Hey,” I’d say, trying to remember where I was, “It’s December 4^th. Christmas is in twenty more sleeps.”

In those days, December was bright with Christmas programs and sugar cookies and wrapping paper. And, though our children are older now, they still love the traditions we began all those years ago. For them, Christmas ain’t Christmas without the eating of Mandarin oranges and Christmas porridge—a thick cinnamon mixture—courtesy of our Norwegian ancestors. Mom sets the table, and the kids set an extra plate for Jesus. “We should light 2000 candles for Him,” Rachael once said. But we settle for one. After breakfast we gather impatiently in the living room as I read the Christmas story from the Gospel of Luke. Then we open an array of gifts, small by today’s standards.

As a boy I began looking forward to Christmas vacation in early September, about the time Mr. Kowalski started handing out those Math assignments. By the time December arrived, my parents were whispering more than usual and I was wondering what magical things they had in store. There was little in the way of extra money, so one of those magical traditions was the making of colourful candles we would sell door to door, hoping to earn enough to buy gifts. Not all of the traditions were welcome. Sometimes my parents enjoyed travelling to visit relatives and friends. They had a highly sophisticated method of choosing whom we would visit, which involved the laying of a map of Canada on the floor and the tossing of relatives’ pictures in the air. Whoever had their picture land closest to their hometown would receive a complimentary weekend visit from the Callaways. Sometimes we’d end up in Carstairs, Alberta, and sometimes in Loon Lake, Saskatchewan. As I recall, my father never used a map, he went on faith. I always felt like the Wise Men must have felt, heading off on those trips.

Dad’s personal goal was to drive at least 500 miles without stopping at any restrooms. Every few hours, we’d tell him that we had “to go,” but he would respond, “Eh? You say something? I can’t hear you past these earmuffs.” Every once in awhile Mom would offer to drive on the slippery roads, knowing that Dad would not let her unless he went blind in both eyes or suffered a level three heart attack. On these trips, my sister and I sat in the back seat pinching and poking each other, and to this day, when I think of Christmas miracles, I think of the fact that my parents did not lock us both in the trunk and abandon the car.

Apart from these short forays, I loved Christmas vacation. Though my parents had no manuals on creating great vacations, they seemed intuitively to know how. For one thing, they invested in others. Our turkey was surrounded not only by ravenous relatives, but by famished friends. Mom and Dad were always on the prowl for lonely looks in the church foyer, or neighbors who had no family within driving distance. To my parents, relationships were more important than a perfect meal or a tidy house. From the time our children were small we have done simple things to teach them to help others. This has included buying small bags of groceries for needy families. In fact, it has turned into a family adventure. We leave the groceries on someone’s doorstep, bang on the door and run. In eighteen years, we have never been caught. Unless our neighbors are reading this.

My parents also unplugged the TV. Oh sure, we had some great times together watching classic movies, but as much as possible we were encouraged to be outside in that pre-Nintendo era. Mom and Dad were often there with us, throwing snowballs or building forts. With no television we learned to ice skate and carol sing and come up with our own entertainment. Perhaps that’s why my brother offered me a shiny nickel one icy Christmas Eve. All I had to do was lick a metal doorknob (yes, I obliged).

Perhaps, best of all, we were taught to remember that it is not our birthday we celebrate at Christmas. Once while I was drooling my way through the toy section of the Sears catalog, my Mother put her arm about my shoulder and kindly reminded me that the gifts would be a little meager this year. Sensing my disappointment, she asked if I thought Jesus got much for His birthday. I had to think about it, but I said He got gold, frankincense, and myrrh, which I thought might have been a plastic toy of some sort or maybe a casserole. “I think we can afford that much,” she laughed. I’ve forgotten most of the presents she bought me, but I remember the gift of her laughter.

At times I miss being pounced on by small children. Since our teens are in their prime sleeping years now, we’ve talked about what to do this Christmas. Perhaps we’ll switch the opening of the gifts to Christmas Eve. Then again, maybe not. Last year I bought each of them a loud alarm clock. On Christmas Eve I’ll sneak into their rooms and set them for 4 a.m.

Take the next step:

Start a new Christmas tradition
Read the Christmas story from the book of Luke

Reduce Stress & Chaos this Holiday

The holidays always seem to cause us to throw budgetary caution to the wind. If you’re hoping for the gift of more time with your family during the holidays — take heart.

Consulting this list of 20 tips, and checking it twice, will help you keep your holiday stress to a minimum and enjoy the season with your children and family. > Read more

________________________________________________________________________

Featured article: Give water this year for Christmas – Help Dig a Well to Change Lives!

You said it: Karen commented on the Help My Fragile Faith women’s devotional, saying: “Right now I am out of a job and looking for work which seems almost impossible to me but then when I read my bible and I know that God is going to meet my needs (because he says that he will) not my desires but my needs.”
Subscribe to the Men’s or Women’s Daily Devotional email newsletter

Blog: Have a Meaningful Christmas
In this video our editors explore how to make this Christmas a memorable and meaningful one. > Read more

Holiday Feature: Humor: Remembering Happy Holidays
Phil Callaway: When they were little they pounced on me at 4am, jarring me from slumber. “Let’s open the gifts,” they’d holler. “Hey,” I’d say, trying to remember where I was, “It’s December 4th …” > Read more

Coming up next week: One of the topics of our upcoming online chats is “Carols of Christmas: We Three Kings” Join us in the chat room December 6th 2009 @ 9:00pm EST for this chat, and check our full chat calendar for other upcoming topics.

Christmas morning came early when three small children roamed our house.

Hey,” I’d say, trying to remember where I was, “It’s December 4^th. Christmas is in twenty more sleeps.”

In those days, December was bright with Christmas programs and sugar cookies and wrapping paper. And, though our children are older now, they still love the traditions we began all those years ago. For them, Christmas ain’t Christmas without the eating of Mandarin oranges and Christmas porridge—a thick cinnamon mixture—courtesy of our Norwegian ancestors. Mom sets the table, and the kids set an extra plate for Jesus. “We should light 2000 candles for Him,” Rachael once said. But we settle for one. After breakfast we gather impatiently in the living room as I read the Christmas story from the Gospel of Luke. Then we open an array of gifts, small by today’s standards.

As a boy I began looking forward to Christmas vacation in early September, about the time Mr. Kowalski started handing out those Math assignments. By the time December arrived, my parents were whispering more than usual and I was wondering what magical things they had in store. There was little in the way of extra money, so one of those magical traditions was the making of colorful candles we would sell door to door, hoping to earn enough to buy gifts. Not all of the traditions were welcome. Sometimes my parents enjoyed traveling to visit relatives and friends. They had a highly sophisticated method of choosing whom we would visit, which involved the laying of a map of Canada on the floor and the tossing of relatives’ pictures in the air. Whoever had their picture land closest to their hometown would receive a complimentary weekend visit from the Callaways. Sometimes we’d end up in Carstairs, Alberta, and sometimes in Loon Lake, Saskatchewan. As I recall, my father never used a map, he went on faith. I always felt like the Wise Men must have felt, heading off on those trips.

Dad’s personal goal was to drive at least 500 miles without stopping at any restrooms. Every few hours, we’d tell him that we had “to go,” but he would respond, “Eh? You say something? I can’t hear you past these earmuffs.” Every once in awhile Mom would offer to drive on the slippery roads, knowing that Dad would not let her unless he went blind in both eyes or suffered a level three heart attack. On these trips, my sister and I sat in the back seat pinching and poking each other, and to this day, when I think of Christmas miracles, I think of the fact that my parents did not lock us both in the trunk and abandon the car.

Apart from these short forays, I loved Christmas vacation. Though my parents had no manuals on creating great vacations, they seemed intuitively to know how. For one thing, they invested in others. Our turkey was surrounded not only by ravenous relatives, but by famished friends. Mom and Dad were always on the prowl for lonely looks in the church foyer, or neighbors who had no family within driving distance. To my parents, relationships were more important than a perfect meal or a tidy house. From the time our children were small we have done simple things to teach them to help others. This has included buying small bags of groceries for needy families. In fact, it has turned into a family adventure. We leave the groceries on someone’s doorstep, bang on the door and run. In eighteen years, we have never been caught. Unless our neighbors are reading this.

My parents also unplugged the TV. Oh sure, we had some great times together watching classic movies, but as much as possible we were encouraged to be outside in that pre-Nintendo era. Mom and Dad were often there with us, throwing snowballs or building forts. With no television we learned to ice skate and carol sing and come up with our own entertainment. Perhaps that’s why my brother offered me a shiny nickel one icy Christmas Eve. All I had to do was lick a metal doorknob (yes, I obliged).

Perhaps, best of all, we were taught to remember that it is not our birthday we celebrate at Christmas. Once while I was drooling my way through the toy section of the Sears catalog, my Mother put her arm about my shoulder and kindly reminded me that the gifts would be a little meager this year. Sensing my disappointment, she asked if I thought Jesus got much for His birthday. I had to think about it, but I said He got gold, frankincense, and myrrh, which I thought might have been a plastic toy of some sort or maybe a casserole. “I think we can afford that much,” she laughed. I’ve forgotten most of the presents she bought me, but I remember the gift of her laughter.

At times I miss being pounced on by small children. Since our teens are in their prime sleeping years now, we’ve talked about what to do this Christmas. Perhaps we’ll switch the opening of the gifts to Christmas Eve. Then again, maybe not. Last year I bought each of them a loud alarm clock. On Christmas Eve I’ll sneak into their rooms and set them for 4 a.m.

What are your Christmas memories? Read about finding the true spirit of Christmas and how you can make your holidays more meaningful and less stressful.

I grew up in a conservative community

I almost feel guilty mentioning it, but I had a great deal of fun growing up this way. Oh sure, there were negative side effects. For instance, there was the memory loss. And there was, uh…I can’t remember the other thing. Seriously, certain side effects do linger. For one thing, I grew up believing God wanted me miserable. Don’t ask me why. I guess I saw it in the faces of those who came to church looking like breakfast was a bowl of lemons with vinegar on the side. God’s will for my life, I thought, included serving Him in the remotest part of India married to the girl who sat at the front of our class squealing on everyone. And so I decided to pursue adventure elsewhere.

You didn’t have to look far in those days. For a mischievous Fundagelical child, it only took a spark to get a scandal going.

When I was ten, I invented recycling. I know it sounds improbable, but it’s true. One August afternoon, a friend and I took a garbage bag to our town’s main street and placed in it every cigarette butt we could find. Loudly we said, “Boy are these ever disgusting. Can you believe people actually smoke these things?” And passersby nodded their approval. Such good children. There is hope for the next generation after all.

We smiled and thanked them for their comments. Then we carried the garbage bag to our fort in the woods. And we recycled those cigarettes. Every last one of them. Right down to the filters. In fact, we recycled pretty much anything we could get our lips around that summer. Tea leaves. Pencil shavings. Cinnamon. Cardboard. You name it, we sat in the weeds and inhaled it.

One fine Wednesday our dreams came true. Discarded in a deserted ditch was the desire of our hearts: a pack of Player’s Filter Tip, unopened and beckoning. Stripping the plastic off, we divided the pack evenly. Ten apiece. And we sat in the tall weeds inhaling every last one of them. Right down to the filters.

After staggering back to the non-smoking zone, my friend was caught yellow-handed by his mother. But I was older. I was wiser. I knew that as ye smoke, so shall ye reek. Plus my brother Tim had told me the punishment for smoking in our community: “They cut your lips off.” So I slipped silently up to our medicine cabinet and found a can of spray deodorant. I finished it. Then I pulled out a full tube of toothpaste. I finished that too. Finally I was able to approach my parents.

“My, you smell nice, Son.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you very much.”

And that night I crawled into bed, a satisfied smile stuck to my face. No one will ever know.

My mother entered the room then and sat on my bed, sniffing. “How did it taste?” she asked. “Uh…supper? Very good Mom. Thank you. Thank you very much.”

“When I was a little girl,” she continued, “Grandpa let me smoke his pipe. I didn’t much like it, how about you?”

I was shocked. I stuck out my lips, because I knew the punishment. She could have cut them off. Or preached to me. Or quoted Scripture. She could have reminded me that no amount of toothpaste or deodorant will cover our sins. That they really will find us out. She could have reminded me that because of what Jesus did on the cross, we don’t have to hide. We can approach God, forever forgiven. Instead she leaned over and kissed me gently on the forehead.

“I’ll never smoke again,” I said. Then, “Mom, how did you know?”

“Well, Son,” she said, tucking the covers in around my shoulders, “Sometimes ten-year-old boys forget that their mothers have friends too.”

And I heard my father’s voice, coming from the bathroom. “Hey, has anyone seen the deodorant?”

Looking back on my childhood, I’m thankful for rules. I’m thankful I learned early about the seriousness of sin. But I’m glad I was shown more. I’m glad I was shown mercy.

Today I have three children of my own (who said God doesn’t have a sense of humor?) and I’m spending more time on my knees than ever before. I’m praying they will discover early that rules are necessary, that Christians are human, and that God’s will is the very best thing. I pray that they will love the Lord Jesus with everything they’ve got.

But mostly I pray that they will breathe deeply of grace. And discover, as I have, that we travel a little lighter when God’s grace carries us along.

Are you showing mercy to your family? Learn how to be a godly example to your children and effective ways to raise your family to be a family of purpose.

Though I am only forty-six, my hair has begun to vanish.

If you’re one of those guys who still has his original hair, go ahead and laugh. But if you’re experiencing a recession yourself, if you’ve been cluttering pillows and clogging drains, if you’ve stopped combing and started rearranging, you’ll be happy to know that there is hope. I can’t think of anything hopeful at the moment, but give me some time and I’ll think of something. While I do, let’s look at some ways in which the scientific community, working hand-in-hand with laboratory rats, has shown us just how bleak the picture really is.

1. Genes. Scientists recently announced that they have discovered the gene that causes baldness. Unfortunately, they haven’t a clue what to do with it.
2. Drugs. If you were alive during the ‘60s, you know that drugs taken in large quantities helped men forget many things, including their baldness. But this was momentary and, let’s face it, the side-effects were monstrous. Researchers now claim, however, that they have found a proven hair-growing drug. It’s called Minoxidol and it has been known to work on various objects. Fruit. Wood. Snooker balls. Unfortunately, it has been largely ineffective in men.
3. Music. After years of research and very little success, the Daiichi Pharmaceutical Company, a leading Japanese drug maker, decided to make wads and wads of money by releasing a compact disc of Mozart music. Yes, believe it or not, the CDs are now marketed exclusively through pharmacies. Daiichi Pharmaceutical claims that the music will soothe the listener, relieve stress and even reverse the balding process. I’m not sure about this, but they may be on to something here. You see, during high school I conducted similar experiments on my father in which I played loud music for him. This caused his head to appear hairier.

Practical tips to try at home:

1. Relocate. Yes, you may want to move to another province where no one will recognize you; where no one will know that you once had hair. Wait a minute, that’s not what I mean. What I mean is relocate your hair. Move it from an area where it thrives to The Dead Zone.
2. Innovate. The most popular technique is to grow your hair very long on one side and comb it carefully over the deceased area. If you have false teeth to go along with it, you can scare the living daylights out of your grandchildren during a windstorm. Or wear a hat everywhere. If this fails, grow your eyebrows to their full length and comb them back. Let me know how this goes.

If all these things should fail, perhaps you can try a concept as old as the Bible: contentment. I was standing in the parking lot the other day. My hair was blowing in the breeze, and I didn’t have the energy to chase after it. Suddenly, a comforting thought hit me: Our heads were made for more than growing hair.

When it comes right down to it, we determine very little of what goes on above the hairline. But we can do something about what goes on beneath it. Second Corinthians 4:16 says it best: “…Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day.”

I need to be reminded of these things often. Yesterday I looked in the mirror and told my wife, “Honey, I don’t look forty-six.” She said, “No, but you used to.”

Are you content? Learn how to find direction in your life and ways to strengthen your self-esteem.

• You’ll eat it. You’ll eat it and like it.
• Make yourself at home: Clean my kitchen.
• Coffee isn’t helping, get the jumper cables.

I don’t know about you, but I love the kitchen. It is the heart of the house, the pulse of a family. So much happens there. Botulism and putting out fires is only part of it. Few things bring a family together quite like opening the fridge together and playing “Guess What It Was.” Could that thing that looks like a Chia Pet have once been a cucumber? The cheese weighs two pounds more than when you bought it, and it has hair! And that large thing, providing a sort of neon lighting, could it be the pot roast?

Then there’s the stove. Nothing bonds a family quite like standing around a roaring grease fire on a cold winter’s day.

And finally there’s the table, the centerpiece of family discussions, announcements, debates, arguments, overeating, and even napping.

Whether it’s breakfast, lunch, brunch, dinner, or a Thanksgiving or Christmas feast, being together in the kitchen is about as good as it gets. Few things can silence teenagers more quickly than food. And few things can bring a family together faster than a feast.

A friend of mine has a sign on her fridge: “Home is Where The Heartburn Is.” Sadly heartburn is commonplace in families today. We run to appointments, stressed-out, grabbing half-made sandwiches or half-baked muffins with scarcely a nod left over for each other. In the midst of busy times, here are three items to place back on your menu, three suggestions to help you de-stress your life and bring back the joy.

1. Linger longer. One of the best ways to keep your children at home is to let the air out of their tires and sew the tops of their socks together. Another way is to fill their mouths with dessert. Families that eat dessert together stick together. So carve out time to enjoy chocolate, and put on the coffee pot too. Drink enough coffee and you can visit all night.
2. Ignore the dishwasher. Few inventions (besides the remote control) have pleased me more than the dishwasher, but recently in the Callaway house, something strange began to happen. Our water got weird. The glasses came out murky, caked in sludge. We called the experts who told us it was something to do with the water treatment plant and possibly Global Warming and they were working on both. In the meantime we began washing dishes by hand. We introduced our children to something called dish cloths and dish towels and a strange thing began to happen. We began talking while doing dishes. Actually communicating. Do you remember what that used to be like? I taught my daughter the fine art of snapping towels on her brother’s hindquarters. I taught her how to run real fast down the hall and lock the bathroom door behind her. We hadn’t heard this much laughing and screaming since the time my son tried to vacuum the neighbor’s cat.
3. Pray together. There are five more items on my fridge, more precious than any fridge magnets. They are photos of our adopted children, the children we sponsor with the wonderful organization Compassion. Their names are Carlos, Joel, Dariani, Habtamua, and Ndagirijwe (don’t worry, I can’t say it either). Whenever we remember, we pray for them before meals. Each of these five lives in a country where food is scarce. Praying for those who are less fortunate helps us remember how much we have to be grateful for and it’s a sure-fire cure for complaints about the leftover Chia Pet salad.

Do you need to de-stress your life? Read about how to discover balance in a multi-tasking world and learn ten easy ways you can reduce stress today.

Back when our kids wanted to travel in the same car as their parents, we journeyed three days to get to a camp in Iowa where I was to speak

As we sat at dinner the first night, the children horking down corn on the cob, the camp director, Earl, told us a little about the camp. Located on 660 acres of wooded property in Central Iowa, Hidden Acres had experienced significant growth the last few years. But with growth came the usual structural hurdles and the camp staff had been praying that God would supply enough money for a major project. When the money arrived, they hoped to build a sewer so that frightened campers would not have to hike past bears and wolves to use the facilities in the middle of the night. The staff prayed often. But nothing happened.

One day a semi-truck crept up the gravel road and a man climbed out. “Do you mind if I park my rig here?” he asked, pointing to a hay field on the southern edge of camp.

Earl, as accommodating a Midwesterner as you’ll ever meet, said, “Sure.” Soon the truck driver had another question. “We’re filming a little movie, and there are more of us. You know, trailers and some equipment. Oh … and helicopters, too. Is that okay?”

Accommodating Earl said, “Sure.”

The crew was from a little studio out west called Warner Brothers and they had a few more questions. Could they shoot some scenes on a road west of camp? Scatter a little straw? Blow it around? “We’ll pay you to clean things up,” they promised.

Earl said sure.

Next a helicopter landed in the south field and a bearded man by the name of Steven ducked out of it, with his personal chef. He was producing a little film about a tornado. His name was Steven Spielberg.

Warner Brothers stayed 36 hours on the property filming Twister, paid the staff $1,000 for the three hours it took them to clean up the road, then asked them to put all the trash back on the highway, they needed to shoot the scene again. Of course, Earl said sure.

Before the trucks and helicopters departed, Earl was holding in his hand another cheque. One which made his eyes grow wide. It was for the exact amount they’d been praying for.

A friend rolls his eyes when I mention answered prayer because he is more educated than I, and can put a voice to the “hows” of history. How could a God who answers prayer turn a deaf ear while Hitler murdered six million Jews and several million Christians? How could God watch Stalin kill 60 million without doing something? What about the Middle East and Baghdad and Hiroshima?

I don’t know quite how to respond. There is so much I don’t understand. But late at night I keep circling back to God’s obvious hand on my life in the simple things. I have seen him give joy when there is no plausible explanation. When I’ve been in the back of an ambulance holding the hand of my unconscious wife while nurses cast sideways glances at each other. And I have sensed the peace of knowing His presence though so many things in life do not make sense.

Earl agrees. Ask him if God answers prayer and he’ll smile and tell you a story. And he’ll probably conclude it this way. “When I got that cheque, I knew what we’d build with it. And we’d do it in memory of Hollywood. They’ve built their share of sewers, why not build one out here in Iowa?”

Do you find joy in the simple things of life? Read about how your life can be transformed by thanksgiving and discover how you can trust God through all seasons of life.

My mother is in a nursing home and the doctor just gave her six months to live.

1. Change your diet and exercise habits. I exercised for the last time today. Retired my sneakers. My light weights. My pass to the exercise room. The resolve began when an acquaintance of mine dropped dead of a heart attack. When I thought of the last time I saw him alive, how he was waddling over to the Twinkies aisle in the supermarket, it hit me like a runaway grocery cart: die eating.And so tonight we will order out for pizza. And Chinese food. After the Meals on Wheels people leave. Besides, if God had wanted us to lift weights, He’d have made our arms heavier. And if I develop flabby thighs, it’s not a problem. My stomach will cover them.
2. Have more children. Children are messy and won’t let you sleep a wink. Having children is like installing a Nascar track in your head. It’s noisy. Besides, the average male child costs roughly $3.4 million (in Lego alone) by the time he is eight, and you can double that if you have a darling little girl who steals your heart. Oh sure, they start out cuddly and they giggle, but don’t be fooled. They are here with one thing in mind: getting you off the planet.Grownups have always been suspicious of children. I realized this when I was very small. They told us smoking was bad for us, knowing we’d try it out and maybe get hooked and die. They covered my crib with lead-based paints. There were no childproof lids on the aspirin bottle, no seatbelts, airbags or guardrails. They encouraged us to ride in the back of pickups or build our own go-carts and parachutes. We ate worms and mud pies. We played with BB guns and smashed rocks with a hammer and no goggles. They never offered us bike helmets or bottled water and they introduced us to things like monkey bars.I was just a wee little kid when they encouraged me to play ice hockey. They strapped blades on my feet, handed me a sharp stick and something called a puck. They pushed me out on the ice, then stood behind plywood sheets and wire mesh to see what happened. When we started having too much fun, they’d yell, “Kill him! Kill him!” I knew what they wanted. They wanted me dead. They knew I was a threat to a long and peaceful life.So have more children. It’s not too late. If you’re a little older, think of Sarah and Abraham. Or of Satyabhama Mahapatra of India, a 65-year-old retired schoolteacher who recently gave birth to a baby boy, becoming the world’s oldest mother. Satyabhama and her husband have been married 50 years, but this is their first child.
3. Travel to exotic places. I recommend a honeymoon in Iraq or cycling from Beirut to Jerusalem. Pack light. Carry explosives.

Okay, I’ve been joking and hoping all the while that you wouldn’t write me a letter before you read the conclusion.

Here it is: I want to die young…as old as I can.

I think we stay young by keeping our sense of humor in tact. By not wasting time listening to gossip. By eating ice cream nine times a week. By inviting friends over to dinner even if the carpet is stained and the sofa faded. I think we stay young by centering our thoughts on things that are pure, lovely, and of good report. By putting our arms out car windows more often. By burning expensive candles before they melt in storage. By getting so excited about the love of Jesus that our teeth can barely keep up with our mouth.

So tomorrow morning I think I’ll pull out those sneakers and the light weights and the alfalfa sprouts.

You’ll be happy to know that, unlike Satyabhama, we’ve decided against having children anytime soon. At least until we find a nursing home with a kindergarten attached.

Want more resources on how to stay young? Learn some simple ways you can take care of your health and how to embrace aging and live your life with purpose.

It’s hard to believe another year has come and gone.

Scholars believe the magi were Gentiles who had come from the east and that it’s possible perhaps that at least one of them was a Canadian and probably a Mennonite. You see, the others brought gold & frankincense, but the Mennonite brought myrrh, which if you know your Greek, is a hot dish—a casserole. Since the wise men offered their gifts a little late, I will too. So I’d like to offer you three simple gifts today.

• The first is a watch. A watch reminds us of how quickly time passes. When I turned 35 my son told me I was half dead. So let a watch remind us of how short our lives are. Let it remind us that we can’t turn the clock back. Last year is a memory. All the regrets in the world won’t bring it back. But we can wind the watch up and set it right. Each of us will have the same amount of time this year, if God allows. A watch can remind us that time ticks slowly, so go one step at a time. Relax a little. Remember that even ants have time to attend picnics. This year let’s follow the example of Jesus who changed the course of history and still had time to hold a little child on his knee.

• The second gift is a box of chocolates. Chocolate is a reminder that some things are too good not to share. For me this means sharing the good news of Jesus Christ. It isn’t always easy. I once told a man where he would spend eternity and he told me where to go. So I’ve learned to simply be a witness to what God has done, not out of obligation but out of love. To tell people my story and use a little humor. I sat on a plane with a psychologist who diagnosed me as a Christian in no time. He said, “I’ve had bad experiences with Christians.” I said, “Really? Me too.” That simple comment led to a 4-hour discussion of my faith. Let’s tell others about our Savior this year.

• My final gift to you is a Bible. In a mall the other day I saw a fortuneteller. People were lined up to learn about their future from a lady who looked more dazed and confused than any of them. The Bible is jam-packed with promises, guidance, and all the direction you will need for this new year. It will only take seven or eight minutes to read it through in 2006. So I’m going to get started.

Last January I had no idea that both my father and my brother-in-law would spend their first Christmas in heaven. What a comfort God’s Word has been. One of the nicest letters I’ve ever received came from a lady who was visiting her 85-yr-old mother in the hospital. Coming down the hallway she heard her mother laughing. Surrounded by plastic tubing, heart monitors and a bed pan, this dear old saint was reading one of my books and laughing herself silly. I’m sure she was worried about tomorrow and her health and the grandkids. But still she was able to laugh. Why? A well-worn Bible had told her of a better place. She knew that one day soon she’d be Home, where her tears would be wiped dry and her questions straightened into exclamation points. That day came three days later. Her daughter told me, “My last memory of my mother is of her laughing.” What a way to go.

Over the past year I’ve learned the lessons of these three gifts. I’ve learned to hang out with those who are gonna cry at my funeral. That God’s grace is too amazing to keep to ourselves. And that if we laugh lots, when we grow old all our wrinkles will be in the right places.

Are you experiencing God’s grace this holiday season? Read about how you can find meaning this Christmas and how to feel God in the midst of this holiday.

William Shakespeare once wrote, “I am wealthy in my friends.”

After shutting off my electric lawnmower, I walked across my newly-trimmed yard to welcome him to the neighborhood. “Hi,” I said, extending my hand. “Welcome here. If you need anything, I’m your guy.”

His name was Vance, and he thanked me. “I love to borrow stuff,” he said with a grin, “food especially, but I won’t be borrowing your lawnmower. Electric lawnmowers just don’t cut it. I have a gas-powered lawnmower, you know? It’s a man’s lawnmower. Wide swaths. You should see it.” Then he pointed at my little orange and black model, chuckled and shook his head. “Electric lawnmowers are for wimps,” he said. I tried my best to laugh past his unusual humor, but one week later I wasn’t laughing. One week later my lawnmower died. After burying it in a yard sale, I began looking around for a new one. But as my grass grew higher I realized I’d better humble myself and borrow Vance’s. To my surprise, he agreed to lend it. And that’s where our friendship started. And almost ended.

His gas-powered lawnmower cut the grass in record time. And one week later when it came time to borrow it again, I rang Vance’s doorbell. No one was home on this sunny Saturday, but I knew we were good friends by now. So I went to his backyard, slid the mower from its rightful spot and began trimming my grass.

For some reason I was in a hurry that day, so when I came to a large stump which protruded two inches from the ground, I thought I would conserve time by going over it rather than around it. This was a gas-powered lawnmower, I reasoned. It would clear The Stump without a problem. I was wrong. BAAANG! The mower stopped dead, never to start again. Now I am not a mechanically minded person. But I like examining things that are broken. I turned the mower over. Oil was leaking from the undercarriage. The crankshaft was bent in half. The pull-start mechanism would not even budge.

My father raised me well. “Son,” he often told me when I was a boy, “when you borrow something, always return it.” So I carefully pushed the lawnmower into the exact spot from which it was taken.

Then I left on a 5-day business trip.

Upon my return, Vance was waiting. In fact, as I pulled into the driveway he was standing nearby, a rather serious expression etched on his face.

“Hi Vance!” I said, warmly
“Do you have a flashlight?” he asked.

I did. It was growing dark as Vance motioned me toward the backyard. He turned on the flashlight and we followed its beam to The Stump. Ketchup was poured over it, and on the grass, sprayed in white paint was the outline of a lawnmower. Surrounding this was a “Police Line Do Not Cross” yellow ribbon.

“We have a suspect,” said Vance, smiling at last.

Then he took me to the garden, where—I kid you not—handlebars protruded from a fresh mound of earth. Taped to a large gray brick was a white sheet of paper etched with these words:

Here lies Mr. Mower.
A life so quickly taken,
By a hand so quick to take
He will never mow
What life had
In the grass ahead of him.

Twelve years have passed since that August night. And today my best friend on earth is a neighbor named Vance. It’s not hard to understand why. You see, if I need some advice, a good laugh, or someone to listen, I call Vance. For one thing, Vance knows how to practice the fine art of forgiveness. He also knows what every good friend knows: If you expect perfection from people, your whole life will be a series of disappointments, grumblings, and complaints. But if you lower your expectations a little and accept people as the imperfect creatures that all of us are, you just may find yourself a lifelong friend. Whenever I read Proverbs 17:9 I think of Vance: “Disregarding another person’s faults preserves love, telling about them separates close friends.” Ephesians 4:2-3 says, “Be humble and gentle, be patient with each other, making allowance for each other’s faults because of your love.”

The story doesn’t end there. After the death of Vance’s blue lawnmower, his wife Sherri dropped into a hardware store and entered their name in a draw for a nice new one. And—you guessed it—she won.

Today, all because of me, they have a shiny red lawnmower in their backyard. I haven’t tried borrowing it yet.

But I do keep reminding Vance just how lucky he is to have me for a friend.

Are you searching for a close friendship? Read about how to create a friendship network in your life and understand how to find true and lasting friendships.