No Christmas Tree, No Presents

No Christmas Tree, No Presents

By Mrs. Boyd Lemon

Deseret News, December 20, 1971

 

It was still the first week in December and my Christmas shopping was finished. My fruitcake was stored in the refrigerator, the Christmas cookies were in the freezer, and the hand-dipped chocolates were ready to be boxed.

 

My cupboards were stocked for the holidays, and for the first time during my marriage my parents had waited to come to visit us until after the holidays. Even more important, the children and I felt that we had found "home." For the family of an Air Force sergeant in electronics, home had been many places and often changed. Here in Nevada, we felt we belonged; we loved the people, the climate, and the joy of living there in the beautiful desert lands. Never had we know such contentment.

 

This was the first time I had been so ready for Christmas so early. With the responsibilities of eight small children, I was usually never quite ready. All I had to do now was to take care of the school Christmas programs, the angel and the shepherd costumes for church, the parties and the programs, and enjoy the Christmas spirit and the miracle of love that works its special wonders at this time of year.

 

That Friday afternoon my husband came home and asked if I had my bags packed. Stunned, I asked him why.

He replied, "We’re leaving Monday morning for San Francisco. Our overseas flight takes off Tuesday afternoon."

 

My husband had received an assignment nearly eight thousand miles away, and we had been given less than three days to prepare to leave.

 

I stamped my foot and said, "I won’t go. They can’t make me go like this. And besides, even if I could get ready, the government could never get us packed and out of there by Monday morning."

 

My husband just looked at me, shook his head, and said, "Honey, you’re on your way."

 

Thanks to many friends and to my parents we packed, shipped our household goods, cleaned the house, signed out, and Monday morning we were on our way. We drove all day and all night to get our car to the port for shipment and to make our flight connections in San Francisco. I cried all the way, emotionally and physically exhausted, wondering why this disruption in our lives when everything had seemed to right.

 

After we boarded the plane and we were in the air, I looked down at the coastline and wondered when I would see it again. I immediately dissolved into tears. I didn’t want any part of this, but here I was and there didn’t seem to be anything I could do about it. The thought that I could adjust had not yet occurred to me.

 

We crossed the international date line, which added another ten hours of darkness to our night., we lost a day, and we arrived at our destination at night. It was as dark as my spirits.

 

Following behind my family, I stepped out of the plane into the hot, moist tropical air of the Philippine Islands. I wondered how I would ever stand it for two years.

 

After clearing through customs, we left the airport to go to the house that had been prepared for us. I was further dismayed by the sight of the compound fences, gates, and the security guard that patrolled our area twenty-dour hours a day. In the days that followed I made a half-hearted attempt to get settled. I started with the twelve trunks and suitcases that we had carried with us.

 

My state of mind during the packing was clearly defined when I opened up our trunks. We found that our oldest daughter’s clothing had all gone into permanent storage, and she had nothing but the clothes she had traveled in.

 

We found valuable space had been taken up by articles that had no immediate value, and many essential items had ben left behind to follow with the rest of the shipment. The final touch was the suitcase full of Christmas cookies we had hand-carried for nearly eight thousand miles.

 

We found our Christmas presents had been inadvertently place in permanent storage along with our summer clothes. Our winter clothes and blankets were on their way to us, sitting practically on top of the equator.

 

No car, no friends, no money. Only days before Christmas, and we found out that our pay records had been lost and we wouldn’t get paid before the end of January at least. We knew there would be no Christmas tree, no presents, and no festive meal with turkey and all the trimmings. After all my work and weeks of preparations, I had never felt so desolate.

 

But not the children. There were out exploring, excitedly living each moment of each day. They were exploring our new neighborhood, getting acquainted with the neighbors, experimenting with a new language.

 

One day I noticed the children walking around the house with their eyes closed, feeling their way with their hands and bumping into everything. It seemed peculiar behavior and they were all doing it, so I asked them why.

 

They told me that twelve-year-old Marty who lived across the street had been blind since birth. They wanted to know what it was like to be blind.

 

It was like being hit in the face with reality. While I was living in the past and feeling sorry for myself, my children were living in the here and now and they were becoming involved with other people, especially Marty, a beautiful, happy child, deprived of so much by accident at birth, yet so loving and giving and bringing joy into the lives of all who knew her.

 

The children found out that Marty’s family had been there only a week longer than we had; the family on one side arrived the day after we did, and the family on the other side had been there only a month. We had much in common. They all had children, and they too were strangers, and lonely.

 

The children became completely involved with Marty, finding out how to play the games that a blind person could play. John, with his guitar, found out she liked to sing as much as our children did, and there were songfests.

 

The children decided to put on a Christmas program. They combined their talents, improvised costumes, and gave us the story of the first Christmas; then Mary, with the voice of an angel, sang "Silent Night."

 

Without a Christmas tree, presents, or a feast, it was one of our most memorable Christmases. We’ll never forget it.

 

I’ll never forget Marty and the lesson of love I learned from her, and the changes that I was able to make in my life, the willingness to accept my life and be thankful for all that I had, and the peace and joy that came into my life because of her.

 

At the end of the two years, we were not ready to return – we stayed another six months, and enjoyed every minute to the fullest, even though Marty had long since gone out of our lives, leaving only the influence of her love and the life she lived – our most valued gift that first Christmas in that faraway land.