When my sisters and I were youngsters, our family attended a German language Mennonite church. Although I had only a rudimentary grasp of the language, at Christmas I did get caught up in the excitement of the festivities, pageantry and food. On Christmas Eve the church was filled to capacity and children enacted the events leading to the birth of Jesus, the Messiah Jews had long waited for. For a short time I was transported back to an earlier, simpler time. There was magic in the air.

Now, when I go into a mall and hear renditions of Jingle Bells, I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus and other Christmas tunes, I’m aware of a vast chasm between my early experience of Christmas and the present commercial version. The anxious scrambling to find appropriate gifts suggests to me I’ve entered an alien culture which has no mystery, no magic, and no soul.

Hoping to regain a sense of the earlier mystique I experienced many years ago, last week I reviewed the events of Christmas as I had seen them depicted on stage when I was a kid. To do this, I needed to let go of the present and enter a world with values and practises quite foreign to me. I also needed to accept the possibility of the miraculous.

At that time Caesar Augustus ruled over the far flung Roman Empire and Herod the Great was king of Palestine (Judea). The empire was a cauldron of suspicion, intrigue and treachery. Seeking protection from evil, rulers at various levels built temples and shrines to a plethora of gods. To enhance their image and standing with the people, they sought to be identified with these gods. Herod had a well deserved reputation for savagery, having ordered the slaying of rivals and also members of his own family.

The story of Christmas began when the angel Gabriel appeared to Mary and announced that the Holy Spirit would “overshadow” her and cause her to become pregnant. Although she was a virgin and had not slept with Joseph, to whom she was betrothed but not yet officially married, she would bear a son who would bring hope to the people. She was to name him Jesus. Not long after, Caesar Augustus issued a decree compelling all citizens to return to their place of birth to be registered for taxation and military service. Mary was already “heavy with child” when she, riding a donkey, and Joseph embarked on the approximately three day journey to Bethlehem, a small town in the hill country of Judea.

Arriving in Bethlehem, they found the town clogged with people, horses, donkeys and camels. Joseph searched for accommodation for himself and the weary, pregnant Mary. At each door he was told, “the inn is full. We have no room for you.” He was relieved when a compassionate innkeeper looked at Mary and said, “We have no space for you, but if you like, you can stay in the stable behind the inn.” It was in this stable, amidst hay, animals and farm odours, that Mary gave birth to the Jewish Messiah. She wrapped him in cloths and laid him in a manger.

That night in the surrounding hill country, shepherds were tending their sheep when angels appeared in the sky singing and announcing to them that Jesus had been born in Bethlehem. Although startled and greatly astonished, they didn’t question what they were seeing. Like Jews over the centuries, they had been eagerly anticipating this event. They left the sheep and hurried into Bethlehem where they found Mary, Joseph and the newly born child in a stable.

At about this time three men of noble birth, probably astrologers, were observing the sky in another country. Suddenly they became aware of a star they had not seen previously. The star appeared to be moving and being curious about wonders in the sky, they made preparations to follow it. Some time later, after receiving directions at King Herod’s palace, they arrived in Bethlehem and presented the child with gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh.

This is the story, pretty much based on the account of Matthew, a former tax collector and Luke, a physician of Greek origin. I realize it seems totally implausible, but when I consider the thorny issues facing humankind at this time, I feel ready for a more optimistic message, even the supernatural.

Linda and I were early in our dating relationship when we were gifted with an experience that still awakens the Christmas spirit within us. I was 19 and she was 16. It was the middle of December when the seed of the memory was sown on a road in a remote, heavily forested area behind Mission B.C.

I recall with great clarity the dark cloud that moved in rapidly and unexpectedly unleashed a drenching downpour. The windshield wipers could scarcely cope with the deluge. Ahead of us a grey figure became discernible, bumping in our direction beside the road. I slowed the car as we passed by. It was an elderly woman, her sodden coat wrapped tightly about her. Face toward the ground and shoulders slumping forward, she appeared feeble, miserable and utterly dejected.

Linda gasped and said, “she needs help!” I turned the car around and pulled alongside her. “Would you like a ride?” I asked. She nodded wearily, relief and gratitude on her lined, disconsolate face. I opened the rear door and, encumbered by her heavy wet coat, she clambered in awkwardly.

In a quiet, slightly quavering voice, she directed us to an obscure graveled road. After a couple of minutes, she said “There, that’s where I live.” I pulled the car into a barely discernible driveway and opened the door for her. “Thank you,” she said, “I wasn’t sure I’d get here.” Her teeth chattered but she declined my offer to assist her to the door of her small ramshackle home.

I forgot about the woman, but Linda didn’t. The evening of December 24th, an almost full moon shining overhead, we drove again to the elderly woman’s home. Pale light shone through the only 2 windows. Walking toward the house, holding hands, we heard a dog bark inside. I knocked on the door, and the dog barked again. After waiting a long minute in the chill night air, I knocked a second time, more vigorously. Still no answer. I made a fist and banged with considerable force. Excited barking suggested the presence of several dogs.

Finally the door creaked opened just enough to reveal the woman’s wispy visage and uncombed white hair. A crescendo of raucous barking erupted behind her. It was evident she wasn’t accustomed to company, especially two strangers after darkness had set in. She peered warily through the barely open door.

“Hello,” Linda said. “We picked you up a few weeks ago when it was raining so hard. We’re here to wish you a Merry Christmas.”

Reassured, she stepped out onto the porch, clad in a flimsy house coat. “I’d invite you in,” she said apologetically, “but I have 11 dogs in there.”

She glanced up at the nearly full moon, then asked, “Is it really Christmas?” The light of the moon revealed a lonely, wistful expression on her upturned face. “When I was a child my grandparents took me to church with them one Christmas Eve,” she said. “There was a manger and shepherds with sheep. A baby lay in the manger. They said it was Jesus. That was many years ago. I had not thought of it in a long time.”

We talked for about 5 minutes, then she shivered and pulled the house coat more tightly about her thin frame. She had no resistance against the crisp December evening. Realizing she needed to go back inside, Linda presented her with a small gift and we bade her farewell. She followed us to the car. As I backed onto the road, she stood clearly silhouetted in the light of the moon. Waving vigorously, she called, “Au revoir! Au revoir!” I turned down the car window, waved, and responded “auf wieder sehen!” As we drove away, she continued to wave and call out “au revoir!”

In time, Linda and I were married, adopted 2 wonderful children and became immersed in our careers. The memory of that night faded and I no longer thought of the little white haired lady. Then, a few years ago just before Christmas, the events of that night came back to me unexpectedly. In my mind I saw her again, standing in the driveway illuminated by the moon, waving with great fervour and calling “au revoir!”

Now each year, the memory rekindles the Christmas spirit that otherwise might lie dormant within me. It’s a reminder that when we bring joy into someone’s life, we also receive joy.

Christmas cards depicting the 3 Magi riding camels across a barren desert in the night still evoke a sense of magic and mystique in me. According to the Biblical account, they came from the East bearing gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. Likely born into nobility and affluence, they intended the gifts for a child they believed would one day become an important ruler. Certainly in the culture of their time, the gifts were deemed appropriate for presentation to a king.

They may have been surprised upon their arrival to learn that the infant boy they had come to honour was born in a stable. Even so, they bowed before him, apparently believing he was of royal lineage and would one day bring a message of peace and goodwill to all people. For the parents, the unexpected recognition given to their infant son must have filled them with astonishment and many questions.

Each December I feel impelled to again read this remarkable saga. Last week while pondering its meaning, I began thinking about the gifts given by the Magi. Contrasting that with the tradition of gift giving in our time, I wondered if our emphasis is misplaced. Most of us seem to have little understanding of what makes a gift significant and precious to the recipient.

I went to what I refer to as my “shelf of memories.” Among the items on the shelf are several treasured gifts given to me over the years. Although most have little financial value, each still elicits a sense of nostalgia.

Standing before the shelf for long moments, as I have done many times, I reflected on the meaning and memory represented by each item. Each gift was unanticipated.

One day our daughter Vivian, then age 8, rushed home from school, her eyes sparkling. Excitedly she handed me a card she had created. On the front a curious red fox is sitting on its haunches, gazing quizzically at the world. Inside she had printed, “Daddy, you play so much with us. You start to giggle and laugh. I love you. I hope you like the red fox. You’re like this red fox.”

The next day our son Jeremy, then age 6, watched my face with great anticipation as he handed me a card. An athlete holding a basket ball is saying, “you score high with me.” In large block letters he had printed, “I love you Daddy.”

About a dozen years ago I was asked to write and deliver the eulogy for my very good friend Terry. He had been successful in real estate, but not in relationships with women. Two ex-wives were in the audience, as well as his estranged present wife, plus his current girlfriend. One lawsuit was already pending and I didn’t want to be the object of another. I needed to apply my life experiences and whatever wisdom I could muster. Possibly the seriousness of the occasion enabled them to overlook any failings on my part, even when I inadvertently attributed several children to the wrong woman. A week later the girlfriend came to our home and presented me with Terry’s very expensive watch. “Terry had a high regard for time,” she said. “ He sometimes said a good friendship is timeless. He would have wanted you to have this watch.”

Also on the shelf is a card showing a magnificent eagle on a limb. The caption reads, “Always an eagle.” It was from Gwen, then a fellow Toastmaster. I had sought to encourage her in public speaking. In the card she had written, “I really appreciate all that you are and do.” Affirming messages don’t come to me often enough to be cavalier about them. I accepted this one gladly.

Stepping away from the shelf, I concluded that gifts tend to be most special when they involve an investment of time, effort, and thoughtfulness. Often they recognize the recipient’s contribution, positive example, service to family or community. Their intrinsic worth. They develop connections and create memories we cling to. The best ones bring a spark of excitement and joy.

The Magi travelled many days across possibly perilous terrain. They honoured the child with gifts fit for a king. Even more important, they bowed before him, an indication they believed him worthy of their reverence and worship. It was the ultimate special gift.

Walking by the elaborate colourful Christmas displays in Rona’s Penticton store last week, I became aware of how differently the season was celebrated by my family when I was a kid. Until I was 5, we lived in a remote, sparsely populated village in rural Manitoba. My maternal grandparents, Abram and Susana Funk lived at the centre. Scattered around them on small acreages were their 14 offspring and numerous grandchildren.

The actual village, Barkfield, consisted of only about half a dozen houses. The road through the community was little more than a dirt trail, wide enough for one vehicle. The Funks travelled mostly on horseback or by horse drawn buggy or sleigh.

Having access to no more than a rudimentary education, the Funks lived uncomplicated lives. Most owned a small flock of chickens, a few cows, several pigs, and one or two horses. They relied on gardens for much of their food. The men, out of necessity, became expert hunters and spent many frigid winter days on horseback, hoping to shoot a deer or moose to feed their families. They were skilled with axes and saws and worked in the bush, making cordwood to sell. The women cooked, baked, tended their garden and raised large families. Without exception their hair was as black as any Mohawk or Cree, and because they worked outdoors so much, their skin was deeply tanned.

Although they possessed little, Grandpa and Grandma Funk gave the children an example of unreserved hospitality, especially in winter when it was most needed. Frequently a traveling peddler knocked on their door, hoping for a bed and a meal, plus hay and water for their horse. These were always gladly supplied.

The lives of the Funks, like many rural Manitobans in the 1930’s and 40’s, were uncluttered by an abundance of income or possessions. There wasn’t much to give. I was about age 3 when I first became aware of Christmas. Mom’s brother and family stayed in our home the night of December 24. Because there were few beds, my cousin Eddy and I slept on the floor. In the morning we were astonished and delighted to discover beside each of us a small metal truck with wheels of pressed paper. Compared to what our grandchildren will receive on the night of the 24^th this year it was meager, but it did not occur to us that we were deprived.

Later Mom secretly placed home made cookies, decorated with icing and sparkles, on the snow around our home. We whooped happily each time we found one. Mom, like her siblings, loved snow, family and Christmas. Already as a young boy I sensed her awe and excitement for the season.

For Mom and her siblings, there seemed to be a mystique around Christmas, a magic usually only experienced by children. As a child I caught this for a time but when we moved from Barkfield and the Funk clan to B.C., it began to recede. Now, after many years I’ve become aware of a void in my inner being during this season.

Reflecting back on those early years, I wonder if the Funk family’s excitement and joy at Christmas was possible because they were not exposed to the prosperity and sophistication prevailing in our time. Did this allow for a willingness to embrace the miraculous account of a Messiah born in a stable in Bethlehem, surrounded by sheep and other livestock? For them it was not a great stretch to believe that angels appeared to shepherds tending their flocks in the fields and proclaiming this child was the son of God.

This was all part of my Mennonite upbringing and I recall Christmas Eve scenes depicting Mary and Joseph, the baby Jesus in the stable. The Magi presenting gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. There were always angels proclaiming, “glory to God in the highest and peace on earth to all men.”

It seems an unlikely narrative. However, the stylized box store reindeer and unrealistic silver Christmas trees have no power to inspire a sense of wonder in me. Knowing something about the excitement and awe experienced by my forebears, the Funk family, I’m inclined toward the supernatural manger scene account.