Christmas – Page 3

A Charlie Brown Christmas surprise

December 16, 2013 by Billy Coffey 6 Comments

Facebook is one of those things that tend to eat up more of my time than necessary. The idea that face-to-face interaction is a necessity for forging friendships is one the internet age seems to have laid to rest. It can, and in fact does, happen. I’ve met a great deal of people online that I willingly call friends, and the fact that I often have little more to go on than their avatar and the words they type doesn’t matter.

Funny, isn’t it?

Over the weekend, I posted something on Facebook about one of my all-time favorite Christmas specials. I’ve watched A Charlie Brown Christmas every year since I can remember, can quote vast passages from it word for word. But this year, I spotted something I’d never seen before. Something important. I flung it out on my Facebook wall, hoping it might provide some food for thought. The response was enough that I wanted t post it here as well:

Linus has always been my favorite Peanuts character, all because of that blanket. How he always carries that thing around. It’s his peace and his confidence and the most treasured thing in his life. To him, it’s the one thing that keeps him safe.

But even though he’s my favorite, I never noticed until this morning what Linus does during the most important scene in A Charlie Brown Christmas. Charlie Brown breaks down into a fit, asking if there’s anyone who knows what Christmas is all about, and Linus takes the stage to recite from Luke 2. He gets to the shepherds abiding in the fields and the angel appearing, and that’s when it happens—the one tiny act that, after watching that show every year since I was a boy, actually made me tear up a little:

Linus says, “And the angel said unto them, ‘Fear not,’” and then he lays down his blanket.

Leaves it on the dusty, dirty stage. As though telling everyone that all the peace and confidence and safety wrapped up in that blue blanket pales to what the swaddled babe lying in that manger offers us all.

I’ve always missed that. I never will again. To me, that second or two of a child’s cartoon is some of the most profound storytelling I’ve ever witnessed.

Christmas magic

December 11, 2013 by Billy Coffey 2 Comments

Much thanks for all the kind emails and comments regarding Little Girl’s post Monday. I’ve passed each of them along, and she’s most thankful. There are few things more important to a fledgling writer (as well as a not-so-fledgling writer) as a good dose of encouragement. I know this from experience.

I offered Little Girl the proverbial blank canvas. Write about anything, I told her. That she chose a story that included Santa was welcomed by both of her parents. It also, in a way, confirmed something that’s been wriggling around in my mind this Christmas season. Something that involves not only Little Girl, but Little boy as well.

They’re older now, if you consider eleven and nine old. I do. How and when my children began growing up are questions that continue to elude me. One of the best pieces of fatherly advice I ever received was from someone who told me it won’t matter at all how old my children are, to me they’ll always be just getting out of diapers. I’ve found that true. I expect it will be true for a long while.

Normally, their reality doesn’t get in the way of my perception. My kids can grow all they want. The toys that got them through the early years can find their way from the tops of their dressers to the backs of their closets, forgotten and dusty. I can walk into their bedrooms and see the squiggly penciled lines that mark how tall they’ve gotten. They can start asking weird questions about other girls and boys. I’ll notice these things, but I won’t see them. A person will go to great lengths to protect the lies they tell themselves, and the lie that nothing is changing especially.

But I’m finding that’s hard to do at Christmas.

On the surface, everything is the same. Both of my kids are still gung-ho about decorating the tree and the house, finding the little porcelain wise man who wanders around from Thanksgiving to Christmas Day looking for the Nativity atop the fireplace, baking cookies and singing carols. All of those things are going well. Fine, even. But there’s one part of Christmas that has gone missing this year — there’s been little desire for Santa. There have been no outgoing letters placed in the mailbox, no mention of going down to the mall and sitting on his lap. Nothing. Nada.

You know what? I think they both know.

It pains me, having to admit that. But I can deny no longer. Little Girl and Little Boy know there is no Santa, at least not in the way they’ve both been led to believe. Santa is their parents, the North Pole the Charlottesville mall, the elves all those daring people behind the cash registers, the flying reindeer my old truck.

It has to be crushing. I remember finding out the truth myself, right about their age. It crushed me.

It would be nice to be able to talk to them about this, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Neither can my wife. Because even now there is that tiny strand of hope deep within us both that says maybe they still believe, and even if they only believe a little, that little is well worth protecting. So there is only a shaky silence now — a hole where there used to be a very big Something.

But here’s the thing: Little Girl still wrote that story.

And written on the small chalkboard in the kitchen is this note in Little Boy’s hand: “Dear Santa, I’ve been really good this year. Please bring me stuff.”

And last night while we were all outside looking at the stars, both of them pointed at a flashing jet in the sky and pronounced that light to be Rudolph’s nose. A practice run, they said, and then they both smiled.

I smiled, too. It was to me a small dose of a new sort of Christmas magic, one just as meaningful and powerful as the one we all have perhaps now lost. A magic that proved our time on Earth can be best drawn in a circle rather than a line. My kids are still playing the game, but it isn’t for their benefit. I’ve spent years helping them to believe. Now, they’re helping me.

Isabella’s Christmas: a very special guest post

December 9, 2013 by Billy Coffey 8 Comments

Screen Shot 2013-12-09 at 7.31.21 PM It isn’t often that I have someone guest post in my little corner of cyberspace. Then again, it isn’t often that the person who requests to do so is a child of mine. My daughter, who will be known for these purposes as the Little Girl, wants to be a writer when she grows up. As you may imagine, I’m all for it. And since Christmas really is a time of year when we can all be kids, I thought I’d let a kid do the writing today.

Here’s her story:

The Christmas tree glittered and lit up the whole room. Eleven year old Isabella Grace sat on the couch, sipping hot chocolate and watching Mickey’s A Christmas Carol. She was so excited, she could barely sit still. It was Christmas Eve! Her little brother and little sister took turns checking the Countdown to Christmas ornament on their Christmas tree and announcing what it said every twenty seconds.

“Zero days, nine hours, thirteen minutes, and thirty-seven seconds ‘til Christmas, Isabella!” she little sister Samantha cried.

“Santa will be here before you know it!” Isabella said, smiling. She got up and went to the kitchen to reload her mug with marshmallows. Isabella looked at the clock on the oven. It said 7:33. Carter should have announced the countdown by now. She walked back to the living room.

“It’s my turn!” said Carter.

“No, it’s my turn!” said Samantha.

“Hey!” Isabella said, “Why are you two fighting? Don’t you know Santa’s watching? You have to be careful!”

“Sorry, Isabella,” Samantha said, hanging her head.

“Yeah. Really sorry,” said Carter.

“Don’t worry,” Isabella said. “You guys are good all year. I little tiny fight won’t make you lose all your presents. Using canned soup as paint on the walls will make you lose all your presents.”

Samantha and Carter smiled and giggled.

“We would never do that,” said Samamtha.

Isabella smiled. “Okay, you two. Let’s get out the milk and cookies for Santa.”

“Don’t forget the carrots for his reindeer,” Carter said.

“I would never,” said Isabella.

After everyone was tucked in, Isabella snuck back to the living room to watch Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer with her parents. By 9:17, Isabella’s eyes felt like they weighed a million pounds. She went to bed, thinking about silver bells, presents, and Rudolph’s red nose.

Isabella awoke to Samantha and Carter jumping on top of her yelling “Wake up, Isabella! Wake up! It’s Christmas! We wanna open our presents!”

“All right, all right. Let’s go,” she said.

“Yay!” they yelled. They ran out into the living room. Then, it was more silent than it had ever been in the house. Even more silent than when they were watching Spongebob. Isabella walked in. Samantha and Carter were standing in front of the tree, staring. Isabella looked at the tree. There were no presents under it. Not a single one.

“Where are all the presents?” Carter asked.

“Santa forgot us,” whispered Samantha.

After an hour of crying, Samantha and Carter crawled into bed for a nap. They were tired. Probably from all of that crying, Isabella thought. Mom slept with Samantha and Dad slept with Carter. Isabella sat on the couch and watched Frosty the Snowman. While Frosty was melting, she heard a faint sound. Like jingle bells.

“We’re a go!” someone said. Then an elf fell into the fireplace. “Ooh! Ouch! Hot!” he said. He looked at Isabella’s shocked face. “Hello, miss. You must be Isabella,” he said.

Isabella tried to speak, but all that came out was a squeak.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Let me introduce myself. I’m Jingles. Santa’s head elf. I’m here to deliver the presents he forgot to.”

“Why did he forget?”

“We had a sudden Naughty to Nice Change. Sent the whole place into an uproar.”

“Oh,” Isabella said. Even thought she had no idea what Jingles was talking about.

A big sack fell into the fireplace. Jingles dragged it out. “Here are your presents,” he said.

“Thank you, Jingles!” Isabella said.

“No problem!” he said, “Just another day doin’ my job!”

Isabella arranged the presents under the tree. She ran into Samantha and Carter’s room.

“You guys, Santa came while you were asleep! Your presents are under the tree!”

“Yay!” they yelled. “He did come!”

“I told you he would never forget you,” Isabella said.

Christmas wishes

December 6, 2013 by Billy Coffey Leave a Comment

Screen Shot 2013-12-06 at 6.36.07 AM A few days ago, the local newspaper dedicated a few of their pages to children’s letters to Santa. It’s been a tradition with the News-Leader ever since I can remember, and I applaud them for it. Not only are the letters informative and at times very touching, they also bring back a little nostalgia. I was six when my letter to Santa appeared in the newspaper. I knew then I wanted to be a writer when I grew up.

If you look at these letters every year, and I do, you realize some things. First, toys have changed over the years. Footballs and baseball gloves have been replaced by i-Pods and Playstations. Things are a lot more electronic now. Still, there are presents that defy time and reach across generations. I was happy to see that both doll babies and Legos were still in high demand.

But though the toys have changed, the children haven’t. Say what you want about test scores being lower than they were twenty years ago or kids being more lethargic than they once were. Kids are still kids, and always will be. This is a good thing.

And you realize this, too: these letters to Santa could well be prayers to God. They are full of longings and wishes, pleas and hope, all directed to someone they know can help them. And the sorts of things these kids ask for aren’t really all that different than mine.

Things like faith in the midst of doubt. Take Jackson, for instance:

“Are you real, Santa? Or are you a phony? People say you are, some say not. I don’t know if you are, but when I’m older I’m going to find out…I hope your real that’s my belief…But one thing I want to do, to make proof that Santa’s real. So I can keep my belief.”

I’m right there with you, Jackson. “I believe, help my unbelief,” said the man to Jesus. And so say we all.

There is also the nagging sense that I’m not measuring up. “I hope you think I have been good this year,” says Sarah. A sentiment echoed by a lot of other kids in a lot of other letters. Some are more honest: “Sometimes I’m good, but sometimes I’m bad,” wrote Kevin. Aren’t we all? Which is the point, I think. We’re not good enough to deserve all the things we ask, and yet there they are, under the tree every year. Why? Because Santa knows even though we’re not so good sometimes, we’re still worth much. To kids, this sort of thing is called love. To adults, it’s called grace.

Of course, prayers are not all about me. There are plenty of other people who need help, too. They range from the small (“I wish you can help my mom get the tree out of the attic,” writes Megan) to the big (“All I want is my six teeth and my papa to feel better. I want my Meme to get to Maryland fine, and my family together for the holidays”–Jasmine).

And then there are the prayers that are said out of pain (“My daddy back. My daddy leave and we lonely have mommy, me and my dog”–Brittney).

There are also the ones said out of pure love (“I know this is going to be a bad Christmas for some kids. so I want you to give my presents to the kids who won’t be getting anything this year. God bless everyone!”–ZayVon).

I’m not sure if all those letters were answered the way the kids wanted them. That’s okay. Not all of our prayers get answered that way, either. But even if they weren’t, I feel pretty confident that all those kids will be writing letters again next year. Santa always come through in the end.

God, too.

Christmas lists

November 26, 2013 by Billy Coffey 1 Comment

Screen Shot 2013-11-26 at 7.38.43 AM The paper in front of me is blank but for the two words underlined at the top:

My List.

I’ve been staring at it for twenty minutes now.

It’s incredible to me that I’ve been asked to fill out my Christmas list so early. Halloween doesn’t seem so long ago. Thanksgiving isn’t even here yet. Then again, a quick trip to the Target or Walmart in town will tell you Thanksgiving really isn’t celebrated that much anymore, at least commercially. There isn’t any money in it. I remember growing up in my tiny little town, seeing the streets all but deserted every Sunday because none of the businesses were open. Now, a Sunday afternoon looks much like a Saturday. There is no Sabbath anymore, no real day of rest, so why should there be Thanksgiving. Go, go, go. Spend, spend, spend. It’s the way of the world now.

Sounds a bit jaded, doesn’t it? A little cynical? Probably so. Then again, I’ve often been accused of being a person trapped in time, more suited to days past than days current. In almost any situation, what you’ll likely get from me is something along the lines of, “I like things the way they used to be.” Maybe that’s just a product of my upbringing. Maybe I’m a forty-one-year-old relic. If so, that’s fine.

But this Christmas list thing is getting to me. I don’t know why. I’ve filled out lists earlier than the week of Thanksgiving many times (when I was a kid, the first draft of my letter to Santa was usually ready by the first of September), and I well understand the need to pinch pennies. All the best sales are in the next ten days. That’s what I’ve been reminded of several times the past week. So yes, I understand. That’s another product of go-go-go and spend-spend-spend. It’s so horrible and painful that it’s best to do it all like a Band-Aid—rip it off as fast as possible.

Bah. Humbug.

A secret, just between you and me: Sometimes I just want to skip the whole thing. Buy for the kids, of course. Put up the tree. Get the outside fixed up with candles and lights and the same plastic Nativity that’s so old and worn it’s become a family heirloom. But that’s it. Nothing else. No presents for family or teachers or pastors or Sunday School teachers. Instead, fold all that money up and sneak it into the nearest Salvation Army kettle when no one’s looking. That would be a real Christmas to me. Strip all the glitter and glitz away. Find the real beauty underneath. Like Sundays used to be. And Thanksgiving.

Have you ever noticed that the most special things in life tend to be the most boring on the outside? Sitting down to a meal with family? Kind of boring. Watching the sunset? Boring. Taking a walk? Please.

Talking with your child. Or your parents.

Watching the fire on a cold evening.

Listening to the critters in the woods from the front porch.

How many times have I done all of these things in the past year and decided what I was doing was merely wasting time? Time better spent working, Getting Things Done? I wonder. And now I’m wondering if much of the same thinking that went into opening all the stores on Sunday and having Christmas sales on Thanksgiving Day is in me as well.

There’s plenty wrong with the world. But I guess if you get right down to it, what’s wrong with the world is me.

I’ll tell you what I want for Christmas this year—365 days of those boring moments. I want a life stripped of the glitter and glitz. I want the basics. Those are the things that matter when you get down to it.

Those are the things that keep us going.

Did you have a good Christmas?

January 2, 2013 by Billy Coffey 3 Comments

“Did you have a good Christmas?” is what you’ll hear a lot of now. It will be the conversation starter co-workers and friends will use, a prelude to what they believe are more important things. And invariably your answer will be “I did,” and you will obey social convention by posing that same question back.

I’m going to offer you that same question now. Did you have a good Christmas? I ask you because I’ve asked myself and others, and the responses I’ve gotten depend a great deal upon a very tricky thing—

What makes a good Christmas?

I’ve found it depends. There are as many answers to that question as there are people. We are a world of individuals, and though we often seem of one accord when it comes to what makes us sad, what makes us happy can differ greatly from person to person. Isn’t that strange? There’s some sort of grand wisdom in that notion, but I can’t seem to dig deep enough to find it.

For me, a good Christmas revolves around family. Having family close always ensures the holidays will be peaceful and bright. I shared this thought with someone at church last Sunday. He nodded and said this Christmas he’s kept his family close as well. All fifteen of them. Parents and brothers and in-laws and children, all packed into his tiny ranch home. “Silent night?” he asked. “Joy to the world? Not so much.”

Despite what my kids will tell you (“Christmas is all about the baby Jesus” is always their first response, automatic in the same way they’ll say Bless you after you sneeze, and often with just as much feeling), deep down they still feel Christmas is about the stuff. It’s those shiny packages under the tree, all that paper and possibility. It was a banner year for them. Also for one of their friends from school, who didn’t get much from Santa but who on Christmas morning found elf footprints in his living room that looked much like baby powder and reindeer droppings on his sidewalk that smelled much like raisins. His father had been laid off from the factory and his mother was fighting a nasty case of the flu, but that didn’t stop both of my kids from saying their friend had a great Christmas, maybe even greater than their own. I agreed. After all, my kids just got stuff. Their friend got magic.

Health is what many of us would say makes a good Christmas. Any Christmas is good so long as everyone’s healthy. And that’s true. A neighbor of mine lost her daughter from a long illness late Christmas day. I was sure she would say she’d trade all the family and stuff and magic in the world for her little girl’s health. But she didn’t. She said her daughter got to help decorate the tree this year, got to watch the star on top lit and flashing. She said the holiday is a reminder that God so loved the world and so hated death that He’d do anything to spare us all from it, even if it meant sacrificing His only son.

In many ways, this is my neighbor’s worst Christmas ever. In one large and magnificent way, it is her best.

Did you really have a good Christmas?

By all accounts I can call my own a rousing success, but I want to know why exactly. I want to put my finger on it, touch it. Know it.

Because I don’t think it’s the family at all. Certainly not the stuff. Not even the magic.

No, I think it’s something along the lines of what my neighbor said.

God so loved the world.

So loved us.

So loves you and me.

I think it’s that promise that makes every Christmas a good Christmas, no matter how much heartache may come with it. I think it’s that gift. One not given to us on one day of the year but all of them, wrapped tight. All we have to do, I think, is open it.

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