Giving All by Martin Wiles

One dollar didn’t seem like much…not really enough to bother with. But we gave it nevertheless.

My family and I have recently experienced numerous financial challenges. Low wages, inability to work, medical bills, surgeries. All have combined to make our financial journey feel like a lofty mountain. Many days we literally don’t have more than a dime to our names. On Sunday mornings we give our tithes, and on Sunday nights the offering plates come around for those who didn’t give that morning or for those who want to give an “offering.” Quite regularly my wife will hand me a single dollar bill and whisper, “That’s all we have.” Giving when it’s all you have is challenging.

Peter did the same when he encountered the lame beggar lying at one of the temple gates. He wanted money. Peter had none, but what he had he gave willingly. But Peter said, “I don’t have any silver or gold for you. But I’ll give you what I have. In the name of Jesus Christ the Nazarene, get up and walk!” (Acts 3:6 NLT)

I’ve learned my giving shouldn’t be determined by the amount of my income or how much I have left over after the bills are paid. All I have at any particular moment, God has given me, and he desires the firstfruits in return. Though amount is significant, it isn’t as important as the attitude with which I give it. With the right focus, I can give cheerfully, liberally, regularly, proportionately, and with correct motives. While not larger in amount, the poor widow’s mite was greater in value than the wealthy’s large sums thrown in with little care. Theirs was for show and rote obedience only (Luke 21). 

Though difficult to give when times are tough, demonstrate your faith by putting in God’s firstfruits and trusting him to meet your needs. He will never fail you.

Prayer: Father God, owner of the cattle on a thousand hillsides, prompt us to give and then trust You to give back to us in return…pressed down and running over. 

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Chicken Stew by Michelle Wiles

Ingredients

6 BONELESS CHICKEN BREAST

     

2 CANS OF TOMATOES

2 CANS CREAM CORN

2 ONIONS

4 POUNDS POTATOES (COOKED UNTIL TENDER)

1 POUND BUTTER

1 ½ GALLONS MILK

SALT/PEPPER

Directions

BOIL CHICKEN UNTIL DONE. GRIND CHICKEN.

IN A POT BOIL TOMATOES, POTATOES, CORN, AND ONIONS.

MASH POTATOES AND TOMATOES UNTIL VERY FINE.

ADD ALL OTHER INGREDIENTS TOGETHER.

BRING TO A SLOW BOIL, STIRRING CONSTANTLY.

SIMMER FOR ABOUT 20 MINS.

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Hearing Voices by Martin Wiles

We currently call it PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder)—a disturbing emotional state experienced by many soldiers returning from war or military action. But in past military conflicts, those who suffered war related emotional disturbances were not so fortunate and perhaps displayed their emotional trauma in other manners.

One of the M*A*S*H sitcom episodes features a wounded soldier facing an emotional conflict. His wounds aren’t serious, and he would soon be returned to the front. But when questioned about his name, his response was “I’m Jesus Christ.” Having no luck convincing him otherwise, the doctors call in a psychiatrist who determines that he is Jesus Christ—at least in his mind. Adopting the identity of someone whom he thought opposed war helped him deal with his conflicted state of being somewhere he didn’t want to be. He listened to the wrong voice.
   
According to Jesus, whom we listen to is important. Then he added, “Pay close attention to what you hear. The closer you listen, the more understanding you will be given—and you will receive even more. (Mark 4:24 NLT)

I’ve never heard God speak audibly—nor do I expect to, but I have heard him speak clearly to my spirit on many occasions. I’ve heard the Enemy as well. So when I hear voices, I must be careful to listen to the right one. 

After I’ve determined which one is God’s voice, my responsibility is to obey. Obedience always brings peace, satisfaction, blessings, and further opportunities. As I listen and adhere to God’s truth, I’ll gain a better understanding of his truth. 

Practice makes perfect. Practice also sharpens my ability to hear God clearly over the other voices clamoring for my attention. 

Are you hearing God’s voice clearly? Let God teach you how to distinguish his voice from others that might lead you astray. 

Prayer: Teach us, heavenly Father, to hear You clearly that we might obey You promptly and consistently. 

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Christmas in a Strange Place by Martin Wiles

We were in a strange place and had no plans to spend our first Christmas there.

Eight years had passed since I graduated high school. College was not on my agenda then, so I entered the work force and had been there ever since. But now I felt God’s call into full-time ministry. Obeying it would require that I further my education. I would have to attend college. 

What I despised the thought of earlier, I now anticipated with great pleasure. A chance not only to study the Bible at a deeper level and familiarize myself with the various aspects of theology, but also the chance to learn some of the material I didn’t when I was in high school. I was a loafer then. No interest in school. Couldn’t imagine how college would be in my best interest. Even though I could have gone free as a pastor’s child, I turned down the opportunity.

By this time in my life, I was married and had a ten month old daughter. I had a fairly decent job but not one paying lucrative bucks. Pulling up stakes and leaving everything and everyone behind with nowhere to go but college was scary. I had responsibilities. I had bills to pay. We went anyway. And with no jobs lined up. All we had to look forward to were student loans, and they wouldn’t arrive until school started—a month away.

In July of 1987, we left our home in South Carolina and headed for unknown territory—Graceville, Florida. A small town in the panhandle of Florida whose appearance and climate varied little from what we were accustomed to. One month later, I began a four year journey toward a theology degree. My wife eventually landed a job at a local daycare center. What bills her check couldn’t pay, we used student loan money to cover. 

August found me back in a classroom, loaded down after the first day with syllabi bulging with papers to write and tests to study for. I was filled with anticipation, but I was also longing for December when we could return home for a week to celebrate Christmas with our family. I enjoyed college but had no intentions of spending Christmas in a strange place.

My first semester breezed by, and before I realized it Christmas week was here, and we were packing suitcases and loading the car for our drive back to South Carolina. Driving at night was more convenient with a small child, so we waited for darkness’ canopy and our child to fall asleep before we backed out of our driveway and steered our car toward home. Eight hours later, we pulled into my parent’s driveway. Since our daughter was their first and only grandchild, they were eagerly awaiting our arrival—even if it was 2 a. m. 

Mom had been busy carrying on my maternal grandmother’s tradition since she was no longer able to buy numerous and lucrative Christmas presents. Gifts bulged underneath the tree and spread out onto the living room floor. Most of them had our daughter’s name on them, but there were plenty for everyone else as well. In fact, Mom had purchased so many presents that she couldn’t remember what she bought for anyone. The presents we opened were just as much of a surprise to her as they were to us. Our gifts were comparatively small in number to what we were given. Our family knew we weren’t able to spend much, but they didn’t care. They were interested in buying for us—expecting nothing in return. 

We received so many presents we had to purchase a car top carrier to store our luggage in so we would have room in the remainder of the car for the gifts. When the week ended, we reluctantly packed our car and stuffed ourselves in between the gifts and made our trek back to Florida. 

Each of the four years I was in college we repeated this tradition. Sure we could have stayed in Florida and celebrated Christmas with our small family and perhaps a few friends who remained on campus during the holidays. But we just couldn’t bring ourselves to spend Christmas in a strange place…a place that was only our temporary residence.

Joseph and Mary weren’t so fortunate. A tax census forced them to leave their hometown of Nazareth and head to Bethlehem. Not only did they spend Christmas in a strange place, but Mary also gave birth to her son in a peculiar place. Jesus was forced to experience what I hesitated to do. He took with him Mary, his fiancée, who was now obviously pregnant. And while they were there, the time came for her baby to be born. (Luke2:5-6 NLT)

Over the course of my life, I’ve spent Christmas in a number of strange places…places that weren’t my real home—temporary places of residence. But I’ve discovered Christmas isn’t tied to a place but rather a person. When Jesus abides in my heart, it’s Christmas all year long and anywhere I happen to reside. I’ll never celebrate Christmas in a strange place when I remember the true meaning of the season. Only by shutting out Christ will I find myself in an unfamiliar place.


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Christmas’s Perfect Gift by Martin Wiles

I’m not sure exactly when she started giving her perfect Christmas gifts to me, but it became a tradition I anticipate each year. 

Somewhere during her middle school years, my daughter began making homemade Christmas gifts for me. At her age, she had no resources except the money we gave her for allowance. She could hardly buy all her family gifts with those insignificant funds, so she resorted to the next best thing—which in reality was the better thing. Homemade gifts. 

I don’t remember the very first gift she gave me, but I’m sure my eyes brimmed with tears as they always do when I receive another one of her well-thought out gifts. One of the earlier ones I have neatly tucked away was somewhat of a life journey of memories. Once upon a time when cassette tapes were the most novel form of musical technology, my father built a wooden case as a storage bin for his and mom’s plethora of cassettes. Somewhere along the way, my daughter became the proud owner. But now that CD’s had taken over the music world, she had no further use for it. In each compartment, she glued paraphernalia of our life journey together. Just little inexpensive items. They cost her nothing except time, but they demonstrated her love and expressed appreciation for the memories.

Another year—after she had graduated from college, I received a frame with two pictures of her and me and the poem “My Daddy’s Hand” in between. I’m sure the poem and/or song had been around for some time, but I had never heard or read it before. It simply said: 

Daddy, take my hand in yours and you will plainly see,
How very much I need you now to love and care for me.
As my little hand grows, I will need you even more,
Everything I do in life, I have never done before.
Teach me to be kind and loving, sharing and forgiving,
Show me through your acts of love the pure joy of living.
The years will pass by quickly and one day I will be grown,
I will pass what you have taught me onto children of my own.
Hold me always in your thoughts and remember when we are apart,
The special love between a child and a daddy's heart.

Since she and I had hiked the mountains of South Carolina, North Carolina, Tennessee, and Virginia together for four to five years, it was only natural that she’d give me a gift relating to our experiences. And she did. A shadow box that housed a picture from our trek on a section of the North Carolina Tennessee Appalachian Trail, a small rock, and a Bible verse that read; The Lord is my rock, my fortress, and my savior; my God is my rock, in whom I find protection. He is my shield, the strength of my salvation, and my stronghold. (II Samuel 22:2-3)

Another year brought a homemade booklet that was made of construction paper and bound together with twine entitled, “What Hiking Means to Me.” Inside were pictures of hikes we took together along with lessons she had learned from our many excursions over high mountains, through deep valleys, and across raging streams. 

There were a few years during college when life got busy for her. Studying all hours of the night, college life, sorority meetings, hanging out with friends, trying to manage a boyfriend. Sure I knew she still loved me, but I missed the homemade gifts. They required time and thought. More than simply going to a store and picking up some meaningless item just to say I gave Dad a present. 

But now the gifts continue. She has secured a decent job where she can use her educational skills, is a mom, has her own place, and is settled. So as this year approaches, I’m anticipating another perfect Christmas gift. Since we now have a grandson, I’m sure the gift will probably relate to him. And that’s perfectly acceptable. Whatever it is—as long as it comes from her heart to mine, it will be the perfect Christmas gift.

Perhaps what the wise men brought to the boy Jesus didn’t appear to be perfect gifts, but in some way I’m sure they were. They entered the house and saw the child with his mother, Mary, and they bowed down and worshiped him. Then they opened their treasure chests and gave him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. (Matthew 2:11 NLT) Contrary to what is normally portrayed, Jesus wasn’t still in the manger when they arrived but was one to two years old and living in a home with his parents.

For a future king, these were perfect Christmas gifts. Gold was fit for kings and would certainly help a poor family like this and would finance their trip to Egypt and later back to Nazareth. Frankincense was given to deity, which he certainly was as the God man. And myrrh was a spice for a person who was going to die, which he would do in a short 30 years. 

I look forward to my daughter’s perfect Christmas gifts each year, but more importantly I must consider what should be my perfect gift to the Savior who has given so much to me? My gift should not only come at Christmas but extend throughout the entire year. And what gift does he desire? My undivided loyalty and a love that extends from my heart, soul, and mind. 

Will you give Jesus the perfect gift this Christmas?

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Christmas Far Away by Martin Wiles

With the exception of a few months following my birth, I had always lived in South Carolina near my grandparents. But the early 1970’s ushered in a few Christmases that were far away.

Celebrating Christmas with parents that love you is enjoyable, but parents don’t normally spoil their children like grandparents do. And mine did—at least my father’s. 

My father received the disturbing news that he would soon be shipped to Taiwan. Not knowing how long he would be deployed—and fearing he might lose her while he was away, he asked my mom to marry him before he was shipped out. Though only 17 and a junior in high school, she agreed. After he departed, she promptly finished her education before he returned. 

Upon Dad’s arrival back in the states, he was stationed at Fort Monmouth, New Jersey, and it was here I entered the world. We only stayed here a few short months, and obviously I don’t remember anything about it. Pictures stored in Mom’s family albums are the only proof I have. We returned to South Carolina where Christmases were celebrated at both grandparent’s homes with cousins in tow. Until I turned ten and life changed.

My father had entered the ministry and was now receiving a call from a church in Jackson, Tennessee. The prospect of moving to another state—and this one in particular, excited me, but leaving my extended family didn’t. But I had no choice. I was under age and dragged wherever my parents went. Mom was pregnant with my youngest brother, and my middle brother was only one. Since I was the oldest, I had to wear the strong face. 

Members of Parkway Southern Methodist Church made us feel welcome, and this was special since we were so far from home. These were the days before interstates connected every major city, so the journey was long and involved treks through the winding hilly roads of the North Carolina and Tennessee mountains. I had never been so far from my grandparents before.  As a small child, the trip seemed to take almost an entire day. 

Trips back to South Carolina rolled around only twice each year: at Christmas and during the summer. And sometimes only at Christmas. While I made friends at our new home, I missed my family. Fortunately, Mom and Dad allowed me to spend the entire summer with my father’s parents where I would work with my grandfather on the ice cream truck. My grandmother would either come get me or Mom and Dad would make the drive to take me. One summer I even flew by myself back to South Carolina. 

Christmas is that special time of year when a young boy wants to be with his parents but also his grandparents and cousins. These were the days of football field sized cars and no seat belt restrictions. I could lay in the back dash of the car if I wanted and soak up sunshine or play in the very back of my parent’s very long station wagon (the SUV of the seventies). Having this freedom made the trip more endurable as well as did marveling over the mountains as we passed through. Often we would stop in Cherokee, North Carolina, on the way there or back. It was my favorite place as a youngster and still is. 

After what seemed like an eternity, we would finally pull into my grandparent’s driveway. They met us at the door, helped us unload, and ushered us into our rooms for our stay. I normally slept in my iron “soldier bed” located in my great-grandmother’s bedroom. She also lived with my grandparents—which was an extra treat. Christmas was celebrated with my father’s parents, and then we made the 30 minute drive to my mother’s parent’s home. 

Though I had to endure an arduous and lengthy ride to celebrate Christmas during the three years we lived in Tennessee, the presents and sight of my family made the pain bearable. It must have a long journey for Christ as well. Notice that it says “he ascended.” This clearly means that Christ also descended to our lowly world. (Ephesians 4:9 NLT)

Heaven may or may not be a locality we can discover, but it was the place from which God sent his Son to earth to be born of a virgin and die for humanity’s sins. That first Christmas journey required him to come to earth, live in a human womb for nine months, be born in a dark and dingy stable, and eventually be crucified by those who hated him and disbelieved his identity. But he was willing to make the journey because he loved you and me. This Christmas remember how far Jesus was willing to come to demonstrate his love for you. 

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A Different Kind of Christmas by Martin Wiles

From our family to yours: We wish you a very Merry Christmas and a big thanks for your continued support!!

She gave birth to her first child, a son. She wrapped him snugly in strips of cloth and laid him in a manger, because there was no lodging available for them. Luke 2:7 NLT

Christmases at my maternal grandparent’s home were different, but just as memorable.

My mother’s parents would have been considered upper middle class by modern standards. When my grandfather died, he had a sizable sum saved. At least it was sizable according to my standards of judging sizable. Checkbook balances never fell below a certain amount. One I considered wealthy. My grandfather also owned several hundred acres of farmland and wooded areas.

But their lifestyles didn’t reflect the money they had or possessions they owned. My grandfather’s only farm implement was a small red tractor. What he couldn’t do with it, he paid someone else to do—which was almost everything except plowing and planting. Their home was an old farmhouse with no central heat or air. Not until after my grandfather’s death did my grandmother install one lonely window unit in her kitchen. Neither ever owned a new vehicle while my grandfather was alive. Overhead lights consisted of one bulb dangling from a wire that drooped low enough for us to reach to turn it on and off. Their furniture was modest, except for a few finer pieces reserved for company and which were nestled in the “front room.” They never hired professionals to make home repairs. Rather, my grandfather called handymen—more handy than skilled—to mend broken items.

Just down the path—a short city block away--lived my aunt and uncle who parroted my grandparent’s example. They too saved most pennies they earned and spent few, choosing a modest home and down-home living over what they could have enjoyed.

And it was to such an environment that we made our way on Christmas day. The experience was quite different from the one at my paternal grandparents’ home. Rather than bulging with presents as the tree did there, the tree at my mom’s parents stood almost alone with just a few gifts snuggled underneath. 

While I opened presents with great anticipation at my other grandparent’s home, I wasn’t as eager to here. These presents didn’t even compare. Experience had proven it.

Some of the presents were used, and others I saw no use for. I often wondered whether they put any thought into what they gave or just went through the motions because we expected it. When my parents added these to those already received at the other grandparents’ home, I hardly perceived the difference. While I enjoyed the food and seeing my relatives, the presents didn’t tweak the enthusiasm of a young lad with a less than proper understanding of Christmas.

Yet, elements I sometimes didn’t discover when spending Christmas with my other grandparents compensated for the disappointing presents. This grandmother spent her entire day in the kitchen, and Christmas was no exception. She cooked and served while everyone else ate—occasionally not even sitting down until everyone was stuffed and sleepy. And their mindset about presents was starkly different. They seemed to know there were more important things to experience than giving and receiving gifts that may have been purchased with little thought and would be used only for a brief time.

These grandparents cherished togetherness. I labeled them stingy, but then again they may have known something I hadn’t ascertained yet. What they gave me was never what I hoped for, but perhaps it was more important than what they could have afforded to buy.

Our meals and gift opening were often preceded or followed by the men and boys trekking through our grandfather’s wooded land on hunting expeditions. Deer, squirrel, rabbit, quail, dove. It didn’t matter. We hunted it all, bringing back the smaller quarry and escorting them to a small area of the floor next to the lone gas heater standing guard over the kitchen.

Though I was sometimes disappointed with this different kind of Christmas, in many ways it was more important than others I experienced elsewhere. God’s gift and His view of Christmas also disappointed many of the religionists of the day. So poor were Jesus’ parents that a manger was His first home and strips of cloth His first garment. No fanfare over His birth. No parades. No welcoming gifts. No heralding bugles. Just a dark damp stable and a few shepherd visitors.

Numerous people rejected God’s Messiah simply because He didn’t fulfill their expectations. He didn’t ride in on a white horse, nor did He conquer the Jew’s enemies who ruled them ferociously. Rather, He was a humble man from an insignificant town. He grew up learning the carpenter trade and let those His people hated so much insult and eventually crucify Him.


No doubt, Jesus was a different kind of Messiah who arrived on a different type of Christmas, and because of it, many chose not to believe in Him or accept His offer of salvation. But He was God’s kind of Christmas gift. Not wrapped in beautiful bows and fancy paper, but a Savior nevertheless. The type of gift that gives presently and eternally.

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The Christmas Gift by Martin Wiles

His eyes welled with tears as he opened the envelope. The gift was the most unselfish act he’d ever witnessed. 

Harry* was about to experience the most agonizing Christmas of his life. A few months before he had taken out a consolidation loan. The loan seemed like the right approach to his family’s financial situation. With a lower interest rate than he was currently paying to his separate creditors, this loan would let him pay them off quicker than if he kept going the direction he was traveling. So with his wife’s blessing he signed the paperwork and began paying the monthly payment. 

Life seemed good for Harry. His job was rewarding, secure, and paid an honorable salary—enough for his family to live on comfortably. He planned to keep doing what he enjoyed for many years to come. But life changed suddenly. He noticed his wife was changing. She associated with a different set of friends, worked longer hours, frequented places she shouldn’t, and became more distant in the process. 

Harry was concerned but never imagined what he would hear one day when his wife called him into the bedroom. “I don’t love you anymore,” she whispered. And then topped this news off by admitting to an affair with a mutual friend. What seemed like a safe and cozy world immediately shattered into a million pieces. He couldn’t form a thought. His mind raced in hundreds of different directions. Anger mixed with sadness. A thousand questions entered and exited his mind before he could answer them. 

Failed attempts at reconciliation eventually led to their separation and eventual divorce. Harry was left with two teenage children and bills he couldn’t pay. Not only had his wife walked away from him, she had also walked away from their mutual responsibilities. His family disintegration also led to the loss of his once secure job. The only employment available to him paid a mere pittance of what he had once earned. Bills lagged farther behind, one of which was the consolidation loan he had taken out just months before the bad news broke. He struggled to make the payment—and thus far had, but he knew the day was rapidly approaching when he wouldn’t be able to find the funds anymore.

December arrived, and with it the prospect of meager presents, mounting bills, and one that would go unpaid—his consolidation loan. In spite of his depressed mood, Harry agreed to continue his traditional Christmas celebration with his parents, siblings, and their families. For a number of years, the family had made a practice of sitting in a circle, having the grandchildren pass out presents, and then one by one open and display their presents for the others to adore. Everyone understood why Harry didn’t have any gifts to share this year, but the pile lying at his feet was monumental nevertheless. One was a simple white envelope that read, “To Dad, From Goof (his facetious nickname for his daughter).” 

Harry’s curiosity tempted him to open the envelope first, but his daughter warned him this present was the last one he could open. Reluctantly, he opened his other presents one by one, but the enjoyment he would have normally got from opening them was trumped by his anticipation over what was in the envelope. 

Finally, the envelope was the only gift remaining. Carefully, he tore through the scotch tape that held it securely shut. As he carefully ran his fingers into the envelope and extracted the contents, a bundle of money fell into his lap. He counted it and discovered the exact amount needed to make his loan payment. His teenage daughter who worked three part time jobs while attending high school had saved enough to help him do what he couldn’t have done otherwise. Never before had he received a gift like this one. 

But Harry’s gift—as unselfish as it was, pales in comparison to a greater gift given almost 2,000 years ago. Angels announced this offering to shepherds living in the fields. Suddenly, an angel of the Lord appeared among them, and the radiance of the Lord’s glory surrounded them. They were terrified, but the angel reassured them. “Don’t be afraid!” he said. “I bring you good news that will bring great joy to all people. The Savior—yes, the Messiah, the Lord—has been born today in Bethlehem, the city of David! (Luke 2:9-11 NLT)

Harry was reluctant to accept his daughter’s gift even though he needed it desperately. She had worked so hard for this money and could have used it to purchase things she wanted. But he honored her unselfishness by slipping it into his pocket and giving her a big hug followed by an “I love you.”

God’s gift was extremely unselfish as well. He gave it with no strings attached. All we must do is willingly accept it, slip it into our hearts, and he’ll do the rest by letting the results of our acceptance change our lives and the lives of others. 
*Name changed to protect the individual’s privacy.

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Christmas Grace by Martin Wiles

The gifts circled the tree in a wide radius and reached toward the ceiling. I suppose I never wondered how they arrived before Christmas; I was simply excited that my pile was bulging. 

I was the first grandchild on my father’s side of the family. The next didn’t make her appearance for four years which gave my grandparents plenty of time to spoil me. And they did an exceptional job—even after the other grandchildren arrived. My grandmother was my babysitter and early childhood instructor. I was her Avon partner and playmate. 

Early Christmases escape my memory, but the later ones I remember fondly. My grandmother worked at the local hospital as a nursing assistant, and my grandfather drove an ice cream truck. Neither occupation paid much, but my grandfather was a thrifty man who had grown up on the outskirts of the Great Depression. As a young boy, he had to assume control of the family farm after his father’s untimely death. With a mother and a house full of siblings to care for, he learned the lessons of hard work and saving money. 

After he and my grandmother married, these early lessons served him well. While there were periods when he had to rob Peter to pay Paul, by the time I arrived on the scene things were more comfortable. They weren’t well off by any means, but he always made sure his income was greater than his outgo. My grandmother had a certain amount of money deducted from her salary at the hospital and placed into a Christmas fund. To my grandfather’s disdain, she also had a department store credit card. When Christmas rolled around, the first was depleted and the other inflated. The entire new year was spent paying for last year’s Christmas abundance.

So in my younger childhood years, Christmas at my paternal grandparent’s house bulged with gifts. My grandmother carefully counted to make sure each grandchild received the same number of presents. To our immature minds, this was sufficient. We never stopped to think that number doesn’t necessarily equal amount spent. Our parents noticed the difference, but we were oblivious. And in an attempt to avoid being accused of partiality to the first grandchild—me, she always sneaked me a few presents ahead of time. 

Christmas day found our family and Daddy’s sister’s gathered at my grandparent’s house to celebrate the Savior’s birth and open the plethora of presents. My cousin—the next grandchild in line, and I passed out presents, our eyes brimming with excitement as we watched the mound of presents grow at each recipient’s feet. It seemed we would never reach the bottom of the pile. They were in front of the tree, under the tree, behind the tree, and overflowing into the living room proper. Our excitement grew as we finally delivered the last one. Now we could all relax and open our gifts. 

Whether we opened them one person at a time, one gift at a time, or all at the same time, I don’t remember. Wrapping paper and bows flew in all directions while yells of excitement waffled through the air. Santa had delivered everything we asked for and much more we hadn’t anticipated. Perhaps that’s why the presents arrived ahead of time. He couldn’t deliver all these gifts—along with everyone else’s in the world, on one night. 

As the excitement filled the air—accompanied by ooh’s and awe’s and thank you’s, my grandmother sat snuggly on the couch enjoying each moment. Especially the ones when a grandchild received exactly what she knew they had asked Santa for. 

Our parents weren’t as excited as they tried to load all the goodies in vehicles too small for the loads. Presents were stored in every crevice with only a small space left for the children. Since these were the days before mandatory seatbelts, children could be stuffed anywhere without fear of being fined. At home, we filled our rooms with our newfound treasures. Some we cherished for years to come and others we only played with a few times before adding them to our not-interested-in piles. 

As I reflect on those early Christmases at my grandparent’s home, I think of grace—the same grace that God demonstrated with his Christmas gift. But you, O Bethlehem Ephrathah, are only a small village among all the people of Judah. Yet a ruler of Israel will come from you, one whose origins are from the distant past. (Micah 5:2 NLT)

Other than a sense of pleasure and fulfillment, my grandmother received nothing from all the time and effort she put into making these Christmases special for her children and grandchildren. Her purchases cost her dearly. I remember the totals, and for this time period they were extravagant—especially on her budget. She gave us what we didn’t deserve because she loved us. She had no intentions of buying our love; she simply wanted to demonstrate hers.

God’s gift in the Christ child was similar but even more far-reaching. We didn’t deserve his present nor can we ever repay him for it. He doesn’t attempt to force us to love him; he simply wants us to demonstrate our appreciation by accepting his love and serving him. Grace is undeserved favor, and this is what God showed us that early Christmas morning when his baby Son was delivered in a dark stable. Will you share this grace with others? 

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A Baby for Christmas by Martin Wiles

Rarely did Santa bring her what she wanted for Christmas, but one Christmas.... 

Elsie and her sister Connie grew up the daughters of a dirt poor farmer who attempted to eke out a living from sandy soil in the Low Country of South Carolina. By the time her father died, he had made a name for himself in the community and accumulated enough in land and money to be considered well off. But Elsie had left home long before and knew nothing of the wealth growing up that her parents experienced later in life. Even in their later years—when they could have lived more comfortably, they lived as if they had very little. Never a new car or truck. Never a new tractor or combine. Just the same old farm house Elsie had grown up in with no central air or heat. Not even a window air conditioning unit. Just one lonely gas heater in the kitchen and an even smaller one in the bathroom. 

Even though she never got what she wanted the most for Christmas, this special day was the highlight of young Elsie’s life. Her parents and older sister were members of a small white Methodist church nestled in a grove of pine trees not quite two miles from their home. A church where the men sat on one side and the women on the other—a tradition Elsie never understand but one that continued long past the time when it had ended in other churches, and an enormous pot belly stove bellowed red hot heat from the center aisle. 

Sundays found her entire family gathering with other folks from the community to thank God for his blessings—as small as they might seem. When Elsie became a teenager, she played the piano at the little church—something the elderly folks remembered for years in the future. At the moment, however, she was just the younger daughter of Daniel and Maggie Martin—a farmer who had lived on one of the tributaries of the Santee River and had recently joined the community. 

Elsie’s father repeatedly reminded her and her sister how lean times were. In fact, it seemed that’s all he talked about. She wondered whether there were any years that weren’t lean. Surely, there must have been, but the family never heard about abundance—only poverty. Until one Christmas arrived that was very different from any she had experienced before. One that made her feel like a rich person’s daughter.

Every Christmas, Elsie’s family would gather with other families from the community and converge on the little white church to wait for Santa’s arrival. Elsie, along with the other children, eagerly awaited the opportunity to sit on his bulging round lap and tell him what they wanted for Christmas—even though she never really believed she would get it. Year after year, her Christmas wish was the same: she wanted a baby doll. All her friends had at least one. She couldn’t understand why her father couldn’t scrape together enough money at least one year to get her one too. So this particular year, Elsie told Santa what she had told him numerous times before. 

“What’s your name little girl,” Santa would whisper. 

“Elsie,” she excitedly uttered. 

“And what would you like Santa to bring you for Christmas?”  

“Santa, I want a baby doll. Could you please bring me one? All my friends have one, and I want one too.”

“Have you been a good little girl?” Santa queried.

“Oh yes,” Elsie chimed. 

And comparatively, she had been good. Especially when she compared herself to her older sister. Elsie couldn’t wait to get in the bed Christmas Eve. Surely this would be the year Santa would grant the wish she had made so many times before. It must have been one of the bountiful years her father never mentioned. Or perhaps her mother had saved enough money from the fish she sold to the neighbors. But how it happened or why wasn’t important. When the first rays of daylight peeked through her bedroom window, Elsie jumped up and made her way to the Christmas tree. As she looked around, there it was. A box that seemed the right size for a baby doll wrapped in paper a dirt poor farmer’s wife would use. 

After receiving her mother’s permission, she tore into the paper and ripped open the box. She could hardly believe what she saw. Santa had granted her wish. A beautiful small baby doll lay quietly in the box. A doll baby of her own. It was all she had ever wanted but never received. She couldn’t wait to play with it. “Why not turn the box into a stroller,” she imagined. Since Santa had delivered the doll, she could engineer the stroller. And she did. After carefully cutting two holes in the box, she inserted a cord and instantly she had a stroller. It was the only year Elsie ever received a doll baby. 

When Elsie was 17, she married my father just prior to his being shipped overseas to Taiwan. Though Elsie didn’t receive but one doll growing up, Daddy and all three of Elsie’s boys made sure she had all she wanted later in her life. Daddy began the tradition of giving her a doll for Christmas every year, and the rest of the family followed suit. 

Elsie is now a senior adult, but one thing she doesn’t lack is baby dolls. She has a corner curio brimming with them, and they also lounge in her bedroom and living room. In fact, Elsie has so many that one year no one gave her any. We figured she had enough—more than enough to make up for all the ones she never received growing up. 

Just as one doll baby made a tremendous difference in Elsie Lee’s life, so did a real child that was born almost two thousand years ago. He too brought joy. To shepherds living in the fields, wise men living afar, and to people worldwide. For a child is born to us, a son is given to us. The government will rest on his shoulders. And he will be called: Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. (Isaiah 9:6 NLT)

Elsie’s young life was changed by one doll’s appearance, and Jesus’ birth has changed the lives of millions of people and continues to do so. He was God’s ultimate Christmas present to the world, and he would later give his life to purchase the salvation of that same world. So never underestimate the potential of even the smallest of gifts. God didn’t. 

Begin each day with a dose of encouraging thoughts. Order your print or Kindle copy today from Amazon. 

Maintaining Margin by Martin Wiles

When I was sophomore in high school, margin was important—at least in one class.

I learned to type on a Royal® manual typewriter. One important lesson was learning to listen for the bell that signaled it was time to use the return lever and start another line. When the bell dinged, I only had a few spaces I could type before I’d be outside the margin and soon typing on the paper roll instead of the paper. My second year of typing, I graduated to an electric typewriter but still had to listen for the ding so I could press the return key to advance to the next line. The bells kept me from typing in the margin. 

Margin is extra space on the sides, headers, and footers of paper that one doesn’t type on. With word processors, it can easily be increased or reduced. Whether a greater or lesser amount, margin is still extra room. 

Jesus encouraged us to create margin in our lives so we could do two very important things. And you must love the LORD your God with all your heart, all your soul, all your mind, and all your strength. The second is equally important: Love your neighbor as yourself. (Mark 12:30-31 NLT)

Busyness is the arch enemy of relationships—with God and with others. Just as the ding of the old typewriter helped me maintain margin on the paper, so I must listen for God’s still small voice reminding me to leave time for others—my spouse, my children, my friends, my church family, unsaved acquaintances…Him. 

When I maintain margin, my priorities are more likely to stay in order, and this will help me remember my purpose in life to love God and others. Everything else flows from these two directives that God holds me accountable for. 

Have you created enough margin so you have time to serve God and love others through practical acts of service? With God’s help, you can. 

Prayer: Merciful God, guide us to wide enough life margins that we might have time to love You completely and serve others sacrificially.

Begin each day with a dose of encouraging thoughts. Order your print or Kindle copy today from Amazon.