The Sunday Sermonette – A Christmas Memory.

For many of us, just hearing the word Christmas brings back memories of earlier days, special places, and people we love—some of whom may no longer be with us. Do you remember the twinkle of Christmas tree lights shining on Shiny Brite ornaments? The scent of cinnamon sticks simmering on the stove? A warm, gooey pecan pie in the oven, almost ready to eat? Or maybe a loved one’s laughter; perhaps the feel of their warm hand in yours?

Do memories whisper to you when the air turns crisp and cold, or when you hear snow crunching under your feet? Do they beckon when you hear children laughing as they open presents on Christmas morning? Do you remember the salty-warm tears on your face when it was time to leave loved ones, hoping you’d see them again next Christmas?

My Christmas memories center on just three people: Mom, Dad, and my sweet Granny from D’Lo. If you spend any time with me, you’ll hear about Granny. She was truly a spirited woman. I grew up listening to her stories about the Great Depression in Mississippi’s Simpson County—the hard work on the farm, the struggles with poverty, and the hope for better days.

As a child, I spent many idyllic summers with her. She would regale me with hysterical stories about the county folk that inhabited a magical place – D’Lo. I’d giggle myself to sleep recalling them and their antics, which, to a child of eleven, were more entertaining than any movie or book. Granny taught me many things, the most long-lasting of which was a love of life. Life, with its glorious mountain tops and its vicious valleys, its effervescent days and darkest nights. Life, lived to the fullest, thankful for God’s love, mercy, and grace, along with the treasure of friends and family.

The snap I’ve provided was taken on Christmas Day, 1983. Little did I know that this was to be Granny’s last Christmas. Not long into the New Year, she began losing weight, was constantly nauseous, and her sweet smile was strained due to her internal pain. She was diagnosed with cervical cancer—a stupid disease that eats away at the very thing that gives it life. The doctors gave her little chance of survival. Thus began our family’s round-the-clock, hospital vigil; she was never alone. For two months, she suffered. Her smile disappeared. The twinkle in her bright blue eyes faded. She prayed for God to call her Home.

Each night when I left the hospital, I told Granny that I loved her. She would look at me, muster a pained smile, and say, “I love you too, Andy.” The call came early in the morning; it was still dark. My dear mother’s voice wavered as she confirmed what I already knew–Granny was in the loving arms of Jesus. At Granny’s funeral, it dawned on me that the last thing she had said to me was, “I love you.”

This Christmas, it’s just me. Mom, Dad, and Granny have all been called Home. But on Christmas Day, I’ll sit in the same rocker that Granny and I once rescued from a dusty attic. I’ll try to remember her voice, her laughter, her stories. Most of all, though, I’ll remember her love–her love for me, her love for life, and her love for God and his Son, Jesus Christ. Life is fleeting, dear ones. Tell those you love…that you do. Merry Christmas!

Ponder this and go forth.