Santa in Overalls
Luke 2:7 And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.
With these words Luke tells of a high and holy night—a night when a girl, who was little more than a child, gave birth to the everlasting God; the night of the world’s first Christmas; and the night when an entire universe revolved around one tiny baby lying in a Bethlehem manger.
Now, some 2000 years later I fear Christmas no longer revolves around the Bethlehem miracle. Instead, many have become so focused on the need to purchase gifts and plan or attend parties that they have little time to think on that holy night of long ago. Truly, it sometimes seems that for some celebrating Christmas has become the act of celebrating a day on the calendar while for others celebrating it as Christ’s birthday makes them just plain uncomfortable. Just thinking about our changing attitude concerning Christmas can sometimes make me wonder, “Are we losing Christmas?”
Then I remember once again that Christmas is not man’s to lose. We can abuse its Spirit; we can profane its meaning, but it is not within our power to lose its miracle. Its miracle was ordained even before the world was formed, and will live on even after time as we know it has ended. No, man cannot lose Christmas, for Christmas is God’s gift—a gift that allows the warm and tender memories of past Christmases to become time capsules of blessing—blessings which embraces the hopes and dreams of all eternity; and blessings which enrich our Christmas tree of faith.
While the miracle that is Christmas is beyond my ability to describe in mere words, perhaps a little story describing one time capsule of blessings from a Christmas past will help. It is a true story, adapted from one told by a young girl growing up on the South Plains of Texas.
Her name was Ima Jean Merick, the year was l918, and she was ten years old. She lived with her family on a small rural farm tucked away in the Northwest corner of the South Plains of Texas. The nearest town was Lamesa, more than 18 miles away; and it was hardly a spec in that great expanse of land and sky. Yet, isolated as they were, by the standards of the day the family was doing well and they were content with what they had—the land, food, enough water for the family, the livestock, and their little farm.
However, in spite of their isolation they were not immune from a dark cloud hovering over the nation. It was the Great War which was raging in far-off Europe. Thankfully, the War was finally winding down and husbands and sons will at long last be coming home. But while peace seemed to lie just over the horizon, in that fall of 1918 countless men and boys continued to know the war’s awful horror. The angry sound of gunfire could still be heard both day and night; mighty shells still fell from the heavens leaving as their witness huge holes in soil that once yielded rich harvests; and the fear that mustard gas might once again invade their muddy trenches was never far from the soldier’s thoughts.
Having experienced some of war’s most brutal conditions, those huddled in their trenches felt sure it just couldn’t get any worse. But it did—for from pockets scattered across the globe, a scourge was beginning to surface. At first, it seemed as benign as the common cold; but it soon revealed its true nature—a monster mysteriously freed from shackles which had previously harnessed its fury. It went by many names—the Spanish influenza, the Great Pandemic, the Grippe, or just the flu.
No one seemed to know where it originated, but wherever it surfaced, terror walked as its companion. In just two years, it infected a fifth of the world’s population. Although it seemed to favor as its victims the young and healthy, it was no respecter of nationality or social class, killing countless numbers as they lay in their beds sweltering with burning fever. It began excruciating headaches, turned its victim’s skin the color of wet ashes as it filled their lungs with suffocating fluid.
Rich and poor, rural and city, mother and child, soldier and civilian all stood as equals before its onslaught; and as a result of its visit many here and abroad also died as equals. It became a global disaster, becoming the most devastating epidemic in recorded history. In a single year, more people died from its assault than died during the four years the Bubonic Plague afflicted Europe.
To keep from becoming a victim, some carried a raw potato in a pocket and some wore an onion tied to a string slung round their neck. They were told to avoid crowds and when out to wear a gauze masks over their face and nose. Sadly, none of these worked, for in spite of all they did to protect themselves 50 million worldwide died of the virus, almost six times the nine million who perished in the Great War. Of the U.S. soldiers who died on the battlefields of Europe, half fell to this killer, and its havoc was not restricted to the battlefields of Europe, for in this country it killed almost 200,000 in October of 1918 alone.
When Ima Jean’s Papa had to go to Big Spring on business, there was little doubt that he would be exposed to the Spanish Influenza. He had to travel in a wagon, and the fear of catching the Spanish Influenza rode beside him as an unwelcome companion. Finally, looking down the road, the family saw his wagon as he returned from Big Spring. The entire family ran out to welcome him home, but as he slowly climbed down from the wagon, it was apparent that he was gravely ill. The Spanish Influenza had invaded their part of Texas.
They helped him from the wagon and into bed, but they hardly knew what else to do, for they had no medicine to give him, not even aspirin. There were no telephones to call the doctor, and even if they had had a telephone, there was but one doctor in the entire county—and doctors seemed helpless when faced with this ruthless killer. During his illness, his wife took care of him the best she could, using whatever home remedies she had at hand. With the older children helping inside and out, the family somehow managed.
Mr. Merick was ill for many days, but at last, his fever broke. However, as he began to recover, the rest of the family, one by one became ill, even the baby. And to make things even worse, winter was unusually bitter that year. To hear the cold wind whistling around the corners of our house caused the family to feel truly grateful for even the small warmth coming from their two wood stoves. Although Mr. Merick was still very weak from the after-effects of the flu, he still had to take care of his family as well as milk the cows and feed the chickens and the hogs. And time after time, the water in the horse trough would freeze, and he would have to use an ax to break the ice so the animals could drink. It seemed he was always carrying wood from the woodpile to the cast iron stove in the kitchen and the pot-bellied stove in the living room, for together they burned large amounts of wood just to cook and keep the house warmer. And in addition to his farm chores and his nursing duties, he had to feed the family, using the fruits and vegetables his wife had put up and stored in the cellar.
After many days of unending cold and continuing sickness, Christmas came at last. However, this year there would be no tree to brighten the home, no turkey and dressing for Christmas dinner, and even if the children had been very good, there would be no gifts or toys. However, although Mr. Merick was still very weak and the rest of the family just beginning to feel better, they seemed to realize they were getting better and would live. Knowing none would die from the dread Spanish Influenza, Christmas trees, turkeys, and even gifts no longer seemed all that unimportant. They had been given the gift of life—and even more important they realized that life is truly one of God’s greatest gifts.
When Christmas morning finally dawned, it seemed to the family to be the most magnificent day in all creation. The wind had died down during the night, and the sunlight glistening on the snow looked like millions of diamonds. One by one, each of them crawled from their bed, wrapped quilts around their shoulders, and made their way to the warmth coming from the old pot-bellied stove. Then, looking out the window at the beauty of our snow covered world, one of the boys saw something moving out there in the snow. Was it an animal? Was it a person? At first it was too far away to decide, but as it came closer, we recognized our neighbor, Mr. Graham, who lived more than five south to the south. Mr. Graham was bundled up in layers of clothing and carried a large bucket in each hand. Literally kicking his way through snow, 12 to 15 inches deep, he slowly approached the gate.
By the time he reached and let down the wire gate, Mr. Merick was bundled up and standing on the front porch to greet him. From the gate Mr. Graham called out, “Mr. Merick is everybody alright?” “Yes,” was the reply, “We’re going to make it.”
“Do you have plenty of fire wood?” Mr. Graham asked. “Yes,” Ima Jean’s Papa replied. Then Mr. Graham called out, “I’m going to set these pails of food down by the gate. My wife has cooked Christmas dinner for the family. If you’re sure you don’t need me, I’ll leave them here and back away. You can get them when I leave. However, if you need help in any way, I’ll come in.”
Upon receiving assurance that the family was alright, Mr. Graham turned and began his shuffling, snow kicking journey the five miles back to his home. The Merick family never forgot the Christmas dinner they enjoyed that year. We would never have had such a sumptuous meal if a caring neighbor had not walked five miles through deep snow to bring it to us. It was years later when it suddenly occurred to Ima Jean that both Mr. and Mrs. Graham had given up Christmas Day with their family so the Mericks could have Christmas. Mrs. Graham to cook the meal and Mr. Graham to walk the ten miles required to deliver it. And on that cold snowy Christmas morning, little Ima Jean saw the hope and encouragement this world so needs, and the selfless love that is such a vital part of Christmas.
A little girl in the East named Virginia once wrote to a newspaper columnist asking, “Is Santa Claus real?” When telling the story of that long-ago Christmas, little Ima Jean who had now grown up to become a pastor’s wife, would say, “Over the years I have often wished I could have answered her. I would have said, “Yes, Virginia, Santa Claus is real. I know he is real because I saw him. He didn’t ride in a sleigh pulled by eight tiny reindeer; but he walked more than five miles through knee-deep snow. He wasn’t dressed in a red velvet suit trimmed in white fur; but was dressed in layer upon layer of clothing so he could keep out the bitter cold. He wasn’t wearing shiny black boots; but to protect his feet and legs from the heavy snow he had to walk through, he wore heavy work boots covered with toe sacks tied just below his knees. And he didn’t carry a sack of toys flung onto his back; but he carried two large buckets in his work-hardened hands—buckets of food his wife had prepared for a sick and needy family who were victims of the Spanish influenza.
Yes, Virginia, Santa Claus is real. I know because I saw him one cold Christmas morning when he risked his own well-being to make sure that by family would have a merry Christmas.”
Luke 2:7 And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.
With these words Luke tells of a high and holy night—a night when a girl, who was little more than a child, gave birth to the everlasting God; the night of the world’s first Christmas; and the night when an entire universe revolved around one tiny baby lying in a Bethlehem manger.
Now, some 2000 years later I fear Christmas no longer revolves around the Bethlehem miracle. Instead, many have become so focused on the need to purchase gifts and plan or attend parties that they have little time to think on that holy night of long ago. Truly, it sometimes seems that for some celebrating Christmas has become the act of celebrating a day on the calendar while for others celebrating it as Christ’s birthday makes them just plain uncomfortable. Just thinking about our changing attitude concerning Christmas can sometimes make me wonder, “Are we losing Christmas?”
Then I remember once again that Christmas is not man’s to lose. We can abuse its Spirit; we can profane its meaning, but it is not within our power to lose its miracle. Its miracle was ordained even before the world was formed, and will live on even after time as we know it has ended. No, man cannot lose Christmas, for Christmas is God’s gift—a gift that allows the warm and tender memories of past Christmases to become time capsules of blessing—blessings which embraces the hopes and dreams of all eternity; and blessings which enrich our Christmas tree of faith.
While the miracle that is Christmas is beyond my ability to describe in mere words, perhaps a little story describing one time capsule of blessings from a Christmas past will help. It is a true story, adapted from one told by a young girl growing up on the South Plains of Texas.
Her name was Ima Jean Merick, the year was l918, and she was ten years old. She lived with her family on a small rural farm tucked away in the Northwest corner of the South Plains of Texas. The nearest town was Lamesa, more than 18 miles away; and it was hardly a spec in that great expanse of land and sky. Yet, isolated as they were, by the standards of the day the family was doing well and they were content with what they had—the land, food, enough water for the family, the livestock, and their little farm.
However, in spite of their isolation they were not immune from a dark cloud hovering over the nation. It was the Great War which was raging in far-off Europe. Thankfully, the War was finally winding down and husbands and sons will at long last be coming home. But while peace seemed to lie just over the horizon, in that fall of 1918 countless men and boys continued to know the war’s awful horror. The angry sound of gunfire could still be heard both day and night; mighty shells still fell from the heavens leaving as their witness huge holes in soil that once yielded rich harvests; and the fear that mustard gas might once again invade their muddy trenches was never far from the soldier’s thoughts.
Having experienced some of war’s most brutal conditions, those huddled in their trenches felt sure it just couldn’t get any worse. But it did—for from pockets scattered across the globe, a scourge was beginning to surface. At first, it seemed as benign as the common cold; but it soon revealed its true nature—a monster mysteriously freed from shackles which had previously harnessed its fury. It went by many names—the Spanish influenza, the Great Pandemic, the Grippe, or just the flu.
No one seemed to know where it originated, but wherever it surfaced, terror walked as its companion. In just two years, it infected a fifth of the world’s population. Although it seemed to favor as its victims the young and healthy, it was no respecter of nationality or social class, killing countless numbers as they lay in their beds sweltering with burning fever. It began excruciating headaches, turned its victim’s skin the color of wet ashes as it filled their lungs with suffocating fluid.
Rich and poor, rural and city, mother and child, soldier and civilian all stood as equals before its onslaught; and as a result of its visit many here and abroad also died as equals. It became a global disaster, becoming the most devastating epidemic in recorded history. In a single year, more people died from its assault than died during the four years the Bubonic Plague afflicted Europe.
To keep from becoming a victim, some carried a raw potato in a pocket and some wore an onion tied to a string slung round their neck. They were told to avoid crowds and when out to wear a gauze masks over their face and nose. Sadly, none of these worked, for in spite of all they did to protect themselves 50 million worldwide died of the virus, almost six times the nine million who perished in the Great War. Of the U.S. soldiers who died on the battlefields of Europe, half fell to this killer, and its havoc was not restricted to the battlefields of Europe, for in this country it killed almost 200,000 in October of 1918 alone.
When Ima Jean’s Papa had to go to Big Spring on business, there was little doubt that he would be exposed to the Spanish Influenza. He had to travel in a wagon, and the fear of catching the Spanish Influenza rode beside him as an unwelcome companion. Finally, looking down the road, the family saw his wagon as he returned from Big Spring. The entire family ran out to welcome him home, but as he slowly climbed down from the wagon, it was apparent that he was gravely ill. The Spanish Influenza had invaded their part of Texas.
They helped him from the wagon and into bed, but they hardly knew what else to do, for they had no medicine to give him, not even aspirin. There were no telephones to call the doctor, and even if they had had a telephone, there was but one doctor in the entire county—and doctors seemed helpless when faced with this ruthless killer. During his illness, his wife took care of him the best she could, using whatever home remedies she had at hand. With the older children helping inside and out, the family somehow managed.
Mr. Merick was ill for many days, but at last, his fever broke. However, as he began to recover, the rest of the family, one by one became ill, even the baby. And to make things even worse, winter was unusually bitter that year. To hear the cold wind whistling around the corners of our house caused the family to feel truly grateful for even the small warmth coming from their two wood stoves. Although Mr. Merick was still very weak from the after-effects of the flu, he still had to take care of his family as well as milk the cows and feed the chickens and the hogs. And time after time, the water in the horse trough would freeze, and he would have to use an ax to break the ice so the animals could drink. It seemed he was always carrying wood from the woodpile to the cast iron stove in the kitchen and the pot-bellied stove in the living room, for together they burned large amounts of wood just to cook and keep the house warmer. And in addition to his farm chores and his nursing duties, he had to feed the family, using the fruits and vegetables his wife had put up and stored in the cellar.
After many days of unending cold and continuing sickness, Christmas came at last. However, this year there would be no tree to brighten the home, no turkey and dressing for Christmas dinner, and even if the children had been very good, there would be no gifts or toys. However, although Mr. Merick was still very weak and the rest of the family just beginning to feel better, they seemed to realize they were getting better and would live. Knowing none would die from the dread Spanish Influenza, Christmas trees, turkeys, and even gifts no longer seemed all that unimportant. They had been given the gift of life—and even more important they realized that life is truly one of God’s greatest gifts.
When Christmas morning finally dawned, it seemed to the family to be the most magnificent day in all creation. The wind had died down during the night, and the sunlight glistening on the snow looked like millions of diamonds. One by one, each of them crawled from their bed, wrapped quilts around their shoulders, and made their way to the warmth coming from the old pot-bellied stove. Then, looking out the window at the beauty of our snow covered world, one of the boys saw something moving out there in the snow. Was it an animal? Was it a person? At first it was too far away to decide, but as it came closer, we recognized our neighbor, Mr. Graham, who lived more than five south to the south. Mr. Graham was bundled up in layers of clothing and carried a large bucket in each hand. Literally kicking his way through snow, 12 to 15 inches deep, he slowly approached the gate.
By the time he reached and let down the wire gate, Mr. Merick was bundled up and standing on the front porch to greet him. From the gate Mr. Graham called out, “Mr. Merick is everybody alright?” “Yes,” was the reply, “We’re going to make it.”
“Do you have plenty of fire wood?” Mr. Graham asked. “Yes,” Ima Jean’s Papa replied. Then Mr. Graham called out, “I’m going to set these pails of food down by the gate. My wife has cooked Christmas dinner for the family. If you’re sure you don’t need me, I’ll leave them here and back away. You can get them when I leave. However, if you need help in any way, I’ll come in.”
Upon receiving assurance that the family was alright, Mr. Graham turned and began his shuffling, snow kicking journey the five miles back to his home. The Merick family never forgot the Christmas dinner they enjoyed that year. We would never have had such a sumptuous meal if a caring neighbor had not walked five miles through deep snow to bring it to us. It was years later when it suddenly occurred to Ima Jean that both Mr. and Mrs. Graham had given up Christmas Day with their family so the Mericks could have Christmas. Mrs. Graham to cook the meal and Mr. Graham to walk the ten miles required to deliver it. And on that cold snowy Christmas morning, little Ima Jean saw the hope and encouragement this world so needs, and the selfless love that is such a vital part of Christmas.
A little girl in the East named Virginia once wrote to a newspaper columnist asking, “Is Santa Claus real?” When telling the story of that long-ago Christmas, little Ima Jean who had now grown up to become a pastor’s wife, would say, “Over the years I have often wished I could have answered her. I would have said, “Yes, Virginia, Santa Claus is real. I know he is real because I saw him. He didn’t ride in a sleigh pulled by eight tiny reindeer; but he walked more than five miles through knee-deep snow. He wasn’t dressed in a red velvet suit trimmed in white fur; but was dressed in layer upon layer of clothing so he could keep out the bitter cold. He wasn’t wearing shiny black boots; but to protect his feet and legs from the heavy snow he had to walk through, he wore heavy work boots covered with toe sacks tied just below his knees. And he didn’t carry a sack of toys flung onto his back; but he carried two large buckets in his work-hardened hands—buckets of food his wife had prepared for a sick and needy family who were victims of the Spanish influenza.
Yes, Virginia, Santa Claus is real. I know because I saw him one cold Christmas morning when he risked his own well-being to make sure that by family would have a merry Christmas.”
