Christmas Story

For about ten years, starting in 1994, I wrote an annual Christmas Story. The first two were written while I was a missionary. I'd send them home to be read on Christmas Eve and in that way I would participate in the family's Christmas festifities. The only rule (self-imposed) was that the story had to revisit the nativity in one way or another. These are not the best writings ever made, but they are heartfelt. I will post several of them over the next few days.


Christmas Story 1994

The spirit representing my Christmas future left me at the side of the headstone with the hideous inscription. It read, Ebenezer Scrooge. It was without mistake my own resting place.

My heart was broken. My life had been vain. Tears came unsuppressed. The grief of a wasted existence flooded into my soul.

Then, when I thought I could not endure another moment, a glimmer of light stuck. It was not too late. I had been given a second chance to change my life. Joy filled my heart replacing the entire void. It was the thrill of rebirth. I fell to my knees and again wept.

When I had closed my eyes to blink away the tears, I felt the familiar blast of wind that comes with the spirit’s mode of travel. My stomach jumped, I didn’t open my eyes for I knew in a moment I would, as with the other spirits, be within my bedchamber.

But, when my flight had ended I knew that I was not home. For the smell was not familiar to me. I opened my eyes and beheld sheep, dozens of sheep.

I was still kneeling and as I stood a small voice said, “what’s your name?”

“Ebenezer…”

“You’re named after a rock.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My papa always tells me stories about the old prophets. Ebenezer is the rock that Samuel put in that valley down there.”

“Where is your Father?”

“He went to see the Messiah.” The boy’s face was stone as if he understood the sacredness of such words.

“Where might I find him?”

“Bethlehem, on the other side of this hill, at Eleazar’s stable past the inn.”

My eyes were opened; I saw where the child was and how to get there. I ran the most part of the distance. Even at my age the import of reaching the Babe superseded any need of rest. As I came upon the stable, I slowed in order to catch my breath. The crowd noticed me, a new face, and separated to let me through.

I saw him. My Savior, Creator, and God was the most beautiful baby I had ever beheld.

I had seen the child’s gaze before. Bob Cratchet had it. It was in my lost love’s stare. Oh, and Tiny Tim, especially Tiny Tim.

I fell to my knees again, and again I was weeping. I have never claimed to be a visionary man, but in that moment I saw his life, from that night in the manger until he hung on the cross, and even beyond that.

The baby‘s gaze seemed to say, “For you Ebenezer.”

Once again I felt wind against by face and I was in my bedchamber. I rushed to the window and flung it open.

“Boy, what day is it?”

“Why, it’s Christmas!”

In allowing my dear friend Charles to write my story I asked him to withhold the most poignant part in order to share it with you my self.

Although not as eloquent as Dickens, these few lines are meant to remind us that it was Jesus Christ who came and died for us that we might experience this mighty change. It happened to me. May he change you in such a way that you might substitute your name for mine when he says, “for you Ebenezer.”


copyright 2010 Rick Murdock (please do not use without permission)