He sits by himself at the table next to the elegantly decorated Christmas tree. A handful of beautifully wrapped presents is lying off to the side, on the brilliant white tree skirt that sets off the tree's deep green branches. Yearly, a few very close friends share their love and appreciation by such carefully chosen gifts.

The Master's attention is fixed on the center of the snow white covering where the gifts that he has lovingly selected and purchased lie. They have been purchased for his anxiously anticipated holiday guest and the closest of all friends. As he focuses on each of the wrappings, knowing what he has put in each box, he recalls the time he spent in finding just that gift, and most of all the thoughts that preceded his pleasant quests.

The well-dressed butler walks into the family room and stands by his Master's side and asks, "Would you like to go ahead and open your presents, sir?"

The Master has, after all, been waiting since seven o'clock - almost an entire hour. "No thank you," the Master replies. "I'll wait for a while longer." The opening of his gifts was not occupying his thoughts.

"How about some tea while you wait, sir?"

"Certainly." The Master sits, his eyes now gazing longingly at the front door which seems as cold and harsh as the winter night that blows its frigid air underneath the small crack at the bottom of the doorstep.

In his hands, gripped very tightly, is a well worn book. He fingers the pages, allowing the sound of the rustling paper to be like soothing music in his mind. The book has always given hope and inner warmth on any cold night such as this. As the pages rustle, the book falls open to a place marked by a special invitation. It is a specially printed invitation, embossed with golden letters and used to invite his son to join him this year at home. The invitation was not as empty as the one in this book, but was completely filled with words of love and then signed by his own hand. In fact, he had sent three of these invitations, wanting to communicate his strong desire. As he looks at that beautiful invitation he revisits all the thoughts that were so deeply felt, and the words that were so carefully written and underlined on the invitations. He could not understand how Robbie could not know how much his father wanted him to come home this year.

He is dressed in a dark suit and tie. His fine gray hair is neatly combed, but one white stray lock insists on dropping over his forehead. The scent of cologne adds to his distinguished disposition. He is dressed up enough to make any guest feel important, respected, and deeply loved. It seems he has made every effort to move Robbie to desire just to be with him and enjoy the many simple gifts that he knows speak so loudly of his heartfelt love. Still, he sits alone changing his gaze from the front door to the gifts lying under the tree.

The butler returns to fill the Master's cup. "Is there anything else I can bring for you, sir?" "No, thank you." The butler hesitates, standing beside the table. Something tugs at his curiosity. "I don't mean to pry sir, . . . but..." his voice trails off to a barely audible volume, knowing that this line of questioning could strain his longtime friendship with the Master which he has come to love and appreciate. Nevertheless, his sympathy and confusion will not let him keep silent.

"Go ahead," the Master assures. His voice is strong, yet sensitive, inviting the conversation.

"Why do you bother waiting for him?" the butler finally blurts out.

The Master has been here at the table other evenings, always patiently alone. Says the Master quietly, "Because he needs me."

Resisting the impulse to not go any further, the butler asks, "Are you sure?"

With no hesitancy, the Master decisively states, "Oh, Yes. Far more than he comprehends."

"Well, sir, no offense, but assuming that he needs you, he surely isn't acting much like it. This is the sixth Christmas season he has . . . ", As the butler searches for words that won't sting, he can only say, "stood you up."

The Master winces, and looks down at the invitation lying between the pages, and quietly says, "Yes, I know."

"Then why do you still sit here and wait?"

"Robbie promised that after not coming last year, he would surely come this time."

"He has said that before," the butler kindly protests. "I wouldn't send him those invitations any more. There are so many other people who would welcome such a gracious invitation from one such as yourself! Why do you bother any longer?"

The Master looks up, smiles at the butler, and says simply, "Because I love him." The Master knows that there is no other explanation and no more needed justification.

The butler walks away, wondering how one could love a boy who stands him up time after time. The man must be obsessed by an earnest love, he decides. Across the room, he turns to look at the man again.

The Master slowly adds sugar into his tea. Picking up the sterling silver spoon lying on a white linen napkin, he holds it up as a mirror, seeing his son's resemblance and then stirs the tea. After watching the vapor leave the hot tea, he brings the cup to his mouth and sips, silently watching the door across the room.

He doesn't look crazy, the butler admits. Maybe the boy has qualities that I don't know about. Or maybe the Master's love is stronger than most. The butler shakes himself out of his musing to finish his work in the kitchen.

The Master observes the butler, and wonders if he has ever been "stood up" by someone he genuinely loves. The Master has, many times. But he admits to himself that he still can't get used to it. Each time it hurts, and hurts a little more. He had looked forward to this holiday evening for weeks. He has many things, exciting things, to share with Robbie. He has envisioned Robbie's response when he opens the wonderful presents that he knows will be so meaningful to him. He has tried so many times to show Robbie how much he loves him. He'd just once like to hear how much his son cares for him, too. He sporadically sips at the tea, and loses himself in his thoughts.

He is fighting off the advancing realization which is becoming more and more obvious as the tea continues to cool. He knows that it is almost foolish to believe any longer that Robbie will arrive this late. He is still hoping that the door will suddenly open. Robbie, with the bright eyes that characterized his childhood, will explain why he almost didn't make it, and all this growing disappointment will turn into great joy!

The passage of time has been lost in unfulfilled dreams as the grandfather clock in the hallway chimes ten times and the butler returns to the Master's table.

"Is there anything I can get for you?" As the Master turns towards the Butler's voice and again catches the light that is coming through the decorative glass and lace curtains of the front door, the still closed door again stabs at the Master's heart.

"No, I think that will be enough for tonight. Just leave the tea pot on the table until morning."

"Yes, sir," says the Butler, knowing that even trying to speak words which seek to comfort would only further draw out the pain.

As the butler leaves, the Master never even thinks of the gifts given to him. They will be there tomorrow. He picks up Robbie's presents from under the tree. He has provided wonderful gifts, a banquet of kindness fit only for a deeply loved son or daughter, and a specially boxed and beautifully wrapped gift purchased singularly for Robbie. If he had only come... if he would only come back home to the house of a father's love...

As he finishes another sip of tea, he thinks to himself, "Why do you do this, Robbie?" His heart cries as he grips the small table and leans over it as his eyes well-up with disappointment.

"Good night," the butler says, as the Master walks toward the window.

"Good night and thank you for your service."

"You're welcome, sir" says the butler softly, for he sees the hurt in the Master's eyes - a hurt that his smile cannot hide.

As the Master pulls aside the door's curtain and looks out through the crystal window he sees a father and son laughing as they walk together down the sidewalk toward home. His eyes glisten as he thinks of the good times he and Robbie could have had. As he turns away from the window he glances once more at the silent door. Maybe Robbie will be able to make it another day, maybe tomorrow, he thinks. "Someday. . . and I'll be waiting for him."

The man takes off his suit coat and throws it over his shoulder. He loosens his tie as he begins to make his way up the long stairway to go up to his room.

As the Master heads up the stairs, Robbie sits down on his bed and notices the gospel tracts about Jesus on his night stand. Dad sent three to him again this Christmas. He leaves the tracts on the night stand thinking about the many times that he had promised he would read them. He is tired after an evening out with his friends. He will read it another day.

As he reaches toward the night stand to set the alarm he reads the title at the top of one of the gospel tracts, written in large gold letters, "An Invitation From Jesus!" For just a brief moment, a strong sense of conviction comes into his heart, but he quickly pushes it aside. Some things are more important in my life right now. I need to spend time with my friends. Jesus will still be here tomorrow and right now I need my sleep. I'm sure Dad won't mind if I wait just a little while longer.

-- by Dr. Ted Martens & Mr. Lance Walker / FBC --