Hedge told me many stories when I was a child. I would sit on a wooden bench in his fix-it shop enraptured by every word. For many years, the scarred bench had served as everything from an anvil to a convenient place to saw off a three feet piece of a two by four. But, to me, its most important function was as a place to listen to wisdom and knowledge dispensed by an uneducated black man.
But, come Christmas, story time would take on a different setting. Hedge would summon me forth to sit on his lap for a “special story.” I looked forward to that time and gladly walked into his outstretched arms.
Hedge smelled of old man. His clothes were saturated with the smoke from years of smoking Camel cigarettes and when he leaned close to me, I could detect a whiff of Jim Beam on his breath. Yet, sitting in his lap, I felt safe, secure and loved. And so it was that with arms as strong as cedar fence posts wrapped around me, Hedge would tell about the birth of Baby Jesus.
“Baby Jesus was borned in a dad-blamed ole stable, little man,” he would begin. I could always detect a bit of anger as he spoke these words. It was as if he had to vent on a cruel world for allowing the Prince of Peace to come into the world in such a manner before he could move on to the rest of the story. He told about the animals surrounding Jesus, the shepherds who left their fields when an angel told them to go see the son of God, and the Wise Men. Hedge was always careful to linger on the travelers from the East, knowing it was my favorite part.
The part about Jesus coming into the world to save me from my sins was too theological; too difficult for me to understand. But, his voice would choke and his words would come slow as if he had to drag each one out during this part of the story. I did not dare look up, afraid that I would embarrass him by seeing a tear in his eye; but, moreso because I did not know how I would react to see that tower of strength in a “weak moment.“
When Hedge reached the part about Joseph and Mary taking Baby Jesus and fleeing into Egypt because “somethin' bad was a gonna happen,” I burrowed into his massive chest to gain an added measure of protection. Calming my fears, he would gently rock me by moving his foot up and down as he softly hummed “Away in a Manger” or “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” When his repertoire of Christmas carols gave out, he would chime on with “Bringing in the Sheaves,” “ Old Rugged Cross” or some other “ole timey” hymn. I would fall asleep with the sleep that only little boys can sleep and dream dreams that God seems to have reserved for that age.
Hedge once told me that Christmas was like a warm blanket that we can throw over us for just a little while and shut out the cares of the world. For a fleeting moment, we have the awesome power to savor sights, sounds, and smells that escape us during other parts of the year. Green is not as green as that of holly leaves at Christmas. Laughter does not seem more earnest and contagious as it does during the Season of Joy. The smell of Aunt Nancy's coconut pies arrives twenty miles before reaching the old home place. The sound of a rabbit's movement through the frost covered broom straw in a field rings out as clear as a bell.
I invite you to get out your Christmas blanket, wrap it around you, slow down, and linger during this season. Take advantage of all the sights, sound, and smells that bring joy and warmth. Sing like no one can hear you, laugh until it hurts, and recall memories of days gone by until they make you cry.
And listen to the story of the Baby Jesus, “borned in a dad-blamed ole stable” many years ago.