The Warmest Christmas

 by Charles Killian,  Asbury Theological Seminary Professor 1970-2004

We all grew up in a small town, Tyner, Indiana. In the winter time, snow was deep and the temperature could get well below zero. Early on, our only source of heat was the coal furnace which was located in the basement and the heat made its way up through a grate in the floor. We all huddled around that grate for what little warm comfort we could get.

In the mornings we boys had the chore of fixing and starting the fire from a small bundle of twigs and paper. With repeated effort, we managed to get the coal burning and off to school we would go.  Winters were prodigal and unrelenting.  Without coal, we would have suffered even more.

Coal.  I have a coal story.

The Frank Lidy family lived about three miles from our home.  Jim, their son was in my school class. We were friends and played together at recess. While we were poor in many regards, the Lidy family was poorer. Jim wore tatters and never had a pair of boots.  On Saturdays they all came to town and shopped at Karn’s General Store.  They never said much to anyone; they lived in silence and managed as best they could. They never bothered anyone; they stayed pretty much to themselves.

I remember my father talking to a couple of men at Karn’s one late December day and I overheard them talking about the Lidy family—that they were just about out of coal; some even remarked that it was sad that some just don’t have any good luck at all.  “Such a shame,” they said.

My Father asked me to come along with him and we went down to the store, right next to where the train would empty a load of coal for the patrons. It was after dark, and Dad and I filled two gunny sacks with chunks of coal. We drove out to the Lidy’s, placed the bags near the back door of their house, and left unnoticed.

“What are we doing, Dad?” He calmly said, “It will be Christmas in a couple of days, and this coal might help.”  The day after Christmas, when the elevator was open, Dad went and settled for the two bags of coal.  I can still hear Bob Freeman, owner of the elevator, say to Dad, “Al, the funniest thing happened this morning—Frank Lidy stopped by and said that someone must have brought coal to the house, he said, “We were plum out; and you know something, we are so much obliged.”

“You know, Al, I don’t think anyone should be cold on Christmas morning.” He looked at Dad and gave him a wry smile.  Nothing more needed to be said. The memory of that event, even to this day, serves as one of the warmest Christmases I ever had.