By Randall Murphree
December 23, 2004

(AgapePress) - We four kids knew -- from experience -- not to expect the extravagant gifts and toys we coveted in the Sears & Roebuck catalog or in the store displays during our family's annual shopping trip to downtown Birmingham. But somehow, it escaped us that our family was poor, so Christmas was still an event to anticipate with hope and relish with joy.

Gail, Lynn, Larry and I awoke on Christmas morning, 1949, to find three inches of snow on the ground. We rushed to the Christmas tree, opened our few meager gifts, and celebrated life as only children on Christmas morning can do. We were 13, 12, 10 and 4 -- a season of life when Christmas most strongly holds its wondrous power over our whole being. We were excited about Christmas -- and ecstatic about the snow.

The calendar put that particular Christmas on Sunday, and therein lay our dilemma. The Sunday factor was the one threat to our euphoria. It could ruin everything. Sunday did not come to our home without the family making our way to Antioch Methodist Church.

Nonetheless, we felt a glimmer of hope. Surely the snow would help Dad realize we couldn't go to church. No such luck. After we had emptied our stockings of fruit, nuts and trinkets, and played with our few toys for a short time, Dad reminded us it was time to get ready for Sunday school and church.

We knew better than to argue, but we did anyway, convinced that our sound reason -- and perhaps volume -- would surely teach Dad the error in his decision. You can imagine the chorus of whines and pleas that filled the air.

"Ah, come on, Daddy! Nobody can drive over the hills between here and the church."

"But, Daaaddy, nobody else will go to church!"

"We'll slide off the highway and get stuck for sure!"

Our sound reason and volume lost the battle. We were soon dressed up, bundled up and packed in the family car on our way to Antioch.

Carefully and slowly, Dad drove across the rolling hills of an almost deserted Highway 231. We were the first to arrive at the little white frame church, and we entered a sanctuary that felt colder than the freezing outdoors. Dad started a fire in the coal stove and roaring flames began to heat the big room.

We boys busied ourselves playing chase up and down the aisles and between the rough hand-crafted pews. Finally, we realized it was past time for Sunday school to begin, and we were still alone. We waited awhile longer, but still, no one else came. Not even our pastor showed up.

Of course we boys soon began to clamor, "Nobody's coming, Dad! Let's go home."

But as for Dad and his house, we would serve the Lord. Dad instructed my sister to sit down at the old upright piano. We three boys, Mom and Dad huddled behind her as she played and we sang all the familiar carols in the tattered, paperback hymnals. Then, with his family lined up on the front pew, Dad read the Christmas story.

It made an impression at the time, but only years later did we four siblings reach a true appreciation for that kind of legacy. Our father demonstrated faithfulness and obedience born out of love, love for the Lord and love for his family.

All too often, I still respond similarly to The Father's direction in my life today. I'm prone to whine and complain and argue before I follow His will. Farther down the road, of course, I realize He's right every time. And His will for me is born out of His love revealed in His Son at Christmas.

I don't remember the Christmas gifts I received in 1949. But I remember that legacy of love.