I admired the gay packages arranged meticulously underneath. Thanks to my early planning and a little extra money this year, Christmas was going to be wonderful. I couldn’t wait to see my children’s faces when they tore into their presents the next morning, discovering all of the new clothes and great toys I had bought for them.
I began a mental accounting of the treasures tucked inside each package: the Dallas Cowboys jacket for Brandon, the Fisher Price castle for Jared, the Victorian dollhouse for Brittany . . .
Basking in the glow of twinkling lights and my own thoughts, I barely noticed Jared sneak into the room. My normal reaction would be to jump up and rush him back to bed. Languidly curious this time, I chose to sit still and watch, hoping he wouldn’t notice my presence.
I needn’t have worried.
Jared was a five-year-old with a mission. The glimmering tree illuminated his small figure as he made his way straight to the nativity beneath it. Sinking to his knees, he held out a paper and whispered, “See, Jesus, I drew this picture for you.”
Not wanting to miss a word, I held my breath and leaned forward.
“On the left side, that’s me.” Jared’s finger traced a path across the page. “On the right side, that’s you.” He pointed. “In the middle is my heart.” He smiled sweetly. “I’m giving it to you.”
With tenderness, Jared placed the picture beneath the tree.
“Merry Christmas, Jesus,” he said and scurried back to bed.
My throat tightened, and my eyes filled. All the sparkling decorations and all the shiny wrappings in the room suddenly dulled in comparison to Jared’s innocent crayon drawing. It took my small child’s gift of love to remind me that only Jesus can make Christmas wonderful this year. And he always does.
Vickie Ryan Koehler
Let’s Get Real
For years and years, our family celebrated Christmas with an artificial tree. The tradition caught on during the seventies when we were living in Australia and it was hotter’n all get-out during the month of December. While the Aussies smothered themselves with zinc cream as they sunbaked on the beach, our family held tenaciously to its American customs, insisting on a traditional sit-down Christmas dinner and, of course, a real-looking tree.
Unfortunately, the heat was too extreme to trust an evergreen, and those who did were soon sorry. Fearing a not-so-festive display of bare branches or, worse yet, a house fire, we opted for the artificial. White plastic, to be exact.
“It looks gross,” my kids whined.
And try as we might to cover it with handmade or imported ornaments, it somehow never made the grade. Meanwhile, year after year, we piled our gifts underneath the fake tree—never even noticing that, with age, it had slowly turned yellow.
Our first yuletide back in America was electric. Dallas, Texas, was never billed as Christmas-in-Vermont, but the possibilities were everywhere. Nurseries from Plano to Waco showcased a winter wonderland of snow-flocked, bushy Scotch pines. Roadside stands, advertised solely by a single strand of swinging lightbulbs, beckoned at dusk for highway travelers to stop and shop in a forest of firs. And supermarkets all around the city did their bit by offering a variety of spruce and cedars to their customers.
Once again, we considered the possibility of buying a real tree. Having discarded our white plastic tradition on a friend’s doorstep when we left Australia, our kids had high hopes that America could make all their dreams come true. But eventually, dreams gave way to budget, and we hauled home yet another inexpensive imitation.
“At least this one is green,” I told them, “and besides, we won’t have the repeated cost of buying a freshly cut tree every Christmas.”
So, for the next fifteen years, we piled our gifts beneath the branches of a manufactured pine—never even noticing that, with age, it had slowly lost its beauty.
This year, however, something magical took place. It happened one night as I approached the electronic doors of our neighborhood grocery store. Out of the corner of my eye, I spied a breathtakingly beautiful, real-live Christmas tree, leaning near the entrance. It was there with all the others, yet standing apart. I made a detour to take a second look.
The grand fir that caught my attention stood ten feet high. It was indeed a lofty tree, and I ran my fingers over the needles, surprised by their softness.
Hmmm, maybe this is why children love real trees at Christmas, I thought, smelling the woodsy fragrance in the air.
A store clerk was working at the far end, slowly watering the trees and making his way in my direction. But I was in no hurry, so I waited. When he saw me admiring the fir, he called out, “Hey, great tree for hanging ornaments!”
I acknowledged him by waving and stepping back to make my final decision. At that very moment, a prerecorded Christmas carol cascaded through the sound system, out into the night. Customers rushed past—some going in, some going out—more or less oblivious to the majestic music filling the air. And the words spilled across the busy parking lot, “No-el, No-el, No-el, No-el. Born is the king of Is-rael,” to the accompaniment of a Salvation Army bell ringer just outside the door.
As I stood in the shadow of that noble fir, I knew this was the year I needed to buy a real tree. For no other reason than this is a real story being told, a real message being sung, and a real occasion to celebrate.
So this year, for the very first time ever, our family will pile all our Christmas gifts underneath a towering noble fir—never even noticing that, with age, we’re slowly becoming believers all over again.
Charlotte A. Lanham
Ho, Ho, Hope
My decision in the 1960s to run away from a newly divorced life in California and move to the safety of Canada was a big one—one I had to think over for nearly five minutes.
Hooking a battered trailer to my ancient Chevy, I gathered my five young children and headed for parts unknown. Along with my little brood, I took a month’s worth of rent money, a pocketful of dreams, some hope for our future and a heart filled with faith.
Vulnerable and haggard after the long drive, I slowed my rickety rig when I saw the sign ahead. With five tousled heads bobbing in the windows, the startled border guard’s mouth flew open.
My seven-year-old tossed him her cheekiest smile. One six-year-old twin looked tremulous and wide-eyed at the large man brandishing a gun on his hip; the other glared in defiance. My two- and three-year-old toddlers babbled to capture his attention and interest him in their toy cars and stuffed animals.
Obviously, we’d caught the bewildered guard . . . off guard.
Warning that I’d better have a job (I did) and threatening immediate deportation if I attempted to go on welfare, he waved us through.
Shortly after we settled in a small apartment, my old car sputtered to a quick death. I found a sitter for the children and began hitchhiking to work, but because I was sometimes late, I lost the job. My last check went for another month’s rent, and there was nothing left for food. As Christmas approached, desperation dogged every waking minute and even disturbed my sleep.
So did the kids’ concerns.
“Is Santa real, Momma?”
“Will he find us, Momma?”
“Do you believe in him, Momma?”
With painstaking care, I explained that Santa didn’t know where we’d moved and would miss us this year, but we had each other, and we would make do and . . . sing Christmas songs and . . . try making gifts and . . . and . . . well, everything would work out.
So, even without a tree, we glued colored paper garlands and strung popcorn to make the apartment festive and ourselves cheerful.
But the day before Christmas, my desperation reached a new low: We had nothing in the cupboard for supper. Reluctantly, I approached our neighbor and asked to borrow a can or two of soup to feed my children. After a curt “No,” the door slammed in my face.
Humiliation and shame were my new companions. And, for the first time in my life, I felt utter fear, despair and hopelessness.
>
Christmas Eve, I drew my little ones near—the boys on my lap, the girls nestled at my sides. In our meagerly decorated room, we told stories, played games and sang seasonal songs. I smiled at my wee darlings, but inside I was crying. And praying, again and again.
Please, God, oh please, God, send us help.
A sudden, loud THUMP at the door startled us all.
“Ho, ho, ho!” A hearty voice accompanied a loud knock.
And there in our doorway stood the jolly old man himself!
With a full sack slung over his back and three merry elves crowding his sides, Santa Claus brought the excitement of Christmas into our small home. He came bearing all kinds of wonderful gifts, something special for each child. Plus, an assortment of toys, games and books— even a gift for me—appeared from the depths of his deep pack! Christmas dinner (courtesy of the Vancouver Fire Department) was included, as well: turkey and the trimmings, enough to last several days.
Laughing and crying, I gazed around the joy-filled room at the satisfied faces of Santa and his helpers and the gleeful abandonment of my little family.
“Momma, Momma, he’s real!” they chorused. “Santa found us!”
Yes, indeed he found us . . . in answer to my prayer. And that made a believer out of me.
Angela Hall
Away from the Manger
“Okay, that’s the last of it.” Michael stacked the final box in my entry hall.
I surveyed the tattered, dusty containers with anticipation. To me, these Christmas decorations from Michael’s childhood, in storage since his mother’s death, signified our future together as a couple. We were sharing all sorts of holiday activities—parties, shopping and, now, decorating. In a few months we’d be married, and I was eager to create some traditions of our own. I yearned for meaningful practices, significant and unique to the two of us.
Opening the crates was a start.
“Hey, here’s our old nativity set.” Michael pulled out a well-packed box. “Mom always put it under the Christmas tree.”
I carefully unwrapped Mary and Joseph and the manger. Stuffed deep in the newspapers was a stable. I placed it on the floor beneath the tree and arranged three wise men, a shepherd boy, a lamb and a cow. All accounted for, except . . .
I double-checked the loose packing and looked under the wadded newspapers, hoping to find the missing figure. Nothing.
“Honey,” I called to Michael, who was busily arranging Santa’s toyshop in the dining room. “I can’t find Jesus.”
Walking to my side, he playfully squeezed my shoulder. “Excuse me?”
“The baby Jesus for the nativity. He’s not here!” I rummaged through more wrappings.
Michael’s expression tensed. “He’s here. He has to be. He was here the last Christmas Mom was alive.”
Hours later, all the boxes were unpacked, but Jesus never appeared. Michael regretfully suggested we pack the nativity scene back in the crate.
“No,” I said. “I’ll find a baby that matches the set tomorrow.”
We kissed good night, and Michael went home.
The next day, I stuffed the manger into my purse and headed to the hobby store during my lunch hour. No Jesus there. After work, I searched for him at several other stores only to discover that baby Jesus wasn’t sold separately. I considered buying another nativity just to replace the Jesus in Michael’s, but none of the infants fit the manger.
Michael arrived for dinner a few days later, and I broke the news to him. After we ate, I began to repack the figurines in their box. Michael stilled my hands with his.
“I think we should leave it up.”
“Honey, we can’t. There’s no baby,” I replied. “We can’t have a nativity without Jesus.”
“Wait a minute.” Michael pulled me away from the tree. “Now look from back here.”
He pointed. “At first glance, you don’t notice anything missing. It’s not until you look closely that you see the Christ Child is gone.”
I cocked my head and looked at the scene. He was right. “But I don’t get your point.”
“Amid the decorations, shopping lists and parties, sometimes we lose sight of Jesus,” he explained. “Somehow, he gets lost in the midst of Christmas.”
And then I understood.
So began our first Christmas tradition—significant and unique to our family. Each year, we position the treasured figures in their customary places. The manger remains empty. It’s our gentle reminder to look for Christ at Christmas.
Stephanie Welcher Thompson
The Family Tree
“Mr. Zimmerman’s sons are returning home to take over the farm.”
The adult conversation around the kitchen table worried me. At seven years old, I was big enough to understand what that meant: My father and brother would no longer be working for the German farmer, and that spelled disaster.
The Great Depression had hit our rural Idaho community, and money was scarce that Christmas. Most of Father’s income from Mr. Zimmerman was in trade for food and a place to live. This place. The only home I’d ever known. The home I loved.
The two-story farmhouse had one large sleeping room upstairs. It opened to a balcony overlooking the backyard and my favorite oak tree. During the spring and summer, soft, warm breezes blew through the room, and Jimmy, Eddie, Iris and I played for hours on end.
Now it was too cold. We had closed off the upstairs for everything but sleeping. Most of our winter living was done downstairs next to the warm fireplace, or in the kitchen where Mother was always baking yeasty breads and fragrant pies.
I was sitting on the floor playing with Harley, who was learning to crawl, when mother came in from the pump and set the bucket on the large woodstove. Water sloshed onto the hot stovetop, sizzling and filling the air with steam.
“Mother, will we really have to leave here?” My question was blunt. It was the worry foremost in my mind.
She looked down at me, sympathy and understanding etching her kind face. “Yes, Carol, we will.”
I frowned. “But what about Christmas?”
“It will be the last holiday we’ll celebrate in this house.” Mother verbalized my darkest fear.
“And a tree? Will we have a tree?”
“Child, we have no means to get a tree this year.”
But I couldn’t—I wouldn’t—accept her calm answer. Somehow we must have a tree for our last family Christmas in this wonderful old farmhouse.
That night I prayed for a very, very long time.
The next morning I hurried downstairs fully expecting to see the answer to my prayers, but there was no tree. I put on my warm sweater and mittens and headed to the outhouse. As the cold air hit my face, I became even more determined.
When Father left to walk the four miles into town, I decided to wait outside until he returned—even if it took all day. I settled beneath my favorite oak on the cold, hard ground, certain he’d bring home a tree.
It seemed like I’d been sitting for hours when I felt the ground start to rumble and heard a dull, distant roar that grew louder and louder. I jumped to my feet and ran to the fence. A large truck—full of Christmas trees—was headed for delivery in the city. My heart pounded as it drew up beside our house.
And then, like a hand tossing them from heaven, two large branches flew right off the truck and bounced into our front yard. My prayers had been answered. My tree had arrived!
I raced inside and, my words tripping over each other, babbled to Mother about how badly I wanted a tree for our last Christmas here and how hard I had prayed for it and how I was hoping Father would bring one home and how I just knew we’d get one in time for Christmas and now . . . and now!
Mother took my hand and walked me outside where Iris, Jimmy and Eddie stood gawking at the miracle in our yard. She smiled and pulled us together in a hug. “And to think, children, it was Carol’s faith that brought us our tree.”
We tied the bushy limbs together, then decorated them with wa
llpaper scraps and garlands of popcorn. I admired the tree as it stood in our big farmhouse home and knew it was the most beautiful tree I’d ever seen.
That year I also received the only doll I would ever have as a child. But my greatest gift was the discovery that—with faith—miracles happen.
Carol Keim
As told to (daughter) Tamara Chilla
Submitted by (niece) Laura Linares
Going Global
Hoping for a white Christmas? Why not create a wintry scene straight from your own imagination by designing a holiday snow globe?
Supplies you’ll need:
• any small, clean jar (jelly, pimento, olive, baby food, etc.)
• miniature figurines (synthetic, plastic or ceramic) from hobby stores, cake-supply centers or model-railroad shops
• clear-drying epoxy
• distilled water
• glycerin (purchase at any pharmacy)
• glitter
How to:
• Roughen the inside of the jar lid with an emery board or sand paper.
• Adhere the figurines to the inside of the lid with epoxy and let it dry.
• Fill the jar almost full with distilled water.
• Add a pinch or two of glitter for “snow.”
• Pour in a dash of glycerin (to slow the glitter).
• Screw the lid on tightly, and seal it with epoxy.
Now, turn the jar upside down, and—let it snow!
Wonder
Wonder Full
The true path to Christmas, it is said, lies through an ancient gate.
And, according to the sages, the gate is child-wide and child-high, and the secret password is a childlike sigh. A sigh of wonder.
Come, take my hand. Bend low and slip through the arbor for a glimpse of Mother Nature at her most generous: into the lush hush of Christmas in the Rockies . . . where pinions sprawl, ponderosas slumber and bristlecones snuggle in quiet companionship. Where spruce trees—too green to be black, yet too black to be green—pace the perimeters of the forest glade like expectant fathers. Where cobalt shadows float, mysterious and beckoning, beneath supple pines while winter’s wind breathes hints of miracles to come.