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Early this morning, I was searching for ideas for today’s devotion. I pulled a
book off the shelves which contains a perfect example of how we respond to the
love of our Father in Heaven, and how we come to know of it. The story I found
was one which I read as a child and was written by one of my favorite American
authors – Pearl Buck (26 June 1892 – 6 March 1973; also known by her Chinese
name Sai Zhenzhu). Though Buck was American by nationality, she truly was as
much Asian as she was American. She went to Zhenjiang, China with her
parent-missionaries in 1892 and did not return to the United States until 1934,
some 42 years later. She was recipient of the Pulitzer Prize and the first
female recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize for Literature. Though she has
written volumes of works of both western and eastern interests, her most famous
novel, “The Good Earth,” was the best seller in the United States for two years
running (1931-32).
The below short story masterpiece illustrates how the love of God awakens our own
love and results in action. We love
him, because he first loved us. (1 John 4:19)
Christmas Day In The Morning
By Pearl S. Buck
He woke suddenly and completely. It was four o'clock, the hour
at which his father had always called him to get up and help with the milking.
Strange how the habits of his youth clung to him still! Fifty years ago, and
his father had been dead for thirty years, and yet he waked at four o'clock in
the morning. He had trained himself to turn over and go to sleep, but this
morning it was Christmas, he did not try to sleep.
Why did he feel so awake tonight? He slipped back in time, as he
did so easily nowadays. He was fifteen years old and still on his father's
farm. He loved his father. He had not known it until one day a few days before
Christmas, when he had overheard what his father was saying to his mother.
"Mary, I hate to call Rob in the mornings. He's growing so
fast and he needs his sleep. If you could see how he sleeps when I go in to
wake him up! I wish I could manage alone."
"Well, you can't, Adam." His mother's voice was brisk.
"Besides, he isn't a child anymore. It's time he took his turn."
"Yes," his father said slowly. "But I sure do
hate to wake him."
When he heard these words, something in him spoke: his father
loved him! He had never thought of that before, taking for granted the tie of
their blood. Neither his father nor his mother talked about loving their
children--they had no time for such things. There was always so much to do on
the farm.
Now he knew his father loved him, there would be no loitering in
the mornings and having to be called again. He got up after that, stumbling
blindly in his sleep, and pulled on his clothes, his eyes shut, but he got up.
And then on the night before Christmas, that year when he was
fifteen, he lay for a few minutes thinking about the next day. They were poor,
and most of the excitement was in the turkey they had raised themselves and
mince pies his mother made. His sisters sewed presents and his mother and
father always bought him something he needed, not only a warm jacket, maybe,
but something more, such as a book. And he saved and bought them each something,
too.
He wished, that Christmas when he was fifteen, he had a better
present for his father. As usual he had gone to the ten-cent store and bought a
tie. It had seemed nice enough until he lay thinking the night before
Christmas. He looked out of his attic window, the stars were bright.
"Dad," he had once asked when he was a little boy,
"What is a stable?"
"It's just a barn," his father had replied, "like
ours."
Then Jesus had been born in a barn, and to a barn the shepherds
had come...
The thought struck him like a silver dagger. Why should he not
give his father a special gift too, out there in the barn? He could get up
early, earlier than four o'clock, and he could creep into the barn and get all
the milking done. He'd do it alone, milk and clean up, and then when his father
went in to start the milking he'd see it all done. And he would know who had
done it. He laughed to himself as he gazed at the stars. It was what he would
do, and he musn't sleep too sound.
He must have waked twenty times, scratching a match each time to
look at his old watch -- midnight, and half past one, and then two o'clock.
At a quarter to three he got up and put on his clothes. He crept
downstairs, careful of the creaky boards, and let himself out. The cows looked
at him, sleepy and surprised. It was early for them, too.
He had never milked all alone before, but it seemed almost easy.
He kept thinking about his father's surprise. His father would come in and get
him, saying that he would get things started while Rob was getting dressed.
He'd go to the barn, open the door, and then he'd go get the two big empty milk
cans. But they wouldn't be waiting or empty, they'd be standing in the
milk-house, filled.
"What the--," he could hear his father exclaiming.
He smiled and milked steadily, two strong streams rushing into
the pail, frothing and fragrant.
The task went more easily than he had ever known it to go
before. Milking for once was not a chore. It was something else, a gift to his
father who loved him. He finished, the two milk cans were full, and he covered
them and closed the milk-house door carefully, making sure of the latch.
Back in his room he had only a minute to pull off his clothes in
the darkness and jump into bed, for he heard his father up. He put the covers
over his head to silence his quick breathing. The door opened.
"Rob!" His father called. "We have to get up,
son, even if it is Christmas."
"Aw-right," he said sleepily.
The door closed and he lay still, laughing to himself. In just a
few minutes his father would know. His dancing heart was ready to jump from his
body.
The minutes were endless -- ten, fifteen, he did not know how
many -- and he heard his father's footsteps again. The door opened and he lay
still.
"Rob!"
"Yes, Dad--"
His father was laughing, a queer sobbing sort of laugh.
"Thought you'd fool me, did you?" His father was
standing by his bed, feeling for him, pulling away the cover.
"It's for Christmas, Dad!"
He found his father and clutched him in a great hug. He felt his
father's arms go around him. It was dark and they could not see each other's
faces.
"Son, I thank you. Nobody ever did a nicer thing--"
"Oh, Dad, I want you to know -- I do want to be good!"
The words broke from him of their own will. He did not know what to say. His
heart was bursting with love.
He got up and pulled on his clothes again and they went down to
the Christmas tree. Oh what a Christmas, and how his heart had nearly burst
again with shyness and pride as his father told his mother and made the younger
children listen about how he, Rob, had got up all by himself.
"The best Christmas gift I ever had, and I'll remember it,
son every year on Christmas morning, so long as I live."
They had both remembered it, and now that his father was dead,
he remembered it alone: that blessed Christmas dawn when, alone with the cows
in the barn, he had made his first gift of true love.
This Christmas he wanted to write a card to his wife and tell
her how much he loved her, it had been a long time since he had really told
her, although he loved her in a very special way, much more than he ever had
when they were young. He had been fortunate that she had loved him. Ah, that
was the true joy of life, the ability to love. Love was still alive in him, it
still was.
It occurred to him suddenly that it was alive because long ago
it had been born in him when he knew his father loved him. That was it: Love
alone could awaken love. And he could give the gift again and again. This
morning, this blessed Christmas morning, he would give it to his beloved wife.
He could write it down in a letter for her to read and keep forever. He went to
his desk and began his love letter to his wife: My dearest love...
Such a happy, happy Christmas!
THE END
