I don’t remember the year, but I distinctly remember the day. It was a dreary winter Sunday in southern Idaho. The low-hanging clouds were barely brushing the tops of the mountain peaks to the east – not so low that they could be classified as fog, but thick enough to form what seemed like a cold, gray overhead carpet that allowed only a hint that the sun was up above. A touch of wind was ever-present that morning. It wasn’t the relentless, howling gale that the natives always complained about, but it was steady enough to keep the chill in your bones if you didn’t keep moving.
I’d forced myself to get out of bed earlier than I wanted to so I could allow my two youngest sons to sleep in for an hour longer and give them a slight reprieve from the drudgery of morning chores before we headed to church later that morning. I don’t recall anything spectacular or out of the ordinary that morning, but as per my norm, I didn’t allow myself much extra time to get myself ready. My wife was heading out the door as I was heading in. She gave me the I’m-only-half-mad-at-you side eye as we passed on the front porch. She hated my unintentional habit of being late for everything, and she had to do some Sunday school prep that morning. She told me she’d think about saving a couple of spots in the pew next to her for me and the boys, and she made it clear that we were under a mandate to get there before the closing hymn was sung.
I hurried up the steps and into the house, hoping but not really expecting my boys to be at least half-heartedly getting ready for church. I hollered down the hall at them as I headed to the shower and changed out of my chore clothes and into something that might be a little less offensive to my fellow churchgoers. As I stepped out of my room, fumbling with the Christmas tree-themed tie around my neck, my ears were met with the conspicuous silence of two early teenage boys not getting ready for church. I kicked open their bedroom door, and in some not-appropriate-for-church language hollered at them to get up and get their sorry “selves” ready for church. They both expertly ignored me as best they could and declined my offer. I was already way past what might be termed as a time crunch, and I knew I was in a “pick your battles” spot, so with a parting word or two of encouragement, I rushed out the door, jumped in the pickup and hurried off to town to meet my wife at church.
I snuck in the back door of the church, but my stealthiness was to little avail as I found my wife sitting in the second pew. I’m pretty sure she got just a little bit of smug joy, knowing that I had to parade myself all the way to the front with the meeting already in progress. By the time I found my seat next to her, my anger with my sons had cooled down to a warm simmer, mostly because I knew I was in a pot of mildly hot water myself, which forced me to look at the collection of my own faults that I constantly packed around like a favorite old pocketknife. By the time the church services had ended, I felt like I had gained some humility and inspired wisdom to pass along to my church-skipping sons.
When we got home, I called the two rebels into their room and sat them down. I was encouraged when I thought that I detected a tiny hint of remorse in their eyes as they reluctantly parked themselves in the chairs next to me. I have never been under the delusion that simply attending a church meeting makes one person any better than the next, but as a parent, I was concerned with the trending path my boys were on, one step of which was ignoring chores, church and their mother’s wishes. I had a grand plan in mind. I recounted a story to them that would surely inspire them, just as it had me when I first heard it. It was a story of a small group of young men, probably not much older than their ages at the time, who in a time of crisis during the migration of pioneers to the West in the 1850s, had risked their lives to save a group of freezing and starving immigrants. I told my boys that, despite my shortcomings, I hoped to raise sons with the same mettle – men who would do the right and hard things.
I was quite proud of my speech but was mildly disappointed that it seemed to be met with little more than apathy by my sons. I didn’t think much of it after that, and although we had our minor skirmishes over the course of the next few years, the two occasionally religiously truant boys grew into respectable, contributing members of society.
Some 12 or 13 years after my apparently less-than-inspiring pioneer speech to my young sons, I received a birthday message from my youngest son. He referenced a time when I had sat down with him and his brother and recounted a story about some selfless young men and their sacrifice for some destitute people they didn’t even know. He told me that moment was a pivot point in his life, that it was the impetus for his joining and serving in the military for six years and for his continued desire to serve his friends, community and family. It had proved to be an anchor for him as he stood by his young wife of only four years as she fought and succumbed to the merciless cancer that took her from him and their 8-month-old baby boy. He, like his two brothers, had grown into 10 times the man I ever hoped to be.
As undeserving as I may be, I’m grateful for my children who, not unlike a poor carpenter and his young bride from centuries ago, not only do the right thing but actively choose to do the right thing through their everyday goodness. Because of the selfless kindness of that simple, nondescript couple, the greatest event in human history came to pass through the birth of Him whose goodness and sacrifice surpasses understanding.
May we choose to live like Him.
Merry Christmas.
