Christmas Day Advent Devotion Written by Mark Johnson

Trisha Huffman | December 25, 2015

A Holy Moment on the Way to the Dumpster

I was 11 years old on Christmas Eve 1970, living on base housing at the now closed Lowry Air Force base in Denver, Colorado. Somewhat recently, my family had decided it was better to sleep in on a Christmas morning and exchange our presents the night before. I liked the idea.  What 11-year-old would be against getting a jump start on Christmas joy and self-indulgence (I’ve always had a little difficulty distinguishing between the two)?

That year, I received a football (Go Broncos! Though my “real” team was America’s team: the Tom Landry Cowboys), a midnight-blue plastic airplane just large enough to haul my G.I. Joe into the wild blue yonder, and my first pair of denim blue jeans. The “husky” label on them was enough to allay any fears that I would become the next Mick Jagger and, hence, were morally appropriate.

After the 30 minutes it took to rip and roar through the frenzy of gift exchanging, it was my job to take the now extinct wrapping paper and daily trash out to the dumpster. The receptacle serving three separate buildings sat in the parking section, some 75-100 feet from our back door. 

The job was not as simple as it sounds. A recent winter storm had dumped so much snow on the ground, it would have shut down the state of Kentucky throughout the First Sunday of Lent.   Reminiscent of my father’s “walking to school in the snow uphill both ways” kind of stories, it was my job to clear a path and drag the bag of discarded boxes, paper and trash to a final resting place. 

It took a while for me to complete the task, in part because I was a “head in the clouds” kind of kid. Sharing an afternoon paper route with my older brother, it would take me longer to deliver the 35 customers on my list than the 200 on his. His trouble (or mine, depending on your perspective) was how he didn’t stop to pet the dogs, or talk to the neighbors or watch the ladybugs battle the ants for dominance in the clover.

There I am, on Christmas Eve, longing for the warmth of the house as the air was so crisp you could taste each cold molecule piercing its way into your lungs. But I had something else on my mind. The snow glistened and sparkled. Overhead the stars where like diamonds against black velvet. I imagined I was looking at the same nightly display as those famous shepherds so long ago.

The place was so still, muffled by the fresh fallen snow and the rest that settles upon a community on such a magnificent evening, I had to linger a little longer. I knew the song. I could recite every line. But out there, at that hour, halfway home, I felt it in the core of my very existence. Silent Night. Holy Night. All is calm. All is bright …. Good night, world. Sleep in heavenly peace.