peace

>unless I offered to help, so I made a U-turn and went back.

>I hoped with all my heart that someone else had picked him

>up. That way, I could satisfy my conscience and not be

>inconvenienced -

>wouldn't that be great?

>

>But he was still there, looking more forlorn, lonely, and

>cold than ever. I was disgusted. I pulled up and rolled

>down the window. He came running, stumbling on his numb feet,

>dragging the duffel bag. He leaned over and stuck his head

>in the window. His face was bluish, his teeth were

>chattering, his eyebrows and eyelashes were matted with

>frozen snow, and he could scarcely speak intelligibly.

>

> " Thanks so much for stopping, " he said. " I had about given

>up hope. "

>

>That was not what I wanted to hear.

>

> " Where are you going? " I asked, hoping that it was in

>some direction that would alleviate me from further

>responsibility.

>

> " I live in Michigan, in Township, " he said

>hopefully. That was really discouraging. It wasn't directly

>on my may, but it wasn't too much out of my way either.

>

> " I'm going to Royal Oak, " I said reluctantly.

> " Oh, " he said, " I know where that is. That's great! If I

>could just ride with you to Ann Arbor, it would mean a lot

>to me. I'm almost frozen; I can't feel my ears or feet any

>more, " he said plaintively.

>

> " I don't think I can possibly get both you and your things

>in, " I said.

>

> " If you'll let me, I'll get in - I promise you. I've been

>standing here for three hours. "

>

>I told him to try getting in, and we began rearranging

>things. The duffel bag was almost as big as he was, and

>there was only one place for it - the passenger seat.

>No matter how he put it in the car, he couldn't get in

>himself. I suggested that maybe he could hide it somewhere

>and come back for it later. He said he couldn't possibly do

>that; it had his kids' Christmas presents in it, and he

>wasn't going anywhere without it. I finally got out, walked

>around the car, and told him to sit in the passenger seat.

>As he sat there, I wedged the duffel bag between his legs

>and between the floor and the roof of the car, I sandwiched

>all of my presents around him - and I slammed the door. He

>couldn't move, he couldn't see out either the windshield or

>his side window - but he was in. I still don't know how we

>did it.

>

>Once he began to get warm, he began to talk. I found out

>he was stationed at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri.

>

> " Didn't I see you go by about five minutes ago? " he asked.

>I really felt stupid.

>

> " Yes, " I said very matter-of-factly.

>

> " You mean you turned around and came back? " I nodded an

>affirmative.

>

> " Why would you do that? " I paused a long moment.

>

> " Well, you see, I was raised in a home where helping

>people who were in need was very important. In addition,

>I'm a minister - actually, it's more than that- I'm a

>Christian, and if it weren't for that, I'd probably still

>be going. I have as hard a time doing the right thing as

>most folks. I fought with this decision for five miles -

>it's Jesus who makes me do things like turn around and come

>back. When I don't do the right thing, I have this feeling

>He's looking at me, and He's so disappointed that I can't

>stand it.

>

> " Oh! " he said. " you don't know how that convicts me. I'm

>going to tell you something I never thought I'd tell

>anybody. I'm no Christian, but my wife is the best person

>in the whole world, and she goes to church all the time and

>takes the kids. Truthfully, I've done everything I could to

>discourage her, but she just keeps going. She's all the time

>trying to get me to go, telling me that someday I'm going to

>wish I had. "

>

> " Do you know why I'm here hitchhiking? Let me tell you a

>little story. I was turned down for holiday leave because I

>got drunk and caused some trouble at the base. I was sick

>about it. I haven't seen my wife and kids for six months. A

>friend of mine, who's single, found out at the last minute

>that his folks were coming to visit some relatives who live

>close to the base during the holidays. He went to our

>commanding officer and volunteered to take my duty, if he

>would let me go home. "

>

> " He gave me permission, but I had spent all my money

>buying presents, which I was going to mail home, so I

>decided to start hitchhiking. My family doesn't even know

>I'm coming. I wasn't sure I'd make it, and I didn't want

>to disappoint them. I've been standing there for three

>hours, thinking. I watched folKs drive by, and it occurred

>to me that some of them must be Christians, and it made me

>feel pretty bitter - until I got to thinking about what a

>lousy person I am, and I knew if I was them, that I probably

>wouldn't stop either. "

>

> " Let me tell you something embarrassing - I got so cold,

>so lonely, and so desperate that I started to pray - honest

>to God I did - it was so humiliating. I told God that if he

>would help me, I'd do better. And you know what? About that

>time you showed up, and you told me that you came back

>because of Jesus - now what do you make of that? "

>

> " Well, first I'd say that maybe there's more to

>Christianity than either of us thought, and second, I'd say

>you'd better start doing better. "

>

>I found out exactly where he lived, and we agreed that I

>could get him pretty close before I had to go in another

>direction. I think I knew what I was going to do long before

>I actually said anything. As we approached the intersection

>where I was going to let him out, I told him that I had made

>up my mind to take him home.

>

>About two hours later, we pulled up in his driveway. It was

>almost dark. He was really excited. He asked me to blow my

>horn, and I did. A few minutes passed, and the inside door

>opened slowly. The glass in the outside door was frosted

>over, and whoever was looking out could only tell that there

>was a car in the driveway. The outside door opened, and a

>five- or six-year old, barefooted boy peeked around the

>door. When he saw my sports car, he came out on the porch

>and peered intently at us. His dad opened the door and

>stepped out.

>

> " Hi, , it's Daddy; I'm home for Christmas! "

>

>He started to say more, but the boy had seen the uniform

>and heard the voice. The boy's face lit up, and he turned

>back into the house. I could hear him distinctly - " Mama,

>Daddy's home, " he yelled shrilly. " Daddy's Home! Mama! Mama!

>Daddy's home for Christmas! "

>

>The door opend again, and it didn't open slowly this

>time - it was thrown open. A woman dressed in a bathrobe

>and house slippers came running down the steps, her hair

>flying in the wind, oblivious to the snow and the cold, eyes

>and mouth opened wide with excitement, with joy etched in

>every line of her face. " Oh, Carl, " she said, " Oh, Carl,

>you're home. Praise God, you're home. The kids and I have

>been praying every day that, somehow, God would send you

>home. "

>

>She was followed by a skinny, fair-haired, ten-year-old

>girl and finally by a tow-headed, blanket-toting, two- or

>three-year-old girl. They kissed and hugged and laughed and

>cried, and they danced in the cold and the snow until the

>soldier finally disentangled himself from them long enough

>to introduce me.

>

> " This is , " he said. " He's a minister and he's also a

>Christian; and if it wasn't for him, I wouldn't be here.

>And I'm going to tell you something, Sandy, right here and

>now. I told that I had promised God that I was going to

>do better, and I am. I'm going to stop drinking, be a better

>husband, a better father - a better man - and we're going to

>start going to church together. "

>

>I have never witnessed such gratitude in my life. They all

>had to hug me and kiss me - even the two-year-old - and they

>told me what a blessing I was to them and that they owed me

>a debt thay could never pay. I was so embarassed, because I

>was so unworthy. I had grudged the whole thing until after

>we had started talking. I wanted to tell them that I didn't

>deserve any thanks. I tried to leave, but they simply

>wouldn't allow it. I had to go in the house. I had to eat

>something and drink something; I had to accept a gift from

>them - yes, I had to. They would not allow me not to, and

>the more they did, the better and the worse I felt.

>

>I was so embarassed. You know why? I had just witnessed

>something private - a family thing - something I wasn't

>part of - something not meant for outsiders - and, yes, I

>was - I was embarassed. And you know what else? I envied

>Carl. I thought that it must be wonderful beyond description

>to be loved by a woman like that and missed like that and

>to be so unworthy - and I think Carl was just beginning to

>understand what he had. I have learned since then that only

>those who have come to know and feel the love of God can

>love the unworthy - and I have also learned that we are all

>unworthy.

>

>Carl was home. I think that at that moment, home meant

>more to him, perhaps, than it would ever mean again. And

>when I got to my home and saw my folks and told them why I

>was late, they were so proud of me - and I was a little

>proud of myself. Home was somehow brighter, warmer, more

>dear to me than it had ever been before.

>

>Every human longing - bound up in the inherent yearning

>to be loved and to be " home " and to experience the peace and

>security that " home " signifies - has found its fulfillment

>in Jesus who said, " I go to prepare a place for you. "

>Everything we ever dreamed of home being - what it was or

>was not - is in that place. Jesus has given purpose, even to

>the dream of death, because for those who know God - that is

>the way home.

>

> " How silently, how silently,

>the wondrous gift is given.

>So God imparts to human hearts,

>the blessings of His heaven.

>No ear may hear His coming,

>but in this world of sin,

>Where meek souls will receive Him still,

>the dear Christ enters in. "

>

>Jesus comes to us in many ways. He came to me in the

>form of a freezing soldier trying to get home for Christmas.

>He came to a freezing soldier in the form of a young

>minister trying to find his way to God. Either one of us

>could have missed Him.

>

>Jesus will come to you this Christmas too, and His

>coming will be in an unexpected way -

>don't miss him.