LeFevre Family Christmas Letter 2024

“For ye know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, that, though he was rich,

yet for your sakes he became poor, that ye through his poverty might be rich.” 2 Corinthians 8:9

Dear friends, family, and the fellowship of Saints, A Merry Christmas to you all!

Time has a way of playing tricks on us. Last Christmas seems like an eternity ago, and yet where have the days gone in between? We spent last Christmas in America, drinking in every wholesome seasonal pleasure available to us. We even saw Santa Claus on more than one occasion and in completely different locations. I did notice several telling discrepancies regarding his person at each appearance. I’ll not belabor the differences in dress: that, in the fancier shopping center he was much more richly attired than he was in the classroom, where his outfit seemed shabby. We all have in our closets clothing varying from the expensive and uncomfortable to the well-worn and cheap. And we too dress, for the most part, to suit our surroundings. I don’t fault him for that. But when he expects us not to notice that he’s grown or shrunk in height or weight, and that his whiskers alter their length and hue, it strains credulity! And why, if he has his own means of manufacturing, is he always found in Malls?

Santa Claus very much aside, we very much enjoyed our Stateside Christmas. It’s less the customs and accoutrements of the holiday that bring us joy, and more the souls we pass it with. Surrounded by those dear to us, we thank God for the occasion that affords the reunion. It’s always good to get together, and the older we get the more excuses we find to do so. We seek out trifles, or nothings, and elevate them to necessities that we might once again be in the company of those that yield the most pleasure.

And yet Christmas by itself is a fount of joy that far excels and eclipses all the personal sentimentality that surrounds both the day and the season. While we revel in all of its trappings, the advent of the Almighty needs no external adornment to add to its magnificence. In fact, adding to often detracts from. I understand that the condescension of the Lord Jesus has contributed to the enriching of every facet of our human existence, and we celebrate that fact as best we can. But every benefit, every blessing reaped from believing, is intended to reflect clearly and distinctly His image alone. We are prone, as a people, to lose ourselves in our provisions and forget to kiss the Son that provides them. Recall to mind that the intent and expense of the gift serves to illustrate the affections and wealth of the giver. And has anyone ever given so unspeakable a gift to such an undeserving recipient as He to us? There is no way to quantify the expanse between those two extremities. And a life lived in absolute dedication and perpetual gratitude to God for the gift of His Son is only a start.

What wonderful, humbling thoughts! I feel almost ashamed to move on to anything else. Let me retain that spirit of thankfulness, recognizing the gracious handiwork of the good Lord in all His blessings. And He has blessed us exceeding abundantly.

Not least of His blessings, though smaller than the rest at present, is Derrick Wade LeFevre. How can I, in a single paragraph, do justice to the joys Jesus has granted us through “Little Fellow?” He turned five recently, and, by his own testimony, has grown up. He laughs, in good humored contempt, at the frivolities and eccentricities he manifested while four. His tastes have become more refined, more mature with age. He informed me yesterday that while four he was fascinated with trains, preferring to watch Thomas the Tank Engine. (The original, British version, not that abomination America produced, or the awful modern wreck, where the Island of Sodor is home to a multicultural depot, with engines of every nation shunting unnatural freight. Does that sound racist? It’s not. I just have the God-given sense to recognize that children’s programs have no need for politicization and can reflect wholesome virtue illustrated best during a specific period in time, and ought not be mediums of progressive propaganda. Which is why, if the kiddos are so inclined to watch cartoons, we only watch cartoons pre-1950, excepting some Bugs Bunny iterations, and Charlie Brown, and obviously the Grinch, with Boris Karloff. I do make an allowance for the 2009 animated version of “A Christmas Carol,” as it follows closely the book.) Now that he’s five, he’s moved on to tornadoes. His exact words: “When I was four, I was a train boy; now I’m five, I’m a tornado boy.” He is definitely a tornado boy, and a dust-storm boy, and a tsunami boy, an earthquake boy, and any and all manner of natural disaster-related phenomenon boy. His obsession with weather permeates every part of his life. While picking him up from school recently, we overheard a teacher discussing a fellow student’s undisciplined behavior with his father. We asked Derrick the little boy’s name who was being kicked out of kindergarten. He replied, matter-of-factly, “Hurricane Johnson.” We asked Derrick, “What do the children call you?” He said, “The Tornado Kid.” They both might have been born a hundred and forty years too late for what seems their obvious calling as desperados. (Do criminals still get nicknames?) People think I’m making things up when I talk about Derrick, or that I’m embellishing or exaggerating, but I assure you I’m not. All of his siblings are older. All of the conversations he hears are more mature. His vocabulary reflects that, even if his understanding doesn’t. While on the town the other night with his mother, he got in trouble for not listening or obeying. She said, “When I get home, I’m going to tell your father.” Arriving home he came straight to me, not waiting on Hannah. He said in a tremulous voice, apropos of nothing, “Dad, we need to have a good talk about discipline and patience, with zero spanks.” The good Lord has enriched our lives with this little boy.

Dixie Joy is another one of the Lord’s illuminations in a darkening world. At ten, though growing, she’s getting close to being passed by her little brother in height and weight. We expect a growth spurt soon. I think she fears losing the platinum tint to her blonde tresses when that occurs. She is a sweet little doting thing, always quick with a hug or an outward sign of affection, almost as quick with a flash of the temper and a pooched lip as well. She is very creative, investing her spare time, and even her school time, to personal projects of art or design. She loves Legos and loathes “The Tornado Kid” wreaking havoc on her little villages with his pet F-5. Where she sees the scattered mess of an invasive sibling, he sees the chaotic beauty of nature’s destructive power. Still, for all the strife he causes, Dixie Joy tries her best to mother him. You can imagine how that goes over. She is a well of patience and understanding that suffers occasional droughts. She compliments her mother, embodying the same loving essences, for now less refined, though distilling in her little frame.

Christian Asher has undergone a remarkable change in demeanor and stature. He’s days away from turning fourteen. And the impact of his growth hit home when, in preparation for the family picture accompanying this letter, I offered to comb his hair. For the first time in our lives, I couldn’t see the top of his head. But for personal pride, I would have retrieved a stepstool to finish the job. If you notice any mess in the mop atop his head, blame his shrinking father. He has also grown more silent, and at times, sullen with age. Which, if you recollect the child Christian, and all his youthful exuberance and excitable outbursts, the contrast is quite striking. (No one tells us that, do they? No one prepares you for the day when your happy little home, racketed with the cacophony of four perfect little parcels of pure, wholesome, innocent love, wrapped in fun and ribboned with laughter, falls quiet, when hormones beget emotions that grow into moods that hang low like louring clouds threatening storms, and you have to go out into the rain for relief. Growing children isn’t for the fainthearted.) Don’t get me wrong. I’m not likening Christian to the tempestuous sea, or inclement weather; I’m likening him to myself. Of all my children, who each manifest morsels of my moods or mannerisms, Christian is the whole meal. He has more of my temperament than the others. That is a frightening thought and one that has done more to alter my parenting than any book, other than the Bible, ever could. Incidentally, Christian says, “Hi. I miss you. And, oh, oh yeah… Merry Christmas.” I love him. I love to see him get the giggles and catch a glimpse of that little boy peeking out through his big body. I love to see him on Sundays, proud of his appearance, dressed to the nines (or with him, as with me, to the nearest approximation), basking in the warm glow of the light reflecting from his brother’s braces. A man might call himself favored of God and blessed to have one such child; I have four.

The fourth copy of my paternal image was stamped first, fifteen years ago. Back then he was all ears and smiles. But such were his ears that growing into them put a strain on his smile. Nevertheless, they both look natural now. He was, though, a perfectly aerodynamic little baby, with a great, round, bald head and two massive wing-like protuberances, flanking his watery, blue eyes. If his nose had been longer, he couldn’t have avoided an association with Dumbo. (I’m only writing this because I know he’ll read it, or it will be read to him -- he struggles with language comprehension –- probably about the same time you’re reading this. It’s hard to say what his reaction will be. I’m gambling on it being gregarious.) He is a good young man. (With ears like his he can’t afford to be unlikable. Hahahahaha. Just kidding, Carrick. I love you.) He has his teenage eccentricities, as do all teenagers, in their desire to both fit-in and yet standout. He sometimes dresses like an old man, in complete disregard of mood or weather, choosing to wear a suit and tie to take out the trash or go to the park in heat of summer; or a short-sleeved polo in freezing temperatures for football practice, with his wide brim Stetson hat shading, but not shielding, his enormous aural appendages. (I’m stopping. I promise.) He really is the most good-natured, respectful young man I know, providing big shoes for younger brothers to fill, and even bigger earmuffs. (As you can see for yourselves in the picture, I am exaggerating, or out and out, lying.)

I’m tired. My heart is full, but my thoughts are taxed. It is no small feat to try and sum up, in a few sentences, the sentiments that rule your heart and guide your home. I have attempted to express what can only be experienced. I set out to write my yearly biographical sketch of those individuals whose lives most affect my heart, to convey a sense of their worth to me, and how, as gifts most surely given by God, albeit mainly to and for me, they are blessings in and of themselves; and I have failed. Nevertheless, I enjoy the exercise. Perhaps if more of us penned our thoughts and expressed the love we struggle to articulate, our relationships might be stronger and our homes happier.

I haven’t written my usual, glowing review of Hannah, as she said she finds it embarrassing, and I don’t wish to cause her pain. You that know her know how beautiful she is. You know how industrious she is, how intelligent. You that know her closely know that she’s a thoughtful homemaker, a doting mother, and even a teacher. But I know her best. And all that I could say, or rather try to say, wouldn’t do her justice. So, I’ll only say this: She taught me how to love by example. I think that’s enough.

I’ve so far neglected to say anything of the wonderful Thanksgiving we passed with Bro. Matt and Miss Jane, Hannah’s parents, in their home in Dabravino. It has been my custom, since beginning this tradition, to start this letter the evening of our feast. This year, however, I spent the days leading up to the holiday in Turkey, studying the language. I returned to Bulgaria just a few days before and passed that time catching up on all the things I had to leave in order to accomplish my goal. I haven’t really had time to pause and muse, and draw inspiration. Needless to say, with Miss Jane and her best daughter, Hannah, helming the holiday celebrations, we dined like kings.

Neither have I mentioned the transformation our apartment has undergone, guided by the skillful hand of my beloved, reflective of the season. (She really does make a house a home.) I returned from Turkey to a veritable Christmas wonderland, warm and snug, glowing with lights tastefully hung, and scented with candles. The whole place announces the arrival of the King of Kings. We’re not really waiting on Santa to come on the twenty-fifth; Jesus has already been here and filled more than our stockings.

Still, I hope you all receive everything you’ve asked for this Christmas, though I’m positive none of us have made the nice list. (This letter alone excludes me.) If you don’t ask, you won’t receive. I asked for a new laptop, as my old one burnt up. I’m doing all this on a tablet for the first time. There are severe limitations in editing with a tablet, besides my limited imagination and ability. I submitted my request to the attractive blonde Santa Claus that inhabits my close personal quarters. We’ll see. I go out of my way to bring her a cup of coffee every morning and gaze devotedly on her as she scrolls through her phone. I sort and fold the laundry. I make our bed. I dress our five-year-old and drive him to school. I only hope it’s enough. I think I’d be wiser to ask from Him who “giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not.” If, however, none of us get what we want, let us be eternally grateful we’re not getting what we deserve. And bear in mind that all of the gifts we give or receive are but poor imitations, at best, of the gift God gave to us all in the person of His Son. “Thanks be unto God for his unspeakable gift.” 2 Corinthians 9:15

A very merry Christmas to each and every one of you.

O come, let us adore Him.

The William LeFevre Family

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