See, I will send the prophet Elijah to you before that great and dreadful day of the LORD comes. He will turn the hearts of the parents to their children, and the hearts of the children to their parents; or else I will come and strike the land with total destruction.
Malachi 4:5-6

Christmas in the Middle East can be very different. Especially in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, in 1990. “KSA,” which has no separation of church and state, had barred public displays of Christianity, including anything to do with Christmas.

Decorations, celebrations, music played in public, or any outward signs of celebrating this non- Muslim holiday were strictly forbidden. There were even “religious police,” known as Mutawa whose job it was to investigate and enforce these strict regulations.

That was the surreal environment in which I found myself at the age of 18, as my Army unit had been deployed there prior to the First Persian Gulf War, otherwise known as Operation: Desert Storm. For me, a kid who had grown up on Christmas music, decorations, and parties the moment Thanksgiving ended, I might as well have been on a different planet. In fact, my favorite part of the Macey’s Thanksgiving Day Parade was the final float, when Santa rolled through, symbolizing the start of the Christmas season. Around our house, my parents played vinyl records (Google it, kids.) of Johnny Mathis, Bing Crosby, and Nat King Cole. On TV we looked forward to Frosty, Rudolph, and Charlie Brown.

And now we were in a place that didn’t even acknowledge Christmas, and it bothered me. But I couldn’t let on that it bothered me. Surrounded by “real men,” I couldn’t acknowledge that I was homesick or anything less than a complete and total tough guy. It would have been most un- soldier-like. Men in uniform just weren’t supposed to admit that they missed being home for Christmas.

Enter: Hal Fitzgerald, affectionately referred to as “Fitz.” Though just two years older than I was, he seemed so much more put-together. And smarter, and more confident, and…a much better soldier—though, admittedly, that didn’t take much. He did have a bit of a temper, though, and was a bit rough around the edges. However, he could quote Shakespeare while beating any of us arm-wrestling.
 
That kinda guy.

Importantly, Fitz wasn’t one for sentiment. As far as I knew, he didn’t own a Bible and wasn’t the type to get emotional. He had probably never given a hug willingly, and if I recall correctly, he once hinted at not wanting children, saying something like, “Smitty, babies cry a lot.”

We had gone to Boot Camp together and, though we were polar opposites in personality, shared experience makes for an amazing catalyst for creating deep and meaningful friendships. And over time, truly, I grew to admire Fitz more than I can accurately describe.



Though we spent a lot of time together, one memory stands out as my favorite. As Christmas drew closer and we all pretended that we didn’t care, it continued to just…not feel right. It didn’t feel like Christmas to me. Inside me there was this inescapable nagging sad feeling, deeeep down. It was the knowledge that I wouldn’t be home for Christmas. For the first time in my life I would be away from mom and dad on Christmas morning. For the first time I would go to bed on Christmas eve not under my own roof. Maybe that doesn’t sound too tragic as you read this, but for a sensitive teenage soldier, it stung.

So I began to pray.

I wasn’t very good at praying, but I tried it anyway. It was a simple and unsophisticated prayer. And it may sound trite, but I began to ask God for a Christmas present. I put no qualifications on it either. I would just pray, “Lord, this year, will you please give me a Christmas present?” I knew that everything would be different about this Christmas, but I also knew that the same God who had given me 17 wonderful Christmases was the same God alive and well in my own heart no matter where I was living. I prayed this prayer often over a month’s time.

In the book of Malachi, in the final chapter and verse of the Old Testament, the last words before Christ’s appearance in the Gospels, we receive a message of encouragement. It was a prophetic encouragement that I would paraphrase for Journey 7th graders on Sunday mornings as, “Hang on. Wait a little bit longer. Someone special is coming.”

Malachi is often referred to as a “minor” prophet, due to the shorter length of the book, yet in that parting shot, he tells us that the very hinge of history is about to swing, that the most provocative and Earth-shattering human is soon to arrive. You don’t need a lot of words to say something important, and Malachi ends his words with this absolute trumpet blast.

That Christmas Eve in 1990 I clearly remember running into Fitz. I had actually stolen a moment to myself and was reading a letter from home as he happened to be on his way to his next assignment. Fitz always seemed to walk with a purpose, but it was obvious that he was on his way to something important. Yet he stopped to greet me. We chatted just for a second and he strode off. I had gone back to my reading when I realized he had stopped and was looking somewhat uncomfortable.

“Um, Smitty?”

“Yeah?”

“Ah…Merry Christmas.”

I was shocked for just a moment and then returned his “Merry Christmas” and he left. It was just two words. It took very little effort. It occupied less than a second of my day. For just a moment, it was important enough for him to say those words. I was important enough for him to say those words.

As I look back now, I see it was the Lord answering my prayer. His gift to me was a Christmas greeting from someone I admired deeply.

Fitz isn’t here anymore and I miss him. But his words ring through my head this time of year. Know that it’s not the sheer amount of words that matters; it’s the quality and content that does.

Merry Christmas to you.

Joey Smith

"Fitz", 1990