My youngest son probably isn’t crazy about it when I tell stories about his childhood. At the ripe age of 17 I guess he’s entitled to object, although I often tell him he’s free to write awful things about me once he’s grown, as long as they’re interesting and salacious. Anyway, I try not to tell “Jeremy stories” unless they’re ones which I’m sure won’t needlessly embarrass him and which also have a good point.

This one does.

He was barely a year old the Christmas of 1997, toddling and romping about as expected, a delight and treasure, ohh’d and ahh’d over regularly by his big brother and parents, also as expected. Our sweet joy.

The Christmas tree was decked with the usual trimmings, including an assortment of candy canes hanging from selected branches. As Christmas neared I noticed a daily diminishing of the candy canes, but saw no evidence of any tampering with the tree, so I chalked their disappearance up to whatever.

Until two days before the Big One, when I called Jeremy, got no response, panicked and started tearing the house apart. An infantile giggle from beneath a side table, covered with a tablecloth, led me to the boy and to what had obviously become his lair. Candy cane wrappers were strewn around him as he sat up, grinning and gleaming, smeared with sugary coating around his mouth. The table cloth was the perfect cover for his sin, as it kept his secret in and intruders out.

Nothing notable in any of this, except for my reaction, which was mixed. My son was in danger of overstuffing himself with something he’d discovered, enjoyed, and protected as his little ritual. So I thankful to interrupt that pattern, and while cleaning him off and removing the last candy canes from the lower tree branches, I breathed out prayers of gratitude that nothing worse had come of it all. But I was also indignant. My little treasure was a sinner in training! He’d been embezzling sweets, deliberately hiding both them and himself while he indulged, and had sought to keep it all from me, his loving Dad.

He was a mere 12 months old, but that didn’t stop me from wondering where I’d gone wrong. Perhaps a wrong move during diaper changing; too much Barney; too little apple sauce pudding and not enough strained carrots. Toddler delinquency means something’s wrong at home; I was a failure.

After slapping myself out of this nonsense I realized what I’d known all along – he was born in sin, a condition I didn’t need to teach him. Worse yet, I knew darned well where he got his sin nature, so what could I do? But then, a real joy sprang up. I was experiencing what I’d learned cognitively but never fully felt: “Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners, of whom I am, chief.” (I Timothy 1:15)

Against the backdrop of all I’d showered on him – a Christmas tree, gifts, decorations and snacks – sat my little sinner, beaming at me adoringly, caught in his transgression but still trusting in my love. He was, in that moment, remarkably smarter than me and the way I deal with my own sins. Because he knew my heart was with him, and that whatever corrective measure I took to deal with his error, he couldn’t help but be my son, my beloved. And good grief, what mixed feelings I had while looking him over! I was angry at his actions, overjoyed to bring him to safety, mildly amused at his clumsy sneakiness, and drunk with affection for him even as I admonished him. Finally, way late in the game, I was catching a glimpse of my Heavenly Father’s heart. My Christmas was so much richer that year.

The Light came into the world. Men loved darkness, but some – you, I’m sure, and others – also came to love the light. Smeared with sugary nonsense we ran to that light, and, as the carol says, God and sinners were reconciled.

I am loving that thought and will hold it during these last busy hours before The Big One.

Hope you can do the same.