The Strength to Be Gentle

It was Christmas Eve and a cold country night settled on our farm house. Miles from the main highway, that ran through the mountain rimmed valley, our family enjoyed a quiet evening in anticipation of Christmas.
From the clear black night, a knock was laid on the front door. We looked at each other with a start. In all my growing up, I've only heard a knock on that door a handful of times because, in the small farm community, folks drove into the yard and entered through the back door. This was obviously a stranger. My father went to the door and slowly opened it, we watched, curious. There was an ominous layer of the unknown, this could be anything from the best scenario to the worst.
A young man stood behind the storm-door. He explained that his family, a wife and small child, were in the car and he was almost out of gas. I don't know how he found us, but he had driven thirty miles from the last open gas station and had forty miles to go before he came to the next. He'd driven four or five miles off the main road, depending on the route, he drove down a gravel road and turned onto the narrow blacktop that ran past our home.
"Didn't you read the sign that said the next available gas station was seventy miles away?" my father asked. I was surprised by his tone and lack of sympathy. He went on to say something to the effect of, it's very cold out, the roads are empty, you've put your family in real danger. "I won't give you gas, but I will sell you enough to get to the next town," my father finished.
The young man spoke with humility and respect to my dad's authoritative tone.
"Yes, sir, I'm sorry, sir. I have money, I would be grateful. Thank you so much."
"Just get your family to safety," my father said and he gave directions to get to gas pumps on our property. "I'll meet you down there."
The young man went into the freezing darkness. My father closed the door, opened the coat closet and pulled out a heavy winter coat. After slipping it on, he reached into the closet and pulled out a large revolver, tucked it into the jacket and as he zipped it up, said, "I'll be right back."
I asked if I could go along, but he said, "No."
I watched the headlights converge at the gas tank we used for farm vehicles. I remember thinking, I hope the stranger doesn't do anything stupid.
My father is a quiet, humble and giving man. It was moments like this that I realized his profound humility came from great strength, not weakness. He'd put this young man on notice that he had been careless with his obligation to protect his family.
The lost boy got enough gas to make it to the next station, but his encounter with a real man of strength gave him a lesson I imagine he won't soon forget.
I've been thinking about masculinity. When a small boy picks up a stick, it becomes a sword or a rifle or a light saber. It is the nature of a boy to think it, a weapon. I think it's harmful to squelch the aggressive nature of a little boy. Instead of telling them to stop, they're going to hurt themselves or someone else, can't we ask them what they're protecting? This aggression, this power, is the breeding ground of peace.
The reason we enjoy the grace of God, isn't because he's weak. We can live, unafraid of death. We can live with profound peace in our hearts. We can live to help others. We can live forgiven. We can do all of this because God is strong. We can face the tragedies of life with hope because God is strong.
I get tired of the male bashing stereotypes all around us, making men look like daft fools. Masculinity misdirected can be destructive, it can lead to murder and violence. However, that same power, directed well, protects. It creates safety. It builds bridges and hospitals. It loves deeply. It stands in the face of evil and turns it away. This kind of power is like a strong arm holding a sleeping child and will not let go. This kind of power stays. This kind of power is solid. You can count on it.
I grew up in a safe home because my father is strong. I live with great peace because my heavenly father is strong.

Camp Christmas Letter

A wiry, pale man in a Santa suit, stuffed generously with large pillows in every available space, stood on a stump next to a snowy path lined with plywood elves. "Ho, Ho, Ho," his mousey voice squeaked, "welcome to Camp Christmas Letter-- where we take Christmas seriously." I should have turned and run, but the thirty-dollar nonrefundable deposit held my feet to the ground. Santa's pants were slipping down in the back, but he had no idea.
"You have two choices," he called, when his pants gave way and fell, resting atop his black leather boots, exposing pillows stuffed inside oversized long-johns. Spontaneous snickers peppered the small crowd, but we held it together. "You can start with the Yuletide Year in Review class or the Reindeer Wreath of Warmth class," he went on, oblivious.
"How about the Brass Belt Buckle of Hope class," some smart alec yelled. In one burst, we laughed, there was no holding back. Santa struggled to look past the stuffing, then realized the problem and quickly dove for his pants. He lost his balance and plunged into the snow. We didn’t know what to do. Several people ducked onto the Reindeer trail and disappeared. I was caught up in a group that went down the Yuletide path. By the time Santa made it back to the stump, pants filled with snow, everyone was gone.
"A great Christmas letter," Mrs. Claus began the class, "starts with remembering every event of the past year." Her red felt dress strained at every seam, she could've easily filled out her husband’s suit. The class began writing frantically. I panicked; I can’t even remember where I parked the car. This was bad. She stared at me, little round glasses pressed into her plump red face. I broke the stare and looked at the paper. "Help!" I scribbled.
Kathy and I turned 50 this year, that's all I could remember. I completely forgot about the great birthday party Amanda threw for us with friends and family - complete with saxophone quartet, my epic guy golf weekend in Palm Springs, Amanda's graduation with honors from Biola University, Lindsay's high school graduation and acceptance into the pre-veterinarian program at Cal Poly Pomona, her experience as a contestant on WIPEOUT (airing in January), my trip to Morocco, Kathy and Amanda's trip to New York with my sister Sharon and niece Laura, Lindsay's incredible experience in Washington State - inseminating cattle and a myriad of things I can't mention, my new boffo lens, none of it came to mind.
Under "Help!" I wrote, "It was a nice year, we did a lot of stuff and nothing really bad happened." Suddenly a stick, decorated like a candy cane, slapped across my paper, narrowly missing my knuckles. I jumped, the entire class stared. "That's the worst Christmas letter I've ever seen!" Mrs. Kringle scolded, "We take this very seriously!" A perverse sense of joy went through me when I saw her candy cane had broken. Dramatically, she took my paper to the front and tacked it to the wall, next to other, Bad Examples. I was pleased to see that mine was at the top.
Driving down the mountain, I realized how rich we are in family and friends and despite what the "experts" say: It was a nice year, we did a lot of stuff and nothing really bad happened.

Merry Christmas to you and yours.

Jerry, Kathy, Amanda and Lindsay








This was our Christmas letter for 2010. I've been so busy with work, that I haven't been able to write and I miss it profoundly. Blessings to you and yours.