by Tom Carlin
My Christmas miracle happened many years ago in Richmond, Virginia, where I had played Santa Claus for about eight years. In fact, that particular year of my miracle, I was awarded first prize as one of the ten best Santa Clauses in the United States.
In the department store where I sat on Santa’s throne, the children filed up and were automatically photographed. As they left, their names and addresses were taken, whether they bought the picture or not.
One particular snowy afternoon about a week before Christmas, business was light due to the near blizzard outside. Suddenly, a young, dirty faced boy appeared in front of me wearing shamefully ragged clothes and sneakers with the ties out. In a low, urgent voice he said, “Listen, Santa Claus, I’m bringing my little sister up to see you, and I don’t want you to promise her anything, because she’s not gonna get it. There’s no money at our house.” I agreed.
He left and in a few minutes came back with his little sister. Except for her dirty face and deplorable clothes, she would have looked like a beautiful blonde angel. I picked her up and set her on my lap. The photographer snapped a picture. In my kindergartners tone I asked, “And what would you like?”
Well, she spied off a list which included almost everything. You know, when you don’t have anything, you want everything. Coincidentally, one of the store supervisors had come up behind Santa’s throne and stood listening. As the little girl slipped from my lap, the attendant wrote down her name and address as usual. She took her brother’s hand, and they hurried out of the store into the blowing snow.
The eavesdropping supervisor was practically in tears because of their pathetic condition. Immediately, he spread the word all through the department store. Everyone caught the spirit, and by Christmas Eve, every item on that little girl’s wish list was collected - all donations of the store employees.
I couldn’t believe my eyes as I loaded my pack. Of course, Santa had a Snow Princess who wore an exquisite ball gown, a thin stole, and pink ballet shoes. She wanted to accompany me on the very special delivery of toys and clothes. The store closed at 5:30. Outside it was snowing and was getting dark. We hailed a taxicab. I gave the black driver the address which we had obtained from the record of photos taken.
When we arrived at the address, we discovered that we were in the poorest section of Richmond - worse than a ghetto, really the dregs of poverty. We struggled out of the taxi with our load. Even the storm couldn’t eliminate the stench of rotting garbage and stale, boiled cabbage.
Our black taxi driver said, “Mista, ya’ll might be Santy Claus, but I wouldn’t dare stay in dis section o’ town dis time o’ the night fo’ nobody. I’m not waitin’ even fo’ Santy Claus. No suh!”
“Well,” I replied, “of course I want to visit this little girl.” I was feeling uneasy myself. “I imagine we can find a phone somewhere.”
By this time it was totally dark and was snowing quite heavily. We walked up on the step of the rickety shanty and pounded on the door. Nothing happened. We pounded again and again. That indescribable odor of poverty was overpowering here. The house was so old that it was sort of tilted to one side. A couple of windows were broken. Again we pounded. Finally the door opened. Inside, silhouetted against the dim light, was a wretched little woman with wild hair. She snarled, “Watta you want?”
When Santa Claus and the Snow Princess arrive on a front porch on Christmas Eve, laden with brightly colored parcels, it’s an occasion, but she was unimpressed. (I can’t remember our little girl’s name, so I’ll call her Mary Lou for expediency.) I asked, “Is this where the Hills live?”
“Naw! I threw ‘em out,” she said. “They didn’t pay their rent.” She griped on, then slammed the door in our faces.
By now the snow had developed into a good blizzard, and it was dark. What to do now? Ann, the poor Snow Princess, had soaking feet and was slowly freezing to death because she was still wearing only her light stole. I was dressed in my Santa suit and had no wrap to give her. After all, we really hadn’t planned on being out in the weather.
There wasn’t a street light anywhere in that part of town. I peered anxiously down the dark street. In the distance, I could see a light. So we started trudging toward it, bending our bodies against the blowing snow. Sudden, a woman appeared out of the gloom. Instantly, I asked her if she knew where the Hills lived.
“Why should I know?” she snapped back and was swallowed up in the darkness. We kept moving toward the light. Suddenly, I felt a tug at my arm. It was the same woman. She said, “I want to apologize. I do know the family. In fact, my name is Hill, too, although they’re not related to my husband. The father drinks, and well, they’re not the happiest family in the world.” We stood chatting for a moment in the cold. She said, “I live right here. Why don’t you come in and get warm, and I’ll call my husband. Perhaps he’ll have some information about where they’ve moved to.”
We stepped inside the small house. Surprisingly, it was spotlessly clean. She called her husband. While we waited, grateful for the warmth, she made a cup of hot chocolate. Finally, her husband arrived, but he didn’t know of the whereabouts of Mary Lou’s family.
“What’s the light down the street?” I asked.
“It’s a café-bar,” he replied. “Somebody down there might have some information. You know, bartenders know everything.”
This couple joined us out in the snow and went down to the bar with us. The small place was quite full, probably eight or ten people. When the four of us entered, me in my Santa Claus suit and my pack filled with packages, Ann in her soaked Snow Princess dress (she had now turned blue), and the Hills, we created quite a stir. We inquired about the evicted Hill family.
The bartender said, “Oh yes, I know of the family all right. Yes, I knew they were evicted, but I haven’t got the slightest idea where they moved to.”
I was puzzled and sick to know where to turn next. A wizened old man made his way to my side and said, “I heard what you wuz talkin’ about. Last week I saw that man drivin’ a truck. Now lemme see. What wuz the name on that truck? I don’t remember too good any more.” He racked his brain for long moments, sort of mumbling to himself. His eyes suddenly lighted. “Got it! Hart’s! That’s the name on the side of that truck, Hart’s!”
Hart’s happened to be way on the other side of Richmond, down by the river in the warehouse district. It was getting late, and I was feeling desperate.
“Come on. We’ll close the bar and help you find it,” the bartender offered. Everyone pushed outside to their vehicles. There were a rickety old Ford, a pickup truck, and an ancient Chrysler. Everyone piled into their cars, and we started off across town to the Hart Company.
The snow was piling up in the streets. If it kept up this way, I might be stranded. Now whoever heard of Santa being stranded in the snow? At last, we reached Hart’s. We pounded on the gate of the high chain link fence which surrounded the property. The night watchman appeared with his flashlight. We explained our plight. He replied, “There’s not much I can do for you. We hire quite a few part time people. They’ll work for a week, maybe two. I’m sure their records aren’t kept. But let’s go into the office and see what we can find.”
Everyone piled out and crowded into the office where it was warmer than waiting in cold cars.
“Here’s the personnel file,” the night watchman said. He searched for a Hill card, but to no avail. “Let me call the man who owns the company. He’s a fine gentleman and lives in Petersburg. I don’t think he’d mind my disrupting him on Christmas Eve to help Santa Claus.” He grinned.
Petersburg is a good twenty or twenty five miles from Richmond, but the owner said he’d be right up. We waited about forty five minutes. The roads were slick, and traveling was hazardous. My time was running out. At last a sleek, gray Cadillac drove up and the owner hurried into the crowded office. I explained our urgent situation.
“Let’s go through the file,” he suggested. After a thorough search, he shook his head. “Nothing here on any Hill.”
As he closed the drawer, it stuck. He pulled it back and found that a sheet of paper had kept it from closing. Believe it or not, that paper was the personnel file of Mary Lou Hill’s father, a file which should have been discarded, but somehow it had slipped under another card. The new address was on the paper.
By this time, the owner had been caught up in our project and had telephoned his brother. He arrived with his wife and three children. Our entourage had increased. We all crowded into the waiting cars, five of them: the rickety old Ford, the pickup truck, the ancient Chrysler, the gray Cadillac, and a brand new Plymouth which belonged to the executive’s brother. It was a strange caravan for Santa. The blizzard hadn’t abated. Precariously, we wove our way to the address on the personnel file.
Above the storm and sound of the motor, chimes rang out occasionally. Richmond is known as the city of bells, and the sonorous sound calmed my agitation. Would we make it in time? At last we arrived at the address. The home was one of those horrible little grungy dwellings, leaning sideways. Instead of glass windows, they simply had put oiled paper in the opening to keep out the cold.
The Snow Princess was in a state of utter collapse. She hung onto my arm as we plodded through the deep snow up the path and onto the sagging porch. Everyone else piled out of the cars and huddled in a group. Their voices rose in unison in a spontaneous carol. At the precise moment Santa knocked at the door, it was Christmas morning, 12:00 midnight. The tongue of every bell in Richmond was released in one glorious melodic clangor.
The hair on my neck stiffened and the Snow Princess shuttered, not from cold, but from the thrill of the moment. We waited, our misty eyes glued to the door. At last, it opened wide, revealing a beaming Mary Lou. Her smiling face didn’t register surprise - only confident expectation. She simply said, “Hi, Santa Claus. I knew you’d come.”
Unless that now grown girl, whose name I don’t know, should happen to read this story, she’ll never know the series of miracles that brought the Snow Princess and Santa Claus with a bulging pack to her door many years ago.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
My Christmas Miracle
by Taylor Caldwell
For many of us, one Christmas stands out from all the others, the one when the meaning of the day shone clearest. Although I did not guess it, my own "truest" Christmas began on a rainy day in the bleakest year of my life. Recently divorced, I was in my 20s, had no job, and was on my way downtown to go the rounds of the employment offices. I had no umbrella, for my old one had fallen apart, and I could not afford another one. I sat down in the streetcar, and there against the seat was a beautiful silk umbrella with a silver handle inlaid with gold and flecks of bright enamel. I had never seen anything so lovely.
I examined the handle and saw a name engraved among the gold scrolls. The usual procedure would have been to turn in the umbrella to the conductor, but on impulse I decided to take it with me and find the owner myself. I got off the streetcar in a downpour and thankfully opened the umbrella to protect myself. Then I searched the telephone book for the name on the umbrella and found it. I called, and a lady answered.
Yes, she said in surprise, that was her umbrella, which her parents, now dead, had given her for a birthday present. But, she added, it had been stolen from her locker at school (she was a teacher) more than a year before. She was so excited that I forgot I looking for a job and went directly to her small house. She took the umbrella, and her eyes filled with tears.
The teacher wanted to give me a reward, but - though $20 was all I had in the world - her happiness at retrieving this special possession was such that to have accepted money would have spoiled something. We talked for a while, and I must have given her my address. I don’t remember.
The next six months were wretched. I was able to obtain only temporary employment here and there for a small salary, though this was what they now call the Roaring Twenties. But I put aside 25 to 50 cents when I could afford it for my little girl’s Christmas presents. (It took me six months to save $8.) My last job ended the day before Christmas, my $30 rent was soon due, and I had $15 to my name - which Peggy and I would need for food. She was home from her convent boarding school and was excitedly looking forward to her gifts the next day, which I had already purchased. I had bought her a small tree, and we were going to decorate it that night.
The stormy air was full of the sound of Christmas merriment as I walked from the streetcar to my small apartment. Bells rang, children shouted in the bitter dusk of the evening, windows were lighted, and everyone was running and laughing. But there would be no Christmas for me, I knew. No gifts, no remembrance whatsoever. As I struggled through the snowdrifts, I just about reached the lowest point in my life. Unless a miracle happened, I would be homeless in January, foodless, jobless. I had prayed steadily for weeks, and there had been no answer but this coldness and darkness, this harsh air, this abandonment. God and men had completely forgotten me. I felt as old as death, and as lonely. What was to become of us?
I looked in my mailbox. There were only bills in it, a sheaf of them, and two white envelopes which I was sure contained more bills. I went up three dusty flights of stairs, and I cried, shivering in my thin coat. But I made myself smile so I could greet my little daughter with a pretense of happiness. She opened the door for me and threw herself in my arms, screaming joyously and demanding that we decorate the tree immediately.
Peggy was not yet six years old, and had been alone all day while I worked. She had set our kitchen table for our evening meal proudly, and put pans out and the three cans of food which would be our dinner. For some reason, when I looked at those pans and cans, I felt broken-hearted. We would have only hamburgers for our Christmas dinner tomorrow, and gelatin. I stood in the cold little kitchen, and misery overwhelmed me. For the first time in my life, I doubted the existence of God and His mercy, and the coldness in my heart was colder than ice.
The doorbell rang, and Peggy ran fleetly to answer it, calling that it must be Santa Claus. Then I heard a man talking heartily to her and went to the door. He was a delivery man, and his arms were full of big parcels, and he was laughing at my child’s frenzied joy and her dancing. "This is a mistake," I said, but he read the name on the parcels, and they were for me. When he had gone, I could only stare at the boxes. Peggy and I sat on the floor and opened them. A huge doll, three times the size of the one I bought for her, gloves, candy, and a beautiful purse. Incredible! I looked for the name of the sender. It was the teacher, the address simply, "California" where she had moved.
Our dinner that night was the most delicious I had ever eaten. I could only pray in my heart, "Thank you, Father." I forgot I had no money for the rent, only $15 in my purse, and no job. My child and I ate and laughed together in happiness. Then we decorated the little tree and marveled at it. I put Peggy to bed and set up her gifts around the tree. A sweet peace flooded me like a benediction. I had some hope again. I could even examine the sheaf of bills without cringing. Then I opened the two white envelopes. One contained a check for $30 from a company I had worked for briefly in the summer. A note said it was my Christmas bonus. My rent!
The other envelope was an offer of a permanent position with the government to begin two days after Christmas. I sat with the letter in my hand and the check on the table before me, and I think that was the most joyful moment in my life up to that time.
The church bells began to ring. I hurried to my child, who was sleeping blissfully, and ran down the street. Everywhere people were walking to church to celebrate the birth of the Savior. People smiled at me and I smiled back. The storm had stopped; the sky was pure and glittering with stars.
"The Lord is born!" sang the bells to the crystal night and the laughing darkness. Someone began to sing, "Come, All Ye Faithful". I joined in and sang with the strangers all about me.
I am not alone at all, I thought. I was never alone at all.
And that, of course, is the message of Christmas. We are never alone. Not when the night is darkest, the wind is coldest, the world seemingly most indifferent. For this is still the time God chooses.
For many of us, one Christmas stands out from all the others, the one when the meaning of the day shone clearest. Although I did not guess it, my own "truest" Christmas began on a rainy day in the bleakest year of my life. Recently divorced, I was in my 20s, had no job, and was on my way downtown to go the rounds of the employment offices. I had no umbrella, for my old one had fallen apart, and I could not afford another one. I sat down in the streetcar, and there against the seat was a beautiful silk umbrella with a silver handle inlaid with gold and flecks of bright enamel. I had never seen anything so lovely.
I examined the handle and saw a name engraved among the gold scrolls. The usual procedure would have been to turn in the umbrella to the conductor, but on impulse I decided to take it with me and find the owner myself. I got off the streetcar in a downpour and thankfully opened the umbrella to protect myself. Then I searched the telephone book for the name on the umbrella and found it. I called, and a lady answered.
Yes, she said in surprise, that was her umbrella, which her parents, now dead, had given her for a birthday present. But, she added, it had been stolen from her locker at school (she was a teacher) more than a year before. She was so excited that I forgot I looking for a job and went directly to her small house. She took the umbrella, and her eyes filled with tears.
The teacher wanted to give me a reward, but - though $20 was all I had in the world - her happiness at retrieving this special possession was such that to have accepted money would have spoiled something. We talked for a while, and I must have given her my address. I don’t remember.
The next six months were wretched. I was able to obtain only temporary employment here and there for a small salary, though this was what they now call the Roaring Twenties. But I put aside 25 to 50 cents when I could afford it for my little girl’s Christmas presents. (It took me six months to save $8.) My last job ended the day before Christmas, my $30 rent was soon due, and I had $15 to my name - which Peggy and I would need for food. She was home from her convent boarding school and was excitedly looking forward to her gifts the next day, which I had already purchased. I had bought her a small tree, and we were going to decorate it that night.
The stormy air was full of the sound of Christmas merriment as I walked from the streetcar to my small apartment. Bells rang, children shouted in the bitter dusk of the evening, windows were lighted, and everyone was running and laughing. But there would be no Christmas for me, I knew. No gifts, no remembrance whatsoever. As I struggled through the snowdrifts, I just about reached the lowest point in my life. Unless a miracle happened, I would be homeless in January, foodless, jobless. I had prayed steadily for weeks, and there had been no answer but this coldness and darkness, this harsh air, this abandonment. God and men had completely forgotten me. I felt as old as death, and as lonely. What was to become of us?
I looked in my mailbox. There were only bills in it, a sheaf of them, and two white envelopes which I was sure contained more bills. I went up three dusty flights of stairs, and I cried, shivering in my thin coat. But I made myself smile so I could greet my little daughter with a pretense of happiness. She opened the door for me and threw herself in my arms, screaming joyously and demanding that we decorate the tree immediately.
Peggy was not yet six years old, and had been alone all day while I worked. She had set our kitchen table for our evening meal proudly, and put pans out and the three cans of food which would be our dinner. For some reason, when I looked at those pans and cans, I felt broken-hearted. We would have only hamburgers for our Christmas dinner tomorrow, and gelatin. I stood in the cold little kitchen, and misery overwhelmed me. For the first time in my life, I doubted the existence of God and His mercy, and the coldness in my heart was colder than ice.
The doorbell rang, and Peggy ran fleetly to answer it, calling that it must be Santa Claus. Then I heard a man talking heartily to her and went to the door. He was a delivery man, and his arms were full of big parcels, and he was laughing at my child’s frenzied joy and her dancing. "This is a mistake," I said, but he read the name on the parcels, and they were for me. When he had gone, I could only stare at the boxes. Peggy and I sat on the floor and opened them. A huge doll, three times the size of the one I bought for her, gloves, candy, and a beautiful purse. Incredible! I looked for the name of the sender. It was the teacher, the address simply, "California" where she had moved.
Our dinner that night was the most delicious I had ever eaten. I could only pray in my heart, "Thank you, Father." I forgot I had no money for the rent, only $15 in my purse, and no job. My child and I ate and laughed together in happiness. Then we decorated the little tree and marveled at it. I put Peggy to bed and set up her gifts around the tree. A sweet peace flooded me like a benediction. I had some hope again. I could even examine the sheaf of bills without cringing. Then I opened the two white envelopes. One contained a check for $30 from a company I had worked for briefly in the summer. A note said it was my Christmas bonus. My rent!
The other envelope was an offer of a permanent position with the government to begin two days after Christmas. I sat with the letter in my hand and the check on the table before me, and I think that was the most joyful moment in my life up to that time.
The church bells began to ring. I hurried to my child, who was sleeping blissfully, and ran down the street. Everywhere people were walking to church to celebrate the birth of the Savior. People smiled at me and I smiled back. The storm had stopped; the sky was pure and glittering with stars.
"The Lord is born!" sang the bells to the crystal night and the laughing darkness. Someone began to sing, "Come, All Ye Faithful". I joined in and sang with the strangers all about me.
I am not alone at all, I thought. I was never alone at all.
And that, of course, is the message of Christmas. We are never alone. Not when the night is darkest, the wind is coldest, the world seemingly most indifferent. For this is still the time God chooses.
Exchanging Gifts
Author Unknown
I grew up believing that Christmas was a time when wise and royal visitors came riding, when at midnight the barnyard animals talked to each another, and in the light of an amazing new star our Savior came to earth as the Christ Child. Christmas to me has always been a time of serene enchantment, and never more so than the year that my son Marty was eight years old.
That was the same year that my three children and I had moved into a small (but warm) mobile home in a forested area just outside of Redmond, Washington. As the Christmas season approached, our spirits were cheerful, not to be dampened by the winter rains that swept down dousing us daily and keeping the floors constantly muddy. Throughout that December, Marty was the most spirited and the busiest of us all.
Marty was my youngest, a cheerful eight year old boy, blond haired and playful, with a quaint habit of looking up at you and cocking his head like a puppy when you talked to him.
The reason for this was that Marty was deaf in his left ear, but it was a condition that he never complained about. For weeks I'd been watching Marty. I knew that something was going on with him that he was not telling anyone about. How eagerly he made his bed, took out the trash, set the table and helped his older brother and sister prepare dinner before I got home from work. I saw how he silently collected his tiny allowance and tucked it away, never spending a penny of it.
I wasn't sure what all this quiet activity was about, but I suspected that somehow it had something to do with Kenny. Kenny was Marty's best friend, and ever since they'd found each other in the springtime, they were seldom apart. When I called to one, they both appeared. Their world was in the meadow; a horse pasture broken by a small winding stream, where they caught frogs and snakes, and searched for arrowheads and golden treasure. Times were hard for my children and me, but Kenny's family was desperately poor. His mother was having a terrible struggle feeding and clothing her two young children. They also were a fatherless family, but Kenny's mother was a very proud woman. She had strict rules about taking from others.
How we worked, as we did each year, to make our home festive for Christmas. Our gifts were all finished and safely hidden away, and decorations hung from every corner and surface imaginable. Marty and Kenny would sometimes sit still at the table long enough to help make paper-chains or cut beautiful stars for the tree. But then, in a flash, one would whisper to the other, and they would be out the door and into the horse pasture or sliding cautiously under the electric fence that separated our yard from Kenny's.
Shortly before Christmas, Marty came into the kitchen and told me in a voice filled with great pleasure and pride, "Mom, I've bought Kenny a Christmas present. Want to see it?" So that's what he's been up to, I said to myself.
"It's something he's wanted for a long, long time," Marty said. After wiping his hands on a dishtowel, he pulled a small box from his pocket. Lifting the lid, I saw a pocket compass that my son had been saving all those allowances to buy. A little compass to point an eight year old adventurer through the woods. "It's a lovely gift, Martin," I said, but even as I spoke, a disturbing thought came to mind. Kenny's family could barely afford to exchange gifts between themselves and giving presents to others was out of the question.
I felt sure that Kenny's proud mother would not permit her son to receive something he could not return in kind.
Gently, carefully, I talked over the problem with Marty. He understood what I was saying. "I know, Mom, I know ... but what if it was a secret? What if they never found out who gave it?" I didn't know how to answer him, so I left the matter in the hands of the Lord.
The day before Christmas was rainy, cold, and gray. My children and I put finishing touches on Christmas secrets and prepared for family and friends who would be dropping by. Darkness settled in, and the rain continued. I looked out the kitchen window over the sink and felt an unusual sadness. How very mundane the rain seemed for a Christmas Eve. Would wise men and kings come riding on such a night? It seemed to me that curious and wonderful things happened on clear nights. Nights when one could at least see a star in the heavens.
I turned from the window, and as I checked on the bread in the oven, I saw Marty slip out the door. He was wearing his coat over his pajamas. I knew he was clutching a little, colorfully wrapped box in his pocket.
Later Marty told me all that had happened to him that night. He had gone down through the soggy horse pasture, slid under the electric fence, and sloshed through puddles across the yard to Kenny's house. He had tiptoed up the steps, with his muddy shoes squishing. He silently opened the screen door just a crack, placed the gift on the doorstep, took a deep breath, and pressed on the doorbell really hard. Quickly Marty turned, ran down the steps and across the yard in a wild race to get away without being seen. Then, in the dark, he suddenly crashed into the electric fence.
The powerful shock sent him reeling. He lay stunned on the wet ground, gasping for breath. Feeble, confused, and frightened, he found his way back through the darkness of that rainy Christmas Eve. "Marty!" I cried as he stumbled through the door. "Marty, what happened?"
His lower lip quivered, and his eyes brimmed with tears. "Mom, I forgot about the electric fence. I ran into it, and it knocked me down!" he said.
I hugged his muddy little body to me. He was still dazed, and there was an ugly red mark from the fence beginning to blister his face from his mouth to his ear. I treated the blister, and with a warm cup of cocoa soothing him, Marty's bright spirits were restored. I tucked him into his bed, and just before he fell asleep he looked up at me, and said with relief, "Mom, I'm sure Kenny didn't see me."
I went to bed feeling sad and discouraged. The encounter with the electric fence seemed such a cruel thing to happen to a little boy while on the purest kind of Christmas mission, doing what Heavenly Father wants us all to do; give to others, and in secret at that. I did not sleep well that night. Deep inside I was feeling disappointed that it was Christmas Eve, and it was just another ordinary, problem filled night, not a night of joyous enchantment at all.
But I was wrong. By morning the rain had stopped and the sun shone brightly for Christmas Day. The burned streak on Marty's face was red and swollen, but I was grateful to see it was not a dangerous wound. We opened our gifts to each another, and soon, not unexpectedly, Kenny was knocking on the door, eager to show Marty his new compass and tell about the mystery of its arrival. It was plain that Kenny didn't suspect Marty at all, and while the two of them talked, Marty smiled and smiled and smiled.
Then I noticed that while the two boys were comparing their Christmases, nodding and gesturing and chattering away, Marty was not cocking his head as usual.
When Kenny was talking, Marty was listening with his deaf ear, the ear that had slammed into the fence.
Weeks later a report came from the school nurse confirming what Marty and I already knew: "Marty now has complete hearing in both ears." The miracle of how Marty regained his hearing, and still has it, remains just that: a miracle. Doctors feel that the shock from the electric fence was responsible. Probably so. Whatever the scientific reason, I just remain thankful to Heavenly Father for that pure exchange of gifts on that rainy Christmas Eve.
So you see, strange and wonderful things still happen on the night that we celebrate the birth of our Savior, the Christ Child. And one does not have to have a clear night to follow a star.
I grew up believing that Christmas was a time when wise and royal visitors came riding, when at midnight the barnyard animals talked to each another, and in the light of an amazing new star our Savior came to earth as the Christ Child. Christmas to me has always been a time of serene enchantment, and never more so than the year that my son Marty was eight years old.
That was the same year that my three children and I had moved into a small (but warm) mobile home in a forested area just outside of Redmond, Washington. As the Christmas season approached, our spirits were cheerful, not to be dampened by the winter rains that swept down dousing us daily and keeping the floors constantly muddy. Throughout that December, Marty was the most spirited and the busiest of us all.
Marty was my youngest, a cheerful eight year old boy, blond haired and playful, with a quaint habit of looking up at you and cocking his head like a puppy when you talked to him.
The reason for this was that Marty was deaf in his left ear, but it was a condition that he never complained about. For weeks I'd been watching Marty. I knew that something was going on with him that he was not telling anyone about. How eagerly he made his bed, took out the trash, set the table and helped his older brother and sister prepare dinner before I got home from work. I saw how he silently collected his tiny allowance and tucked it away, never spending a penny of it.
I wasn't sure what all this quiet activity was about, but I suspected that somehow it had something to do with Kenny. Kenny was Marty's best friend, and ever since they'd found each other in the springtime, they were seldom apart. When I called to one, they both appeared. Their world was in the meadow; a horse pasture broken by a small winding stream, where they caught frogs and snakes, and searched for arrowheads and golden treasure. Times were hard for my children and me, but Kenny's family was desperately poor. His mother was having a terrible struggle feeding and clothing her two young children. They also were a fatherless family, but Kenny's mother was a very proud woman. She had strict rules about taking from others.
How we worked, as we did each year, to make our home festive for Christmas. Our gifts were all finished and safely hidden away, and decorations hung from every corner and surface imaginable. Marty and Kenny would sometimes sit still at the table long enough to help make paper-chains or cut beautiful stars for the tree. But then, in a flash, one would whisper to the other, and they would be out the door and into the horse pasture or sliding cautiously under the electric fence that separated our yard from Kenny's.
Shortly before Christmas, Marty came into the kitchen and told me in a voice filled with great pleasure and pride, "Mom, I've bought Kenny a Christmas present. Want to see it?" So that's what he's been up to, I said to myself.
"It's something he's wanted for a long, long time," Marty said. After wiping his hands on a dishtowel, he pulled a small box from his pocket. Lifting the lid, I saw a pocket compass that my son had been saving all those allowances to buy. A little compass to point an eight year old adventurer through the woods. "It's a lovely gift, Martin," I said, but even as I spoke, a disturbing thought came to mind. Kenny's family could barely afford to exchange gifts between themselves and giving presents to others was out of the question.
I felt sure that Kenny's proud mother would not permit her son to receive something he could not return in kind.
Gently, carefully, I talked over the problem with Marty. He understood what I was saying. "I know, Mom, I know ... but what if it was a secret? What if they never found out who gave it?" I didn't know how to answer him, so I left the matter in the hands of the Lord.
The day before Christmas was rainy, cold, and gray. My children and I put finishing touches on Christmas secrets and prepared for family and friends who would be dropping by. Darkness settled in, and the rain continued. I looked out the kitchen window over the sink and felt an unusual sadness. How very mundane the rain seemed for a Christmas Eve. Would wise men and kings come riding on such a night? It seemed to me that curious and wonderful things happened on clear nights. Nights when one could at least see a star in the heavens.
I turned from the window, and as I checked on the bread in the oven, I saw Marty slip out the door. He was wearing his coat over his pajamas. I knew he was clutching a little, colorfully wrapped box in his pocket.
Later Marty told me all that had happened to him that night. He had gone down through the soggy horse pasture, slid under the electric fence, and sloshed through puddles across the yard to Kenny's house. He had tiptoed up the steps, with his muddy shoes squishing. He silently opened the screen door just a crack, placed the gift on the doorstep, took a deep breath, and pressed on the doorbell really hard. Quickly Marty turned, ran down the steps and across the yard in a wild race to get away without being seen. Then, in the dark, he suddenly crashed into the electric fence.
The powerful shock sent him reeling. He lay stunned on the wet ground, gasping for breath. Feeble, confused, and frightened, he found his way back through the darkness of that rainy Christmas Eve. "Marty!" I cried as he stumbled through the door. "Marty, what happened?"
His lower lip quivered, and his eyes brimmed with tears. "Mom, I forgot about the electric fence. I ran into it, and it knocked me down!" he said.
I hugged his muddy little body to me. He was still dazed, and there was an ugly red mark from the fence beginning to blister his face from his mouth to his ear. I treated the blister, and with a warm cup of cocoa soothing him, Marty's bright spirits were restored. I tucked him into his bed, and just before he fell asleep he looked up at me, and said with relief, "Mom, I'm sure Kenny didn't see me."
I went to bed feeling sad and discouraged. The encounter with the electric fence seemed such a cruel thing to happen to a little boy while on the purest kind of Christmas mission, doing what Heavenly Father wants us all to do; give to others, and in secret at that. I did not sleep well that night. Deep inside I was feeling disappointed that it was Christmas Eve, and it was just another ordinary, problem filled night, not a night of joyous enchantment at all.
But I was wrong. By morning the rain had stopped and the sun shone brightly for Christmas Day. The burned streak on Marty's face was red and swollen, but I was grateful to see it was not a dangerous wound. We opened our gifts to each another, and soon, not unexpectedly, Kenny was knocking on the door, eager to show Marty his new compass and tell about the mystery of its arrival. It was plain that Kenny didn't suspect Marty at all, and while the two of them talked, Marty smiled and smiled and smiled.
Then I noticed that while the two boys were comparing their Christmases, nodding and gesturing and chattering away, Marty was not cocking his head as usual.
When Kenny was talking, Marty was listening with his deaf ear, the ear that had slammed into the fence.
Weeks later a report came from the school nurse confirming what Marty and I already knew: "Marty now has complete hearing in both ears." The miracle of how Marty regained his hearing, and still has it, remains just that: a miracle. Doctors feel that the shock from the electric fence was responsible. Probably so. Whatever the scientific reason, I just remain thankful to Heavenly Father for that pure exchange of gifts on that rainy Christmas Eve.
So you see, strange and wonderful things still happen on the night that we celebrate the birth of our Savior, the Christ Child. And one does not have to have a clear night to follow a star.
Our Christmas Tree Boy
by Edward J. Beckwell
A few days before Christmas in 1961, when I was driving home after a client's office Christmas party, I suddenly remembered my wife Joy Marie's parting words as I left for work that morning. "If somebody I know is not in possession of a fine, upright Christmas tree when he returns this evening, it will be somewhat difficult getting into this house where the climate will be a lot cooler than the climate outside." With this little warning ringing in my ears, I quickly made the rounds of a few tree lots and purchased a fine balsam, which I knew would serve as the fee for getting into the house.
I started right in with the chore of getting it into the stand and properly secured, as straight as possible. I had been working on the project only a short time when I saw what looked like a small roll of paper covered with black plastic, and tied to the trunk with black thread. I tore it off and tossed it to Joy Marie, who was busily separating the decorations and lights.
"What's that?" she asked.
It is well known in the Detroit area that a lot of our trees come from Canada, so I rather flippantly answered, "Probably a note from some kid up in Canada, and he, no doubt, wants something for Christmas."
I was joking, but in fact I couldn't have made a more accurate statement. Joy Marie and I read the note we found, and it was indeed from a little Canadian boy asking for skates for Christmas.
The note was nicely written, but we couldn't be sure if the town was spelled Legere or Lagare, or if it was in New Brunswick or Nova Scotia. So now, the great search began. I checked maps, asked friends, and called all of the Canadian freight lines with whom I did business, but to no avail. Christmas was rapidly approaching.
In the meantime, Joy Marie had adopted a hands-off attitude about the whole thing. She is the kindest and most generous person I know, but she is a little suspicious about anyone who uses Christmas trees as a means of carrying correspondence regarding gifts. She and her friends discussed it thoroughly, and they decided a kid that age could not write that well, and probably had little knowledge of English, and that there was a large cartel in Canada dealing in ice skates and other toys from unsuspecting and gullible American folks.
God didn't make me a stubborn Irishman for nothing, so I immediately took the opposite position. I announced loudly and clearly to anyone who would listen, "I don't care if the whole thing is a fraud or a joke. If I can find a kid named Egbert McGraw somewhere in New Brunswick or Nova Scotia, Canada, he's going to get a pair of the finest skates I can find!"
On December 24th, I was having a cup of coffee at my local diner, talking to Sid, the owner, explaining my problem. He said, "Why don't you tell the guy at the end of the counter? He's been bugging me because he can't find someone he can help, and he says it's his job at Christmas time. Probably works for some charity. I don't know what he's talking about, but tell him your story, and maybe he'll get off my back."
I needed no further urging. I noticed the young man was dressed in a gray suit, white shirt and tie. I introduced myself, and poured out my story. I finished with, "Sid said you might be able to give me some advice."
He said, "Thank you. I was beginning to think I wouldn't be able to do my job this year, but you present me with a very easy problem. Why don't you just contact the post office?"
I felt a little foolish as I heard myself saying, "Why didn't I think of that?" I thanked the man profusely, wished him a very Merry Christmas and said, "You're an angel." He did have a white feather with a gold tip stuck in his lapel
I then hurried to the public phone and dialed the post office. I silently prayed that someone would answer who had enough time at this busy season to help me. A kindly sounding gentleman finally answered, listened to my tale, and put me on hold. I really didn't expect much, but after a few minutes of waiting, I heard him say, "I find a Legere office in Tracadie, New Brunswick."
I wrote it down, thanked him, hung up and hurried back to tell my new friend, but he was gone. The bartender said, "I didn't even see him leave. He just disappeared."
"Well," I said, "if he returns, tell him he did his job. He made my Christmas, and I hope I helped him with his." I had an enjoyable Christmas, but knew I'd be up early the next day shopping.
Now that I had the address situation straightened out, I ran smack into another problem. I hadn't realized how arduous it would be to buy a pair of ice skates for a little boy the day after Christmas. I tried every department store, toy store and sporting goods store, and could find nothing in a kid's size.
The next day I was once again telling my problem to Sid, when who should walk in, but my recent helper with the gold-tipped feather in his lapel. I said by way of starting the conversation, "I suppose that feather has something to do with your work."
He answered, "I guess you could say that, but what's your problem now? You have that same perplexed look on your face."
I filled him in on the lack of skates the day after Christmas and he asked, "Did you try Sears on the corner of Van Dyke and Gratiot?"
I told him I did, and he said, "Try them again, I'm sure you'll have better luck this time."
Sears was very busy with after Christmas shoppers, but I caught a sales clerk in the sporting goods department and said, "A friend of mine said you might have a pair of skates for a small boy."
He said, "I doubt it very much, but I'll look. This morning we only had a few very large sizes left."
He returned a few minutes later with an expression of total confusion, carrying a pair of super hockey skates that looked like they would fit an eight year old boy just right. He said, "They weren't here this morning, and I don't know where they came from, but they're yours."
The next morning the skates were packaged safely in the hands of the postal service, and on the way to Egbert in far off New Brunswick.
We received a "thank you" note in a few weeks, and since my writing is illegible at best, I asked Joy Marie to drop Egbert a few lines. She still wasn't convinced that the boy even existed, but she agreed to write a note, and she also included some recent photographs of the two of us.
As the months flew into vacation time, Joy Marie continued her correspondence with Egbert. We had never visited the East Coast and the New England states, so that became our vacation destination. Some dear friends moved to Delaware, so we decided to visit them, and then we extend our vacation by driving north to Maine. I mentioned to Joy Marie that when we got to Maine, if we still had enough vacation time left, we might head farther north to Tracadie. I also reminded her that in her last letter to Egbert, she told him that we might be in the Northeast on our vacation and would try to pay a visit if at all possible.
When we arrived in Bar Harbor, Maine on a Friday, that's exactly what we decided to do. We checked into a hotel on Saturday in Newcastle, New Brunswick, a short distance from Tracadie, and Joy Marie called Egbert's grandmother's house because she had learned he and his brother were living there. Grandmother answered with a decidedly French Canadian accent, and she and Joy Marie had a very enthusiastic conversation. Then came the moment of truth. Joy Marie asked, "May I talk to Egbert?"
After a moment of silence, while Joy Marie and I held our breath, grandmother answered, "I'm sorry, but Egbert does not speak English."
Grandma explained that she wrote the original note, and Egbert had climbed up on a railroad flat car and tied it to the trunk of one of the many trees scheduled for shipment to Detroit. She had written all of the other notes we'd received but always as if Egbert wrote them. It was good to know the complete unusual story, and we were even more eager to meet the entire McGraw family.
On the short trip to Tracadie the next day, Joy Marie asked, "How are we going to find the house?"
I said, "We'll probably stop at the only gas station in town, and the attendant will point to it," which is what happened.
When we pulled into the driveway at the grandparents' house, we were astonished at the number of children and others who turned out to welcome us. One nice old neighbor gentleman in the crowd had gotten up early to go out and pick a basket of succulent wild berries for us. Apparently we were an event in the very modest but clean neighborhood.
When we entered the living room, we noticed a fine, old, upright piano. On the top, to one side, stood a picture of the Queen of England and Prince Philip. On the opposite side, a photo of Joy Marie and myself. In the middle, were the skates still in the carton. Grandma said it was the nicest present Egbert had ever received, and he just liked looking at them and told everyone, "Nobody touch the skates."
Egbert turned out to be a good looking lad, who seemed like he could handle a pair of ice skates and maybe a hockey stick. Communication with him was difficult, but with lots of pointing, waving and help from Grandma, we managed. Further conversation would have to wait a few years.
The older children had some knowledge of English, learned in school, and Joy Marie had a limited knowledge of French, learned as a student of St. Mary's Academy in Windsor, Canada, across the river from Detroit, so they all enjoyed an afternoon of smoothing out the language barrier.
One of the children came into the house and whispered to Grandma, and she said, "The kids wondered if you could take them for a ride in your car with the top down." I had just purchased a new convertible, and I spent the best part of the afternoon driving up and down the highway with as many kids as I could safely pile into the car, with Egbert at my side on every trip. Convertibles are rare in that area where the economy is based solely on fishing and lumber.
Our stay was far too short, and although we could not talk to Egbert, Joy Marie and I relied on kisses and hugs. As we drove off, we agreed that we had never met such a lovely group of people, and had never been treated so royally.
A few years ago our doorbell rang, and when Joy Marie answered it, there, on our front porch, were a man, a woman and a little boy. She didn't recognize them until the man said, "Hello, Mrs. Beckwell. I'm Egbert, and this is Nicole and Pierre Luc." Joy Marie was flabbergasted. Egbert was attending an educational seminar in Windsor. We enjoyed a very nice visit.
As they were leaving, I said, "Egbert, you didn't seem to have any trouble finding our house. How did you do it?"
He said, "Oh, I'm sorry. I've had such a pleasant time that I almost forgot. I've read so many fine things about Father Solanus and the Capuchin Monastery in Detroit, and have become such a fan and devotee, that when we found out we'd be passing quite closely to the monastery on the way here, we decided to stop to visit his grave site. We knew that someone there could give us directions to your neighborhood. As we neared the heavy wooden and very impressive looking front doors, they creaked open, and there stood a tall young man, who, without asking where we wanted to go, took us directly to Father Solanus's tomb and memorial.
"When we prepared to leave, I asked the stately young man for directions to St. Clair Shores. He smilingly gave us not only that, but also directions to your street and house. This did not really surprise me because he looked like a man who would be knowledgeable about almost anything. Then he handed me an envelope and said, 'Please give this to Mr. Beckwell. He'll know what it means.'"
Egbert handed me an envelope, which I eagerly tore open and found a small, pure white feather with a gold tip. From an angel's wing? I wondered.
Then I smiled and quietly murmured, "God's angels certainly have beautiful calling cards."
Hero at the Grocery Store
by Stephanie Meyer
Christmas stories happen in the most everyday places. I was part of one not long ago at the grocery store. I hope I never forget it, though the memory is bittersweet.
I had been shopping for almost an hour by the time I got to the checkout lines. My two youngest sons were with me, the four year old refusing to hold onto the cart, the two year old trying to climb out of the basket and jump down to play with his brother. Both got progressively whinier and louder as I tried to keep them under control, so I was looking for the fastest lane possible. I had two choices. In the first line were three customers, and they all had just a few purchases. In the second line was only one man, a harried young father with his own crying baby, but his cart was overflowing with groceries.
I quickly looked over the three person line again. The woman in the front was very elderly, white haired and rail thin, and her hands were shaking as she tried unsuccessfully to unlatch her big purse. In the other line, the young father was throwing his food onto the conveyor belt with superhuman speed. I got in line behind him.
It was the right choice. I was able to start unloading my groceries before the elderly woman was even finished paying. My four year old was pulling candy from the shelf, and my little one was trying to help by lobbing cans of soup at me. I felt I couldn't get out of the store fast enough.
And then, over the sound of the store's cheery holiday music, I heard the checker in the other line talking loudly, too loudly. I glanced over as my hands kept working.
"No, I'm sorry," the checker was almost shouting at the old woman, who didn't seem to understand. "That card won't work. You are past your limit. Do you have another way to pay?" The tiny old woman blinked at the checker with a confused expression. Not only were her hands shaking now, but her shoulders too. The teenage bagger rolled her eyes and sighed.
As I caught a soup can just before it hit my face, I thought to myself, "Boy, did I choose the right line! Those three are going to be there forever." My mood was positively smug as my checker began scanning my food.
But the smiling woman directly in line behind the elderly lady had a different reaction. Quietly, with no fanfare, she moved to the older woman's side and ran her own credit card through the reader.
"Merry Christmas," she said softly, still smiling.
Suddenly everyone was quiet. Even my rowdy children paused, feeling the change in the atmosphere.
It took a minute for the older woman to understand what had happened. The checker, her face thoughtful, hesitated with the receipt in her hand, not sure whom to give it to. The smiling woman took it and tucked it into the elderly woman's bag.
"I can't accept," the older woman began to protest, with tears forming in her eyes.
The smiling woman interrupted her. "I can afford to do it. What I can't afford is not to do it."
"Let me help you out," the suddenly respectful bagger insisted, taking the basket and also taking the old woman's arm, the way she might have helped her own grandmother.
I watched the checker in my line pause before she pressed the total key to dab at the corner of her eyes with a tissue.
Paying for my groceries and gathering my children, I made it out of the store before the smiling woman. I had made the right choice of lanes, it seemed.
But as I walked out into the bright December sunshine, I was not thinking about my luck but about what I could not afford.
I could not afford my current, self absorbed frame of mind.
I could not afford to have my children learn lessons of compassion only from strangers.
I could not afford to be so distant from the spirit of Christ at any time of the year, especially during this great season of giving.
I could not afford to let another stranger, another brother or sister, cross my path in need of help without doing something about it.
And that is why I hope never to forget the Christmas hero in the grocery store. The next time I have a chance to be that kind of a hero, I can't afford to miss it.
Christmas stories happen in the most everyday places. I was part of one not long ago at the grocery store. I hope I never forget it, though the memory is bittersweet.
I had been shopping for almost an hour by the time I got to the checkout lines. My two youngest sons were with me, the four year old refusing to hold onto the cart, the two year old trying to climb out of the basket and jump down to play with his brother. Both got progressively whinier and louder as I tried to keep them under control, so I was looking for the fastest lane possible. I had two choices. In the first line were three customers, and they all had just a few purchases. In the second line was only one man, a harried young father with his own crying baby, but his cart was overflowing with groceries.
I quickly looked over the three person line again. The woman in the front was very elderly, white haired and rail thin, and her hands were shaking as she tried unsuccessfully to unlatch her big purse. In the other line, the young father was throwing his food onto the conveyor belt with superhuman speed. I got in line behind him.
It was the right choice. I was able to start unloading my groceries before the elderly woman was even finished paying. My four year old was pulling candy from the shelf, and my little one was trying to help by lobbing cans of soup at me. I felt I couldn't get out of the store fast enough.
And then, over the sound of the store's cheery holiday music, I heard the checker in the other line talking loudly, too loudly. I glanced over as my hands kept working.
"No, I'm sorry," the checker was almost shouting at the old woman, who didn't seem to understand. "That card won't work. You are past your limit. Do you have another way to pay?" The tiny old woman blinked at the checker with a confused expression. Not only were her hands shaking now, but her shoulders too. The teenage bagger rolled her eyes and sighed.
As I caught a soup can just before it hit my face, I thought to myself, "Boy, did I choose the right line! Those three are going to be there forever." My mood was positively smug as my checker began scanning my food.
But the smiling woman directly in line behind the elderly lady had a different reaction. Quietly, with no fanfare, she moved to the older woman's side and ran her own credit card through the reader.
"Merry Christmas," she said softly, still smiling.
Suddenly everyone was quiet. Even my rowdy children paused, feeling the change in the atmosphere.
It took a minute for the older woman to understand what had happened. The checker, her face thoughtful, hesitated with the receipt in her hand, not sure whom to give it to. The smiling woman took it and tucked it into the elderly woman's bag.
"I can't accept," the older woman began to protest, with tears forming in her eyes.
The smiling woman interrupted her. "I can afford to do it. What I can't afford is not to do it."
"Let me help you out," the suddenly respectful bagger insisted, taking the basket and also taking the old woman's arm, the way she might have helped her own grandmother.
I watched the checker in my line pause before she pressed the total key to dab at the corner of her eyes with a tissue.
Paying for my groceries and gathering my children, I made it out of the store before the smiling woman. I had made the right choice of lanes, it seemed.
But as I walked out into the bright December sunshine, I was not thinking about my luck but about what I could not afford.
I could not afford my current, self absorbed frame of mind.
I could not afford to have my children learn lessons of compassion only from strangers.
I could not afford to be so distant from the spirit of Christ at any time of the year, especially during this great season of giving.
I could not afford to let another stranger, another brother or sister, cross my path in need of help without doing something about it.
And that is why I hope never to forget the Christmas hero in the grocery store. The next time I have a chance to be that kind of a hero, I can't afford to miss it.
Simple Wooden Boxes
by Martha Pendergrass Templeton
I suppose everyone has a particular childhood Christmas that stands out more than any other. For me, it was the year that the Burlington factory in Scottsboro closed down. I was only a small child. I could not name for you the precise year; it is an insignificant blur in my mind, but the events of that Christmas will live forever in my heart.
My father, who had been employed at Burlington, never let on to us that we were having financial difficulties. After all, children live in a naive world in which money and jobs are nothing more than jabberwocky; and for us, the excitement of Christmas could never be squelched. We knew only that our daddy, who usually worked long, difficult hours, was now home more than we had ever remembered; each day seemed to be a holiday.
Mama, a homemaker, now sought work in the local textile mills, but jobs were scarce. Time after time, she was told no openings were available before Christmas, and it was on the way home from one such distressing interview that she wrecked our only car. Daddy’s meager unemployment check would now be our family’s only source of income. For my parents, the Christmas season brought mounds of worries, crowds of sighs and tears, and cascades of prayers.
I can only imagine what transpired between my parents during that time. I don’t know for sure how they managed, but somehow they did. They made sure they scraped together enough money to buy each of us a Barbie doll. For the rest of our presents, they would rely on their talents, using scraps of materials they already had.
While dark, calloused hands sawed, hammered and painted, nimble fingers fed dress after dress after dress into the sewing machine. Barbie-sized bridal gowns, evening gowns . . . miniature clothes for every imaginable occasion pushed forward from the rattling old machine. Where we were while all of this was taking place, I have no idea. But somehow my parents found time to pour themselves into our gifts, and the excitement of Christmas was once again born for the entire family.
That Christmas Eve, the sun was just setting over the distant horizon when I heard the roar of an unexpected motor in the driveway. Looking outside, I could hardly believe my eyes. Aunt Charlene and Uncle Buck, Mama’s sister and her husband, had driven all the way from Georgia to surprise us. Packed tightly in their car, as though no air was needed, sat my three cousins, my Aunt Dean, who refused to be called "Aunt," and both my grandparents. I also couldn’t help but notice innumerable gifts for all of us, all neatly packaged and tied with beautiful bows. They had known that it would be a difficult Christmas, and they had come to help.
The next morning we awoke to more gifts than I ever could have imagined. And, though I don’t have one specific memory of what any of the toys were, I know that there were mountains of them.
And it was there, amidst all that jubilation, that Daddy decided not to give us his gifts. With all the toys we had gotten, there was no reason to give us the dollhouses that he had made. They were rustic and simple red boxes, after all. Certainly not as good as the store-bought gifts that Mama’s family had brought. The music of laughter filled the morning, and we never suspected that, hidden somewhere, we each had another gift.
When Mama asked Daddy about the gifts, he confided his feelings, but she insisted he give us our gifts. And so, late that afternoon, after all of the guests had gone, Daddy reluctantly brought his gifts of love to the living room.
Wooden boxes. Wooden boxes painted red, with hinged lids, so that each side could be opened and used as a house. On either side was a compartment just big enough to store a Barbie doll, and all the way across, a rack on which to hang our Barbie clothes. On the outside was a handle, so that when it was closed, held by a magnet that looked remarkably like an equal sign, the house could be carried suitcase style. And, though I don’t really remember any of the other gifts I got that day, those boxes are indelibly etched into my mind. I remember the texture of the wood, the exact shade of red paint, the way the pull of the magnet felt when I closed the lid, the time-darkened handles and hinges. I remember how the clothes hung delicately on the hangers inside, and how I had to be careful not to pull Barbie’s hair when I closed the lid. I remember everything that is possibly rememberable, because we kept and cherished those boxes long after our Barbie doll days were over.
I have lived and loved twenty nine Christmases, each new and fresh with an air of excitement all its own. Each filled with love and hope. Each bringing gifts, cherished and longed for. But few of those gifts compare with those simple wooden boxes. So it is no wonder that I get teary eyed when I think of my father, standing there on that cold Christmas morning, wondering if his gift was good enough.
Love, Daddy, is always good enough.
I suppose everyone has a particular childhood Christmas that stands out more than any other. For me, it was the year that the Burlington factory in Scottsboro closed down. I was only a small child. I could not name for you the precise year; it is an insignificant blur in my mind, but the events of that Christmas will live forever in my heart.
My father, who had been employed at Burlington, never let on to us that we were having financial difficulties. After all, children live in a naive world in which money and jobs are nothing more than jabberwocky; and for us, the excitement of Christmas could never be squelched. We knew only that our daddy, who usually worked long, difficult hours, was now home more than we had ever remembered; each day seemed to be a holiday.
Mama, a homemaker, now sought work in the local textile mills, but jobs were scarce. Time after time, she was told no openings were available before Christmas, and it was on the way home from one such distressing interview that she wrecked our only car. Daddy’s meager unemployment check would now be our family’s only source of income. For my parents, the Christmas season brought mounds of worries, crowds of sighs and tears, and cascades of prayers.
I can only imagine what transpired between my parents during that time. I don’t know for sure how they managed, but somehow they did. They made sure they scraped together enough money to buy each of us a Barbie doll. For the rest of our presents, they would rely on their talents, using scraps of materials they already had.
While dark, calloused hands sawed, hammered and painted, nimble fingers fed dress after dress after dress into the sewing machine. Barbie-sized bridal gowns, evening gowns . . . miniature clothes for every imaginable occasion pushed forward from the rattling old machine. Where we were while all of this was taking place, I have no idea. But somehow my parents found time to pour themselves into our gifts, and the excitement of Christmas was once again born for the entire family.
That Christmas Eve, the sun was just setting over the distant horizon when I heard the roar of an unexpected motor in the driveway. Looking outside, I could hardly believe my eyes. Aunt Charlene and Uncle Buck, Mama’s sister and her husband, had driven all the way from Georgia to surprise us. Packed tightly in their car, as though no air was needed, sat my three cousins, my Aunt Dean, who refused to be called "Aunt," and both my grandparents. I also couldn’t help but notice innumerable gifts for all of us, all neatly packaged and tied with beautiful bows. They had known that it would be a difficult Christmas, and they had come to help.
The next morning we awoke to more gifts than I ever could have imagined. And, though I don’t have one specific memory of what any of the toys were, I know that there were mountains of them.
And it was there, amidst all that jubilation, that Daddy decided not to give us his gifts. With all the toys we had gotten, there was no reason to give us the dollhouses that he had made. They were rustic and simple red boxes, after all. Certainly not as good as the store-bought gifts that Mama’s family had brought. The music of laughter filled the morning, and we never suspected that, hidden somewhere, we each had another gift.
When Mama asked Daddy about the gifts, he confided his feelings, but she insisted he give us our gifts. And so, late that afternoon, after all of the guests had gone, Daddy reluctantly brought his gifts of love to the living room.
Wooden boxes. Wooden boxes painted red, with hinged lids, so that each side could be opened and used as a house. On either side was a compartment just big enough to store a Barbie doll, and all the way across, a rack on which to hang our Barbie clothes. On the outside was a handle, so that when it was closed, held by a magnet that looked remarkably like an equal sign, the house could be carried suitcase style. And, though I don’t really remember any of the other gifts I got that day, those boxes are indelibly etched into my mind. I remember the texture of the wood, the exact shade of red paint, the way the pull of the magnet felt when I closed the lid, the time-darkened handles and hinges. I remember how the clothes hung delicately on the hangers inside, and how I had to be careful not to pull Barbie’s hair when I closed the lid. I remember everything that is possibly rememberable, because we kept and cherished those boxes long after our Barbie doll days were over.
I have lived and loved twenty nine Christmases, each new and fresh with an air of excitement all its own. Each filled with love and hope. Each bringing gifts, cherished and longed for. But few of those gifts compare with those simple wooden boxes. So it is no wonder that I get teary eyed when I think of my father, standing there on that cold Christmas morning, wondering if his gift was good enough.
Love, Daddy, is always good enough.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Glorious Gift From Christmas Past
by Per Ola and Emily D'Aulaire
Snow fell softly onto the wooden and stone houses of Oberndorf, an Austrian village near Salzburg. Inside, villagers decorated freshly hewn spruce trees with candles, fruit and nuts as they prepared for the holiest of nights. Soon bells would peal from Oberndorf's modest church to announce midnight Mass, and the faithful would celebrate the birth of Christ with prayer and song.
Within the Church of St. Nicholas, however, the mood was hardly one of joy that Christmas Eve afternoon in 1818. Curate Joseph Mohr, 26, had just discovered that the organ was badly damaged. No matter how hard the pedals were pumped, he could coax only a scratchy wheeze from the ancient instrument. Mohr was desperate. By the time a repairman could reach the parish, Christmas would be long over. To the young curate, a Christmas without music was unthinkable.
Mohr had a natural instinct for music. As a boy, the illegitimate son of a seamstress and a soldier, he had earned money singing and playing the violin and guitar in public. At school, and then at the university, he lived on money he earned as a performer. His hard work and talent caught the attention of a clergyman who persuaded Mohr to enter the seminary. Ordained a priest in 1815, Mohr was posted to Oberndorf in 1817. There, he not only preached the Psalms, but surprised some of his congregation by strumming a guitar, switching easily from folk music to hymns.
Now, faced with a Christmas crisis, the young cleric withdrew to the quiet of his study. Realizing that the traditional Christmas carols would not sound right on a guitar, he decided to produce a new song. Bending over a sheet of blank paper, his quill pen poised, he thought about a parish family he had recently visited to bless their newborn child. The memory of that mother holding her infant wrapped snugly against the winter cold took Mohr's thoughts to another modest birth almost two thousand years earlier.
Tentatively, he began writing. His pen moved as if guided by an invisible hand. A haunting refrain, "Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht!" appeared on the paper: "Silent night, holy night." In phrases as simple as a children's poem, the young curate told of the Christmas miracle in six stanzas. It was as if the words flowed directly from heaven.
Time was growing short when he finished. The verses still had to be set to music in time for midnight Mass. Mohr decided to seek out his good friend Franz Xaver Gruber, 31, the schoolmaster at nearby Arnsdorf, and a more skilled composer than he was.
Unlike Mohr, Gruber had had to hide his passion for music. To his strict father, a weaver, music was not a suitable profession for putting bread on the table. So in the evening, Franz would creep out of the house to take music lessons from the local schoolmaster. He did so well that when his father heard him playing the organ one day, the elder Gruber relented and let his son study music.
Franz decided to become a teacher as well. In those days a schoolmaster was expected to serve as organist and choirmaster at a local church. Sent to Arnsdorf to teach, Gruber had been welcomed at neighboring St. Nicholas.
That Christmas Eve, according to historians who pieced together the story, Mohr visited Gruber and his large family at their modest living quarters above the school. Mohr told his friend of his dilemma. Handing over his newly written words, Mohr asked Gruber whether he could compose a tune to fit them, suitable for two voices, chorus and guitar, and in time for midnight Mass.
As Gruber read Father Mohr's words, he was surely struck by their beauty and innocence. He went to his piano to begin work while Mohr returned to his church.
Drawing on three of the most basic harmonies in the musical repertoire, the organist wove a plain, hauntingly evocative melody. Then he took it to Father Mohr late that evening. With barely time for a rehearsal, the two men agreed that Mohr would play his guitar and sing tenor while Gruber sang bass. Following each stanza, the church chorus would chime in on the refrain.
At midnight, parishioners filed in, probably expecting the organ to fill the church with the resounding notes of Christmas hymns. Instead, the building was silent as they crowded into the narrow wooden pews.
Father Mohr stepped into the nave and beckoned the schoolmaster to stand by his side. Holding his guitar, the curate must have explained to the assembled flock that, although the organ was broken, the midnight Mass would include music nonetheless: he and Gruber had prepared a special Christmas song for the congregation.
With Mohr strumming the guitar, two mellow voices soon filled the church. The choir joined in four-part harmony at each refrain. The parishioners listened in awe to a carol that was as pure and fresh as an Alpine stream. Then Mohr proceeded with the celebration of the Mass, and the congregation knelt in prayer. Christmas Eve at St. Nicholas had been a success.
The story almost ended there. Mohr and Gruber had created their carol as a stopgap for a temporary problem and probably had no thoughts of performing the song again. The following spring, a repairman patched up the organ. Soon Mohr was transferred to a different parish. For a few years, the carol fell as silent as the night it had glorified in 1818.
But luckily for the world, the organ at St. Nicholas remained cantankerous. In 1824 or '25, the parish hired a master organ builder by the name of Carl Mauracher to reconstruct it. During his time in the loft, Mauracher happened upon the song that Mohr and Gruber had composed. Its universal simplicity must have appealed to the old organ master. Overseeing work on the St. Nicholas organ, Gruber gladly gave his consent when Mauracher requested a copy of "Silent Night."
On leaving Oberndorf, Mauracher carried the song with him. People who heard it through him were enchanted with the words and melody. Soon troupes of Tyrolean folk singers, who regularly fanned out over Europe, added "Silent Night" to their repertoires.
Among those who did were the Strasser Family. These four brothers and sisters with angelic voices performed at trade fairs while peddling gloves made by the family. In 1831 or '32, the Strassers sang "Silent Night" at a fair in Leipzig, Germany. Audiences loved it. Not long after, a local publisher printed it for the first time, identifying it only as Tirolerlied, or a Tyrolean song. There was no mention of Joseph Mohr or Franz Gruber.
The words and tune now spread rapidly. Soon "Silent Night" crossed the Atlantic with the Rainers, a family of folk singers performing and traveling in the United States. In New York City in 1839 or '40, the Rainers introduced the English-speaking world to the song.
Audiences everywhere began to believe that "Silent Night" was more than a simple folk song. Some listeners attributed it to one of the Haydns. But in their villages, Gruber and Mohr remained unaware of the stir their song was creating. Father Mohr died of pneumonia, penniless, in 1848 at the age of 55. He never learned that his song had reached some of Earth's farthest corners. Gruber heard of the song's success only in 1854, when the concertmaster for King Frederick William IV of Prussia began searching for its source. When word reached Gruber, then 67, he sent a letter to Berlin telling the origins of the song.
At first, few scholars believed that two humble men could have dreamed up such a popular Christmas carol. When Gruber died in 1863, his authorship was still challenged. That same year, the Rev. John Freeman Young, who later became Episcopal Bishop of Florida, translated three stanzas of the carol into the English verses we still sing today.
There is no longer any controversy over the authorship of the original song. Memorials in Austria pay tribute to Mohr and Gruber, and their legacy has become an essential part of Christmas everywhere. Says William E. Studwell of Northern Illinois University, an expert on Christmas carols, " 'Silent Night' is the musical symbol of Christmas."
Indeed, the carol is now sung on every continent in the world in scores of languages, from the original German to Welsh, from Swahili to Afrikaans, from Japanese to Russian--all expressing the same deep feelings of peace and joy. It has been recorded by singers from Bing Crosby to Elvis Presley.
Over the years, the simple carol has shown a profound power to create heavenly peace. During the Christmas truce of 1914, for example, German soldiers in the trenches along the Western Front began singing "Silent Night." From the other side of no man's land, British soldiers joined in.
During the same war, at a Siberian prison camp, German, Austrian and Hungarian prisoners broke into a chorus of "Silent Night." With tears in his eyes, the Russian commandant told his prisoners in broken German, "Tonight is the first time in more than a year of war that I have been able to forget you and I are supposed to be enemies."
In Nazi-occupied Czechoslovakia in 1944, a German officer visiting an orphanage asked if any of the children knew "Silent Night" in German. A boy and a girl walked hesitatingly forward, then began to sing "Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht." The officer smiled, but then the children stopped singing, as if suddenly remembering something, and looked terrified. In that part of the country, it was primarily Jews who knew German. Seeing their fear, the officer comforted them. "Don't be afraid," he said. He, too, had been touched by the magic of the song.
Seven years later, on a Christmas Eve during the Korean War, a young American soldier named John Thorsness was on guard duty when he thought he heard the enemy approach. Finger on the trigger, he watched a crowd of Koreans emerge from the darkness. They were smiling. As the young soldier stood in amazement, the group sang "Silent Night"--in Korean--just for him. Then they melted back into the darkness.
We have our own "Silent Night" memory, dating back to the first Christmas Eve we celebrated in our Congregational church in Redding, Conn. When we entered, a deacon handed us each a small white candle.
At the end of an hour of carols and Bible readings, the church lights were dimmed. The minister lit a taper from an altar candle, and walked to two people in the front pew. They, in turn, lit the candles next to them.
Seated in the rear, we watched as a wave of flickering light spread from pew to pew. Then the organ began to play, and the congregation joined in the song born Christmas Eve so many miles and so many years ago: "Silent night, holy night, All is calm, all is bright...."
When the last verse had ended, everyone stood absolutely still in the glow of candlelight. The haunting words and simple melody lingered in our hearts, just as they have lingered in the hearts of people throughout the world since a young priest and his schoolmaster friend first sang it 175 years ago.
Snow fell softly onto the wooden and stone houses of Oberndorf, an Austrian village near Salzburg. Inside, villagers decorated freshly hewn spruce trees with candles, fruit and nuts as they prepared for the holiest of nights. Soon bells would peal from Oberndorf's modest church to announce midnight Mass, and the faithful would celebrate the birth of Christ with prayer and song.
Within the Church of St. Nicholas, however, the mood was hardly one of joy that Christmas Eve afternoon in 1818. Curate Joseph Mohr, 26, had just discovered that the organ was badly damaged. No matter how hard the pedals were pumped, he could coax only a scratchy wheeze from the ancient instrument. Mohr was desperate. By the time a repairman could reach the parish, Christmas would be long over. To the young curate, a Christmas without music was unthinkable.
Mohr had a natural instinct for music. As a boy, the illegitimate son of a seamstress and a soldier, he had earned money singing and playing the violin and guitar in public. At school, and then at the university, he lived on money he earned as a performer. His hard work and talent caught the attention of a clergyman who persuaded Mohr to enter the seminary. Ordained a priest in 1815, Mohr was posted to Oberndorf in 1817. There, he not only preached the Psalms, but surprised some of his congregation by strumming a guitar, switching easily from folk music to hymns.
Now, faced with a Christmas crisis, the young cleric withdrew to the quiet of his study. Realizing that the traditional Christmas carols would not sound right on a guitar, he decided to produce a new song. Bending over a sheet of blank paper, his quill pen poised, he thought about a parish family he had recently visited to bless their newborn child. The memory of that mother holding her infant wrapped snugly against the winter cold took Mohr's thoughts to another modest birth almost two thousand years earlier.
Tentatively, he began writing. His pen moved as if guided by an invisible hand. A haunting refrain, "Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht!" appeared on the paper: "Silent night, holy night." In phrases as simple as a children's poem, the young curate told of the Christmas miracle in six stanzas. It was as if the words flowed directly from heaven.
Time was growing short when he finished. The verses still had to be set to music in time for midnight Mass. Mohr decided to seek out his good friend Franz Xaver Gruber, 31, the schoolmaster at nearby Arnsdorf, and a more skilled composer than he was.
Unlike Mohr, Gruber had had to hide his passion for music. To his strict father, a weaver, music was not a suitable profession for putting bread on the table. So in the evening, Franz would creep out of the house to take music lessons from the local schoolmaster. He did so well that when his father heard him playing the organ one day, the elder Gruber relented and let his son study music.
Franz decided to become a teacher as well. In those days a schoolmaster was expected to serve as organist and choirmaster at a local church. Sent to Arnsdorf to teach, Gruber had been welcomed at neighboring St. Nicholas.
That Christmas Eve, according to historians who pieced together the story, Mohr visited Gruber and his large family at their modest living quarters above the school. Mohr told his friend of his dilemma. Handing over his newly written words, Mohr asked Gruber whether he could compose a tune to fit them, suitable for two voices, chorus and guitar, and in time for midnight Mass.
As Gruber read Father Mohr's words, he was surely struck by their beauty and innocence. He went to his piano to begin work while Mohr returned to his church.
Drawing on three of the most basic harmonies in the musical repertoire, the organist wove a plain, hauntingly evocative melody. Then he took it to Father Mohr late that evening. With barely time for a rehearsal, the two men agreed that Mohr would play his guitar and sing tenor while Gruber sang bass. Following each stanza, the church chorus would chime in on the refrain.
At midnight, parishioners filed in, probably expecting the organ to fill the church with the resounding notes of Christmas hymns. Instead, the building was silent as they crowded into the narrow wooden pews.
Father Mohr stepped into the nave and beckoned the schoolmaster to stand by his side. Holding his guitar, the curate must have explained to the assembled flock that, although the organ was broken, the midnight Mass would include music nonetheless: he and Gruber had prepared a special Christmas song for the congregation.
With Mohr strumming the guitar, two mellow voices soon filled the church. The choir joined in four-part harmony at each refrain. The parishioners listened in awe to a carol that was as pure and fresh as an Alpine stream. Then Mohr proceeded with the celebration of the Mass, and the congregation knelt in prayer. Christmas Eve at St. Nicholas had been a success.
The story almost ended there. Mohr and Gruber had created their carol as a stopgap for a temporary problem and probably had no thoughts of performing the song again. The following spring, a repairman patched up the organ. Soon Mohr was transferred to a different parish. For a few years, the carol fell as silent as the night it had glorified in 1818.
But luckily for the world, the organ at St. Nicholas remained cantankerous. In 1824 or '25, the parish hired a master organ builder by the name of Carl Mauracher to reconstruct it. During his time in the loft, Mauracher happened upon the song that Mohr and Gruber had composed. Its universal simplicity must have appealed to the old organ master. Overseeing work on the St. Nicholas organ, Gruber gladly gave his consent when Mauracher requested a copy of "Silent Night."
On leaving Oberndorf, Mauracher carried the song with him. People who heard it through him were enchanted with the words and melody. Soon troupes of Tyrolean folk singers, who regularly fanned out over Europe, added "Silent Night" to their repertoires.
Among those who did were the Strasser Family. These four brothers and sisters with angelic voices performed at trade fairs while peddling gloves made by the family. In 1831 or '32, the Strassers sang "Silent Night" at a fair in Leipzig, Germany. Audiences loved it. Not long after, a local publisher printed it for the first time, identifying it only as Tirolerlied, or a Tyrolean song. There was no mention of Joseph Mohr or Franz Gruber.
The words and tune now spread rapidly. Soon "Silent Night" crossed the Atlantic with the Rainers, a family of folk singers performing and traveling in the United States. In New York City in 1839 or '40, the Rainers introduced the English-speaking world to the song.
Audiences everywhere began to believe that "Silent Night" was more than a simple folk song. Some listeners attributed it to one of the Haydns. But in their villages, Gruber and Mohr remained unaware of the stir their song was creating. Father Mohr died of pneumonia, penniless, in 1848 at the age of 55. He never learned that his song had reached some of Earth's farthest corners. Gruber heard of the song's success only in 1854, when the concertmaster for King Frederick William IV of Prussia began searching for its source. When word reached Gruber, then 67, he sent a letter to Berlin telling the origins of the song.
At first, few scholars believed that two humble men could have dreamed up such a popular Christmas carol. When Gruber died in 1863, his authorship was still challenged. That same year, the Rev. John Freeman Young, who later became Episcopal Bishop of Florida, translated three stanzas of the carol into the English verses we still sing today.
There is no longer any controversy over the authorship of the original song. Memorials in Austria pay tribute to Mohr and Gruber, and their legacy has become an essential part of Christmas everywhere. Says William E. Studwell of Northern Illinois University, an expert on Christmas carols, " 'Silent Night' is the musical symbol of Christmas."
Indeed, the carol is now sung on every continent in the world in scores of languages, from the original German to Welsh, from Swahili to Afrikaans, from Japanese to Russian--all expressing the same deep feelings of peace and joy. It has been recorded by singers from Bing Crosby to Elvis Presley.
Over the years, the simple carol has shown a profound power to create heavenly peace. During the Christmas truce of 1914, for example, German soldiers in the trenches along the Western Front began singing "Silent Night." From the other side of no man's land, British soldiers joined in.
During the same war, at a Siberian prison camp, German, Austrian and Hungarian prisoners broke into a chorus of "Silent Night." With tears in his eyes, the Russian commandant told his prisoners in broken German, "Tonight is the first time in more than a year of war that I have been able to forget you and I are supposed to be enemies."
In Nazi-occupied Czechoslovakia in 1944, a German officer visiting an orphanage asked if any of the children knew "Silent Night" in German. A boy and a girl walked hesitatingly forward, then began to sing "Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht." The officer smiled, but then the children stopped singing, as if suddenly remembering something, and looked terrified. In that part of the country, it was primarily Jews who knew German. Seeing their fear, the officer comforted them. "Don't be afraid," he said. He, too, had been touched by the magic of the song.
Seven years later, on a Christmas Eve during the Korean War, a young American soldier named John Thorsness was on guard duty when he thought he heard the enemy approach. Finger on the trigger, he watched a crowd of Koreans emerge from the darkness. They were smiling. As the young soldier stood in amazement, the group sang "Silent Night"--in Korean--just for him. Then they melted back into the darkness.
We have our own "Silent Night" memory, dating back to the first Christmas Eve we celebrated in our Congregational church in Redding, Conn. When we entered, a deacon handed us each a small white candle.
At the end of an hour of carols and Bible readings, the church lights were dimmed. The minister lit a taper from an altar candle, and walked to two people in the front pew. They, in turn, lit the candles next to them.
Seated in the rear, we watched as a wave of flickering light spread from pew to pew. Then the organ began to play, and the congregation joined in the song born Christmas Eve so many miles and so many years ago: "Silent night, holy night, All is calm, all is bright...."
When the last verse had ended, everyone stood absolutely still in the glow of candlelight. The haunting words and simple melody lingered in our hearts, just as they have lingered in the hearts of people throughout the world since a young priest and his schoolmaster friend first sang it 175 years ago.
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