I wanted a Johnny West for Christmas

“For God so loved the world that he gave…” (John 3:16).

In 1966 I wanted a “Johnny West” for Christmas.

But ’66 was a tough year. My father died of cancer in November of that year at the age of 39. I was eight. My mother was so exhausted and emotionally overwhelmed after a year of watching my father’s decline, that we moved from Virginia to Michigan to live with her sister.

An eight year old handles such things differently than an adult. I remember being very upset about my father’s death, but also very aware of many other concerns. Where would I attend school? Would I have my own bedroom? Would my mother be OK (She cried all the time)? And of course, would I get a “Johnny West” for Christmas?

We barely had time to move in with my aunt and her family before Christmas time was upon us. I was enrolled in third grade in a school about six blocks from the house. I shared a twin bed with my four year old brother Barry, in my cousin Randy’s bedroom. Mom was still crying a lot, but my Aunt Gerri and Uncle Gene were keeping things in order and full of laughter (I really needed order).

So, only one concern remained… what would I get for Christmas?

Christmas morning came and we lept from our beds and ran down the basement steps to see what was under the tree. As we rounded the corner and entered the rec room, I saw “Johnny” standing there next to his black stallion, Thunderbolt. Such joy flooded my soul!

Then, my mother said, “Oh, Gary, that’s not yours honey.” While pointing on the other side of the tree. “Yours and Barry’s toys are on this side.”

As I rushed to the other side of the tree, I caught a glimpse of “my” toys. My mind screamed in confusion. “Surely not!” I thought.

But there it was. A “Jane West” with a palomino pony.

Barry got a “Jane” too and he already had her out of the box and riding her pony. Apparently, his four year old masculinity hadn’t kicked-in sufficiently as of yet. He seemed perfectly content.

I just stood there starring. I looked back and forth between Jane and my mother, my mouth hung open. Words failed.

“I’m sorry honey.” My mother said. “When we went to the store, all the Johnnys were sold out. But they had plenty of Janes. I didn’t know what else to do..” She continued, with that familiar, sad look coming on her face.

Seeing her face, I decided to make the best of it. I hated to see my mother sad.

I put Jane on her horse, slung a rifle across the saddle, and told my cousin Randy that his Johnny better not have any ideas that he could shoot better than my Jane. Long before the movie, I had created my own “GI Jane!”

I think back on that Christmas in 1966 now with fond memories. That my mom could even get herself together enough to go shopping for her three kids after losing her beloved husband mere weeks before, was an expression of her love. Joy and sadness were mixed together that Christmas.

I wonder if the first Christmas was like that? An unwed mother traveled with her betrothed. Was she concerned about where they would sleep? Whether they would have a room of their own?

And in heaven, was the Father’s joy (as displayed by the Heavenly Choir singing “Gloria!”) already mixed with sorrow at the anticipation of His great gift being sacrificed on a tree?

Somehow, His Story has made me look back on my story in such a way that the joy mixed with sorrow has turned to sweetness. His Story is the Gospel Story.

It is the story that God so loved that He gave.