On Thanksgiving Day of this year after a full day of eating and family fellowship, I decided that I was going to walk the .15 mile from my parents’ house back to my house and get ready to start our traditional family Christmas movie season. As I topped the hill and made the last 100 yards or so to my address, it was dark and quiet with a slight cool breeze blowing. I stood and looked at our large living room window which faced the road. Through my mind raced the many years as a child I had gazed into that same window. At that time of year I would see a (by today’s grandiose standards) tiny lit Christmas tree that sat on top of a small table. There were no outside lights wound around the columns on the front porch, nor were there lights hanging from the gutters. It was just a simple green tree with what is now considered vintage lights. If my grandmother was feeling festive she would scatter icicles on the branches as an accent. Often, when I walked by and sometimes even if we drove by slowly enough I would be able to see my grandfather sitting in the background in his loveseat reading, illuminated by a lamp kept on the end table next to him. Most of the time he would be reading the Bible, but sometimes he might stray into some cattle magazine. Without even seeing her I would invariably picture my grandmother busying about somewhere inside cleaning or cooking.

As I stood there on my road, not a car within sight or sound, I smiled slightly remembering the numerous precious memories of dozens of long lost Christmases that instantly flooded my mind. I could recall instances from holiday seasons that to my surprise I was able to associate with specific years even as a boy. A couple of times it seemed I could almost smell the country ham and biscuits and taste the jelly my grandmother would fix. After first racing through several years, my memory slowed and focused on a single year. This memory however, brought pain and guilt to my mind. It was the Christmas of 1989. In the weeks leading up to this Christmas I had noticed, at the Old Hickory Mall in Jackson, TN, a small booth where a craftsman was selling knives he had hand-made with elk and mule deer antler handles. I had first seen them while I was there shopping for other things with my sister. The second I had seen them I was entranced and amazed by how expertly made they were. I wanted one so badly that I tried my best to conjure up ways I could afford one. Keep in mind this was the late 80’s. The cheapest one was $189.00 with the one I wanted being closer to $300. I then realized it was close to Christmas and maybe my grandmother would get it for me. My sister told me she would discreetly get the word to her that one of those knives was what I wanted for Christmas. We typically opened presents there on Christmas Eve night so as that night drew closer I grew more and more excited because I was sure one would be wrapped up and waiting for me. I could already picture myself wearing it on my belt in its leather sheath while I ran the hills. However, as one gift after another was opened and I assessed the size of the remaining packages, it became obvious to me that there was not going to be a knife with an antlered handle under this tree. The disappointment I felt was immense. Although my grandmother had never once said she was getting a knife for me, it felt almost like betrayal. I looked at the other gifts with feigned appreciation and said my thank you’s, but I could not get over the let-down of not getting the knife that, somehow, I had convinced myself I deserved. Not once that night did it enter my mind the inestimable love my grandparents had always shown me they had for me. My first BB gun, voluntarily and unannounced bought by my grandfather as well as my first three wheeler, meant nothing to me at that moment nor the following days.

The stinging guilt this thirty-two year old memory brought to my heart while I stood in the middle of Oak Grove Rd. is difficult to describe. I suddenly, after all these long decades, felt like an impish child. The window, that only seconds before had seemed so full of lights with my family’s own Christmas tree looked empty and cold. There was no small tree on a small table. My grandfather is no longer in the background reading his Bible and I can no longer count on the unseen, but persistent vigilance of my grandmother working in the background. It was only dark silence however somewhere deep in my mind I could hear, as if from a long distance, both of my grandparents whisper, “but we loved you.” Tears filled my eyes and I said with an audible voice, “I’m so sorry Grandaddy Preston and Grandmama Dean. I was just an ignorant boy.” I then realized that in 1989 I would’ve given much for one knife. Today, I would give as many knives as I could afford for one more Christmas to look into that window and see that small tree and smell the biscuits and ham because it means more to me now than what I saw and smelled back then. It means a total, ever-present, unconditional love and acceptance that never, not once, faded or waned.

Now that I am a man I pray that I can do as Paul stated he had done and “put away childish things” and focus on the most important, yet unseen things of life. So that is my advice to you this Christmas season or truly at any time. Count your time with those that love you as precious. Hug them. Love them. Laugh with them. Let them tell that story you have heard a hundred times. Teach your kids to do the same. Don’t let the time come when you realize those priceless moments slipped right through your fingers because you were focused on the knife and now look through the empty window.