So I wrote the story from memory. Although "Christmas Present" is my original composition, the story belongs to Paul Harvey, and the message belongs to God. I trust that I have not done an injustice to Mr. Harvey’s recording which now may be enjoyed on YouTube (below) and in written form: "The Christmas Storm" . Of course, Mr. Harvey's story-telling is the best.
CHRISTMAS PRESENT
MAY I tell you a Christmas story? A few years ago, perhaps in a small northern community, a heavy snow was falling. The people of the town looked forward to an old-fashioned story-book Christmas Eve. The weatherman was forecasting another six inches of snow and even occasional blizzard conditions. Already a foot of snow blanketed the lawns and houses. Even the street lights looked like part of the town's seasonal decorations. The clouds crouched low and dark in the sullen sky.
MOST OF the town's families cherished the Christmas Eve tradition of attending Church services and singing the carols of the season. Our story is about the father of one family who never accompanied his children or wife to Church, not even at Christmas. Each year Christmas came too early for him. It seemed he was never ready to properly enjoy it. Come on Daddy, his children implored, go with us to Church!
HIS WIFE had given up asking long ago. She knew her husband to be a good and caring man, but trying to get him to Church was not worth the stress and quarrels. Yet the man's children never gave up, so each Christmas eve witnessed their great efforts to persuade their father. And each year their father endured this ritual. His children begged please and he growled not this year with a litany of different reasons followed by silence.
HE INEVITABLY felt the stabs of guilt, for his own parents faithfully attended Church and had taught him to do the same. At first he made excuses to his wife and children. Then he just stopped caring. Christmas Eve services made him especially uncomfortable. The God he imagined was rather impersonal and removed from people's lives, including his own.
THE CHILDREN followed, naturally stepping into her firm and confident snow prints as the light of each streetlamp welcomed them and gave them back to the still dark night of snow and cold. Under the street lights the family looked like pilgrim snowmen as the falling snow accumulated on their heads and shoulders.
AFTER SUPPRESSING a more intense feeling of guilt than usual, father settled into a comfortable easy chair and began to read. After a while he heaved another log on the fire. Glancing out of the big picture window of the family room, he saw the wind and snow accelerating through the forked branches of the somber trees. For once the weatherman's forecast is accurate, he thought. The temperature dropped rapidly, and the heavy snowfall alternated with freezing rain. ONLY THE large pane of glass separates me from the winter storm, he thought as he stared at nature's dramatic display across his spacious back yard. He was glad to be on the inside and not the outside. He thought of his wife and children as he settled back into his chair. The warm fire and a mystery novel conspired to mesmerize him. He dozed intermittently and then fell soundly asleep. He awoke some time later to the high pitched whistling sound made by the back door by gusts of wind whipping through the door frame.
THE STORM had indeed arrived. He got up to put another log on the glowing coals. As he leaned into the fireplace, shivering, he heard peculiar noises, muffled thumps against the glass of the picture window. Still poking the fire, he turned and saw nothing. Perhaps the wind had knocked the last pine cones from the trees. He went back to his task. Hearing more thumping noises, he spun around and stepped to the big window.
OUT OF the dimness of snow and sleet, he saw a bird fly straight at him. He flinched as the bird struck the window pane. Stunned by the invisible unyielding glass, it collapsed to the snow-covered ground outside. As he looked through the window at the fallen bird, another one struck the glass. Many more birds crashed into the window, tumbling to the snow-covered ground. This small flock of birds faced disaster. The birds instinctively knew their chances of staying alive in the wet bitter-cold night decreased with every gust of snow and freezing rain.
CAUGHT OUT in the open by the severity of the unforgiving storm, they were searching for a refuge. With no where else to go they converged on the light in the window like moths to a candle flame. Repeatedly the birds struggled to right themselves and shake the snow and sleet from their wings and feathers only to smash the picture window with shocking force. With each attempt, they fell down more dazed and weakened than before.
THE MAN was taken aback. Never had he seen anything like this in his life. He marveled at the strong survival instinct of the birds. Impulsively he grabbed his winter parka, pulled on his cap and boots and flung a woolen scarf around his neck. As he pulled on his gloves, he realized that he no plan of action. He had no idea what to do or how to do it. He just knew that anything he could do would be the right thing to do. He had to do something.
THE KITCHEN door slammed shut behind him in the fierce winter wind as if to say there is no turning back. The gusting winds and slippery walkway sent him sprawling in the shadowy darkness. With startling clarity he realized winter wore two masks: one of sublime artistic beauty and the other of extreme hardship and misery. How very much like the world! While he sat comfortably by the fire, many wild creatures were struggling outside for survival. Impulsively, he headed for the barn. A plan to save the birds was forming in his mind.
HE WOULD open the barn doors and turn on the light. It was warm inside. Certainly the birds would see the barn and fly into it. But it didn't work. Although a blaze of light from the open barn doors shone into the darkness of the winter storm, the birds did not comprehend it. How could they continue to batter themselves against the glass? Why did they refuse the safety of the barn? I know. I will make them go into the barn, he thought. I will make them go in the right direction. Then they will know what to do.BRUSHING THE snow from his face, he carefully approached the birds floundering helplessly in the snow next to the treacherous window. He picked up one bird and facing the barn, let it go. It flew straight back into the window. Disheartened, the man tried to pick up others, but the little flock feared him more than the storm. His efforts fatigued them more than their fruitless efforts to fly through the picture window. A strange desolation overwhelmed him. Very little time remained.
DESPERATE, HE thought of another plan. He would entice them with food. He dashed back into the house oblivious of his soggy boots and the snow falling from his shoulders. His eyes raced over the unfamiliar shelves in the pantry. Glancing at a loaf of bread, he grabbed it and plunged back out into the snow and ice. Gasping from the biting wind, he kicked and forced the snow out of his way as he returned to the stricken birds.
RIPPING THE plastic bag open, he tore the slices of bread and marked out a crude trail of large crumbs from the exhausted birds to the barn. Surely, he thought, they will know what to do now. Standing some distance away, he shivered violently and pressed his arms tightly to his chest. The cold wind knifed into his muscles where the snow and sleet melted against him. His feet felt like blocks of ice.
THE BIRDS refused to move. Nothing, absolutely nothing worked. Whatever he tried failed. The birds were incapable of responding to any of his efforts. What else can I do for these exhausted creatures? He gave them what they needed—food and refuge. They did not comprehend what the open doors of the barn meant. When he approached, they scattered in fear. The untouched trail of food mocked his naive hope of saving them.
THE MAN sank to his knees in the snow in defeat. Why had this small flock of ordinary birds become so important to him? Suddenly he was distraught beyond words at the futility of it all. His heart was filled with grief. If only, he anguished, if only I could become one like them. I could show them the way. They would follow me. If only I could become one like them . . . At that moment the bells of the Church began to ring: HARK THE herald angels sing,
Glory to the newborn King;
Peace on earth and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled!
THE MAN began to tremble but not from the cold. Recognizing the familiar hymn, he looked at the exhausted birds and turned toward the direction of the bells. His heart pounded. I know what it means now! he cried in his heart. Now I understand why you were born in a manger. The heavenly Father wanted you to become one like us so we could follow you. Then we would know where to go!
KNEELING IN the snow, he clasped his hands together and prayed for his family and the exhausted birds. He got up and headed for the Church to find his family. Whether it was the birds or the bread, the bells or the barn, it didn't matter. The door to his heart was open, and the message and the music of Christmas had found a home:
JOY TO the world! the Lord is come,
Let earth receive her King.
Let every heart prepare him room,
And heaven and nature sing,
And heaven and nature sing.
