Unto Us A Child Is Born, A Son Is Given

Gideon’s beginning was humble, the son of a redheaded girl from Florida, and a towheaded boy from the Low Country, barely surviving the worst economy in decades. He would be the fourth son in under five years for the young couple. No wonder they were stretched, struggling to make ends meet. But love, devotion, and a good Southern family will always get you through the hard times. And times were hard in Dixie. 

Although the birth of a new son should be joyous, it wasn’t for Gideon’s father. Sometimes, the responsibilities that burden a man weigh too heavily on his shoulders. He loses his way for a moment, and the days leading up to Gideon’s birth were such times for his very young father. 

It was only a few weeks prior, days before Thanksgiving to be exact, that Gideon’s father, Walker, lost any hope of passing down multi-generational traditions to his sons. They were all gone in an instant: no fishing or shrimping trips, baseball or football games; all of his expectations were gone simply by answering a phone call. A call from his kind pastor, tearfully announcing that Walker’s father had been in a terrible accident, shortly ending his life. 

Walker was numb, for a moment. It didn’t register. How could his Marine-hardened father be clinging to life? How could a man that excelled in everything die from something as simple as a fall? Surely, they were overstating the seriousness of his injuries. Fortunately, the paramedic that attended to his father was a dear lifelong friend. “He would calm this hysteria,” thought Walker. It was not to be, the diagnosis was absolutely heart crushing. No young man anticipates burying his father, especially when that father is in the prime of life. But that was exactly the burden with which Walker was tasked. 

With his siblings, Walker made plans for the burial, deep in the Low Country. No other place on earth but the sands of South Carolina would be suitable to rest his father. As the Bible describes many times, “he went to rest in the land of his fathers.” His funeral was befitting a Marine, and all his sons were stoic in his honor, but you can’t hold back emotion forever. 

Walker and his brothers, four in total, spent a few hours reminiscing, a few drinks in honor of the old man, then went their separate ways. But the grief, and the burdens of life, kept building for Walker. Not only was there the financial strain of a new coming baby, trying to comfort his grieving mother, the pressures of his job, but there was the added strain of providing a nice Christmas for his little family. It began to overwhelm him.

On Christmas Eve it all came crashing down. He knew the family was gathering, as was their tradition. He knew his wife was about to give birth. Every honorable thought within him said to forget about himself and go home, man up, suck it up, but he had reached his end. All of the emotions he had restrained for decades came rushing out at once. He was cursing, lashing out against the dash of his truck – crying, and crying out to God. 

With no relief in sight, he escaped to the Lighthouse, the one place he had always gone when he just needed to think. It had been his childhood bastion, a place of wonder, and as he grew older, his place of refuge. Tonight, it would be his place of rebirth.

From the top, he gazed across the beach as the sunset. The winter solstice had just passed, and darkness came early. Down the beach was a campfire, and he was drawn to it like a moth. Nearing, he heard two men talking, and could see three fishing rods set up in the surf, something he always loved to do with his father.

One man called out to Walker by name, a familiar voice. He never got a good look at his face, but the man said, “I love you son” and “listen to what he has to say,” pointing to the other dark figure seated along the fire. Then, without another word, the man walked away, down the beach and out of sight, vanishing in the light fog forming on the water. The mystery of the encounter grabbed Walker’s attention; his previous cares evaporated. He knew this moment was important, and for some providential reason, otherworldly.

Suddenly, all three of the poles began to twitch, and Walker and the other man sprang into action trying to land the fish. Walker brought in a bluefish on the first line, what a fighter he thought! The other man brought in a croaker, which left them both free to grab the third. Walker left that honor to the man who had cast the line. The mysterious man grabbed the pole, set the hook, and began to reel in what was on the line. It was obviously a much bigger fish, and it took some time to pull it from the bottom. He was much older than Walker, and as old men do, started telling stories as he pulled in the fish. Fishing clears a man’s mind, so he can hear God speaking if he’ll listen. 

The man’s voice was low and strong, but gentle. He talked in that Low Country accent that soothed Walker’s soul. He pulled in a big flounder out of the water, filleted, and cooked it over the fire. That’s when the purpose of this meeting was revealed. As so many conversations go, Walker began to realize that this meeting was not about him at all. It was much bigger, much more important than his momentary breakdown. Everything was about his sons, his family, and to his surprise, Gideon. The old man, keeping the fire going, prophesied about a son that had not been born, and how important he was to the future of the South. 

The man’s eyes pierced the night, he spoke with resolve and authority, and Walker knew in his soul these words were true. He only said two more words, words that jogged Walker’s mind out of the mysterious and back into reality. “Merry Christmas,” then the man faded away. Instantaneously, Walker remembered his wife, family gathered, and of course, that his son was about to be born! 

He rushed home, with gladness in his heart. All of the anxiety, stress, and anger were gone. He was reborn with a true purpose. As he ran towards the door, he expected his family to chide him for his tardiness, but there was nothing but smiles on their faces, and all were pointing down the hallway to his bedroom. He called to his wife, “Mary! Mary!” There she was, and with great tears in her eyes, and joy in her voice, she said “Gideon.” 

Merry Christmas, brothers and sisters! 

Note: You can read more of the story of Gideon in “Keeper of the Fire” and other articles here at Identity Dixie, and in the book The Honorable Cause: A Free South.

Deo Vindice!

God Save the South!