Next, I drove to St. Peter’s, a hospital where my wife, Nancy, had worked for 10 years. At the information desk, an impatient receptionist looked up his name. “Yes, he was discharged Monday, the 18th; but, I don’t have any record here of where he might have gone. You’ll have to check up at the sixth-floor nurses’ station. They should know.” I walked to the elevator and punched the “up” button. Long moments seemed to draw into minutes. The door opened. Some nurses—laughing and talking—got off. Others—more serious—maybe coming from a visit with a husband or wife or good friend. Sometimes I hate riding elevators. Do you say “hi” to the person standing there, while you both gaze up at the numbers creeping up? Do they want someone to say “hi, how’s it going”—or is it just another formality? I got off the elevator on the sixth floor, remembering that last week, Santa had been on the 10th floor. I had explained to his male nurse, that he was caring for celebrity. “Did you know that Earl was Santa at the J.C. Penny in Bremerton for nearly 30 years? He even got to ride in a helicopter that whisked him down to the Tacoma Mall to a crowd of waiting children.”

I stopped at the nurses’ station. A half-dozen or more nurses were looking at charts, talking, working, coming, and going. Two nurses were seated, filling out charts. “Hi, my name is Grant Christensen. I’m the pastor of a church up in Bremerton. You had one of my parishioners in here this week. He was discharged on Monday, and I’m trying to find out where they took him.” The one nurse took out a yellow pad, scanning down a list of names. “No, I don’t have him on my list. Maybe he’s on the other shift’s list.” “No, I remember him,” piped up the other nurse. She scanned down another list of names. I caught his name, Earl Kinney, at the top of the list—reading upside down. “There he is,” I pointed. “Oh, he was in 602; I’ll have to send a nurse back to talk to the other shift. She’ll be right with you.” Another nurse took up the search and went to talk to the other shift of nurses who apparently were in receiving report.

Just then, two young men walked up, dressed in blue uniforms. They looked like EMT trainees or fire-fighting cadets. They had a big box, half-full of plastic travel mugs and silver boxes. The women seemed to know who they were. “What did you bring us this year?” one nurse asked. They pulled out three of the coffee mugs filled with candy and set them on the counter, along with two of the small silver boxes. “Coffee mugs and calculators,” they said with a smile. The two nurses seated at the desk quickly grabbed for the mugs—one each, and one managed to grab one of the calculators. The cadet was opening the other box to show the nurses how they worked. Other nurses caught notice and started coming over.

The first one there grabbed the last coffee cup. “See you punch this button and then watch.” The calculator’s lid popped open slowly while a keypad flipped slowly out the other direction. The cover kept turning until it raised the calculator off the counter like a small easel with the keypad resting in front. “Cool,” the nurses cooed. “I want one too.” A fourth nurse had already lapped up the second calculator and was trying to stuff it back in its box before anyone could get their hands on it. The nurse who had grabbed both a mug and a calculator hurried into the back; I assumed she was taking her new treasures to stow away safely in her locker.

What had been a peaceful nurses’ station was now turning into a feeding frenzy of sharks who had tasted blood. Now nearly a dozen nurses were milling about. “Hey, I want a mug.” “Ya, me too.” “Are there any calculators left?” another nurse inquired. “No,” we have four more floors to go and then a couple of fire stations so we can’t give out any more on this floor. They smiled and took their prized gifts with them onto the elevator. A nurse called to me and said, “I think they took him to Evergreen.” “Where’s that,” I asked. “Right across the street,” she said. “I’ll call them for you.” “Thanks, I’d appreciate that,” I responded.

Nurses were now murmuring about why they didn’t get a mug or a calculator. I unwisely but cheerfully spoke up and said, “It seems like if they’re going to bring gifts, they should bring enough for everyone.” A nurse spring-boarded off my idle comment with a vengeance. “I don’t know why they got to have the mugs; my feelings are hurt.” I looked at her face and noted that she was serious. Another nurse from the other side of the room said, “Well, Connie got both a mug and a calculator.” “That’s not fair,” another nurse steamed. I was wishing that I could casually walk over to the elevator and push the “down” button—and maybe say “hi, how’s it going” to some stranger on my way down to the car. Anger and bitterness and resentment now bounced around the room. The nurse who went to check with the other shift came back just then. “He’s at Puget Sound Rehabilitation Center.” “Thank you,” I said. I hurried over to the elevator. Long moments seemed to draw out into hours as the grumbling and murmuring only continued to grow more intense.

“Christmas,” I thought to myself. “Is this all that Christmas is now to people—getting things?” Two young men had meant to bring cheer and joy to these nurses through the gifts of plastic travel mugs filled with candy and cool calculators—fancy gadgets—that flipped themselves into a little stand as they opened. (I found myself wanting one.) Only they hadn’t brought enough for the nurses. Rather than cheer and joy, I saw greed grab hold of the nurses as they grabbed for the mugs and calculators. They had likely been purchased in lot from some catalog for less than a buck or two. Relationships squandered over maybe $1.98. Resentment grew, and anger erupted into bitter words said behind the back—an intended kind gesture splitting into division and dissension.

Far away—and a long time ago—another gift was given. The cry of a baby pierced the night air—as His cry would later pierce His mother’s heart. Shepherds were told out in the fields by a host of angels, words of wonder, “Do not be afraid; for behold, I bring you good news of great joy which will be for all the people; for today in the city of David there has been born for you a Savior, who is Christ the Lord.” Wisemen long waiting and looking for the coming of the King of the kings followed a star, bearing gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. The inns in Bethlehem were bursting with people, “no room.” Into a cold cave where they kept the animals, the Lord of lords was born. Wonderful Counselor; Almighty God, Eternal Father, Prince of Peace, the Ancient of Days had placed himself in a teenager’s womb, and now was bursting into His world as if for the first time. But only the wind rustling through the grass and a few shepherds and several wandering Wisemen seemed even to notice. The costliest Gift of all time, more precious than the whole of creation thrown together, slipped in without anyone hardly noticing. When the Magi came inquiring, “Where is He who has been born King of the Jews? For we saw His star in the east and have come to worship Him,” King Herod noticed! But out of his own bloodthirst for power and place, the Gift of gifts meant nothing. He sent his soldiers in a mad rage to stamp out a mere baby by stamping out maybe dozens of little boys; he sent his soldiers to destroy the very one who had authored his every breath, who was the source of his every joy, who gave him his kingdom and power and place. And “a voice was heard in Ramah, weeping and great mourning, Rachel weeping for her children; and she refused to be comforted because they were no more.”

As I drove across town to the Puget Sound Rehabilitation Center, the contrast sickened me. No, I’m no different. I’ve squandered my life many a time for less than a $1.98—mere things and status and place put ahead of relationships. Why is it that when we are offered cheap plastic travel mugs filled with candy and gadget calculators that won’t last the winter—we want them so bad we could all nearly wretch—always trying to fill our lives with things, and sounds, and images that will fill the void, that will fill the hurt within. And all along the Gift of gifts waits silently—neglected, spurned, ignored—waiting to fill us to overflowing with His patient Love, with His effervescent Joy, and with His heart-protecting Peace. Why is it when we offer this Gift, people run and hide, they get angry and hateful, sometimes pouring out abusive words, plugging their ears—or they just turn and walk away. Jesus’ own words, “O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you, how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, but you were not willing. Look, your house is left to you desolate. For I tell you, you will not see me again until you say, ‘Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.’”

I walked into Earl’s room. He looked up, his face breaking into a feeble smile. A physical therapist had just put him back in bed. “He’s going to be out of breath. I’ve just brought him back from a walk,” he offered. The friendly man left the room. As I pulled over a chair and sat down next to his bed, I recalled his daughter’s words to me: “They say he only has about two weeks left.” I sat down next to this friend who now was waiting expectantly, breathlessly for the King of kings and Lord of lords to come and take him home. I took his hand in mine and said, “Hi, Earl.”

We had found him! No, not Santa. Earl and me! We had found Him. No, that’s not right, either! Not that we had found Him, but He has found us: The Grace of all graces - Jesus!