Our Matchbox Christmas

Author Unknown

It was a rainy California Christmas Eve. Our tree was lit
up, and it shone through the large picture window of
our home in military quarters at Port Hueneme. My
husband would finally be spending Christmas with us.
He had often missed the holidays due to deployments,
leaving me and our three small children alone for
Christmas. He had just returned home from Vietnam
and would be home for six months. Then he would have
to go back to fighting the war in Vietnam.

Our children, six, four and two years old, were
anxiously waiting for their daddy to return from
battalion headquarters. He had to “muster and make
it.” Their little noses had been pressed against the big
frosty window almost all afternoon, waiting for him to
come back home.

Their daddy was a Seabee, and we were all as proud of
him as we could be, but we often struggled to make
ends meet. Once a month, I would buy a month’s worth
of groceries, and this month, I had managed to squeeze
in a large turkey and all the trimmings, to cook for our
Christmas Eve meal, but money for presents was
scarce. I had bought my husband a small gift, and he
had bought me one. The children each had a handful of
tiny department-store toys, all individually wrapped and
waiting for the big day. There were no names on the
small gifts; I could feel through the paper and tell what
they were.

I saw my husband’s car headlights cut through the dark
winter mist that engulfed our home. I pushed back my
hair and straightened my clothes. The children and I
rushed to the door. This was our big night! It had been
our tradition back home in Texas to eat our big meal on
Christmas Eve night, and this year we were going to eat
better than we usually did. Our little table was laden
with all sorts of tasty-looking food. Each of the kids
would get to open one present, and Santa Claus would
be coming after they went to sleep.

To my surprise, when I opened the door to give my
husband a big kiss, standing behind him were three
burly Seabees. They hung their heads as they entered
our home, as if to apologize for intruding on our family
feast.

“Honey,” my husband said, almost apologetically,
“these are some of the guys who were with me in
‘Nam. Their families are thousands of miles away. They
were just sitting in the barracks, and I asked them if
they wanted to come eat with us. Is it okay if they
stay?”

I was thrilled to have Christmas company. We, too,
were thousands of miles away from friends and family.
It had been so long since we had “entertained.” We
gladly shared our small feast with those three huge
Seabees. After dinner, we all sat down in the living
room. The children started begging to open their gifts.
I sat them down and walked over to the tree to get
them each a tiny wrapped gift.

As I glanced up, I could see my husband’s friends
sitting there looking sad and distant. I realized how
bittersweet it must feel to be here with us. I knew they
must be thinking about their own children, wives and
homes. They were staring down at the floor, lost in the
loneliness of the season, trying to shake the horrible
memories of the war they had just left — a war to
which they would soon return.

Quickly, I scooped up six colorfully wrapped Matchbox
cars. I called each of our children’s names, and they
quickly opened their presents. Soon, all three of them
were rolling their cars on the floor.

I walked over to the men. “Well, what do you know?” I
said. “Old Santa must have known you were going to be
here!”

Those big old Seabees looked up in surprise. They
opened their treasures: a Matchbox car for each of
them. Within seconds after they opened the gifts,
those men, grinning from ear to ear, were down on the
floor playing with their tiny cars.

I looked up at my husband. “How about me?” he asked.
“Did Santa leave me anything?”

I reached under the tree and handed him a tiny present
also. He joyfully joined our children and his friends.
They must have played for hours. They ate, told funny
stories and laughed while they rolled those race cars
around on the floor.

I watched them there, filled with pride. These men had
fought for us and kept us free. Free to have nights like
this one, and others that were to come.

I didn’t really know these men, but there they were,
sitting on our floor. They would have given the world to
be back home with their loved ones, but it wasn’t
possible. They had committed to defend our country.
They were trying to make the best of an awful time in
their lives.

Soon, the races were over, the food was almost all
devoured, and each of the men said their goodbyes and
left our home, their faces shining with new hope. In
each of their hands, clutched tightly, was a tiny
Matchbox car.

Years have passed since that Christmas Eve night. Two
of the men returned from the war. One didn’t.
We have seen them over the years, visited their
homes, met their families. The men have swapped war
stories while the women shared “left at home to do it
all by ourselves” stories. Our children played together.

When we first met again, I was surprised to learn that
every one of the men had kept their cars in their
pockets when they were in ‘Nam. When times got
tough, and everything would get still, the men would
quietly take out those little cars. They would give each
other a grin, as if to promise that there would be
another race and that they would see another day.

And they showed me how, high on a mantel, or proudly
displayed in a shadow box, safely tucked away from
harm, they still have their tiny Matchbox cars!