A Simple Christmas

by Mike Huckabee

  My exuberance over the thought of a baby was hard to contain. It was April, and the baby wasn’t due until December, which meant that her pregnancy was in the earliest stages, and the doctors warned us that the first three months were critical to make sure that the development was normal and that Janet didn’t miscarry. For that reason, we decided that we would wait a few months to tell our families so they wouldn’t get their hopes up and wouldn’t have to worry about us as much. Of course, keeping this to ourselves was difficult because news like that is tailor made to shout, not hide. But we kept mum.

  As we started thinking about the many changes headed our way, we had to start getting very practical. The “Winnebago” by the train tracks barely accommodated us, and we knew we needed to think about moving into a bigger place. We also needed to figure out how we were going to afford another family member.

  God watches after little kids and idiots, so I guess he did double duty to watch out for the little kid that Janet was carrying and the idiots who were about to become parents. During one of my radio-spot-recording gigs, it turned out that Gordon Waller, who produced spots for James Robison’s Evangelistic Association, was in the studio I was using and heard the spots. He learned that I was a seminary student and asked me if I would like to audition to do spots for the Robison organization. The person they currently used lived somewhere on the East Coast, and the organization thought it would be better to use someone who lived locally and could record on short notice. Keep in mind that this was before the days of MP3 files and the Internet. In fact, it was even before most businesses had fax machines. (And I’m not talking about the modern fax machine but its predecessor, in which an 8½ × 11-inch original document was placed on a round tube and then a telephone handset was set into a cradle and a call placed to another identical machine. At the other end, a tissue-thin thermograph paper would have the grainiest of images burned into it after three to six minutes.)

  The opportunity to be the voice of the James Robison Crusade radio spots was a huge deal for me, and a month after I did the first one I was asked to work at their headquarters every day after class doing spots, buying ads, writing things for the organization, and doing any other duties for the in-house advertising agency that worked on their crusades, television show, and magazine. It was high cotton for a kid like me to work at a place like this, and it meant a steady and much larger income. We weren’t rich by any means, but we had enough to make it.

  By Father’s Day of that year, Janet was in the third month of her pregnancy, and we knew that we were going to have to break the news to our family and friends before Janet started showing. We were of course giddy with excitement to get back to Hope that weekend and tell both her mother, Pat, and my parents. Her mother’s initial reaction was more worry than excitement. It took a while for her to quit thinking about the year behind us and start thinking about the year in front of us. She of course was happy over the announcement, but her joy was tempered by her anxiety that it might put too much stress on her daughter, who had been through a tough year.

  For my parents, it would be the first grandchild, and there was some concern about Janet’s health, but mostly they were visibly excited. Of course, my parents the pragmatists were instantly concerned about how on earth we could possibly afford a child. I’m not sure my response, “The Lord will provide,” was quite what they wanted to hear. I think they were hoping for a big salary increase on my part. The Lord’s version would have to suffice for now.

  Janet and I found another house to rent not far from the seminary, but this one was privately owned by a former seminary student who rented it out. The rent was ninety dollars a month, but the house was a real two-bedroom house and even had a fenced-in backyard. It wasn’t great, but it was just what we would need. The move wasn’t that difficult since it was only a few blocks and we didn’t have a lot of stuff—a kitchen table with four chairs that my dad had gotten secondhand from people who had abandoned them in an apartment, bedroom furniture that had been salvaged from my parents’ house, and an old couch that my parents were going to get rid of when they got a new one. Janet’s mother gave us a wooden rocking chair and we later bought a hide-a-bed sofa on sale at a furniture dealer in Fort Worth that we would use if parents or friends came to stay to help with the baby. Our next-door neighbor, Mark Baber, was a fellow seminary student who had been a classmate of mine at Ouachita, and the two of us went in together to buy a used lawn mower for ten dollars so that we could take turns using it to mow our lawns. On the other side of us lived two couples—one married, one not—who we were pretty sure were drug dealers, seeing as they actually kept a chair on their rooftop where one of them sat most of the night, we presumed to guard their stash. All I know is that we got along with them just fine and never worried about security because one of them was keeping watch all night. They also provided occasional entertainment of the soap opera kind when the unmarried female would get angry at her live-in boyfriend and throw all of his stuff in the front yard. The episodes were fully enriched with lively dialogue and mystery but always ended just like a TV show, with things getting resolved, an emotional reunion, and all the stuff going back into the house.

  While we had enough money to pay the rent, we knew that having a baby was going to mean other costs, like diapers. Disposable diapers were out of the question due to cost, so we were forced to use cloth diapers, which cost less since they could be reused. But washing diapers would mean extra work if we had to make weekly trips to the coin-operated Laundromat as we had done all through our marriage. The house had a space and hookup for a washer and dryer, and we knew that if we had those appliances, we could save not only money but also time. It would also be much safer for Janet than having to traipse off to the laundry with a newborn. Problem was, how would we ever afford a washer and a dryer?

  That’s when I decided to sell the guitars I told you about in chapter 2—a 1967 Gretsch Tennessean six-string electric guitar and a 1968 Fender Jazz Bass—plus a Gibson amplifier for the Gretsch and a Kustom bass amp for the Fender. Without really discussing it with Janet, because I knew she would sell one of her kidneys if it meant I could hang on to those guitars, I placed an ad in the local free shopper, a newspaper left on racks around town that contained mostly classified ads. Soon after the paper hit the newsstands, a man and his son called and asked to come see the guitars. They were both musicians in their local Pentecostal church band and were looking for nicer instruments than they had. These were nice enough for George Harrison and Paul McCartney, so they were certainly adequate for a Texas church band!

  They made an offer on the spot that was within twenty-five dollars of my asking price. I gulped and realized that I was about to sell things I valued more than any other material possessions I had ever owned. But then I thought about my bigger and more pressing responsibility as a husband and a father-to-be and said, “Okay, it’s a deal.” The man reached into his wallet and counted out the money in cash. I couldn’t watch and had to turn away as the excited man and his twenty-something son loaded what had once been the apples of my eye into their car and drove off.

  I had no second thoughts about my decision, but that night I realized that from that point onward my life would never be quite the same. Starting then, my commitment to my wife and child would come first, and my old priorities would slip away. It would be exactly twenty years before I owned a bass guitar again.

  We bought the washer and dryer, and then as the due date drew closer, we tried to ready the part of the little bedroom that would be set aside for the “nursery.” We found a used baby crib for ten dollars at a used furniture store and a used playpen for five dollars at a garage sale. We were getting ready!

  These were the days before ultrasounds, so the only clue we had as to the gender of our baby was our doctor’s speculation, and he was adamant that we were going to have a girl. He was a wonderful physician and was highly regarded in the field. He was semiretired and only worked at the seminary medical clinic as a sort
of Christian mission because he knew that most of the seminary students were only a couple of meals away from starving. He attended one of the local Southern Baptist churches, and his caring for the students and their families was as much a gift as any medical practice, because he certainly wasn’t making any money from us!

  His name was Dr. David Pillow, and he reminded us of Marcus Welby, M.D., in both manner and looks. Dr. Pillow’s gentle and reassuring manner was just what we needed. He seemed especially sensitive to Janet’s previous medical history and knew how anxious we were over every little ache and pain. In the interest of full disclosure, I was a much bigger handful than Janet. She seemed to regard this entire process as a mother would—an affirmation of her womanhood and instincts. I, on the other hand, was terrified that we would do something terribly wrong and always walked into the appointments for the prenatal checkups with a long list of questions. If we had been charged by the question, I would have needed to find some more guitars to sell!

  I’ll never forget the day that, in a moment of true candor and wisdom, Dr. Pillow interrupted one of my interrogations and said, “I need to remind you of something. Childbirth is not a disease. Your wife isn’t sick. She is going to have a baby—not another tumor. She is simply doing what God created her with the capacity to do, and it’s been done for thousands of years without doctors and hospitals and medical equipment. She will be fine and doesn’t really even need me for this to work. I’m not there to make it happen, just to make sure that what she does naturally is as comfortable as possible.”

  I needed that. I probably really needed a slap on the face, but he was too nice for that.

  The baby was due on December 11, 1976. Dr. Pillow told us that since this was our first child, it would probably arrive late. He guessed it might even arrive two weeks after the original date—on Christmas Day.

  It was good to have a doctor who exuded confidence and certainty. So there we had it. We were going to have our little girl on Christmas Day—two weeks after she was due. We were prepared for that. And so was he. In fact, we were so confident that Dr. Pillow planned his annual deer hunt the week of Thanksgiving so he could be sure to be around for the birth.

  Everyone was totally in sync with the plan. That is, everyone except the baby.

  Janet and I planned to forego a Thanksgiving trip to Arkansas to spare Janet the long car ride. A friend from church called and offered us two tickets to the Dallas Cowboys football game on Thanksgiving Day. He knew that we had a few weeks before the baby came and it might be our last chance for an outing. Neither of us had ever been to a Dallas Cowboys game, even though we were both big fans, so how could we say no? I would take my wife, now eight months pregnant, to the Thanksgiving Day game. Dr. Pillow was deer hunting, and we still had two to four weeks before the baby would arrive.

  The game was great, and though tired, Janet handled the experience well. She was probably an even bigger Dallas fan than I was, and I think if she had gone into labor in the stands, we still would have sat through the entire game.

  We took things pretty easy on the Friday and Saturday of Thanksgiving weekend, and of course we talked on the phone to our families and apologized for not being able to be home for the holiday.

  Early Sunday morning, Janet woke me up and said she didn’t feel well. She thought that maybe the ballgame had overdone it a bit. It was cold that day—twenty-two degrees, a record low for Fort Worth on November 28. Being the ever-vigilant dad-to-be, I asked Janet if she thought she was going into labor. She was adamant that it couldn’t be that. First, it was two weeks before the original due date and Dr. Pillow had said the baby would probably be late, not early. Second, Dr. Pillow was still deer hunting, and how could she possibly have the baby with him off God-knows-where in the woods trying to shoot a deer?

  By 7:00 A.M., her symptoms sounded a lot like labor to me, but she assured me that it was probably “false labor,” and she didn’t want to drive to the hospital only to look like an idiot and be sent home. We finally agreed to call the hospital, and after we described the symptoms, we were instructed to head to the hospital. Janet asked if Dr. Pillow would be there and was told that he wouldn’t be available, but not to worry because someone was on call for him and would be in to check her out by the time we arrived. That didn’t go over too well. A total stranger taking over for Marcus Welby?! And it probably wasn’t going to be James Brolin, either. (If you understand the whole Marcus Welby/James Brolin reference, that just means you’re as old as dirt like I am now!)

  On this bitterly cold day, I tried to warm up the car and convince a reluctant and expectant wife that we couldn’t wait until Dr. Pillow came back from the deer hunt in a couple of days. We needed to go now.

  The small Glenview Hospital (which is now a nursing home) was on the opposite side of Fort Worth but was a nice neighborhood-type hospital that Dr. Pillow liked. It was about a thirty-minute drive ordinarily, but on that Sunday morning, we made the trip in about twenty minutes. I only confess this now, as I feel certain that the statute of limitations on speeding violations in Texas has long since passed.

  We checked into the hospital a little after nine that morning, and at 3:04 P.M., November 28, 1976, we saw God’s gift of hope to a young mother who a year before was fighting for her life. Now she was giving life in the form of a 5-pound, 15¼-ounce, 19-inch-long, redheaded baby boy. The doctor had guessed wrong not only about when the baby was coming but also about who it would be. That little girl he was so certain we would have was in fact a little boy whom we named John Mark. John means “God’s beloved” or “God’s gift” and Mark means “protector.” He was surely God’s beloved gift, and we hoped he would be a protector of the miracle that he was to us.

  Our Christmas girl turned out to be a Thanksgiving boy, but this meant that less than four weeks later, we took our new son home to Arkansas at Christmas to see his grandparents, his uncles and aunts, and a lot of other people who just wanted to see this little guy who had surprised us all.

  For the trip home, a friend of ours gave us a little red and white Santa hat for John Mark. It was as tiny as he was, but he looked priceless in his Christmas outfit. That year, instead of the usual presents under the tree for each other, Janet and I put John Mark in his little plastic baby carrier and placed him, wearing his Christmas cap, under the tree. We took his picture and decided that he was our gift to each other that year. Nothing else could have come close.

  That was the only year that little Christmas hat fit on John Mark’s ever-growing head, but every year when we put up our family Christmas tree, we don’t top it with the typical star or angel. Not that there’s anything wrong with those traditional tree toppers, but we top our tree with that little red Santa hat that did a lot more than simply crown the dome of our month-old baby boy on his first Christmas. It serves as a reminder of how out of the depths of despair and the shadow of death can spring hope and expectancy and, ultimately, affirmation. Affirmation that the past is truly behind us and God has decided to favor us with not only life sustained but life created.

  The family tree has been decorated many times, but when Janet puts the little red cap on the top, something inside me stirs even now. I choke back a tear that only she might truly understand. That little cap is not just about our firstborn son but about the reminder that Christmas is about God doing the unexpected for the undeserving. He didn’t give us a million dollars or send a star shooting through the sky. What happened to us happens millions of times every year around the world, and it was the simple gift that was the most significant. “Unto us a child is born.” That sounds very familiar. It was the original Christmas message. It was a simple Christmas then, but on the Christmas of 1976, we understood just how precious and wonderful the gift of life truly was.

  8.

  Stability

  So much had transpired between the Christmases of 1975 and 1976—first Janet’s cancer and then the birth of our first child. But for the Christmas of 1977, we would have something
very real to celebrate—the ownership of our first home.

  My job with James Robison continued to bring increased responsibilities. His organization was growing rapidly through his television outreach as well as through large outdoor rallies and evangelistic meetings that he held in stadiums. My hours had been increased throughout the early part of 1977 even as I continued my classes at Southwestern and tried to be a good dad and husband. Janet and I had made the deliberate decision that she would be a full-time mother, and we determined that we would make the necessary sacrifices in our personal lives so John Mark would not have to spend more time with strangers than with us. We lived frugally but always believed that if we acted responsibly and walked by faith, our path would be clear. This is in no way intended to disparage parents who choose to keep their children in day care while both of them work or single parents who have no choice but to leave their children in the care of another. It’s just that we knew it was right for us, though we recognized that it would mean setting very rigid financial priorities to make it work.

  Despite a modest income, we never wavered in our commitment to tithe—to give a minimum of 10 percent of our gross income to our church. We did this not only because it was a doctrine of our faith but, more important, because it signified that everything we had was truly the Lord’s, and we believed that the mere giving of a dime from each dollar was more than reasonable given what He had blessed us with. Plus, we had experienced the generosity of many people who had supported us in our time of need during Janet’s illness, and we knew that one of the things we could do in return was to give to others as others had given to us.