Special Christmas Edition

Much of my Christmas nostalgia is wrapped in the glow of those big, old-fashioned colored bulbs—the ones that could heat a small apartment—and the shimmering glory of an aluminum Christmas tree spinning under a color wheel. I was a child of the 60s, after all.

Only in that decade could a tree made of tinsel, decorated with blue ornaments, and illuminated by absolutely no lights of its own be considered the height of holiday sophistication. And you know what? I loved it. Those memories still shine for me, even if a few of them come with some spiritual scar tissue.

I grew up in a sprawling extended family. My dad was an only child, but he came from a clan that reproduced cousins the way Louisiana reproduces mosquitoes—by the thousands and without apology.

Every Christmas, we gathered at my great-grandmother’s house for the annual cousin gift exchange. Names were drawn at Thanksgiving, rules were followed, and gifts were opened with military precision.

It was Christmas 1968—easy to remember, because I’d been up half the night watching Apollo 8 circle the moon. Humanity was reaching for the heavens… and meanwhile, down on Earth, my cousin Wally was plotting a lunar landing of his own.

On my gift.

I opened that widget—my widget, given to me by my great-grandmother herself. I can still point to the exact spot on the floor where I sat when I unwrapped it. But somewhere between that moment of joy and the time we loaded up the car, the widget vanished.

Gone.

Disappeared.

Beamed up, perhaps, by Cousin Wally, who boldly claimed it was his. It was not. I knew it then, and I know it now.

Wally took it.

That rat.

And ever since that fateful day, I have developed a Christmas quirk. If you give me a gift, I will—without hesitation, without shame, without regard for weather conditions—march it straight to my car.

I have been known to sprint through a downpour like a shepherd chasing a runaway sheep, all to protect a tin of cookies or a festive mug.

My family knows this about me. My church knows this about me. I know this about me. And honestly, it makes me laugh every time I do it, because I can still see Wally’s face in 1968, claiming my widget like he was planting a flag on the moon.

Have you ever had something stolen? It’s funny how one small childhood moment can linger in the corners of your heart. Part of me still fears losing a gift, even though I know that fear is completely out of step with what Christmas is really about.

Christmas isn’t about the presents under the tree—or the ones your cousin swipes when you’re not looking. Christmas is about a relationship with Jesus.

God sent His Son into the world so that whoever believes in Him will not perish but have eternal life. Jesus is the gift that cannot be misplaced, stolen, re-gifted, or claimed by Cousin Wally. He is yours, forever.

My prayer is that you experience the love of Jesus every day of your life.

Merry Christmas!