Last Sunday, my family and I went to a local nursing home with a group of fellow church members to sing Christmas carols for the residents. I had prepared my kids for the nursing home as I have in the past, reminding them to be kind, to ignore the smells, and to notice how happy the residents would be to see children. There were a dozen or so residents gathered in the common room, and most of them sang along with every song. About ten minutes into our caroling, one of my kids began complaining about being bored. I know it’s not easy to stand still when you’re young, to try to sing songs you don’t yet know well, and to follow the music books when you’re not yet a strong reader. I took his chin in my hands and said softly, “We’re not here for you. We’re here for them,” nodding to the group of elderly folks gathered around in their wheelchairs. “This is a gift you can give.” He nodded. He might be bored, but he’s not without compassion.
After we finished singing, we spent some time chatting with the residents. A church friend motioned me over to the chair of a lady who looked familiar. “This is Mrs. L,” he said. “She used to be your neighbor, remember?”
I haven’t seen her in seventeen years. We only lived in the church parsonage for one year before purchasing our own home to put down roots in this community way back in 2006. I remembered Mrs. L and her kindness to me when we moved in from out of state. I knew a couple of people at our new church by first name only, but that was it. I was twenty-four, two years married, and struggling with our move for my husband’s pastoral call. Mrs. L was a good neighbor for a lonely young pastor’s wife.
I stooped down to be eye level with her. “I’m so glad to see you!” I said. She grasped my hand tightly. I could tell there was part of her that recognized me and part of her that didn’t. “I can almost place you,” she said kindly. I laughed, for I remember her candor when we lived next door. She was always so honest and frank. “I was your neighbor for about a year,” I told her. “The day I moved in, you brought me a bowl of ripe peaches.” She smiled widely. “That sounds like me!” I laughed, “Yes, it does. You taught me to never show up at a new neighbor’s house empty-handed, and I never have!” I wasn’t lying. We’ve had quite a few neighbors in the neighborhood where we’ve lived for seventeen years, and I always walk over and introduce myself with cookies or a loaf of sourdough bread. I always think of Mrs. L when I do that.
We chatted for a bit as she caught me up on her life. She’s ninety-five and has buried her husband and two of her four sons. Her eyes welled up as she mentioned each son by name and in birth order.
“You just…you’re not—,” she couldn’t finish.
“You’re not supposed to outlive your children, are you?” I filled in.
She nodded and blinked back her tears.
I squeezed her hand. If memory serves me correctly, her sons had passed away several years back. You just never stop grieving your children, I thought. Just then, my young son walked up and watched me talking with Mrs. L. I could almost see my reminder on his face: this is a gift you can give. I would have understood if he’d walked away. He’s young. But he smiled and said, “hi,” and I’ll admit, I beamed at him. My other son walked up and shook Mrs. L’s hand, nice to meet you. She remarked on his height and asked if he played sports. She slipped into the past, remembering sitting on the bleachers all throughout her sons’ high school years as they played ball. “We never missed a game!” she said. We chatted a while longer, Mrs. L gripping my hand the whole time. I regretted leaving her there. I know she has family that live locally, but I determined to go back and see her again now that I know she’s there.
In the car, I told my boys that I appreciated them meeting Mrs. L and how much it tickled her to see them. “Your dad and I lived next door to her before either of you were born,” I told them. “I want you to know how much kindness and presence means to people. It may be awkward to sing carols or visit with people you don’t know, but this is a gift we can give,” I said. “Our time, our love, our kindness, ourselves. Jesus gave us everything, His very life. His life for ours.”
My kids listened to me, but honestly, I’ve been thinking about our conversation in the car all week. Sometimes the words we say to our kids are the words we need to remember. I feel that a lot as a parent. When I’m correcting a child for this or that, the correction almost always hits the mark in my own heart with an appropriate sting. Bullseye.
We give gifts at Christmas because of the wise men or because God gave us the gift of Jesus. But, really, living the Christian life means loving others with the love we’ve experienced through Christ and His death on the cross. We serve because He stooped low to serve us. We forgive because He forgave us more than we can grasp. We sacrifice because He was the sacrifice we didn’t have. So much of our life as believers in Jesus means radiating Him to the world around us. If I’m serving my family at home through cooking and cleaning or just putting down my phone and locking eyes with them, this is a gift I can give. If I’m serving my church by scrubbing the toilets or folding bulletins or introducing my introverted self to a visitor, this is a gift I can give. If I’m at an outreach event with my church family or talking about Jesus at the grocery store with a stranger who doesn’t know Him, this is a gift I can give. I can give it because He gave Himself for me.
It’s especially poignant at Christmas when we think about Jesus stepping into human history to fix our problem of sin—this is a gift we couldn’t earn or deserve or give to ourselves. But, the gospel applies all year round, for all of our days on earth. I may have said it to my sons, but truthfully, it’s been for me: Because of Jesus, this is a gift you can give.
Because of Jesus, this is a gift you can give. Share on XPhoto by Kira auf der Heide on Unsplash
Glenna Marshall is married to her pastor, William, and lives in rural Southeast Missouri where she tries and fails to keep up with her two energetic sons. She is the author of The Promise is His Presence (P&R) and Everyday Faithfulness (Crossway), and Memorizing Scripture (Moody). Connect with her on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter.
