It’s that time of year when we contemplate the miraculous birth of Jesus Christ. After thousands of years struggling in the darkness, man gets to come face to face with his maker, who takes on flesh. You know the rest of the story. Unspeakable tragedy followed by unspeakable joy.
Before I decide to write my Christmas column, I like to review some of the ones from the past. Usually, I decide to write something new. But this time, this column from 2008 — 17 years ago — caught my eye. It is as follows:
A blink of the eye and it’s Christmas time again. Indeed, the years are flying by. I want time to stand still, but it’s not obeying my commands.
Our children are 11, 10 and six. We are still in the Santa sweet spot, but not for much longer. This realization has been giving me moments of bittersweet. Like country singer Trace Adkins croons, “You can’t wait for them to grow up, then they do.”
Once again, the Elf on the Shelf has captivated the Emmerich household. The little elf doll stays perched in our house all day long, but at night he flies back to the North Pole to report to Santa. When he returns in the morning, he is perched in a new spot.
Each morning the children bound out of bed to search for Roger F. (named after the tennis great) on his new perch. Many nights the kids will leave Roger F. a treat and he always writes a note of thanks (although his spelling is poor because elves never were the best students).
I don’t know who’s zooming whom, but I’ll take every nanosecond I can get of Christmas magic.
The tree is decorated. The shopping is done. The letters to Santa are written. Now is the time to relax, listen to Christmas songs and enjoy the blessings. Don’t forget about the greatest Christmas gift of all: the Holy Spirit, which is more vital to our survival than bread and water.
Thank you all for subscribing and advertising. It is such a blessing that I can live this life here in God’s country among the faithful.
I received this letter by e-mail this week. It’s a good holiday message. Having a red-haired, freckle-faced boy myself, the letter brought a tear to my eye.
Dear Editor:
Wyatt Emmerich is the son of my classmate and longtime friend, J.O. We were both members of the Centenary Methodist Church in McComb, Mississippi. When this occurred. I am sure other church members remember the plea from the pastor to take an orphan into your home for Christmas. I wish I could locate Red Jim. Maybe publishing this story will refresh his or some of his family’s memories. It is a good Christmas story like the one by O. Henry that all of us remember.
Sincerely,
Jeannine H. Tate
1618 Birdie Drive
Zachary, La. 70791
225-654-8871
Red Jim
During the depression about 1940, my parents decided to have an orphan spend the Christmas holidays with us. My brother was about six and I was 11. The boy from the Methodist Orphans Home in Jackson, Mississippi, may have been 10. Our family was very excited to share Christmas with him. He told us to call him ‘Red Jim’ and with a face full of freckles and a head of red hair, it was most appropriate. Now during the depression, a child asked for one special gift from Santa Claus and then hoped and prayed he would get it. Neither my brother, Bill, nor I remember what we asked for or what we got; it was unimportant. What we do remember is everything about Red Jim; such as what he wanted and why and what happened Christmas day.
Red Jim asked for four things and he got all of them. First, he wanted a jar of real mayonnaise, all his own. Second, he needed a flashlight to light his way to the bathroom. Third, he wanted a pocketknife because he remembered his Dad had one, and last of all he wanted a real football so he and his friends could play at the home.
On Christmas morning, there under the tree, in our cold living room, was everything he had asked for. How excited he was. By noon, he had eaten the mayonnaise, one tablespoonful at a time; so he wasn’t hungry for Christmas dinner. He played with his football, and then he wanted to see how sharp his knife was. It was very sharp as he stabbed and punctured his football. Daddy had to take the knife away. Then when he was warned to turn off the flashlight, he wouldn’t. Naturally by night the batteries had burned out. (Thank goodness my daddy had spares.) All of us were so sorry for Red Jim because we couldn’t repair his football. He had everything he wanted and by night it was all gone or broken.
We will never forget this Christmas. When we took him back to the orphanage, Daddy returned the knife and we even had him another jar of mayonnaise, the real thing. Red Jim had learned a lot of lessons. We often wonder where he is and if he remembers this as the special Christmas that it was to him and our family.
Merry Christmas,
Darrell and Jeannine
