Preachers habitually urge at this time of the year: “In the coming year let us make every day Christmas Day!” Well, of course, that is a noble sentiment. I’ve exhorted folk to that ideal myself. However, I realize I’ve never given an example of any of the many people I’ve known whom I’ve known who are for me everyday Christmas people. So today I want to celebrate such a person. I am changing the names because I have not asked permission to tell this story. But it is true and it warms my heart on this cold Christmas week morning.

     Sally was old enough to be my own mother. She frequently came to my office. She only stayed a moment when she visited. Sometimes it would be to give me something she thought I would enjoy. It might be something as simple as an article from a magazine or newspaper. Sometimes it would be something good to eat. Usually, it was something to give to the poor. She would buy something at a yard sale or on sale at the grocery and bring it to me to pass along to others. Many times I would miss her but find her gifts on my desk later. One day she appeared at my office door without a gift but rather in some distress. I was immediately concerned. I asked her what was wrong? She said, “I have done something terribly wrong!” I sat her down and asked what had happened? She said, “I put a dent in the car!” Well, I said, let’s go out and look at it. So we went to the parking lot. She pointed the damage out to me. I can’t remember how bad a dent it was or how it happened although I remember her telling me the details. What I mostly remember is how distressed she was and what she felt was a serious moral dilemma. She asked me, “Should I tell Johnny what I’ve done?” Johnny was Sally’s husband of many, many years.

     We sat down and I told her a story about the time my mother came home from the grocery in a panic. She had backed out of a parking spot in our brand new family car. She backed into a low barrier that hit just under the bumper on the car. It wasn’t a bad dent, but it was noticeable if you looked carefully. She asked me—I was about 13 years old—if I could get the dent out. Naturally, I said, “Sure, Mom.” So I got a hammer and crawled under the car and began to bang at the dent. When I finished, it looked look a bunch of grapes had somehow been trapped under the paint! I don’t know if she ever told my Dad or not.

     Well, I told this tale to Sally and then I told her this. I told her whatever she decided to do, tell or not tell, it would not affect Johnny’s love for her. “If you were to totally wreck the car, Sally, it won’t put a dent in Johnny’s love for you. He would want to know if you were hurt.” She started to cry and I did too. After we regained our composure, we gave each other a big hug. We never spoke of this again. Every day was Christmas Day for her. Sally never quit her mission of caring for other people—especially Johnny--until she went, this year, to be with God.

     Always, I was inspired by Sally’s struggle with her cane to climb up to her place in the choir loft. Now, I remember her with love and with the satisfaction of knowing that she did not have to climb into the celestial choir. The God to whom she sang has now lifted her to her seat there. Happy Christmas!

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