With a Cadillac, a maid, and a gardener, my family always had a
Christmas with the best gifts from Santa’s sleigh.
My anticipation of opening gifts on Christmas Day was boundless,
for I knew my mother was an uncontrolled shopper when it came to my whims. After opening one gift after another, I toted
my new acquisitions up and down the street so all the neighbors would know that
Santa loved me best and that my parents were spoiling me to my complete
satisfaction.
From such a worldly background of material prosperity, it seemed
only natural for me to fantasize that when I had children of my own the
established tradition of wealth and abundant giving at Christmas would continue.
If that had been the case, I would not have had one memorable Christmas—just
more of the same.
It was in 1977, that my Christmas took a strange twist.
Circumstances had changed. I was no longer the little girl awaiting the parental
handout, but was an adult attempting to make my own way in life. I was a
graduate student in 1977, completing a doctoral degree and raising three small
sons alone. Like several other graduate students, I had obtained university
employment as a research writer for a professor; and like most of the students,
I was struggling to meet my financial obligations.
Five days before Christmas, I realized that my mismanagement of
funds would prevent much gift buying of any kind. It seemed unbearable to me.
Cuddling my sons, I reluctantly explained my abhorrence of debt and
the specter of our economic plight. My emotions surfaced as the children
attempted to comfort me by nodding assuredly, “Don’t worry! Santa Claus will give us gifts.”
Cautiously, I explained, “I think Santa Claus is also having a bad
year.”
With certainty my first born son, Brian, announced, “But on
television his sleigh is still filled with toys. With five days left till Christmas, he’ll
have plenty for us.” His younger brother
Todd interjected, “Besides, Santa won’t forget us. We’ve been good this year.”
As all three nodded in agreement, I did too. My sons had been good.
They had found happiness and friendship in our family; we all were unusually
close. Perhaps it was our circumstance. Yet,
despite their goodness, they would soon be disappointed because neither Santa
nor mother would bring the desired presents on Christmas Day.
That night I cried and pled with the Lord for relief, for a glimmer
of hope that Christmas in our home would be better than I anticipated. My
verbal prayers awakened the children. They seemed to intuitively know what was
causing my unhappiness. “Don’t worry about presents. It doesn’t matter,” said
Brian. I knew it didn’t matter on December 20th, but I knew it would be
all-important on December 25th.
The next morning I could not hide the despair and self-pity that
had marred my face through the night. “What is wrong?” I was asked again and
again at the university. My trite reply was “Nothing.”
Arriving home, I methodically pulled the mail from the mailbox as I
entered the house. A curious, unstamped
envelope caught my attention. “To a very, very, very, very, very special lady”
was typewritten on the envelope. I gazed at the envelope and wondered if it
were meant for me. Hoping it was, I tore
it open. To my surprise I found several dollars inside, but not a note of
explanation.
“Come quickly,” I beckoned the children. Together we counted the
money, examined the envelope, and expressed wonder at the anonymous gift. This
was a direct answer to my prayer. There was enough money in the envelope to buy
an extra gift for each child. I was stunned and amazed, and my joy and excitement
of Christmas had returned. It was going to be a great Christmas Day after all. It
wouldn’t be as lavish as those of my childhood, but it would be good enough.
I was curious. Where had the money come from? Could it be from a
neighbor, a friend, a classmate, or the bishop? Logical deduction led me first
to near neighbors. As I attempted to thank them, each stammered and then
confessed, “It wasn’t me.” Asking friends and classmates rendered similar
comments.
It must be the bishop, I decided. He denied being our benefactor,
however, and assured us that he did not know who had been so kind.
Curiosity mounted as nightfall approached. I read the envelope
again: “To a very, very, very, very, very special lady.” This time I noticed
that the “e” and “L” were misshapen letters produced by an old typewriter
ribbon. I also observed that each dollar bill had been folded and unfolded many
times, as if each one had been of infinite worth. My desire to uncover the
identity of the anonymous donor grew. Soon that desire was coupled with the
gnawing resolve to return the money. The misshapen letters and folded bills
evidenced that the generous donor also had financial difficulties.
I couldn’t sleep that night. Again and again I asked myself, “Who
was it?” I had the clues of the old typewriter ribbon and the folded money, but
not the answer. I can’t really describe how I finally knew who the benefactor
was, but about two o’clock in the morning, I knew. I knew who had a broken
typewriter, and who needed to replace their ribbon, and who carefully folded
and unfolded money, checking each dollar bill. It was my three sons.
With tears of love, I awoke the donors. Blurry-eyed they asked, “What’s wrong?” I
replied, “Nothing’s wrong; everything is right! You gave me the money. You gave
me all the money you posses!” Opening the bedroom closet door, I pulled out
three empty jars that once had contained their treasured fortune. They sat
silent for several moments until my nine-year-old Brian turned to his younger
brother Todd and punched him. “You told!” he exclaimed. Attempting to fend off
further blows, Todd yelled, “It wasn’t me, it must have been John.” Their
five-year-old brother immediately said, “It wasn’t me,” as both boys landed on
him. In unison they asked, “How did you know?"
I
had searched outside my home for the answer—but the answer was within. I had
seen generosity in all those around me, but had failed to recognize the
generous hearts of my children. And now
I more clearly knew why the Savior had said, “Suffer the little children to
come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of heaven.” My
house, with all of its material flaws, was my heaven on earth, and my sons were
my greatest treasure. Christmas 1977 was
indeed a merry Christmas worth remembering.
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