Ken Pierpont's Blog, page 141

When the Lights Come Down

Here is a classic re-post to help you adjust to the post-Christmas season.

Let’s start with this wonderful song that captures all that I am trying to say:

My son Chuck is now sixteen years old. He’s six feet tall and he’s starting to get muscles. The other night he was doing his evening push-ups. I usually watch and watching makes me tired. He said; “Join me Dad, I’ll match you two for one.” He did. I did twenty-five sloppy half push-ups and he did fifty swift and perfect.

He hasn’t been that way for long. I remember when he still had his baby fat. Seems like it was just a few weeks ago, in fact. Once those years ago it was after Christmas and I was working in my study. It was a time of the year I have always liked right after all the holidays are over and we are turning the corner on another year. I always look forward to diving into the New Year with new challenges and fresh opportunities. Lois was home still cleaning up after our big New Year celebration. She was taking down the lights and the tree and putting away the decorations for the year. Chuck and the others were helping. Chuck was three, maybe four.

The phone rang and I answered it. Lois was on the line. “Ken,” she said; “Chuckie wants to talk to you, I’ll put him on.” “Okay,” I said. “Hey, little buddy, what’s up?” There was silence for a minute on the other end of the line, than a little cracking voice croaked into the phone; “Dad, Mom’s takin’ down the Christmas tree, come home and stop her.”

I put away may work for a while and came home. I asked Chuck to help me with the tree. We put on our coats, hats and gloves and dragged the once stately tree out to the garden leaving a trail in the snow. Then we stood for a while and looked quietly at it bright green against white. It was a sunny afternoon.

I put my arm around tiny Chuck and we were quiet for a while, then I cleared my throat and made a little eulogy speech for our departed friend. “Well, Chuck, it was a beautiful tree wasn’t it? We all enjoyed getting it and having it in our house for Christmas. Now it’s time to say good-bye to our tree. Chuckie, to our family the Christmas tree reminds us of eternal life. Jesus came to the world to die for us on the cross so we could have eternal life. In a minute we will light the tree and it will burn up and while it burns it will make us warm, but we will always have eternal life. Let’s just pray right now and thank the Lord for sending his son the Lord Jesus so we could always have eternal life, even when Christmas is over.”

We prayed and then stood silently watching the tree burn. Then we turned and walked back in the house where Lois had some hot chocolate to warm us. (Even when my little speeches don’t work, hot chocolate always helps at time like this).

It is natural to have an emotional let-down after we have put so much into our celebration of Christmas. I’m sure the same thing was true when the Lord Jesus walked the hills of the Holy Land. Jesus celebrated Hanukah. After the last day of the celebration of Hanukah, the Festival of Lights, Jesus stood to teach where He often did, in the courtyard of the Temple on Solomon’s Porch. During the feast huge beautiful Menorahs filled with candlesticks burned in the courtyard of the Temple. Each day throughout the festival as additional candles were lit, the light would grow brighter and brighter. People would gather to sing and worship and celebrate. But on this day those lights would have burned out making it gloomy in comparison and it was back to business as usual.

It was on that day Jesus stepped forward and in a loud voice said something very significant; “I am the light of the world. He who follows me will not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life.”

Can you see him now stepping out on the porch of heaven and watching us put away all our Christmas decorations. He knows the melancholy that often visits the human spirit at times like this. He sees into the deepest part of our over-shadowed souls and he steps out on the porch of heaven and says; “When all the lights are put away, I am still the light of the world.”

We live in a dark world where many have lost their way in the darkness of sin and all the foul things that go with that. But those who understand that Jesus came to earth to save his people from their sins, don’t pack away their hope and joy with the Christmas lights.

(From Stonebridge Newsletter – Number 66)

I’m Special (Christmas)

Gideon is a little fellow in my church who is afflicted with Downs Syndrome. The first time I met him I reached out to shake his hand and he looked a little frightened or confused. He hid his face in his mother’s lap. Eventually he got used to me and within a few weeks he would put out his hand the moment he saw me coming.

A couple years ago he was involved in the Christmas program. During the program the introduction began to play and the children walked to the front dressed as Christmas packages. Each child waddled up the aisle and climbed the steps to the platform with their legs and arms sticking out of a box wrapped in Christmas paper. A bow sat on the top of each child’s head.

They were well rehearsed and sang beautifully. The last song was a little number I think titled “I’m Special” At the end of the song the children were coached to shout out all together; “I’m special”. The song ended and all on cue the children shouted; “I’m special” and the song ended. The crowd laughed and applauded. The children were then to file off the platform and make their way back the aisle to sit with their parents for the rest of the program.

Things quieted for a moment as the children started to leave the platform. In the quietness of the moment Gideon looked out at the people, a big smile lit his face, and with a clear voice that carried all over the auditorium he shouted; “I’m special.” There was a smattering of laughter across the crowd.

Another second or two of silence followed and then Gideon said it again loudly and clear: “I’m special.” It was if he expected a reply. His teacher helped him off the platform. The crowd grew thoughtful and quiet. Half way back the aisle he said it again and then again as his mother gathered him into her arms. She warmly said, “yes you are Gideon, you are special.”

It was the line Gideon repeated over and over that still lives in the hearts of everyone who was there that night. We didn’t think to choose little Gideon for the lead part in the Christmas program, but God had other plans.

Little Gideon was named after a man who was used of God to deliver Israel during difficult times. When God chose Gideon to be one of the judges Gideon was cowering for fear, but God called him a mighty man of valor. God is like that. He chooses and uses people we tend to overlook. He inspires unlikely people to accomplish extraordinary things. Come to think of it that is what he did the night Jesus was born.

The Bancroft Paper (A Christmas Story)

During the four years that Carole had studied at Cornell her childhood faith had eroded away almost completely. It was at Christmas time she hated that the most. She wistfully remembered her naive childhood when she excepted the stories of Jesus birth without dark doubts clouding her mind. But every year at Cornell seemed to take her further away from the simple faith of her childhood. The social sciences made religious ideas look impractical in modern life. Science classes made creation stories seem like ancient myths held by primitive and ignorant people. Her understanding of history characterized Christian people as flawed at best, usually downright sick.



There were religious groups on campus, but they all seemed like zealots to her. She suspected their smiles were insincere and thought Christians were really joyless and troubled just beneath the surface. She felt more comfortable in the company of friends who were exploring their new freedoms as young adults and entertaining fresh ideas that didn’t include worn-out creeds, traditional taboos, and parental restrictions.

There had been some parties to relieve the monotony. She had seen enough men to confirm her suspicion that one capable of touching her deeply would be exceptionally rare. Mostly she worked hard. As a result she was ahead of schedule academically. Most of her friends would graduate in the spring but she was done as soon as she tendered her research paper and completed a final class.

As she made her way out of Ithaca toward Ohio and home the first draft of her research paper lay on the seat beside her like an unwelcome passenger. It had been her companion night and day for months. Even now, on the way home for Christmas she found it difficult to put it out of her mind.

It’s not that she didn’t enjoy the subject. The paper was a biographical study of her favorite writer, Elisabeth Bancroft. During research for the paper Carole came to realize the part Christian spirituality played in E. Bancroft’s thinking and writing. That puzzled Carole. E. Bancroft seemed so aware and intelligent. Her work was recognized world-wide as brilliant. Her use of the English language was musical. She was truly literate like no Christian Carole had ever encountered. Her love for life, her grasp of history, her understanding of human character and attention to detail were unlike anything she had ever observed in a Christian before.

How could a person like Elisabeth Bancroft possibly hold on to such childish religious myths? Maybe she envied her. Maybe that’s what motivated her to do the paper. Maybe it was hope that she would find clues that would help her recover her childlike faith. Maybe it was something darker. Maybe she wanted to find evidence that beneath the surface was a weakness, and she could lay the old myths to rest once and for all.

She laughed at the incongruity of the music tuned on her radio. Most of the songs were vague holiday songs about snow and winter. Some were romantic songs set at Christmas time but the ones she loved the most, the ones that moved her over and over again to the verge of tears were the old sacred Christmas songs. But she didn’t consider herself a Christian anymore. The idea of a virgin birth seemed fantastic to her. The concept of God in the flesh seemed like Greek mythology. But still the songs stirred something in her.

Maybe her heart was tender because the songs called to mind memories that were painful to her. Maybe it was because the songs reminded her of the year here Dad left. –Her Dad who had essentially vanished from her life when she was only twelve years old. The Christmas he left she lay in bed and listened to the music coming from her mother’s record player in the living room and hurt and craved the love of a Daddy she would never have. Images of families on Christmas cards or on TV commercials gathered around a table for a holiday meal were painful for her. She made up her mind a long time ago that she would never forgive her father for what he did.

Aside from all of that she welcomed Christmas for purely secular and selfish reasons. She was glad to have a break from her studies and glad to be on her way home for a few weeks.

The highway turned through the mountains. The sky turned gray and the air cold. She calculated the length of her trip mentally. If the weather stayed clear she should be home for Christmas in four hours. She switched to an AM station to get a weather report. “Well, it’s going to look a lot like Christmas Eve tonight across upper New York State. Snow accumulations could reach three to five inches by midnight,” the announcer intoned. Just as the report ended the snow began. It came heavy and fast and for the next hour. Traffic on the interstate slowed. Some of those who didn’t slow down slid off the road. Things turned ugly fast. She felt her back tense. Visibility was getting so difficult that she began to consider finding a place to spend the night.

But she hated the idea of being stuck in a strange hotel on Christmas Eve. She drove on but another twenty miles took an hour and by the time she reached the next exit she knew she needed to do something. By now it had been dark for nearly two hours and she was tired. She exited the interstate to get some coffee and fuel and consider her options.

She realized too late that she had chosen the wrong exit. There were no gas stations or restaurants near the highway and there was no place to turn around easily. The lights of a villiage shone about a mile north of the highway. She drove toward them. At the edge of the village set a small church with a parking lot where she could turn around. She pulled in to the lot and tried to make a sweeping turn but the snow had come too swiftly. None of the streets had been plowed let alone private lots. Her tires began to spin in the thick, wet snow.

After ten minutes of spinning her tires and rocking the car she gave up and laid her head on the wheel. She didn’t know what to do. She needed to get out of the parking lot but even if she could, how would she get home? The snow was coming fast and thick.

While she thought there was a loud knock on the window and she looked up to see a man in his fifties outside the window. He smiled warmly and shouted above the wind, “Why don’t you come into the church. A plow should through in an hour or so. Come in a get warm.”

Carole shut off the engine and stepped out of the car into snow over her shoes. “We have some coffee and hot chocolate if you like,” the kind man said. She was eager to get home but she new she needed help. She accompanied the man across the parking lot and into the church. The little building was white clapboard with a steep roof and impressive spire, beautiful in it’s simplicity. Within it smelled of fresh greens, candles and coffee. An elderly lady was practicing the organ; the sound of carols filled the building. Others were busy in the kitchen.

The kind man introduced himself as the church custodian. He introduced her around to the others. Someone handed her a cup of coffee. Our pastor will be out in a few minutes. You’ve happened by just in time for our Christmas Eve Candlelight Service. “We’re so glad you’re here,” one of the ladies said. “Oh, I was just turning around in the lot and gut stuck in the snow. I am a student at Cornell and I’m on my way to home to Ohio for Christmas. I really had no intention of stopping for the service. I’m afraid I am stuck in the parking lot.”

“Well it looks like you will be here for a while. It’s Christmas Eve. It looks like the Lord had arranged for you to join us. You know they say special things often happen on Christmas Eve.” “You’re right,” another of the ladies quickly added, “I have a friend who has a whole book called Christmas Miracles.” Carole saw nothing miraculous about getting her car hopelessly mired in a church parking lot hours from home on Christmas Eve.

“If you want you can use the phone. It’s on the wall in the hall.” One of them offered. She thanked them and got her phone card out of her purse. Her mom would be glad to hear from her and maybe she could help her decide what to do. The phone rang and she could imagine her mom running toward it in the kitchen where she would be working on food for Christmas. She answered on the first ring. “Hi Mom, it’s Carole. I’m OK, but I think I’m stranded. I’m at a church but the car is stuck in the parking lot. All the plows are busy. They say the plow will be through by the end of the Candlelight service. It’s an early service. I will be able to get out then, but I’m not sure I should get back out on the road the way things are tonight. The snow is getting deeper and they say it’s starting to drift.” “I know,” she answered, “I’ve been watching the news and they may close the interstate,” her mother said.

“I’ll see if I can get a motel room and tomorrow if the snow clears I will still be able to be home by noon on Christmas.” “Let me know what you do. I’ll keep the phone line clear.” “Bye, Mom. I love you. Merry Christmas.” “Merry Christmas honey. Be careful.”

When Carole hung up the phone the Pastor introduced himself to her. “Miss, we called the local hotel earlier today because we have guests coming in for Christmas and there are no rooms available. If you like we can make you a place here or if you prefer I’m sure we can arrange for you to spend the night with Mrs. Thornapple. She is here helping with refreshments and she is quite hospitable. She has a comfortable place a few blocks from here. If you like you could spend the night there and be on your way at first light. According to the weather reports things should be clear by then.

“Thank you, pastor,” said Carole. I would appreciate that. Carole called her mother to inform her of her plans and made her way into the chapel for the service. In spite of the snow enough people walked up from the village to make the little church comfortably full.

The service was as simple as it was beautiful. The church was dark for the whole service except for the candles burning on the altar and in the windows of the chapel. The songs were simple, familiar, ancient carols. She could not explain why she felt herself holding back tears. Toward the close of the service the pastor asked all the children to go to the isles and the pastor started to light the candles. Soft light slowly swept across the auditorium softly lighting faces. Expressions were thoughtful-songs were sung and children’s faces bathed in warm candle glow.

A the close of the service while each worshiper’s face was bathed in candle glow, a ten year old boy walked to the front and read a prayer of blessing.

Loving Father, help us remember the birth of Jesus,

that we may share in the song of the angels, the gladness

of the shepherds, and worship of the wise men.

Close the door of hate and open the door of love all over the world.

Let kindness come with every gift and good desires with every greeting.

Deliver us from evil by the blessing which Christ brings,

and teach us to be merry with clear hearts.

May the Christmas morning make us happy to be thy children,

and Christmas evening bring us to our beds with grateful

thoughts, forgiving and forgiven, for Jesus’ sake. Amen.

The worshipers flied silently out into the night. Strains of music behind them, deep snow all around the chapel. Carole hated to extinguish her candle–when she stepped out into the night the light of the village glowed below like mirrors of the sky above now clear and filled with a million stars.

Mrs. Thornapple broke the silence. “Robert Lewis Stevenson,” she said, almost to herself. “Pardon me,” said Carole. “Robert Lewis Stevenson wrote the prayer the boy prayed before we were dismissed. “How did you know that?” Carole asked.

“Carole, I’ve had a life-long passion for English literature.”

“So do I,” said Carole. “I am an English major at Cornell.”

“We do have something in common. English literature is my particular love. I taught English until my family came along then I did work at home for a publisher for twenty-two years. I’ve always kept busy working with the language.”

“Will you be alone this Christmas?” asked Carole.

“No I have family coming over for dinner on Christmas Day but I’m all ready for that.”

The plow had been through and the streets were passable once again. Carole followed Mrs. Thornapple home. She lived about four blocks from the church in a small but tasteful home. Light spilled from the windows of the house out onto the snow. They made their way in and Mrs. Thornapple stirred the fire back to life. The fire filled the room with scent and sound and warmth almost at once. The whole room sprang to life.

The wall surrounding the fireplace was a beautiful cherry bookcase from the baseboard to the ceiling. Carole crossed the room and stood gazing at the shelves. Every available inch of shelf space was used. The books were beautifully bound–classics. This collection of books was obviously chosen by a person with a great appreciation for literature and fine books.

“Carole, what year are you in?” Trudy asked.

“When I complete my paper I have only one course and I will be done. I’ve been slaving away at this paper for months.

“What is the subject of your paper?

“It is a study of Elisabeth Bancroft. She is my favorite writer.”

Trudy looked up suddenly. “Elisabeth Bancroft is your favorite writer?” she asked.

“Yes and she has been since high school.”

“Carole, can you sit down here a minute while I get you some tea? It’s still early and it’s Christmas Eve. I would like to talk. Are you up to a little conversation before you turn in?” “I’d love it.” said Carole honestly. Trudy went to make the tea and Carole enjoyed the comfortable, warm room. It was remarkably like she was visiting an old friend not staying with a total stranger she had just met.

Mrs. Thornapple brought the tea on a tray with a boarder of holly pattern that matched the cup and saucer and tea pot. “Sugar?” “No, thanks, this is perfect.” She liked the warmth of the cup in her hand and the smell of peppermint.

“You know Carole, early this morning I took a walk and spend some time talking with the Lord, do you ever do that, Carole?” Mrs. Thornapple asked looking in her eyes. It was a very personal question Carole would have resented as invasive but the warm setting, the touching Candlelight service, Trudy’s hospitality, her kind face and gentle manner made the question seem natural. “No Trudy, not since Cornell–not like I used to.” I grew up in the church but I’m not sure I really consider myself a believer anymore.

Carole, on my walk this morning I had a strong feeling the Lord had special plans for the today. I don’t often have such a clear feeling. When we stepped out of the chapel tonight and I discovered our shared interest in English Literature, I thought God sent you here for a very special reason. You said something a moment ago that makes me quite sure he arranged our meeting.

I have something to tell you that I think will interest you. And even though you don’t consider yourself a believer, I think you will have to admit that our being here together this Christmas Eve is not meaningless coincidence.

Carole was usually very uncomfortable with people who claimed to hear God speak, or believe God arranged circumstances of life, but Trudy’s obvious intelligence, taste, and credibility were difficult to discount. “Carole, let me ask you something more. Do you believe God loves you and arranges the circumstances of your life for good?” “Oh, Trudy, I used to want to believe that, but I have had some very painful circumstances in my life. I can’t imagine God arranging those things for good.

“I’m not sure what hurts you have experienced, but I know this– in my life my soul hurts and hungers are the things God used to make me seek Him. I think sometimes God will take comforts and pleasures from us to make us seek things that are eternal–the things we will always value.

Do you think that might be the case with the hurts you’ve experienced? Carole sipped her tea before she answered and Trudy made no attempt to break the silence. “I’m not sure,” she finally said, but a part of her thought it might be true.

“Carole, what approach did you take in your paper on Elisabeth Bandroft?” “My paper explores her religious beliefs and how they affected her writing,” she answered. “Let me tell you why I am so sure God arranged our little meeting.” “I believe this is what I call a Divine appointment. Elisabeth Bancroft and I have been close personal friends for twenty years. I have edited two of her books, personally.

Carole was stunned. Mrs. Thornapple crossed the room and took a book from the shelf with an attitude approaching reverence. She walked back across the room and placed the book in Carole’s hands. “The is a first edition of the first Bancroft I edited,” she said with a smile, watching Carole’s face.

The ladies talked about Bancroft’s writing until the fire burned to coals and it seemed minutes. Finally Mrs. Thornapple showed Carole up to her room. “Good night, Carole. It’s is delightful to have you under my roof.” “I’m so glad to be here Mrs. Thornapple.” “Oh, come to think of it Carole, Elisabeth Bancroft has occupied this very guest room more than once.” Gesturing toward a table under the window she added; “Early in the morning I’ve brought her coffee while she was writing at that desk.”

Carole turned out the light and for the first time in years had an impulse to pray. “Oh, God, if any of what Mrs. Thornapple has said tonight is true, I want to know it, God. I want to know it. If there is a purpose behind the painful things that have happened to me, please help me understand what it is.” Soon she slept.

On Christmas morning Mrs. Thornapple was up early and Carole awoke to the smell of baking. It was a smell she remembered fondly from childhood. For a moment in that mental fog when she first woke up she thought herself just a child waking up on Christmas morning, but not knowing where she was or how she got there.

She made a brief entry in her journal at the table under the window and went down for breakfast. Beside her place at the table was a small book. “It’s by Elisabeth Bancroft. It was the first book we worked on together.” Carole slowly picked it up and turned it over in her hand. “Merry Christmas, Carole. I want you to have it. Maybe after you have read it, we can arrange a little tea with the author.”

Carole looked up delighted. “Oh, Mrs. Thornapple, I can’t tell you how much that would mean to me,” she said sincerely. After breakfast Carole called her mother, brushed the snow from her car, waved to Mrs. Thornapple, and drove away. In ten minutes the little village was far behind.

Warm air blew out from under the dash onto her feet and music drifted quietly from the radio. Carole could not explain it but something happened that Christmas Eve in New York. She knew the faith of her childhood was not completely dead. She had let her hurts and doubts cloud her soul long enough. She longed to pillow her head at home on Christmas night both forgiving and forgiven.

Coffee and Christmas Lights

Ken and Paul sat in their dorm room and counted their change. They had returned bottles and scoured their pockets for the money. The semester was nearly over and Ken would make his way home to Ohio and Paul would spend Christmas in Houston.

Between the two they had enough to buy coffee at Starbucks, a treat the poor college students could rarely afford. They planned their evening. They would leave after supper. It would be dark by then. They had planned for weeks to take in the Christmas lights and see the decorations in the big department store windows on Michigan Ave. Earlier that day the snow began to come thick and fast. That sealed their decision to go now.

Since they had no money for the El they would have to dress warm and walk fast. They gathered their money, put on their gloves and caps and walked briskly off campus and toward Lake Michigan and Michigan Ave. The city was a million lights and a thousand sounds of Christmas. First year students, neither of them had ever seen Chicago dressed for the holidays before.

They agreed that they would wait to enjoy their coffee until they were good and cold because it would be a long walk back to campus after they saw the lights.

Every store was decorated on a theme and each window contained a different scene based on that theme. The young men still had their money in their pockets when they turned the corner onto Wells Ave. They were cold and ready for coffee when they saw a young man sitting under a canopy on an up-turned five-gallon bucket. He was playing a worn old acoustic guitar and singing Christmas songs.

The young man playing the guitar was talented and he played and sang as if he really loved every song. Soon he stopped singing and his hands brought the old instument to life. The young men stood silently almost reverently listening to the music. All the other sounds of the city faded away. Wordlessly and simultaneously they both reached into their pockets and dropped their coffee money into the open guitar case.

Realizing what they had done they glanced at each other with amusement and smiled. Then as if on cue they both spoke to the street musician at the same time: “Merry Christmas.” He looked at them and sincerely returned; “Merry Christmas to you guys, too.” He put his guitar away and the young men turned to make their way back to campus. He called after them; “Hey guys, there’s a Starbucks right around the corner. Care to join me?

“Uh- we better be getting back to campus. We have classes in the morning.”

“Well, Merry Christmas,” he said again.

And they said warmly, “Merry Christmas to you too.”

“Thanks for the music.”

Christmas Plumbing

I’ve always enjoyed going to the in-laws for Christmas. Some years they seem tolerant of me, too. Mostly I think they just want me to get Lois and the kids and the presents there and then stay out of the way. I have really never been very good at keeping out of the way. I am an “in-the- way” kinda’ guy. Around the holidays I always resolve to try real hard though.



One year we all were gathering for Christmas in Berea, Kentucky at the beautiful home of my sister-in-law Lavonne. The place was all decorated the food was abundant. There was a beautiful covering of snow on the ground. That doesn’t always happen in the Bluegrass.

Feeling a little like the Christmas chauffer I tried to think of ways to make myself useful. My brother in law, Bob already had the remote so that was covered. Even though I am type-cast for Santa, what with being jovial and all, the kids had already claimed that job. I was going to volunteer to walk the dog but he always snarled at me, so I was just sitting over in the corner when an idea hit me like a snowball in the face.

I overheard my sister-in-law say, “Does anybody know how to get the garbage disposal to run? It stopped.”

Now this is something I have some experience with. We had a garbage disposal once with a mind of its own. It would work just fine and then suddenly get stubborn on us and just go on strike. I discovered that if you took a broom handle and jammed it into the drain it would sometimes free the thing up and it would run again.

I found the little reset button on the thing and did my deal with the broom handle. Everyone looked on with what I now realize was mild amusement and toleration falling far short of the admiration I was seeking.

But when I worked my plumbing magic that thing purred to life. I made my way back to the corner to bask in the glory of my new status with the in-laws. After years of mild toleration bordering on rejection I had finally earned a place by the fire of acceptance. It was wonderful. and I nearly drifted off into a happy drooling sleep when I was awakened by a shriek from the kitchen.

“Get a mop, there’s water running all over the kitchen floor. My new house will be ruined.”

My sister-in-law shouted at my wife, “What did Ken do? There’s water all over the floor. My house is ruined. Why did he have to do that?”

Lois doesn’t mind letting me know when I have done something wrong. I think she rather enjoys it, but she doesn’t much like other people piling on. Lois and her sister exchanged tense words and I watched my momentary hero status melt away like a snowball in the sun. I felt like a dirty gray snowman in March. I tried to be inconspicuous but everyone kept “looking” at me for what I had done.

It didn’t make it any better when I suggested it wasn’t my fault.

I said, “The plumbing was already rusted out.”

“It’s practically a brand new house, the plumbing can’t be rusted out yet,” someone said.

I said, “It’s at least twenty-five years old. Plumbing can rust in twenty-five years.”

My airtight logic gained me no more appreciation than my plumbing skills.

We passed the rest of our festive holiday in quiet toleration. After what I understand was spirited debate I was invited back the next year for Christmas, but on probation. I brought my wife and children and a car load of gifts and when I arrived at the door I said, “Merry Christmas, and I held up a huge pipe wrench and said, “Not to worry, I brought my own tools this year.”

The dog snarled. My sister-in-law glowered. My mother-in-law sighed. My brother-in-law clutched the remote to his chest and my wife just pointed back out toward the driveway and said, “Here, give me the presents. Why don’t you just wait in the car until it’s time to go home.”

I suppose, to be honest, most of the abuse I described from my in-laws was in my mind. If you are committed to spreading Christian cheer at Christmas time, your best intentions will be misunderstood by some. Don’t be discouraged. It happed to the Lord Jesus himself it will happen to his followers, too. He came all the way from heaven to earth to save sinners, the very ones who were eager to crucify him. Misunderstanding is an inevitable part of life.

Maybe you will find that a comfort while your sitting out there in the driveway this year.

Ken Pierpont

December 6, 2004

Riverfront Character Inn

Flint, Michigan

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AT THE CHARACTER INN:

PREACHING SUMMIT: January 15-16 we will have the Preaching Summit with Tom Harmon. You can get details at http://www.tdharmon.com/summit_2005/

YOUNG LADIES GATHERING: Holly is planning a special retreat for young ladies. It is called: The Young Ladies Gathering. It will be January 20-22, 2005. (See www.kenpierpont.com/holly for details).

ETERNAL VISION: Do you know any young people that would like to be considered for the Eternal Vision Ministry Team here at the Character Inn? It is for young people who are 18 years of age or older who have a desire to make an eternal difference. You can read all about it at: http://atii.org/atii/students/opportu...

Christmas Merriment

It’s Christmas again, the season of love and good will. It is the season of undying hope and Christian charity. It is the time of the year when kindness wells up within the most hardened souls. Christmas is the season when we look forward to the sound of carols, and sleigh bells, and most of all the musical laughter of little children.

It also just happens to be the season when, if you are not careful, a perfectly harmless-looking old lady may deal you a mortal wound with a shopping cart if you get between her and whatever widget the store has lured her there to buy.

In our family it’s also the season the family always learns a new Christmas song to sing for the Christmas Candlelight Service. We always wait until the last minute because our schedules are so full and because there are so many schedules to coordinate. There are ten of us.

I always want the children to smile and sing. It’s Christmas after all. I want their voices to be angelic and their faces radiant with joy. But if you are parent you know there is a fine line between merriment and folly. A merry heart is like a continual feast according to ancient Scripture, but the Bible also says the laughter of a fool is an irritating noise, like the crackling of thorns under a pot. (Which I assume must have been the ancient equivalent of scratching your fingernails on a chalkboard).

During practice for our annual Christmas song folly frequently overtakes merriment. As much as I savor the joyfulness of the season, I loathe the idea of the family falling into the “sillies” when we are trying to learn a new song. I hate it when the kids get the collective “sillies” when I am trying to practice with them. Once the “sillies” have set in threats of capitol punishment cannot restore order. I could vow to turn them over to the Taliban for a slow torturous death but it would not sober them a bit. It is as if they are possessed by dark forces of silliness. No power on earth can restore their sobriety once they are oppressed by the “silly” demon.

Our oldest is incurably silly at times. Our first born son, the oldest of eight often falls victim to the sillies. Were not talking about a toddler here or a frivolous Jr. High School girl. We’re talking about a grown man ready to go out into the world and start his own Pierpont franchise with his own wife and a career and a house and everything that goes with it. I tell you when that young man gets the sillies it is like a volcano of humor boils up within him and demands release. This release will of course come at the climax of my threatenings and imprecations. Nothing can suppress it until it has run it’s course.

Of course by now you may know the result of hours of practicing lilting, festive, joyful, Christmas music while hovering over the children with the treat of torture, starvation and banishment to the attic until the first of the year. They learn to sing looking like the characters in the American Gothic painting. They end up caroling without cracking even a hint of a smile, pale as Marley’s ghost. They look like subjects of a century-old portrait.

So if you hear my family sing for Christmas and they look like the death angel in Dicken’s Christmas Carol have sympathy. Christmas is hard on them.

Don’t be fooled by all the talk of peace and good will. They say Christmas is for the children. Maybe but Christmas isn’t for sissies. Having a great time can be hard work, it can be down-right dangerous sometimes. We are starting into a very dangerous season. I hope you survive it with your peace intact. It helps to keep your mind on the Prince of Peace.

The Prophet Isaiah, who told us about the Prince of Peace said; “You keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on you, because he trusts in you.” (Isa 26:3 ESV)

Ken Pierpont

November 29, 2004

Riverfront Character Inn

Flint, Michigan

A Christmas Gift From Heaven

Today is Hannah’s Birthday. She is twenty-three today. Today I’m re-posting a poem I wrote when she was born:

Our snow-enshrouded home was nestled

neath God’s providential care

Anticipating the arrival

of a special package there.

Then as if dispatched from heaven

borne on angel-wings

A parcel came to rest among

our festive fashionings

What a priceless little bundle

of life and dreams and love

Came into our home last Christmas

like a present from above.

Yuletide night my eyes were misty

if I must tell the truth

For the Christmas gift from heaven

of our precious Hannah Ruth.

Kenneth L. Pierpont

December 1989

Chuk-Christmas Song-Detroit

In the Bleak Mid-Winter

Our son, Chuk is going to sing “In the Bleak Mid-Winter” at our Christmas Eve Service at 5:00 p.m. at Evangel Baptist Church in Taylor, Michigan. It is a beautiful candlelight service I’m sure you will enjoy. Hope you can come. Thanks, Chuk for your efforts on this.

Alive to Wonder

Last Christmas Eve I was sitting in our cozy home when I felt a tug to go to a downtown church for the Christmas Eve service. I got my topcoat and keys and headed out. Kyle and Hannah went along. It was perfect. Snow was falling in the city.

The service was everything you could expect of a Christmas Eve service. The people were friendly and warm. Everyone dressed for the season. The choir was delightful. The pastor was at his best. The children’s choir was perfect. It was a candlelight service. At the close of the service we extinguished our candles. We put on our coats and scarves and gloves and hats. On the way out we extinguished the candles and stepped through the thick solid wood doors into the winter night.

Snow was falling, thicker now. It was coming down in heavy flakes like you see in a Christmas movie. Just as we stepped though the door the chimes began to peel out over the City as if to say in celebration, “Christ is Born. Christ is Born. What sorrow or sickness or sinfulness can ultimately prevail. Christ is born!” The scene before us was like a Currier and Ives Christmas card. My son and I exchanged a wordless look of understanding. It was spectacular. It was perfect.

Just as we stepped into the night a woman walking behind me blurted out, “Oh, that’s just great. More snow. I’ve seen enough snow already for a full year.”

I felt irritation and then pity. I looked at my son again and smiled. He looked back and shook his head. Later in the car he said, “She missed a perfect Christmas Eve Moment.”

“She did, Kyle. That is so sad,” I said.

If this night didn’t stir up any spirit in her something must be wrong. Like a bird with a broken wing her spirit must have been grounded. She had just experienced the ancient story of the incarnation of God for man. She had just sung ancient, sacred carols of the advent and the gospel. She had just seen childrens faces awash in candlelight. Good tidings of great joy for all people were still ringing in her ears. All that was capped by one of the most ideal Christmas moments I have ever experienced. I had to wonder what circumstances and decisions would make a woman so dead to wonder that she could overlook the obvious beauty of such a moment.

It’s almost Christmas. Be alive to life and love and wonder. It really is everywhere you look.

Ken Pierpont

Riverfront Character Inn

Flint, Michigan

December 20, 2004

Christmas Courage: How to Overcome Fear

Date: December 16, 2012AM

Title: Christmas Courage: How to Overcome Fear

Speaker: Ken Pierpont

Text: Matthew 1; Luke 1-2

Place: Evangel Baptist Church, Taylor, Michigan