It is the 7th day of Christmas. And, it is New Year's Eve. We are all at various stages of recovering from both the joys and the challenges of the holidays. Today is also a day of taking stock, as many look back over the year just coming to a close, and prepare to step into all of the unknowns of a new year.

It was on a day like this, 45 years ago, that a middle-aged accountant and father uncharacteristically picked up a pen and a pad of paper (there were no personal computers yet), and began to write his memory of one particular Christmas he would never forget; one that powerfully shaped his faith and his life from that day on. A friend of his read it, and encouraged him to submit it to the Chicago Daily News for possible publication. To his shock, his story published in one of the largest newspapers in the country.

On this 7th day of Christmas, before we move too quickly from our meditations on the coming of God into the flesh and blood of our world, I would like to share it with you. It is entitled: The Christmas I Remember Most is the One I Didn't Have.

It was a cool but pleasant day in mid-December during World War II when I boarded an Army transport and headed out into the Pacific. We were enlisted for the duration of the war, plus six months, whatever that might mean. We did not know when, if ever, we were to return from this voyage that we didn't want to take. As the days wore on, the morale of the troops dropped to a very low level. Things were not bad enough to present the challenge that brings out an esprit de corps or raises sights above petty gripes and grievances.

Bunks were stacked six or eight high, 12 to 14 inches apart. Air circulation through that hold was bad. There were too many people for the kitchen and mess hall facilities. We received two meals per day and each was preceded by a waiting line that circled the ship.

Then on the morning of December 24, the sound of the ship's alarm brought us to our “abandon ship” stations. In the distance we could see an object on or in the water. To this day we don't know if it was a submarine periscope, a mine, or just a piece of debris floating on the water. About the time the excitement dwindled, the ship's intercom delivered the crowning blow. At 2 a.m. we were to cross the International Date Line, and we were to set our watches ahead 23 hours!

We were not to have a miserable Christmas: We were to have NO Christmas at all, except for the two hours from midnight to 2 a.m. Spirits dropped to the point that they could have been swept from the deck without fear of violating the rule that nothing visible be put overboard.

A few minutes later the ship's chaplain announced there would be a Christmas worship service in the mess hall at midnight.

Although almost eighteen years have passed since that night, it is as vivid as if it were happening at this moment. I don't remember the name of the chaplain, nor what he looked like; I don't know the denomination he represented. But I do remember his message more than any I have heard either before or since. Most of us went to that service expecting a full measure of sympathy. There was not one word of sympathy, but the message was a comfort.

“You fellows should be ashamed of yourselves,” the chaplain began. “You have so much and don't realize it. Think of your buddies already in combat - sleeping in the mud, if they are sleeping at all. Think of the boys freezing in Europe's cold and damp winter weather. What would they give for a few of the degrees that you complain about so much? Think of the men who have been wounded and lie in beds of pain this night. Think of the captured who are rotting in prison camps on islands all over this ocean.

“'I felt sorry for myself because I had no shoes until I met someone who had no feet.'”

That saying was new to me at the time, and it was impressed on my heart and mind so indelibly that I will never forget it. I've heard the quotation from time to time since that quiet, blacked-out midnight, but never again with the same power and thunder.

“You fellows may not realize it,” he went on, “but you are having your first real opportunity to celebrate Christmas in the manner in which it should be celebrated. You say that two hours are not enough; I say that two minutes would be ample if you really put your mind to it.

“True, there is no brightly colored Christmas tree to distract your attention from that stable in Bethlehem. True, there is no tinsel to hypnotize you and dim your view. True, there are no Christmas gifts, except that all-important gift of a Savior. True, there is no companionship from your loved ones - except from the One who loves you the most.

“You can take a longer and better look at the Babe in the manger than you have ever been able to take in the past and, perhaps, in the future. If you try, you can take a Christmas gift from this ship that will live with you forever.”

The words of the sermon and the spirit they contained were electrifying. The pre-sermon hymns sounded more like solos on the pip-squeak Army portable organ. The post-sermon singing not only filled that mess hall, but resounded to the farthest corners of that ship.

“The Christmas I didn't have?” Not by a long shot!

Many Christmases have passed since that night at sea. After the war they were filled with the traditional tree and tinsel, parties and presents, trimmings and turkey, programs and pageants, services and sermons, and the hustle and bustle with which we are all familiar. During each Christmas season, however, there is a midnight when sleep must be delayed. With my head upon my pillow, my mind travels far in time and distance to a troopship about to cross the [International] Date Line. And from this vantage point there is always an unobstructed view of that stable in Bethlehem - of the manger occupied by God's great Christmas gift.

The man who lived that night, and wrote the story about it, is my father, a man who had never written anything before in his life, and hasn't since. His story captures better than anything I've ever preached the timelessness of Christmas. He learned that dark night that the sacred truth of Christmas - of God emptying himself, taking on human flesh, and walking around among us - is not limited to one day, to one big consumer or liturgical blow-out once a year.

Whatever we've had to face in the past year, Christmas proclaims that we were not walking alone, even if in those dark moments, it felt like it. “Emmanuel” assures us that God is with us; we are not alone.

Whatever problems we've conquered or victories we've experienced in the past year, Christmas proclaims that we were not alone then, either, and that all of heaven rejoiced with us.

Whatever we face in the coming year, Christmas promises that God will be walking with us, whether it be through struggle or victory, health or sickness, life or death. God promises to be faithful and present after “death parts us,” even to the end of the ages.

So, on this 7th day of Christmas, on this new year's eve, we continue to celebrate the timelessness of God, of God's love, of God's promises. And you who are old enough to have faith stories to tell, tell them! Tell them to your children, and to your grandchildren, and to your great grandchildren, that your life might be a testimony to the timeless love of God, to all generations. Amen.