Christmas Magic

Author Unknown

I wish I could tell you that the whole thing happened because I’m caring and unselfish, but that wouldn’t be true. I had just moved back to Wisconsin from Colorado because I missed my family and Denver wages were terrible. I took a job at a hospice in Milwaukee and found my niche working with the patients and families. As the season changed into fall, the schedule for the holidays was posted.

I was devastated. Newly engaged, it was my first Christmas back home with my family after many years. But with no seniority, I had little clout to get Christmas off while my dedicated colleagues worked.

While lamenting my predicament, I came up with an idea. Since I couldn’t be with my family, I would bring my family to the hospice. With the patients and their families struggling through their last Christmases together, maybe this gathering would lend support. My family thought it was a wonderful plan, and so did the staff. Several invited their relatives to participate, too.

As we brain-stormed ideas for a hospice Christmas, we remembered the annual 11:00 P.M. Christmas Eve service scheduled in the hospital chapel.

“Why don’t we take the patients to church?” I suggested.

“Yes,” replied another staff nurse. “It’s a beautiful candlelight service with music. I bet the patients would love it.”

“Great. And we can have a little party afterwards, with punch, cookies and small gifts,” I added.

Our enthusiasm increased as we planned the details of our hospice Christmas celebration.

Now, it never occurred to me that all these great ideas might not float so well with the administration. It never occurred to me that we might have to get permission for each of these activities—until the director called me into her office.

“Uh, Barb, I’m hearing rumors of a Christmas Eve celebration here at the hospice.”

“Well, yes,” I replied. Eagerly, I outlined all the plans and ideas the staff had developed. Fortunately for my career, she thought involving our families with the unit activities was a wonderful idea, too.

“But,” she said, “certainly you are not serious about taking the patients to church. It has never been done.”

“Yes, I’m serious. It would mean a lot to the patients and families.”

“Very seldom do you see any patients at this service, and if they do go, they are ambulatory and dressed.” She shook her head. “Our patients are too sick to go.”

“But a number of them have indicated an interest,” I argued.

“I cannot authorize the additional staff needed.”

“The family members can help.”

“What about the liability?”

Now I felt like saying, “What could be the worst thing that could happen—someone dies in church?” But I didn’t. I just kept convincing her, until she begrudgingly gave approval.

Christmas Eve arrived. Family members gathered in the lounge and decorated a small tree, complete with wrapped packages. Then we implemented our plan for the staff and families to transport the patients to the chapel. While most of the patients had family members with them, one young girl had no one. At just nineteen, Sandy had terminal liver cancer. Her mother had died of cancer three years previously, and her father stopped coming long ago. Perhaps he couldn’t sit by the bedside of another loved one dying so young. So my family “took charge” of Sandy. My sister combed her hair while my mother applied just a hint of lipstick. They laughed and joked like three old friends as my fiancé helped her move to a gurney.

Meanwhile, other nurses hung IVs on poles, put IVACs on battery support and gave last-minute pain meds. Then, with patients in wheelchairs and on gurneys, we paraded our group into the chapel just as they were finishing “Joy to the World,” with the organ and bells ringing out in perfect harmony. Silence descended on the congregation as we rolled slowly down the aisle. The minister just stood there with his mouth open, staring. Everyone turned around to look at us. We faltered in our steps, each movement echoing in the large, crowded chapel.

Then the magic began.

One by one, people stood up, filed into the aisle and began to help us. They handed patients hymnals and distributed programs. They wheeled patients to the front so they could see well. They handed out candles to be lit for the closing hymn. One woman adjusted Sandy’s pillow and stroked her hair. Throughout the service, the congregation catered to our patients, guiding them through the worship.

The beautiful service closed with a candlelight recessional to “Silent Night.” Voices rang in disjointed harmony as the congregation assisted us in exiting the chapel and returning our charges to the unit. Many stayed to share punch and cookies and stories.

As I got Sandy ready for bed that late night, she whispered, “This was one of the nicest Christmases I ever had.”

When I shared her comments with my family later, we realized the magic that evening was on many levels. The unit had a special climate we’d never experienced before. Sandy had one of the best Christmases she’d ever known. The congregation had shared in a special, caring way. But we also realized that this evening impacted our family as well. We felt closer, bonded in purpose and spirit.

Since that Christmas, my family has been blessed with many Christmases together—but I think that one was the best. Like the author Bill Shore, I, too, believe that when you give to others and give to the community, you create something within yourself that is important and lasting. He calls it the “Cathedral Within.”

Our family cathedral is a little stronger for the privilege of giving that Christmas.