A Christmas Story – 1942
It was Christmas Eve, 1942. I was fifteen, and to me, the world felt like it had collapsed. There simply wasn’t enough money to buy the rifle I had longed for all year.
For some reason, we finished our chores unusually early that evening. I assumed Daddy wanted extra time so we could read the Bible together. After supper, I kicked off my boots, stretched out in front of the fireplace, and waited for him to fetch the old family Bible.
I was still wallowing in self-pity and, truthfully, not in the mood for Scripture. But instead of getting the Bible, Daddy bundled up again and stepped outside. I couldn’t figure it out—we’d already done all the chores—but I didn’t dwell on it. My own gloom kept me preoccupied.
Soon, he returned. The night was cold and clear, ice forming in his beard. “Come on, Matt,” he said. “Bundle up good; it’s cold tonight.”
I was upset. Not only was there no rifle, now he was dragging me into the freezing night for no reason I could see. But Daddy didn’t tolerate dawdling. I put my boots back on, grabbed my coat, and Mommy gave me a mysterious smile as I opened the door. Something was happening—I could feel it—but I had no idea what.
We approached the Jensen house from the blind side and quietly unloaded the wood, then carried in meat, flour, and a bag of shoes. When we knocked, the door cracked open. A timid voice asked, “Who is it?”
“Lucas Miles, ma’am, and my son Matt. Could we come in for a bit?” Daddy said.
Mrs. Jensen let us inside, wrapped in a blanket. Her children were huddled near a tiny fire that barely gave warmth. She struggled with a match and finally lit the lamp.
“We brought you a few things, ma’am,” Daddy said, setting down the sack of flour. I placed the meat on the table, and he handed her the sack of shoes. One by one, she took them out—one pair for herself, and one for each child—sturdy, well-made shoes that would last. Her lower lip trembled, tears filled her eyes, and she looked at Daddy, speechless.
“We brought a load of wood too, ma’am,” he said, then turned to me: “Matt, go bring in enough to last a while. Let’s get that fire roaring.”
I went outside again, but I was no longer the same boy. A lump filled my throat, and yes, there were tears in my eyes. I kept seeing those three children around the tiny fire, their mother weeping with gratitude so deep she couldn’t speak.
My heart swelled with a joy I had never known. I had given before, but never in a way that truly made a difference. We were, quite literally, saving lives.
Before long, the fire blazed. The children giggled when Daddy handed them candy, and Mrs. Jensen smiled—a smile I sensed had been absent for a long time. She turned to us and said, “God bless you. I know the Lord sent you. The children and I have been praying He would send one of His angels to spare us.
Once again, I felt that lump in my throat. I had never thought of Daddy that way before, but now I could see it: he truly was an angel on earth. I recalled countless times he had gone out of his way for Mommy, me, and others. The list seemed endless.
Daddy insisted that everyone try on the shoes before we left. Amazingly, they all fit. I realized then that if he was on an errand for the Lord, the Lord surely guided him to get the right sizes.
Tears streamed down Mrs. Jensen’s face as we prepared to leave. Daddy hugged each child tightly. They clung to him, unwilling to let go. Watching them, I realized how fortunate I was to still have my own father.
At the door, Daddy said, “Mrs. wanted me to invite you and the children over for Christmas dinner tomorrow. We’ll be happy to have some little ones around. Matt here hasn’t been little for quite some time.”
Mrs. Jensen nodded, “Thank you, Brother Miles. I don’t need to say, ‘May the Lord bless you,’ because I know He already has.”
On the sled ride home, I felt a warmth deep inside that made the cold irrelevant. Daddy spoke quietly: “Matt, your mother and I had been saving money to buy you that rifle, but it wasn’t quite enough. Yesterday, a man who owed me some money settled up, and we were excited—we could finally get it for you. But this morning, I saw little Jakey scratching in the woodpile with his feet wrapped in sacks. I knew what I had to do. I spent the money on shoes and candy for those children. I hope you understand.”
I understood perfectly. And my eyes filled with tears once more—but tears of joy. The rifle now seemed trivial. Daddy had given me far more: the radiant smiles of Mrs. Jensen and her children, and the memory of that night, which would stay with me forever.
Whenever I saw the Jensens or split a block of wood, I remembered that joy. That night, Daddy had given me the best Christmas of my life.
Perhaps this Christmas, we too can be someone’s lighthouse in their storm.
