Pastor-eye-zzed: Special Delivery

Delivery Man

When I was about six or so, I remember vividly one day in early December. I can’t really remember much of anything else from my sixth year. After such a long, long, long, time, people and events and situations blend into a foggy soup of hazy impressions.

Still, this one day, remains very clear. I was home from school. By myself. My mom was at work. My brother was either still at school, or out with his friends.

This was the normal course of my life at the time. Growing up with a single-mom and a brother seven years older than yourself makes for a lot of time on your own. It means that you have to grow up fast and be responsible. And I did grow up fast and I was responsible—most of the time. On this particular day –not so much!

It all started with a knock at the door. It was a delivery man with a couple of big boxes from Eaton’s. I signed for the boxes with penmanship that has remained remarkably similar to what I am capable of scratching today. The delivery man, no doubt disappointed that a six-year-old knows nothing about tips, left me alone . . . with the boxes.

I knew that the boxes were most likely Christmas presents and I should probably have just forget they were there and go about my business, but something told me that there was a good chance that I could probably open the boxes and see what was inside of them and somehow get whatever was in the boxes back in the boxes with no one ever being the wiser.

Looking back on it now, I see several flaws in my reasoning. For one, I overestimated my ability to hide my transgressions. After all, have you ever seen a six-year-old open a box? A box opened by a six-year-old, looks very opened indeed! Still, I did it anyway. My judgement was obviously clouded by the opportunity that presented itself.

My first thought was just to take a quick peek in the boxes and then close things up, but when I opened the boxes, I knew that any vestige of self-control was long gone. In the words of James, my own evil desires dragged me away and enticed me until I had given birth to sin (James 1:14-15).

Of course I didn’t think about that at the time. All my thoughts were focused on the contents of those boxes and the immediate satisfaction that would come from playing with the incredible assortment of things I was gazing upon. There was the Mouse Trap game, the Tip It game, Rockem-Sockem Robots, a slot car race track, and a helicopter on a wire that had a crank on the end so that when you cranked it, it actually lifted off the ground and you could go in circles flying your own helicopter. How cool is that?!

These were the primo gifts of 1966! I was in toy heaven. Caution was thrown to the wind along with all of the shrink wrap. Not only had I opened all the boxes, I had also opened all the games and all the toys and I was in the midst of my best play-time ever.

Apparently, times flies when you are having fun! Unfortunately time stops flying abruptly when one’s mother comes home and she finds you in the midst of the best play-time ever. I won’t go into the details of what happened next because your imaginations will probably suffice.

What I will say is that it turned out that the boxes were sent to our address by mistake and these gifts that I thought were my gifts were, in fact, not my gifts. Far from it! My situation would have been bad enough if that were the case, but the fact that I had opened everything that someone else had purchased for their children and then played with it, suddenly made a complicated situation even more complicated.

I remember thinking that the prospect for a bountiful Christmas wasn’t looking all that promising for this particular year. My mom packed everything up and called Eaton’s and told them about what happens when you leave boxes with a little kid who’s an idiot and not always responsible.

The next few weeks were rather quiet around our apartment and I knew better than to even mention Christmas. I was doomed—Slain by my own hand. Curiosity may kill cats, but it can also kill Christmases as well.

But, I have yet to tell why I believe this one memory, out of all the memories of 1966, stayed with me all these years. The thing that I will never forget, and quiet honestly never fully understand, is that on that Christmas morning in 1966, I received every one of the toys that I had opened. My mom, on her own, working three jobs to make ends meet, purchased every one of those gifts and gave them to me. Nothing was left out. Nothing was missing. And, even at my tender age, I knew that none of those gifts should have been under the tree. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t expect it. I didn’t deserve it. My mom couldn’t afford it, but still it happened.

My mom took my sins and she turned them into a loving gift. My mom, rather than punishing me, blessed me. That is grace. That is what Christmas is all about.

It is about Jesus coming into our world to take our sin upon Himself, and through the cross, providing us with the gift none of us deserved–forgiveness through His sacrifice. Christmas is about a sacrificial gift we didn’t deserved. Christmas is about undeserved, unmerited, grace.

I was wrong to open gifts that were not for me, but I would have been infinitely more wrong if I didn’t open the gift of grace back in 1983 when I was baptized into Christ.

Like any gift, in order to enjoy it, you have to open it. This Christmas spend some time reopening, or perhaps opening for the first time, the transforming gift of Grace.

Merry Christmas!