Books > Hugs for the Holidays > Excerpts

Chapter One

The Gift of Kindness

Look for me throughout your day! I was hungry and you fed me; I was thirsty and you gave me refreshments; I was a stranger and you showed me hospitality and made me feel welcome. You met my needs when I needed clothes and looked after me with TLC when I was sick. You sacrificed time and visited me when I was in prison or shut-in. Don't miss the opportunities I place before you to meet me! Remember, whatever you do for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you do for me.

Love,
Emmanuel, God with You
Matthew 25:35-40

Inspirational Message

At this time of year, you are most certainly making a list andchecking it twice so you'll know what to look for when you goshopping. You do it every year. It's smart. Otherwise, you mightmiss someone or something you are supposed to remember. Thisyear, just so you won't forget, write this at the top of thelist: "Look for Jesus everywhere."

If you look, you'll see Him. The spirit of Christ is everywhereduring the holidays. That's why we love this time of year somuch. That's why we hear the endless quotes and comments abouthow nice it would be if everyone could have the Christmas spiritall year long. It is during these weeks, between Thanksgiving andChristmas, that we experience the heart and spirit of Jesus.

You can see Him in the extra expressions of courtesy and kindnessin some of your fellow shoppers. You can see Him on the road as aride is given to a cold and hungry hitchhiker trying to get hometo see his family. You'll recognize Him in hospital volunteershanding out gifts to seriously ill children, some of whom will goto be with Him before His birthday arrives. And there He is againin the smiles of those same children, as they receive theirgifts.

Once you start noticing, you'll be amazed at all the shapes andforms he takes. His spirit is there in the bell ringers,soup-kitchen servers, carolers, and helpers of the homeless. He'sright there in the bright smile of an expectant child, the tearsof a proud mother, and the embrace between longing parents and aprodigal son or daughter who's been called home by a still smallvoice. And when you look into a mirror, don't be surprised if yousee the sparkle of His spirit staring back at you.

Perhaps this is one item you can keep on your list all yearlong—"Look for Jesus everywhere."

I expect to pass through this world but once; any good thing therefore that I can do, or any kindness that I can show to any fellow creature, let me do it now, let me not defer or neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again.

–John Wesley

Seeing Jesus

In 1962 I was preaching in Indianapolis, Indiana. I wassingle, and it was Christmas time. I was headed home to Michiganto enjoy the holidays with my family. It was an extremely coldday, and it was snowing. The wind was howling out of the North,blowing thick clouds of fine flakes across the road—itlooked like a blizzard. The roads were icy in places, and therewas little traffic. Somewhere near Ft. Wayne, Indiana, I saw asoldier standing under an overpass. He had a green army cappulled as tight and low as possible over his head, his collar waspulled up around his ears, his hands were shoved down in hispockets, and he had a stuffed duffel bag standing beside him.

I was driving a Chevrolet Corvette, and I was going veryfast—faster than I should have been, considering the roadconditions. As I sped by, the soldier jerked one hand out of hispocket and raised his thumb. My Corvette had two seats—not afront and back seat, but two seats side by side—and I was inone of them. The trunk was big enough to hold three loaves ofbread and a pound of lunch meat. Not only was my limited trunkspace stuffed full with the clothes and boots I would need for mystay in Michigan, the front seat was stacked high as well, withthe presents that I had purchased for my folks and my nieces andnephews.

When I saw the soldier, I was going much too fast to stop, and Iwas well down the highway before I gave it much thought. I toldmyself that I couldn't possibly get him and his duffel bag in thecar—I debated about the terrible inconvenience and delay itwould cause if I did, and by the time I decided that perhaps Iought to at least offer to help, I was two miles down the roadand out of sight. But my Christian conscience really went to workon me. It was so cold, traffic was almost nonexistent—he wasa soldier—and it was Christmas. The inner battle raged foranother three miles. Finally, I decided I would never get anypeace unless I offered to help, so I made a U-turn and went back.I hoped with all my heart that someone else had picked him up.That way, I could satisfy my conscience and not beinconvenienced—wouldn't that be great?

But he was still there, looking more forlorn, lonely, and coldthan ever. I was disgusted. I pulled up and rolled down thewindow. He came running, stumbling on his numb feet, dragging theduffel bag. He leaned over and stuck his head in the window. Hisface was bluish, his teeth were chattering, his eyebrows andeyelashes were matted with frozen snow, and he could scarcelyspeak intelligibly.

"Thanks so much for stopping," he said. "I hadabout given up hope."

That was not what I wanted to hear. "Where are yougoing?" I asked, hoping that it was in some direction thatwould alleviate me from further responsibility.

"I live in Michigan, in Taylor Township," he saidhopefully. That was really discouraging. It wasn't directly on myway, but it wasn't too much out of my way either.

"I'm going to Royal Oak," I said reluctantly.

"Oh," he said, "I know where that is. That'sgreat! If I could just ride with you to Ann Arbor, it would meana lot to me. I'm almost frozen; I can't feel my ears or feet anymore," he said plaintively.

"I don't think I can possibly get both you and your thingsin," I said.

"If you'll let me, I'll get in—I promise you. I've beenstanding here for three hours."

I told him to try getting in, and we began rearranging things.The duffel bag was almost as big as he was, and there was onlyone place for it—the passenger seat. No matter how he put itin the car, he couldn't get in himself. I suggested that maybe hecould hide it somewhere and come back for it later. He said hecouldn't possibly do that; it had his kids' Christmas presents init, and he wasn't going anywhere without it. I finally got out,walked around the car, and told him to sit in the passenger seat.As he sat there, I wedged the duffel bag between his legs andbetween the floor and the roof of the car, I sandwiched all of mypresents around him—and I slammed the door. He couldn'tmove, he couldn't see out either the windshield or his sidewindow—but he was in. I still don't know how we did it.

Once he began to get warm, he began to talk. I found out he wasstationed at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri.

"Didn't I see you go by about five minutes ago?" heasked. I really felt stupid.

"Yes," I said very matter-of-factly.

"You mean you turned around and came back?" I nodded anaffirmative.

"Why would you do that?" I paused a long moment.

"Well, you see, I was raised in a home where helping peoplewho were in need was very important. In addition, I'm aminister—actually, it's more than that—I'm a Christian,and if it weren't for that, I'd probably still be going. I haveas hard a time doing the right thing as most folks. I fought withthis decision for five miles—it's Jesus who makes me dothings like turn around and come back. When I don't do the rightthing, I have this feeling He's looking at me, and He's sodisappointed that I can't stand it."

"Oh!" he said. "You don't know how that convictsme. I'm going to tell you something I never thought I'd tellanybody. I'm no Christian, but my wife is the best person in thewhole world, and she goes to church all the time and takes thekids. Truthfully, I've done everything I could to discourage her,but she just keeps going. She's all the time trying to get me togo, telling me that someday I'm going to wish I had.

"Do you know why I'm here hitchhiking? Let me tell you alittle story. I was turned down for holiday leave because I gotdrunk and caused some trouble at the base. I was sick about it. Ihaven't seen my wife and kids for six months. A friend of mine,who's single, found out at the last minute that his folks werecoming to visit some relatives who live close to the base duringthe holidays. He went to our commanding officer and volunteeredto take my duty, if he would let me go home.

"He gave me permission, but I had spent all my money buyingpresents, which I was going to mail home, so I decided to starthitchhiking. My family doesn't even know I'm coming. I wasn'tsure I'd make it, and I didn't want to disappoint them. I've beenstanding there for three hours, thinking. I watched folks driveby, and it occurred to me that some of them must be Christians,and it made me feel pretty bitter—until I got to thinkingabout what a lousy person I am, and I knew if I was them, that Iprobably wouldn't stop either.

"Let me tell you something embarrassing—I got so cold,so lonely, and so desperate that I started to pray—honest toGod I did—it was so humiliating. I told God that if he wouldhelp me, I'd do better. And you know what? About that time youshowed up, and you told me that you came back because ofJesus—now what do you make of that?"

"Well, first I'd say that maybe there's more to Christianitythan either of us thought, and second, I'd say you'd better startdoing better."

I found out exactly where he lived, and we agreed that I couldget him pretty close before I had to go in another direction. Ithink I knew what I was going to do long before I actually saidanything. As we approached the intersection where I was going tolet him out, I told him that I had made up my mind to take himhome.

About two hours later, we pulled up in his driveway. It wasalmost dark. He was really excited. He asked me to blow my horn,and I did. A few minutes passed, and the inside door openedslowly. The glass in the outside door was frosted over, andwhoever was looking out could only tell that there was a car inthe driveway. The outside door opened, and a five- orsix-year-old, barefooted, pajamaed boy peeked around the door.When he saw my sports car, he came out on the porch and peeredintently at us. His dad opened the door and stepped out.

"Hi, David, it's Daddy; I'm home for Christmas!"

He started to say more, but the boy had seen the uniform andheard the voice. The boy's face lit up, and he turned back intothe house. I could hear him distinctly—"Mama, Daddy'shome," he yelled shrilly. "Daddy's home! Mama! Mama!Daddy's home for Christmas!"

The door opened again, and it didn't open slowly thistime—it was thrown open. A woman dressed in a bathrobe andhouse slippers came running down the steps, her hair flying inthe wind, oblivious to the snow and the cold, eyes and mouthopened wide with excitement, with joy etched in every line of herface. "Oh, Carl," she said, "Oh, Carl, you'rehome. Praise God, you're home. The kids and I have been prayingevery day that, somehow, God would send you home."

She was followed by a skinny, fair-haired, ten-year-old girl andfinally by a tow-headed, blanket-toting, two- or three-year-oldgirl. They kissed and hugged and laughed and cried, and theydanced in the cold and the snow until the soldier finallydisentangled himself from them long enough to introduce me.

"This is John," he said. "He's a minister, andhe's also a Christian; and if it wasn't for him, I wouldn't behere. And I'm going to tell you something, Sandy, right here andnow. I told John that I had promised God that I was going to dobetter, and I am. I'm going to stop drinking, be a betterhusband, a better father—a better man—and we're goingto start going to church together."

I have never witnessed such gratitude in my life. They all had tohug me and kiss me—even the two-year-old—and they toldme what a blessing I was to them and that they owed me a debtthey could never pay. I was so embarrassed, because I was sounworthy. I had grudged the whole thing until after we hadstarted talking. I wanted to tell them that I didn't deserve anythanks. I tried to leave, but they simply wouldn't allow it. Ihad to go in the house. I had to eat something and drinksomething; I had to accept a gift from them—yes, I had to.They would not allow me not to, and the more they did, the betterand the worse I felt.

I was so embarrassed. You know why? I had just witnessedsomething private—a family thing—something I wasn'tpart of, something not meant for outsiders—and, yes, Iwas—I was embarrassed. And you know what else? I enviedCarl. I thought that it must be wonderful beyond description tobe loved by a woman like that and missed like that and to be sounworthy—and I think Carl was just beginning to understandwhat he had. I have learned since then that only those who havecome to know and feel the love of God can love theunworthy—and I have also learned that we are all unworthy.

Carl was home. I think that at that moment, home meant more tohim, perhaps, than it would ever mean again. And when I got to myhome and saw my folks and told them why I was late, they were soproud of me—and I was a little proud of myself. Home wassomehow brighter, warmer, more dear to me than it had ever beenbefore.

Every human longing—bound up in the inherent yearning to beloved and to be "home" and to experience the peace andsecurity that "home" signifies—has found itsfulfillment in Jesus who said, "I go to prepare a place foryou." Everything we ever dreamed of home being—what itwas or was not—is in that place. Jesus has given purpose,even to the dream of death, because for those who knowGod—that is the way home.

How silently, how silently,
the wondrous gift is given.
So God imparts to human hearts,
the blessings of His heaven.
No ear may hear His coming,
but in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive Him still,
the dear Christ enters in.

Jesus comes to us in many ways. He came to me in the form of afreezing soldier trying to get home for Christmas. He came to afreezing soldier in the form of a young minister trying to findhis way to God. Either one of us could have missed him.

Jesus will come to you this Christmas, too, and His coming willbe in an unexpected way—don't miss him.