Walking home from school I would pass by an old brown, run down house. This was Jack's house.

Christmas, the time of year to show your true spirit, the time of year to show the real you, this was a Christmas that none of us would soon forget. Christmas was at hand, the grandest of all holidays that started as a celebration of life for Jesus Christ, the Messiah. For most it's the happiest time of year, this Christmas would hold much deeper meaning for my hometown of Hominy.

Hominy was known as the Christmas village of the southwest. Celebrations were a nightly occurrence in the month of December. My eyes were opened this Christmas to see not only those who celebrated, but also those who were hurting, the veil had been pulled from my eyes. I realized that Christmas meant something different to everyone. Some were givers, some were takers, some were joyous and some were in pain. Such were the faces of Christmas.

The sad face of Christmas for me was Jack Winchester. Walking home from school I would pass by an old brown, run down house. This was Jack's house. The only time I would ever see Jack would be at the local store, buying food and spacing out. He seemed unaware of his surroundings. It was December 21, 2006 and Christmas was almost here. I was out of school for the holiday and so began my plan to celebrate Christmas like never before. I began to pray for Jack and asked God how I could get to know this man who seemed so distant.

My plan was to get to know Jack as best I could. My father worked at city hall and had access to records. So I went to my dad and asked for any information he had on Jack Winchester.

He seemed startled when I asked. "Why do you want to know about Jack, son?"

I explained to him that I didn't know why, but I knew that I needed to know. Dad told me that little by little he would give me information, but asked me to be careful with that information. He seemed a bit fearful, yet also supportive of my desire to know more about Jack.

The first information he shared was that Jack once had a wife named Joanne. Together they had started the initial Christmas village idea for Hominy. Jack and Joanne organized the men and women in town to decorate their houses and local businesses with ornaments and lights. Jack organized the men to have nightly scripture readings and Christmas caroling on main street. They were well respected and had many supporters in the town and so began 'The Holy Nights of Hominy' annual celebration.

That afternoon I knocked on the door of Mr. Winchester and after a long pause he answered. "Who are you?" He asked with a deep scratchy voice.

I told him my name and asked if I could spend some time talking with him. He quickly declined my request and was about to shut the door when I said "Mr. Winchester, I was sent by messenger." What the heck was I thinking? That wasn't what I wanted to say, but out came the words anyway.

Mr. Winchester re-opened the door and said, "I'll give you one question son, then you must go."

I thought for a moment and asked him this, "Why did you and Joanne start our annual Christmas celebration so many years ago?"

A small smile came to his face as he replied, "She had a love for Christmas like none other. She had a heart that could have lit up Hominy all it's own. To Joanne, everyday was Christmas."

He stopped for a moment, then in his scratchy voice he told me I must go now and closed the door. I left his house that day looking forward to my return tomorrow.

The next morning I got up early and went to work with my father (which saved me an hours walk). When we got to my father’s office, he sat me down and said he would tell me more about Mr. Winchester. He told me that 59 years ago Jack had a son named Ford. He showed me a picture from 'The Holy days of Hominy' in 1947. The picture had Jack, Joanne and Baby Ford dressed as Joseph, Mary and Baby Jesus. The story that accompanied the photo told of how Jack had just returned from WWII. He had fought in Normandy during the war and had been home barely long enough to father his son. I left my dad's office with a little more information about Mr. Winchester and quickly walked to his house.

Mr. Winchester must have sensed that I was coming that day because soon after knocking on his door he opened it.

He asked, "Why are you back?"

I answered, “because I want to know more about you."

He once again told me I could have one question then I must go.

I asked him, “Where is Ford these days."

A sad look came over his face as he replied, "I suppose he's where I left him 58 years ago son. He's six feet down and rotting in a pine box."

He told me how Ford had died of cancer at the age of one. With a tear in his eye he quietly shut the door and retreated inside. I went home sad that day, but ever more looking forward to my return the next day.

The following day was December 22 and my father once again sat me down and showed me a photo of a newspaper article from November, 1948. It said that Joanne Winchester had died in a car crash and that Jack was seriously injured. The crash wasn't their fault my dad told me. He showed me yet another article from the following month that blamed Mr. Winchester for the destruction of the town Christmas tree. No charges were filed, but Mr. Winchester had rarely been seen outside of his house since that time. He had become a recluse. I left my father’s office with a desire to know Mr. Winchester even more.

As I approached the house that morning Mr. Winchester met me out on the front porch. I said good morning and then asked if we could talk a bit more. He once again told me I could have one question. I asked him what Christmas meant to him today.

He said "nothing, absolutely nothing." He continued by saying "if there were truly a God he wouldn't have let my wife and son die in the manner they died". He said that he wanted no part of that kind of faith and then asked me to leave.

I returned on December 23 to Mr. Winchester’s home. I told him I had but one question for him. That was to plead with him to join me at the Christmas Eve celebration in the town square on the following night. After a few grunts and moans, he reluctantly agreed but was quick to note that He was going for me and not himself.

Christmas Eve had arrived and with it a new freshness like never before. I arrived at Mr. Winchester’s home and he met me on the front walkway dressed in a suit that stunk of moth balls and was well over 50 years old.

We walked slowly together to the town square and Mr. Winchester said, "Son, who was the messenger that sent you to my house a few nights before.”

I told him that he would meet that man tonight. We arrived at the celebration. It was beautiful. Songs filled the air, lights lit up the buildings and anticipation for the next day was on many hearts. Mr. Winchester just kept looking for the person we were to meet. The town reader (every year our town would elect a new one) then began to read from the Bible. He went straight to the book of John, chapter 3, verse 16. He read, "For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone that believes in him will not perish, but have eternal life.”

I looked at Mr. Winchester as the tears were flowing down his face. I asked him whether his wife believed. He nodded his head yes and then looked at me and said, "Son, tell the one who sent you thanks."

You already did it yourself Mr. Winchester, I replied. The faces of Christmas this year would end with a tear and a smile.