Once upon a time there was a young boy who struggled to find the perfect Christmas gift for his father. A mail-order tie from the Sears & Roebuck catalogue just didn’t seem to be the answer. Living on a small farm in the midst of the Great Depression with its shortage of cash money made Christmas shopping all the more difficult. He loved his father but sometimes felt that he was an overly stern, unyielding man.
Every morning at 4:00 a.m. sharp his father would rap on the door of the boy’s attic bedroom and urge him to get moving—rain, snow, sleet or cold—out of his warm bed and into the cold barn in order to help feed and milk the cows, change out their straw, strain and pour the milk into the milk cans and set them out to be picked up by the dairy wagon. Then there were chickens to feed and eggs to gather. Every morning the boy would complain, “Can’t I sleep just a few minutes longer?” It was hard for a boy so young.
And yet, what could he get for his father? His wise mother reassured her son that he was loved by his father and suggested that perhaps the best gifts were not always things that could be wrapped and placed under a tree. Sometimes the best gift is the gift of self. He pondered that a long time and then made a plan.
On Christmas Eve, before going to bed, the boy set his alarm clock for 3:00 a.m. and placed it under his pillow where it could be heard only by him. He slept but little that long cold night. It seemed as if he checked the time every few minutes and when 3:00 o’clock arrived he had already turned off the alarm and was getting dressed. He went quietly down the stairs, avoiding the squeaky steps, and proceeded through the frozen, crusted snow to the barn. He lit the lantern and set to work.
The boy worked as if on a mission. He quickly fed and milked the cows, picked up the old straw and forked out new clean straw. He strained the milk into the cans and with great difficulty—they were heavy for one so young—he set the cans out to be picked up by the dairy wagon. After gathering the eggs he hustled back into the house, up to his room—again avoiding the squeaky stair steps—and climbed into his bed, clothes and all, just in time to hear his father rap on the door.
“Time to get up!” said Father. “The chores have to be done even on Christmas morning.” “Oh, Dad,” came the weary reply. “Can’t I sleep just a few minutes longer?” “No, son. I’ll be needing your help in the barn.” The boy smiled as he listened to his father’s footsteps retreat down the squeaky stairs.
When the father reached the barn, he lit the lamp and was surprised to find the cows standing on clean straw contentedly munching their breakfasts. He found the milk cans wrapped in burlap to keep the milk from freezing already set out for the dairy wagon. There were no eggs to be found in the nests. With a smile of realization on his face he looked toward the house, now with windows gloriously ablaze with light.
Minutes later he stood in the living room door, in the warmth of his home, his arm draped affectionately over his son’s shoulder watching his other children gathered with their mother at the foot of the tree opening their presents. “You know,” he said with a tear in his eye, “this is the first time I’ve seen the children open their presents on Christmas morning. I’ve always been in the barn. This is the best Christmas gift I have ever received. Thank you. Thank you.”
“For God so loved the world that He gave his only begotten Son…” He is The Father’s Gift to us.
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