For the Deseret News, 2012
On Christmas Day 1984, my small home town of Castle Dale, Utah in
Emery County felt still and unnatural. Eyes were filled with despair,
bewilderment or sorrow. The Wilberg Mine just outside of town was an inferno,
and 27 miners and company officials were trapped deep within the workings. The
rescue attempt had become a body-recovery operation. Almost everyone in town
had a loved one either trapped in the mine, working on one of the rescue teams
or providing support to the teams.
I was 15 years old. My 12 year old sister Heidi, my 8 year old
brother Stephen, and I were alone. A short distance away our mother, a county
emergency medical technician, worked at the medical unit set up to evaluate
mine rescuers for carbon monoxide poisoning, smoke inhalation and other
potential health hazards after ascending from their searches. No one had been
rescued from the mine.
Our father, exhausted from four long days working at the mine
office supporting rescue teams, working with miners' families, and dealing with
media sat in an isolated room of the house staring out a large window, his expression
unreadable. For the first time in my life, I thought he looked old.
Heidi, Stephen and I had opened our presents early. Stephen raced
around the house joyfully, his He-Man and Skeletor characters locked in mortal
combat. But Heidi kept asking when Mom would be home. Was she going into the
mine herself? Would she get burned in the fire? What was wrong with Dad? I knew
the answer to none of her questions.
But even then, Christmas Day was Christmas Day. I decided to make
the best of it for Heidi and Stephen. My cooking repertoire was small back
then, but I chose my best dish — spaghetti — for our Christmas dinner.
Selecting the best china, I heaped each plate with pasta and covered it with
spaghetti sauce. Then I made glasses of chocolate milk and decorated the table
with candy canes and candles. Dad didn't come to the table. He had finally
fallen asleep. But Heidi's eyes brightened when she saw the table, and she
stopped asking about Mom.
After dinner, we pulled on red knit hats and mittens and dragged
inflated inner tubes up the hill near our house. On the way, I taught Heidi and
Stephen the words to a new Christmas Song, "Grandma Got Run Over by a
Reindeer," which sent Heidi into fits of giggles. Over and over we raced
down the hill. Soon friends joined us, and for a couple of hours it really did
seem like Christmas.
When the snow around us began to look pink and blue in the early
Christmas sunset, we started for home. In front of our house, Stephen threw his
tube into the snow and laid on it, looking up at the cold, brightening moon.
Heidi and I lay on our tubes on either side of him, and we held his hands. I
thought about my Christmas efforts and how inadequate they seemed compared to
our usual Christmas — the magnificent dinner, the house full of family and
friends, the gifts hidden by Santa, the caroling and the homemade divinity. I
felt tears threatening.
"This is the best Christmas I've ever had in my whole
life," Stephen suddenly said, his childlike voice bursting with
enthusiasm. Heidi looked at me. She said quietly, "I love you."
A
light streamed across the yard and I saw Dad in the front doorway. We raced to
him and he gathered us in his arms. We went inside and warmed our red hands and
noses at the fire. Then my father fell to his knees for a prayer. He prayed for
blessings for our family and pled for the safety of our mother and other
relatives at the mine. He prayed for the miners. Then, his voice rich with
emotion, he offered thanks for each of us, his children. I felt his love to the
core. More than that, I felt the beginning of a new consciousness, an adult
appreciation of how much my father loved us and how much my parents had
sacrificed to raise us. And I said my own prayer of thanks. It was
unforgettable.
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