Monday, January 9, 2017

Christmas Shopping

One summer, a few years ago, I wandered into a store that specializes in retro styles.
It was there that I had an encounter that sparked the recollection of something five decades past. I circled the display table while relishing the emotions my heart surrendered to my consciousness and dared my hands to pick up the item I knew had triggered the memory. When I touched the jewel-toned aluminum tumblers I was transported back the summer I turned five. It was a sweltering day when Aunt Phyllis introduced my world to these gleaming metal marvels when she served her guests root-beer floats in them. I remember the fascination of witnessing, whether by miracle or magic, those amazing vessels produce a whisper thin layer of opaque frost. Oh how I wished to have such articles of lovely luster in our cupboard at home.

Fast forward to December of that same year. Dad announces his intention to go to Motive Parts.

Motive Parts and Supply-unlike McDonalds- doesn't lure customers in with smiling clowns and enormous play lands. No, I'd venture to bet that unless a child had actually ever crossed its threshold, ever begged, pleaded, or threw a tantrum in hopes of getting a peek inside the nondescript, rectangular brick structure flanked by chain link and tire towers. But those informed and privileged few (like my brothers and myself) knew the pleasures that awaited us in the toy aisles of Motive Parts were second to none. Unlike the toy aisles at K-Mart which could only be perused with parents present, we kids could wander, wonder and wish to our heart’s content in Motive Parts. Unfettered by fears of stranger abduction, while Dad (usually holding a greasy piece of broken steel, worked with the parts guy and his catalog) was well within earshot. So when Dad announced his intention to go to Motive Parts my brother Rick and I grabbed our coats and coins and raced to the pick-up.

As luck would have it that December day in 1966, Mom elected to stay home (perfect for covert shopping operations). I headed straight to the kitchen and housewares section in search of the Holy Grail of all gifts: jewel-toned aluminum tumblers. I pulled them from their shelf with an exuberance that proved short lived. It was crushed by my brother’s explanation of affordability and cost constraints.

It was a defeated and dejected pre-schooler, in the throes of learning a life lesson called compromise, that Dad found next to the check-out counter clutching a shrink-wrapped package of pallid, pastel, plastic juice glasses.

The chasm between desire and resources was simply too wide to span. I was forced to settle for the gift equivalent of a booby prize.

That gift cost me forty-one cents and I'll tell you why I remember that.

When Dad found me holding the less spectacular gift selection he took it, along with any other gifts Rick and I had decided on, and paid for them, assuring us that it was simpler that way and that we’d settle the bill at home. That night, I went to him. My chubby left fist holding all of my accumulated wealth. I remember holding out my hand and watching Dad lift a quarter, a dime, a nickel and one penny.

“There, that’s just right.” He punctuated the declaration with a quick nod.

The fact that I still had money left in my palm eradicated the day’s disappointment.
I don't know when I realized that Daddies (and Mommies) habitually take what their child has to offer, make up the difference themselves and use their power to declare any debt satisfied, paid in full, just right.

Dad hadn’t denied me the pleasure of participation in the transaction. He made sure I contributed a price that was proportionally significant, while he covered the deficit.

Years later, I came to desire another unattainable prize: a forgiven life of grace and peace. What did I have to offer in exchange for this magnificent prize? Forty-one cents worth of sweat and tears, failure and sin. This time it was my Heavenly Father who graciously received my inadequate offering and declared it to be, “Just right”.

Through the years I’ve been tempted to entertain the idea that God lied, that I still owe something to cover the bill. That when we settled up. He bought my life from the slave-master of sin and re-enslaved me to Himself. Not so. The word says that it was for freedom that Christ has set us free. That I am no longer called a servant but a son. There is no denying that what I gave in exchange for the gift of a life of freedom couldn't possibly have covered the actual cost but He is Dad.

He's the One Who took what I had to offer and declared it to be Just Right.

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