Christmas in Harmony

by Philip Gulley

  I decided to let the missionaries fend for themselves.

  Eight dollars was big money in those days, when a candy bar cost fifteen cents and the Saturday matinee at the Royal Theater was fifty cents. Still, with a little determination, I could run through the whole eight dollars in one day. My brother, Roger, was a saver, like my grandmother. He’d put the whole ten dollars in his college account, which pleased Vernley and my grandmother to no end.

  Vernley kept my grandmother’s picture taped inside his teller’s booth—a pinup girl for frugality. She began each day reading “Hints to Heloise,” discovering myriad uses for worn-out hosiery, vinegar, and baking soda. Once, while nosing around in her kitchen pantry, I found a box labeled String too short to use. Every Christmas she would send the cards she’d received the year before back to the very people who’d sent them. She’d add her name below theirs, and write, We return your greetings and wish you a Merry Christmas. She’d written up the idea and sent it to Heloise as a hint, under the pseudonym Cautious Christian.

  Caution was her byword. Another Great Depression was looming around the corner. She knew it. The house would be lost in a tax sale. Anarchy would follow, with war and pestilence close behind. Vernley had told her so himself. “The Christmas Club is your safest bet,” he’d advised. “Two and a half percent compounded annually, guaranteed by the president of the United States himself.” That the president was Richard Nixon didn’t seem to trouble her.

  My grandfather observed this with some detachment, spending most of this time out in his workshop in the barn behind their home. He’d wanted to tear down the barn and build a garage, but my grandmother wouldn’t stand for it. “You watch and see,” she’d said, “when hard times come we’ll be back to riding horses and you’ll thank the Lord for that barn.”

  On Christmas afternoons, my mother would send Roger and me out to Grandpa’s workshop to thank him for our ten dollars. He would return our acknowledgment with a solemn nod, then return to his puttering. He smelled like oil and turpentine and was a hard man to get to know. I often had the feeling he’d rather be somewhere else.

  He died the week after Thanksgiving my first year at college. My grandmother rang the bell outside their back door for lunch, then went back in and was halfway through her sandwich before she realized he wasn’t seated across from her. She found him slumped over the push mower, a wrench in his hand. Johnny Mackey at the funeral home speculated that the strain of freeing a rusted bolt had done him in.

  It fell to my father and me to clean out his workshop. I was sorting through a box marked Lawnmower parts, when I heard a cough, then a sob. My father was standing by the workbench, his back turned to me, crying. I’d never seen him cry before, and wasn’t sure what to do. I went and stood by him and laid my hand on his shoulder.

  He spoke in a muffled voice. “All these years, all I wanted was for him to tell me he loved me, that he was proud of me, and he never did. And now he never can. It was the only thing from him I ever wanted.”

  This was odd talk coming from my father, who’d never seemed inclined toward such sentiments. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, blew his nose, wiped his eyes, and then looked at me. “I don’t ever want you to feel this way. I want you to know I love you, son. I’m proud of you, awful proud of you. Have been since the day you were born.” Then he hugged me. It was the best Christmas present he ever gave me, those words.

  Fast-forward twenty years: I have sons of my own. I’d taken them with me to Kivett’s Five and Dime that day to buy more Christmas cards. The first four boxes weren’t enough. They noticed the Christmas decorations and have talked of little else since. When I tucked them in bed, Levi, my older, asked, “What’s the best present you ever got?”

  I think back to that day in my grandfather’s workshop. “Something my daddy gave me a long time ago.”

  “Will you give us one?” they asked.

  “I do every night when I tuck you in,” I said.

  “What is it?”

  “Someday, when you’re all grown up with kids of your own, you’ll know.”

  “Is this a riddle?” Levi asked.

  “No, it’s just a gift you get when you’re little whose value you don’t appreciate until you’re old, like me.”

  “I think I’d rather have a pocketknife,” Levi said.

  “Nope. You’d poke your eye out. Now sleep tight. And remember your daddy loves you both.”

  “We love you.”

  “Proud of you boys.”

  “Proud of you, Daddy.”

  I walked downstairs and sat at the dining-room table to address Christmas cards. My wife and I had forged a Christmas-card compromise. I would write the inside, she would write the outside, and I would lick the stamps. We were working our way through the church directory, and were up to Vernley Stout, who wasn’t even a member of our church, but in 1978 had attended a worship service and in a reckless moment dropped a check for five dollars in the collection plate, thereby gaining a place in our directory in perpetuity.

  The standard for inclusion in the Harmony Friends Meeting directory is modest. Every person who has ever joined the church, attended worship, or even walked past the meetinghouse is listed. Even if they’ve forgotten they did. Efforts to remove a name from the rolls are met with determined resistance, as Fern Hampton documents their tenuous connection to the church. “Now that person there, I know she hasn’t been here in a while, but I still get a letter from her cousin every Christmas, and I don’t think we oughta kick her out just yet. Besides, didn’t she send us three dollars last year to pay for her newsletter postage?”

  This is the cue for Dale Hinshaw to clear his throat, rise to his feet, and suggest that everyone in the church should be removed from the membership list until they can prove they love the Lord. “First, I think they oughta be able to name all the books of the King James Bible, tell us exactly when it was they became a Christian, and show us their W-2 so we can see if they’re tithing. Then, I think at the very least we oughta do some kinda background check, just to make sure we aren’t lettin’ in any liberals or perverts.”

  Several men in the church applaud Dale’s suggestion, knowing this plan will cut their Christmas card list down to nothing. But Fern is scandalized at the thought the church might revoke her membership. She begins to weep, recalling how she has been a member of the church since she was a baby, and what would her mother think (may she rest in peace) if she looked down from heaven to see them removing her daughter’s name from the church rolls, and how she was on a fixed income and maybe couldn’t give as much money as certain other members, but that she’d like to think the gift of her time counted for something.

  This is an oft-repeated drama that ends with Bea Majors standing in the second row and suggesting that no one there, not one person, was qualified to judge who was a true member of the church and who was not. “I may not know all the books of the Bible,” she says, shooting Dale a look, “but I know it says in there somewhere about not judging, and I think that’s exactly what’s going on here, if you ask me.”

  The men begin to pray quietly for Dale to remain strong in the heat of battle, but he withers under Bea and Fern’s two-pronged attack. He concedes defeat, and we resign ourselves to sending out even more Christmas cards. Fern Hampton, flush with victory, stands. “As long as we’re on the topic of the directory, I’d just like to say that Judy Iverson’s mother came to our Chicken Noodle Dinner and helped wash dishes. I think it would be nice to add her name to our directory.”

  And so our ranks swell.

  “One hundred and seventy-eight cards this year,” my wife said, as she addressed the last of our Christmas cards. “Who’s Otto Zumwalt?”

  “He fixed the freezer at the church.”

  “Why is the freezer repairman in our church directory?”

  “The Friendly Women’s Circle nominated him for honorary membership. They had a freezer full of noodles and it conked out. Otto had it up and running in two h
ours. Didn’t lose a single noodle.”

  She opened the card and read my greeting. “‘We love you’? Why’d you write that? Don’t you think that’s being overly familiar? He just fixed a freezer, after all. It wasn’t even our freezer.”

  “I thought he might like to hear it,” I said.

  “Who else did you tell we loved them?”

  “Well, uh, let me see, pretty much all the cards.”

  “Whatever happened to ‘Merry Christmas’?”

  “That’s so, I don’t know, traditional.”

  “It’s Christmas,” she said. “We’re supposed to be traditional. ‘Merry Christmas,’ ‘Happy Holidays,’ or ‘Thinking of you!’ ‘ Sam, Barbara, Levi, and Addison.’ They open the card, read it, smile, are glad we thought of them, and then they pitch it in the trash. Now you had to go tell them we loved them. It’ll confuse them.”

  “What do you mean confuse them?”

  She sighed. “Telling someone you love them changes everything. They’ll think we’re better friends than we are, and the next thing you know they’ll be inviting us over for supper. Then we’ll have to invite them over, and before long we’ll be worn out. You don’t say I love you to just anyone. It can get you in trouble.”

  “I’m beginning to see that,” I said, chuckling.

  “Oh, sure. Go ahead and laugh. But while you’re being Mr. Loverboy, I’m the one who has to cook the pot roast and clean the house when Dale Hinshaw comes to visit his new best friends.”

  There is no calamity that can’t be blamed on someone else, and I neatly turned the tables. “If you’ll remember, I suggested you do the Christmas cards, but you refused.”

  “Are you saying this is my fault?”

  “A reasonable person might conclude that, yes,” I pointed out.

  It is a sweet argument for us, repeated every year in early December. My wife, modest and traditional, argues for reserve, while I, having witnessed the pain of unspoken love, elect to splurge. It is, I believe, in keeping with the season. God could have sent a lawyer who would scrupulously define the limits of love. Instead, he went for broke, and sent a child with whom He was well pleased. And had the good sense to tell him so.

  Christmas, I tell my wife, is not the time to hold back. It is the bold stroke, the song in the silence, the red hat in a gray-suit world.

  Three

  The Idea Takes Root

  With the Christmas cards stamped and mailed, I could now direct my attention to the real purpose of Christmas, which was to make sure we didn’t repeat the dreadful mistake from the year before, when a hundred and thirty-five people crammed our pews for the Christmas Eve service. We had been expecting our usual ninety-three and had failed to carry up folding chairs from the basement. The old-timers walked in, saw the hordes of people sitting in their pews, and were appalled. Pews, which had been in their family for generations, now occupied by total strangers! Fern Hampton fainted on the spot, and only regained consciousness after being stretched out on her pew and inhaling the fragrance of Hampton sweat, which after eighty humid, Indiana summers now permeated the pew. She sat up, blinked her eyes, and said, “Who in the world are these people and who invited them?”

  Inquiries were made and meetings held, where it was determined the culprits were Miriam and Ellis Hodge, who’d had the gall to invite guests to the Christmas Eve service without instructing them to bring their own chairs. As for the cookies, the Friendly Women’s Circle had to lop them in half to have enough. Baked to perfection and beautifully decorated, the angels underwent tearful amputation, halos and heads on one plate, wings and skirts on another.

  It took many months for passions to cool. Then at the September elders meeting, Fern Hampton revisited the subject. “Well, I just hope certain people have learned from their mistakes and we won’t have a repeat of last year’s Christmas service.” She looked sideways at Miriam Hodge.

  “You know, Fern,” I said, “some churches actually encourage their members to bring visitors to church. They’ve found it to be an effective way to share the gospel.”

  “Listen here, young man, when my grandmother staked out our pew in 1922, she did not intend for every Tom, Dick, or Harry to come along and plop his hiney down there.”

  “I must say I have to agree with Fern,” Bea Majors said. “Elsewise, there’d be all types of rabble in here. They’ve already ruined our beautiful angels.” She shuddered at the memory of it.

  “Maybe we could run an advertisement in the Herald asking people not to come to our Christmas Eve worship,” I suggested, trying not to sound ironic.

  The elders pondered my counsel for several moments. “No, I don’t think so,” Fern said. “An ad would cost money. Why don’t we just have Bea mention in the church column that nonmembers who attend our Christmas Eve service must bring their own cookies and chairs? That way it gets in the newspaper, but we don’t have to pay for it.”

  “Good thinking,” Bea said, writing a note to herself. “Consider it done.”

  “If you ask me,” Dale Hinshaw said, “I think we oughta give serious thought to not even having our Christmas Eve service here in the meetinghouse. It’s nothing but a mess. Kids bellyaching to ring the bell. Cookie crumbs everywhere. Toilets not getting flushed. Bulletins left on the pews. Took me and the missus two hours to get the place clean after last year’s service. And we didn’t even get to take us up an offering,” he added, frowning in my direction.

  The year before, I had recommended we not collect an offering at the Christmas Eve service. In the past, the pastor would pause in the reading of the Gospel of Luke so the ushers could collect an offering. The loot gathered, he would resume his reading and bring in the Christ child. It had always troubled me. “It looks like we’re holding Christ hostage and won’t let him loose until someone coughs up some money,” I’d said. “I think we want to avoid sending that message.”

  “And just what are my ushers gonna do?” Dale asked. “It’s our biggest collection of the year. Four ushers with two reserves and an extra counter. We’ve been practicin’ for three months, and now you’re telling us we’re not welcome. How do you expect me to keep up their morale when you’re stabbing ’em in the back like that.”

  Dale finally conceded when we agreed to have the ushers take up two offerings the following Sunday. But he’d been gunning for me ever since. Now he was suggesting we not hold our Christmas Eve service in our own meetinghouse.

  “Dale, have you given any thought to where else we might hold our Christmas Eve service, if not here?” Miriam Hodge asked.

  “Well, I’ve been thinkin’ on that and I believe we oughta have ourselves a live Nativity scene.”

  Opal Majors groaned. “Not more livestock. When we had that Mohammed the Baptist here for our revival, I cleaned up after his camel a good month afterwards. I’d rather sweep up cookie crumbs.”

  “That’s the beauty of it,” Dale said. “We don’t gotta have the Nativity scene here. We can have it at the park. We’ll set it up in center field of the Little League diamond. That way folks’ll have to get out of their cars and walk over to see it. By the time they get there, they’ll be frozen stiff. Me and my ushers can set up a hot chocolate stand at first base and make a mint.” He leaned back in his chair, a triumphant smile spreading across his face.

  “I’m concerned how that will look,” Miriam Hodge said. “Why don’t we just give people hot chocolate? Why do we need to make money?”

  “We wasn’t gonna keep the money. I was thinkin’ maybe we could give it to a good cause.”

  Opal Majors eyed him suspiciously. “You wouldn’t be thinking of sending the money to that kook on the radio you’ve been listening to? That Eddie character who talks about the end times?”

  “For your information, he’s a recognized expert on the end times. And you’ll be whistling a different tune when the Rapture comes and you’re left to the devil for hinderin’ the Lord’s work.”

  I tried to get the meeting back on track. �
��Dale, I’m sure Eddie is sincere in his beliefs, and I’m glad you’ve found him helpful. But I’m not sure we can even hold a Nativity scene at a public park. It’s probably against the law.”

  “Well, that’s another thing Eddie warned about, how the end is near when you can’t even talk about Jesus in a public place. I say we sue the town before it sues us. That’ll teach ’em not to pick on the Lord.”

  I glanced at my watch. It was almost nine o’clock. If we ended the meeting now, I could be home in time to kiss my boys good night. “Why don’t we pray about this matter, then discuss it further at our next meeting. It’s only September, after all. We have plenty of time before Christmas.” Then, before anyone could object, I bowed my head and closed in prayer.

  The October meeting of the elders didn’t fare any better. Dale accused Miriam Hodge of promoting one world order—yet another warning sign, according to Eddie, that the Rapture was near. Then Dale questioned the wisdom of having any Christmas Eve program. “The Lord’ll probably be back by then, and we’d have wasted time planning for something that ain’t even gonna happen. I say we just concern ourselves with gettin’ as many folks as we can right with the Lord. Eddie thinks the Rapture could come any day now, maybe even next Tuesday.”

  Dale Hinshaw’s membership on the board of elders has caused me to question God as nothing else ever has. How could an all-knowing, all-powerful, and all-loving God permit such a thing to happen, I asked my wife, after the October elders meeting.

  “Maybe God isn’t all-powerful,” she suggested. “Maybe God shares power with us, so we can be a part of his work. Like Clarence the angel.”

  “Who’s Clarence the angel?”

  “You know, Clarence the angel in It’s a Wonderful Life. He jumps off the bridge and saves Jimmy Stewart.”

  “Oh, that Clarence the angel. What’s he got to do with anything?” I ask.

  “I’m just saying that maybe God uses us like he used Clarence to help accomplish his purposes.”