By Bob Lillard
Illustration by Todd Pendleton,
The Oklahoman, Dec. 24, 2011
Duncan, OK
As dawn broke on Christmas morning in 1974, two brothers, ages 16 and 14, mumbled and stumbled down the stairs to a large breakfast spread, as was our family tradition.
Past the age of believing in Santa Claus, these two teens still held great expectations for Christmas because their parents always had made sure that, even in tighter times, Christmas was a great celebration of the birth of Christ and also a great time to be in this family.
As the sleep was wiped from their eyes, fog cleared from their brains, even the eggs, ham, waffles, and homemade biscuits and gravy could not hold their complete attention.
As was always the case, the stockings that had hung on the fireplace mantel for a month, void of anything but air, now were bursting at the seams with goodies left by the "big man," who we now knew was Mom. We knew that there would be socks, briefs, Hershey's Kisses, and a suction-tipped dart pistol. These were the standards for stocking stuffers from my youth through present times...like I said, TRADITION.
My baby sister, who knew there really was a Santa, couldn't sit still, so I left my second helping of biscuits and gravy with a sausage and moseyed to the living room for the unveiling.
Stockings first...that's the rule...so we dug through the plentiful bounty that Santa had left by the chimney with care. Thanks were given to Santa, while looking at Mom, for all the great stuff we really needed.
Now, for the pinnacle, the apex, the ultimate, the zenith, the piece de resistance, we turned our attention to "The Tree." Mounds of boxes and bags, deftly wrapped in paper covered with silver bells and images of Christmas trees, ornaments and tinsel.
The youngest, my sister, began to move the gifts from under and around the tree to the family. Dad got one that was long and tubular. Mom got one very small but wrapped by someone very good.
My sister was making a haul. Her pile grew exponentially. She would stack, and I use that word liberally, her gifts two at a time. All the while, my little brother and I sat empty-handed, shooting each other with our dart guns.
Then, from the near abyss of giftless depression, I heard my sister say, "Here's two for Bob and Bill." My ears perked, my heart leapt, and my depression evaporated into a cloud of exhilaration. The two identically wrapped boxes were about the size of a shoe box, but we instantly could tell it was a good gift because my sister was having problems carrying them to us. They were heavy...very heavy. My mind raced through all the things that could be lurking behind the red paper, sporadically showing Christmas trees topped with snow.
My sister passed out the remaining gifts, but I didn't notice because my mind was totally enwrapped in solving the mystery of the small, heavy box. Another tradition was to hold all the gifts until the last one was passed out, which we did that year, as well.
As Dad gave thanks to God, and of course Santa, my mind couldn't focus on the prayer for waiting to hear "Amen." As soon as my father closed the Christmas prayer, though, my mother very quickly blurted, "Boys, save the heavy ones for last."
I was crushed. Obviously, this gift held great value to my folks because the look from Dad cemented the idea that Mom's request was really a command.
We dug in and opened various gifts, all great in their own right, but my mind was glued to the small, heavy box. Finally, after what felt like years had passed, Dad gave us a "thumbs up," which was the sign to proceed with the unveiling of the small, heavy box.
The events that transpired in the next few seconds are a bit fuzzy, and if I were honest, I'd probably have to say I was a little disappointed in the gift. However, my parents had huge grins on their faces, and I loved them so very much that I put on a happy face and jumped up to hug both of them. But the climax of that gift in 1974 was a little disheartening because of my expectations in the small, heavy box.
As the years have advanced, however, that small, heavy box became the greatest Christmas gift I've ever gotten. It was so great that, for my son's fourth Christmas, he got the same small, heavy box. Inside, taped to a red brick, was an Oklahoma lifetime hunting and fishing license--the gift that I've used every year since receiving mine.
That gift cost my parents $125...a fortune in 1974...but its worth to me can be measured in the thousands and thousands of dollars. That gift is truly the gift that has kept on giving, and if the Lord is willing, will continue to give for many more years.
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