Gifts of the Wise Men
CBN.com Winter and Christmas. Familyness. Warm, spiced apple cider. Cozy evenings and good books. Best of all, the celebration of Jesus’ birth, God’s gift to us of His only Son.
A kaleidoscope of Christmas memories come from my childhood years spent living near Darrington, a small, western Washington logging town. There I learned to read beneath the rays of a kerosene lamp, and we made paper chains for the tree Dad marked in the nearby forest long before snow hid possible flaws. Each year, the perfect tree touched our ten-foot dining room ceiling in what was once a one-room school where Mom taught all eight grades.
We stretched hard-earned money to provide gifts for numerous relatives. We saved and ironed paper and ribbon from year to year. Tree ornaments made from the tops of fruit and vegetable cans reflected flames from candles on the buffet. A treetop angel silently announced the Good News of Jesus’ birth. Anticipation mounted while we learned parts for school and church-school programs that in those days faithfully included the story of the Nativity.
Precious and valuable. Fragrant and pleasing. Some bittersweet, all lasting. Yet certain Christmases stand out. My first “store-bought” holiday. The first Christmas after electricity came to our side of the river and we could have colored lights. The first “missing person” Christmas, with my older brother overseas. A few without snow. Sad Christmases without Dad. Then Mom.
The Wise Men brought their best gifts. We were taught to do the same, no matter how simple that “best” was. It shaped our “holy-days”—and still does.
The following story reminds us what the best gifts truly are.
The Christmas List
A certain man dreamed he saw Jesus writing in a book and surrounded by angels.
“What is Jesus doing?” the man whispered to an angel who stood nearby.
“He is making a wish list,” the angel quietly answered.
Jesus making a wish list? No one ever heard of such a thing, the astonished man thought to himself.
Jesus went on writing.
A great longing to know what was in the book possessed the dreamer. His heart pounded. What if there were something on
Jesus’ list that he could give? His excitement vanished. He had no gold, no frankincense, no myrrh; nothing valuable enough to present to the Holy One. Sadness swept through him like a mighty river in full flood.
Jesus stopped writing, smiled, and beckoned the man to come near.
Trembling with awe, the dreamer stumbled forward until he stood at the Master’s side.
Jesus looked deep into the man’s eyes, then asked, “Why do you grieve?”
“I have nothing to give You,” the man brokenly replied.
Jesus shook His head and handed the dreamer His book. “Not so. You have that which I want above all else. Read for yourself.”
The man stared at the clean, white page with its single entry. Not gold. Not frankincense. Not myrrh. Just the words, All I want is the hearts of those I came to save.
The man awakened. He leaped from bed, fell to his knees, and cried, “Lord, my heart is Yours. I will also try to bring others to You.”
The shouts of angels rejoicing echoed deep in the dreamer’s soul.
And an image of the Master’s smile engraved itself on a surrendered human heart.
“Store-Bought” Christmas
My nine-year-old right hand curled inside my shabby mitten until it ached. My heart pounded. Even the tall buildings I usually gaped at on our rare visits to the city fifty miles from the tiny Washington State logging town where I’d been born had lost their charm. All my attention focused on three five-and-dime stores in the same block. World War II and gas rationing had ended. For the first time in years, our family could go on a real Christmas shopping trip instead of having to make do with mail orders.
My sweaty fingers clutched a vast fortune—four shining, silver quarters—the means to purchase gifts for Mom, Dad, and my two brothers. It had taken weeks of washing windows and scrubbing cupboards to save a whole dollar’s worth of pennies, nickels, and dimes. Thoughts of how wonderful it would be to give “store-bought” instead of homemade gifts danced in my head like the visions of sugar plums in The Night Before Christmas. They also removed any temptation to spend the money on myself.
We finally reached Everett. Dad and Mom turned me loose while they shopped, a perfectly safe thing to do in those days. I wandered up and down the aisles between counters of gifts that dazzled eyes unaccustomed to such splendor. Mom’s gift proved easy, an artificial Christmas corsage—the first I’d seen. Holly. Ribbon. Even a tiny cone sprinkled with glitter to resemble snow. I held my breath, looked at the price and inwardly cheered. Four quarters divided by four gifts meant twenty-five cents each, the exact price of the corsage.
Next came my older brother’s present. I don’t remember what it was, but it also cost a quarter. Pride filled me. I’d been through each of the stores just once, yet after only two hours, half my shopping was done!
Then I hit a snag. On a nearby counter a wonderful monkey bank grinned at me. My little brother would love it. Friendly painted grin, blue pants, red jacket; the monkey tipped his hat when the clerk obligingly dropped in a penny. I had to have it for Randy. I held my breath and looked at the tag. Oh, no! Twenty-nine cents.
I backed away, my joy in ruins at the monkey’s painted boots. I can’t remember a more bitter childhood disappointment. I never once thought of finding my folks and asking for four pennies. They didn’t have much money, and we’d been raised to not ask for things. I went to the other stores. Nothing appealed to me. Why did I have to see the charming bank when I couldn’t buy it for my brother?
Who is to say childish disappointments are not recognized by the Author of Christmas? I don’t call it a miracle, but it was more than chance that through my misery I spied a display of bandannas like Dad used for handkerchiefs in his woods work. The sign read: 21 cents.
“May I help you?” the clerk asked.
“A navy blue bandanna, please,” I quavered, holding out a quarter. She put the change into my hand and gave me the bandanna. I rushed from the store and ran as fast as I could, pursued by the fear the bank had been sold. It hadn’t. The same painted monkey face smiled at me while I counted out the last of my silver hoard— and four dull pennies.
My family loved the gifts. Relatives obligingly gave Randy a few coins. He gleefully laughed each time the monkey tipped his hat. I can’t remember what I received, just the joy in my family’s faces.
Two thousand years ago Wise Men brought their best gifts to Bethlehem.
On my first “store-bought” Christmas I understood how they felt. I still do.
Amaris and the Prophecy: A Story from Long Ago
Amaris, whose name meant “whom God hath promised,” feverishly worked to complete the promised garment before the dying sun’s rays disappeared behind the rooftops of surrounding buildings. The muffled cries of a city freeing itself from daily tasks in anticipation of the coming holy days echoed outside her small shop. Inside, half-completed garments lay carelessly tossed aside by the most sought-after worker in the dusty Street of the Weavers.
“Mother?” Twelve-year-old Petra’s soft voice interrupted the silence that had fallen while crowds thinned and hurried home before dusk. “Will you be finished soon?”
“Yes, my child.” The workworn fingers flew faster than ever. “Light the candle, child.”
Petra obeyed. “I will be glad when you finish that plain brown garment.” She fingered a shimmering heap of silk. “Why did you not do the blue tunic first?”
Amaris shook her head. “Your mother is a foolish woman. When a man begged me to make a warm garment for his master, I could not refuse. It is finished, but the tunic is not.” She held up a flawless robe and laid it aside.
Her daughter smiled. “You would have finished the tunic, as well, if the poor dog with a broken leg had not taken you from your work.” She nodded toward a straw-filled wooden box in the corner. “You always help those who need you, don’t you, Mother?”
“Too often!” Amaris snatched up the blue silk, straining to see where she had left off. “If only Lady Veronica waits until the morrow to send her servants for this.”
Alas for the weaver’s hopes. Even as she spoke, a knock thundered on the door. A young man with the pierced earlobe of a slave haughtily strode into the room. He stared at the shining garment Amaris held. “Woman, why is Lady Veronica’s tunic not finished?”
“Please come back when the cock crows,” Amaris told him.
“No.” The arrogant slave’s eyes glittered. “You can expect no more work from my lady.”
“Wait,” Amaris pleaded. “I myself will bring the tunic to the guard who stands at the gate.”
“Do not trouble yourself.” He stormed out to the sound of the injured dog’s howling.
A tear escaped. Amaris thrust the tunic away so it would not be spotted. “This is what comes of having a tender heart,” she told Petra. She sighed. “Now the prophecy cannot come true.”
“Prophecy?” Petra’s eyes sparkled in the candlelight. “Tell me, Mother.”
A faraway look crept into Amaris’s tired eyes. “When I was your age, an old woman my parents said was a prophetess put her hands on my head. She said I would have three opportunities for greatness in my life. She warned me to choose wisely and recognize them when they came. I still remember the feeling of wonder. I? Great? It seemed impossible.”
“You are already the greatest among the weavers,” Petra loyally protested. “Why did you never tell me about the prophecy?”
“It happened so long ago. Times were hard. Father was falsely imprisoned and died. Mother followed soon after. A few years later, I met a kind weaver. Ezra was older than I, but loving. He taught me all his weaving secrets. Both Jews and Romans sought us out. When you came after many years had passed, we knew great joy and thanked God. Yet even before your father died, I had lost my first opportunity for greatness.” Her lips twisted bitterly.
Round-eyed, Petra could only stare.
“We had a large royal order, but I could not withstand the appeal of a young man who needed soft cloth for a child. I gave him the best we had . . . although it meant that I did not have enough cloth for the royal order.”
“Was Father angry?”
“No. He said he was glad for my kind heart.” Tears of remembrance gushed.
“As am I, Mother.” A small hand patted Amaris’s fingers.
“I determined never to do such a thing again. I kept my promise until three years ago, when I had a second opportunity for greatness by making royal apparel for the palace. But a fisherman pleaded with me to make sails for his boat. I told him I was no maker of tents, but somehow I could not send him away.” She laid aside the blue silk. “Now my last opportunity is gone.”
Petra’s eyes overflowed. “Yet is it not great to help poor people?”
“Of course, my child.” Amaris sighed again over the lost prophecy. “Come, we must sleep.”
The holy days passed quietly. Amaris and Petra stayed off the noisy, bustling streets except for a brief visit to the Temple. Never too familiar with the other weavers, they did not hear the news of the city until many days had passed. Then an excited neighbor told them, “The veil of the Temple is rent in twain.”
Amaris’ heart lurched. “It is not possible!” A thought brought hope. If true, a new veil would be needed. What if she were given a final chance to undo her foolish choices?
No summons came. One night Amaris crept to her pallet, bone-weary and defeated. She awakened from a troubled sleep. Petra stood beside her bed.
Moonlight bathed the girl with radiance. “Mother,” she whispered. “The prophecy is fulfilled.”
“What?” Amaris struggled to understand.
Petra flung herself into her mother’s arms. “You chose right every time.”
“No!” Amaris cried. “Three times I had the opportunity. Three times I failed.”
Petra’s hold tightened. “Oh, no, Mother. The figure said so.”
“Figure?” Had Petra gone mad?
“In glistening white. I do not know if it was real or a dream.” Petra’s eyes widened. “The figure said, ‘Your mother has chosen greatness without knowing it. The cloth she gave to a young man long ago became swaddling clothes for Jesus, the Son of God, born in a manger.
“‘The heavy cloth that bruised her fingers became sails on a fisherman’s boat. From that boat, the Promised One offered hope to the world.
“‘The brown garment, woven without seam, was won by the casting of lots when Jesus no longer had use for it. Tell Amaris the prophecy is fulfilled.’”
Petra’s quiet voice ceased, but a tumult of joy raged in Amaris’s faithful heart.
Excerpted from Gifts of the Wise Men by Colleen Reece, Copyright © 2004. Published by Kregal Publications. Used by permission.
