Small Miracles

by Shelia Race

It was Christmas of 1991. We had three daughters, ages nine, six, and nine months. We had just buried their beloved grandmother who had lost a long, hard fight with cancer.

We were exhausted, physically, mentally and emotionally. And it was Christmas Eve. And there was a Christmas Eve service that we had to attend.

While we were getting the girls dressed, my sleep-deprived brain was struggling to remember something. Something was missing. Something was forgotten. And I couldn’t put my finger on what it was.

The tree was up. A midnight trip to Meijers to refill empty cupboards had given me Christmas gifts gleaned from an unexpected clearance sale. Those were wrapped and under the tree. Stockings were hung. My foggy brain could not grasp what it was that was forgotten.

Then I remembered.

“Paul! There are no dolls for the girls! I forgot to get them a doll. Or something stuffed. Something to sleep with . . . .” I burst into tears. Me, the stoic who had read her mother’s eulogy at the funeral, dry eyed and calm.

He tried to reassure me. “It’s OK, Shelia. The girls have gifts, plenty to unwrap. They won’t notice there isn’t a doll or stuffed animal. It doesn’t matter. You’ve done well for the girls. They won’t notice.”

But it did matter. Maybe not to them but to me.

We were poor growing up. But Mama always managed Christmas. And, to Mama, Christmas meant a doll for my sister and me. And, somehow, I had failed Mama because I hadn’t managed what she had always managed. A doll. Something to sleep with. A tangible sign that Mama was with me.

But now there was no time. No time to make things right. We had to be at the Christmas Eve service and all stores would be closed by the time it was over.

So I did what any mother would do. Wiped my eyes, blew my nose, and called the girls to put their coats on. And went to Christmas Eve service.

After the service, an older lady, who was herself a grandmother, pressed three packages into my hand. “For the girls,” Jean said, with her perpetual sweet smile and kind eyes. I’m sure I thanked her, but my heavy heart was already home where I would have to make Christmas special for little ones who no longer had their grandmother.

And Paul was right. The girls were thrilled with their gifts that Christmas, not aware that anything was amiss.

Then we let them open Jean’s gifts. She had given each girl a handmade doll with yarn hair and a calico dress. Soft dolls, the kind you can sleep with. Lovingly made by a grandmother.

The girls were excited, of course. But I was the one in tears. The one who knew that God had whispered into Jean’s ear that Christmas. God knew that what I needed wasn’t a doll but a certainty that I was not forgotten. Not forsaken. He cared for my hurts, my cares. He cared for me.

His hands that year were Jean’s hands. His words were Jean’s words: “For the girls.” He was still with them. With us. We were not forgotten, not alone.

Several Christmases later, Jean went home to be with our Lord. The girls are grown now and no longer sleep with dolls, but Jean’s dolls remain in their “keeper boxes.” Each is a reminder of a kind woman who was God’s messenger, His angel that year.

I still remember. Will always remember.

Thank you, Jean. Thank you, Lord.

Have a blessed Christmas with those you love.