How do you make a Christmas memory? Lot’s of money spent trying. But how do you do it?

And an even tougher question. How do you make the memory mean something today? Right now. When we need it more than ever.

First, you think back:

In the misty, crystal tunnels of time that lead us all back past geography, buried wounds, and all that might have been; recalling a Christmas memory that still makes your heart sing is no small task.

And in these hard times, trying to make a memory that lasts is even tougher.

So you turn to the music and remember Robbie Robertson’s lyric:

How a little baby boy

Bring a people so much joy

The lyric prompts this memory.

I am under a winter sky of uncountable stars. A long train ride away from the bustle and noise of London. The chilly air like a celebration. Church door thrown open in extravagant welcome to literally everyone as the man talking at the front, an Anglican Vicar, is saying. “So imagine what it was like for her. This poor, young, pregnant, Jewish woman Mary . . .. “

Leaving me with a question for which I clearly have no answer. But the question is tantalizing. So could that be what creates a Christmas memory? A question without an answer?

Or maybe it’s the people sitting around me in the pews on this snowy Christmas Eve in Surrey. I look around at the diversity of the assembled and am reminded of the American Indian woman’s voice that trilled with vibrations of such immense strength as she sang:

“He’s a Catholic, a Protestant, a Hindu and a Jain.

A Buddhist and a Baptist and a Jew.”

And I can see her. Buffy Ste. Marie. Singing to Iraqi and Afghanistan war veterans right here. Right now.

She still sings while I think of the phrase: “Prince of Peace.

”  I wonder if anyone had ever called this a Christmas song before? And I guess that if that happened, Buffy Ste. Marie probably wouldn’t mind. As long as people keep singing it. So I watch her sing. It’s like a meal of spiritual food. Like a song of a Prince of Peace.

 The Christmas memory is getting closer.

But, what if this elusive memory, the one I can’t seem to create no matter how hard I push against an unfathomable wind of challenging times, what it weren’t just something confined to December?

And with that thought comes this.

It’s a drizzling gray rainy afternoon about 10 years or so ago. Although it seems like it happened last week. I am one of about 5,000, sitting watching something unfold.  Really not that many people in the crowd at all. Although if you asked today, you could easily find a million people who said they saw this too. What I’m watching is something that is perfect. Something that no one had ever done before.

If you were to take a picture of it, if you were to limit it to facts, to what you were seeing, it would be a baseball player striking out a lot of people.

But if you were to look harder. Then find that underlying rushing river of truth flowing beneath times in a life that were drenched in a deeper meaning, what you’d really be watching would go far beyond baseball. It would be somebody doing something better than anyone. It would be something you’ve never seen before. Measured more by the amazed, head shaking grins of the mighty Houston Astros power hitters as they’d pause after watching the strikes fly by at the speed of sound, look out at the very young Kerry Wood on the pitcher’s mound. And know that they were seeing something special. Something different. Kerry Wood announcing to the world, “I’m here. I’m home.”

Could that be the Christmas memory I’ve been searching for?  A person coming home? Could it be that simple? And even more important---that applicable to everyone?  Could this be it?

And if it is---how in God’s name do I connect it to today? Perhaps like this.

My wife, Maria, is getting ready to teach her next ballet class. She is in her studio. In the lobby of the studio, there is a castle painted on the wall. And a real little door in that castle where the tiny pink tutu ballerinas make their entrances. Sometimes a parent will bend over and lead the way for a hesitant child. Usually it’s a Mom. But not that day about nine years after I saw Kerry Wood first pitch.

That day Maria looked at the door, and saw it filled as it had never been filled before.  With the smiling face and massive shoulders of Kerry Wood.

Right after tiny Katie Wood had walked through. Maria remembers thinking “Wood. Wait a minute. Little Katie’s last name is Wood. Katie is Kerry Wood’s daughter!” As Kerry Wood crawled through the ballerina entrance into the studio and sat quietly with his wife Sarah and all the other parents to the side.

And when it was time for everyone to stretch, All 6’7 of Kerry Wood stretched with everyone else. Practically filling the room with his sheer physical size and his presence. And when it was time to tip toe down the line, he did that too. At that time he was living in Chicago, but playing for another team. Maria asked if he would be able to come home and play for Chicago. And he sadly answered, “It looked like that won’t be possible right now.”

“To which Maria replied, “Chicago misses you.” And he looked startled. Sad. The message struck a chord and he said, “Thank you.”

And then the story moves to right now.

Baseball players, professional athletes, occupy a world right along side the one most of us live in. They are blessed with talents the rest of us don’t have. They make more money. Their careers as players as shorter. All of those facts.

But there is a larger truth under all those facts. There is the uncountable joy of all they give back.

And an even larger truth that they-- just like everyone else—they need to come home.

So this year, when Kerry Wood walked into the funeral of Ron Santo just liked he walked on to the mound on that grey May day all those years ago. Just like he crawled through the ballerina door into Maria’s studio years later, he looked around him at the hundreds of familiar faces and he figured out he was home.

No small task figuring out that you are home.

Last year, Kerry Wood made $10 million dollars. This year he turned down multiple offers. And settled for $1.5 million just so he could come home. And if you can get beyond the fact that the amounts of money are staggering to most of us----think about this truth:

When was the last time you heard a story about someone turning down bushels of money, just so they could come home?

Kerry Wood came home. It's the Christmas memory.

The one I'd  been looking for.

While the old Coach Santo, leaves Chicago with one last gift, nods his head and says “Nice work Big Boy.”

While that happens: Maria and I turn up the story you’ll find below. And listen again, It’s by a group called “Celestial Navigation.” It’s about a Christmas memory that ended up meaning something today. About using a memory to do good.

We listen to it every year. It’s a lot like coming home.

A lot like what happened the year Kerry Wood turned down all the money so he could come home too. Now a memory.

A Christmas memory holding every single solitary one of us tight.

Simply coming home.