Aaron’s Christmas Tree

by Alma J. Yates

It was my first Christmas after Dad died. I was only seven then, but I was the man of the house - at least that’s what Dad had always told me whenever he went somewhere. Whenever he had to go away, he’d say to me, “Son, you’re the man of the house while I’m gone, and I want you to look after Mom and Aaron.”

Aaron’s my little brother, and he was only four that Christmas. We didn’t have much money with Dad gone; at least that’s what Mom told me. Now when she went to the store, she didn’t buy peanuts and candy like she used to when Dad was still alive. Aaron didn’t get much for his birthday either - just a ball, and it wasn’t even new. I didn’t tell Aaron because he liked the ball just fine.

Christmas was getting close, and I was getting excited. I told Aaron all about Christmas. He couldn’t remember the other ones because he was just a baby then. I told him about the lights and the decorations, and about Jesus in a manger, and about the presents and the stockings and about Santa Claus. Aaron didn’t talk much, but he listened a lot. I really liked Aaron because he was a good listener.

Lots of times when we were in bed at night, Aaron would ask me to tell him about Christmas. I’d talk and talk until I was sure he was asleep, but as soon as I stopped talking, he whispered, “Alma, tell me again.” I would have to start all over. He’d never go to sleep until I finally told him that my throat was sore and that I had to stop talking.

The thing Aaron liked to hear about the most was the Christmas tree. Whenever I talked about the tree, his eyes got really big and he’d smile. He always asked me if we would have a tree, and I’d say, “Sure. Everybody has a tree. You can’t have Christmas without a tree.” Well, I shouldn’t have said that, because later Mom told me we couldn’t afford to have a tree.

I was in trouble then, because it was getting close to Christmas and everybody on our street had trees in their windows. Aaron was getting more excited. He asked me every night to tell him about Christmas and the Christmas tree.

I didn’t know what to do, but I knew I had to do something. Then on Sunday, my Sunday School teacher told a story about a pioneer boy who found his own Christmas tree. He just went outside and found a tree in the woods and cut it down. It didn’t cost him anything. I didn’t hear the rest of the story. All I could think about was getting a tree.

On the way home, I looked for a tree. We weren’t pioneers or anything like that; we were just poor. We didn’t live in the woods either, but there were some Christmas trees growing in our neighborhood. Lots of people grew Christmas trees in their yards, and there were some growing in the park, but most of them were too big for our house. We didn’t have a very big house, so I knew I had to get a little tree that would fit.

I looked and looked, and I almost decided there weren’t any trees our size when I saw one in Mr. Hubbard’s yard, right next to the sidewalk. The tree was about as high as my mom, and it was really fluffy with lots of bluish-green branches. That was the tree I was going to get for Aaron. That night in bed, I told Aaron all about the tree and asked him if he would help me cut it down. He said he would, and then he asked me to tell him about Christmas again.

The next day, when Mom was in the house cooking supper, Aaron and I went to the garage and got an axe and one of Dad’s saws. We put the axe and the saw into my wagon and started down the street. At first, Aaron pushed while I pulled, but after a while, he climbed into the wagon and rode.

Mr. and Mrs. Hubbard weren’t home when we got to their house. I was glad, because I didn’t want to ask them if I could cut down their tree. I figured it would be easier to just cut it down like the boy in the story and not ask anybody anything. Besides, I didn’t think Mr. Hubbard would mind. He was the nicest man I knew, next to my dad. He was our home teacher, and he visited us all the time. He did lots of nice things for us, especially after Dad died. He told us that whatever we needed he’d try to get for us. So I didn’t think he’d care if we cut down his tree, because Aaron really needed a Christmas tree, and I didn’t know how else to get him one.

I got to work, but Aaron just sat in the wagon and watched. Although it was cold, he didn’t ask to go home. He wanted a Christmas tree. First, I had to saw off some of the branches so I could chop at the trunk. That was kind of hard, because the branches pricked my hands and face.

As soon as I got the branches out of the way, I got the axe out of the wagon and started to chop, but it didn’t work very well. The axe was too big. It kept hitting into the branches and bouncing off the trunk. I knocked off some bark, but I couldn’t chop down the tree. I kept trying though until I dropped the axe on my foot. Then I just had to cry because my foot really hurt. I didn’t let Aaron see me though. I put my head down close to the trunk and pretended I was looking at it.

I finally decided to use the saw, and it worked better. Pretty soon I had cut halfway through the trunk. But the tree still didn’t fall over, and the saw kept getting stuck. It would squeak and then stop. I pushed and pulled and kicked the tree, but that just hurt my foot. I was tired by then, and my hands and feet were cold. I started to cry. This time Aaron saw me, and he started to cry, too. When I tried to get him to stop crying, he said he was cold and wanted to go home, and that we could get Mom to come back and help us.

While we were both crying, Mr. and Mrs. Hubbard drove up in their car. At first, they didn’t know what we were doing, but as soon as they got out of their car, they could see. Mr. Hubbard was a nice man. He was old - kind of like a grandpa - and he was my best friend next to Aaron.

“What are you boys doing, Alma?” he asked when he walked over to us. Mrs. Hubbard stayed by the car and watched. I wasn’t crying anymore. I just stared at Mr. Hubbard’s big feet. They were bigger than Dad’s. Aaron stopped crying, too.

“We’re cutting a Christmas tree for Christmas,” Aaron said. “We’re going to put it in our house. Do you want to help us?”

Mr. Hubbard didn’t say anything, and I didn’t dare look at him. “We can’t buy one,” I whispered, “because we don’t have any money. But my teacher told me about a pioneer boy who cut down a tree, and he didn’t have to buy it. We aren’t pioneers like the boy in the story, but we thought it would be all right, since we didn’t have a tree. Yours was the very best tree. I hope you don’t need it.”

Mr. Hubbard thought for a minute and then asked, “Does your mother know you’re here, Alma?” He put his hand on my shoulder, and I shook my head.

“I’m the man of the house,” I said, “and I wanted to surprise her.” I looked up at Mr. Hubbard and then at Aaron and then back at Mr. Hubbard. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” I pulled Mr. Hubbard by the hand and took him behind the tree so Aaron wouldn’t hear us. “I’ve been telling Aaron all about Christmas, but now it doesn’t look like we’ll have too much Christmas. My friend Tommy says Santa Claus is just your mom and dad. Well, we don’t have a dad now, and Mom is poor, so if there isn’t a Santa Claus, we won’t have any Christmas at all unless we get a tree. That’s why I needed a tree. I really want Aaron to have a Christmas. He can’t remember the other ones, and I want him to have a real good Christmas, even if Santa Claus doesn’t come.”

I don’t know why I started to bawl. I guess my foot still hurt. Mr. Hubbard patted my shoulder and said, “Well, Alma, it doesn’t look like that tree will be doing much good where it is now. Do you want me to help you finish cutting it down?”

I looked up at him, and he was smiling, so I figured everything was ok. “Alma, don’t worry too much about what your friend Tommy said. I don’t have a dad or mom anymore, but Santa visits me every Christmas.”

“He does?” I asked.

“Sure,” Mr. Hubbard replied. “And I bet he’ll come to your house. In fact, I know he will.”

Mr. Hubbard dragged the tree home for us and I pulled Aaron in the wagon. When Mom saw the tree, she was really happy. She even cried.

On Christmas Eve, Aaron and Mom and I sat around the Christmas tree and sang. Mom told us about Jesus and all the people who came to see him when He was born. We were almost ready for bed when someone knocked on our door. I answered it, and there stood Mr. Hubbard with a big box in his arms. It was filled with oranges and apples and nuts and fruitcake and a turkey and candy and lots of other good things. Mom invited Mr. Hubbard in, and while Aaron and I looked through the box, she and Mr. Hubbard whispered in the corner. When they were through, Mr. Hubbard put his arms around me and Aaron and asked us if we were ready for Santa Claus. I nodded my head, but I really didn’t believe Santa would come. I was afraid Tommy was right, and that Mr. Hubbard was just trying to make me feel good.

I guess Mr. Hubbard knew what I was thinking, because he patted me on the back and smiled, “He’ll be here, Alma. You wait and see. He hasn’t forgotten you and Aaron.”

Aaron and I had to go to bed then. I was tired and wanted to go to sleep, but Aaron wouldn’t let me. He made me tell him everything I knew about Christmas. I don’t know which one of us fell asleep first, but it didn’t seem like I’d been sleeping very long when I felt Aaron shaking me and heard him whisper, “Alma, he’s here! He’s here! Wake up!”

Finally, I opened my eyes. I couldn’t see anything but a crack of light under our bedroom door. Someone had left the light on in the living room. “Who’s here?” I asked grumpily.

“Santa Claus!” he said.

“Santa Claus? Who said?” I asked.

“I can hear him, Alma,” Aaron replied. “I can hear him. He’s out by the Christmas tree!”

“Go back to bed, Aaron. I’ll turn the light off. It’s not Santa Claus. Just go back to bed.” I stumbled down the hall to the living room. Aaron was right behind me. I was too tired to stop him. All I wanted to do was turn the light off and get back into bed. But before I could, Aaron yelled, “It is Santa Claus! Alma, it is Santa Claus!”

I turned around and there he was! Aaron ran and kissed him on his white beard. I couldn’t even move. All I could do was stare. Santa’s eyes got big. He was surprised. I was afraid he was going to go away and not leave us anything. Mom used to say that if we didn’t go to sleep, Santa wouldn’t come.

“Aaron, come here,” I hissed. “We aren’t supposed to be here.” But Aaron didn’t listen to me. Santa was holding him, and Aaron was squeezing his neck and wouldn’t let go. All of a sudden, Santa started to laugh. He sounded a little like Mr. Hubbard, but Mr. Hubbard was skinny, not fat. He put Aaron and me on his knees and laughed and hugged us. He looked at me and said, “I heard you didn’t think I was going to come.” I looked at the floor. “Well, I’m here,” he said. “I brought you and Aaron something very special, but you must go back to bed while I work. You’ll see everything in the morning.”

Santa carried us to our beds and tucked us in. He kissed us both on the forehead, and his beard tickled my cheeks and nose. It felt good. I didn’t get to sleep for a long time. I listened to Santa doing things in the living room. When he left, I listened for him on the roof, but I didn’t hear anything. I wanted to go out and see what he’d brought, but I didn’t dare. I knew I had to go to sleep. As I lay there thinking, I was glad that I was the man of the house and that Mr. Hubbard and I could get Aaron a Christmas tree. 

 An Unlikely Angel

by Crystal Ward Kent

It was just before Christmas. An angry middle-aged man stood at the counter of the animal shelter, gripping the leash of an aging German shepherd. "Why won't you take him?" he shouted. "I need to get him off my hands!"

The adoption counselor tried once more to explain. "At fourteen, Samson is too old to be a good adoption candidate," she said. 

"Well, then just take him and put him down," the man yelled. "I want to be rid of him."

"We don't take animals just to put them down," the counselor explained. "May I ask why you no longer wish to keep the dog?"

"I just can't stand the sight of him," the man hissed, "and if you won't put him down, I'll shoot him myself."

Trying not to show her horror, the counselor pointed out that shooting an animal was illegal. She urged the man to consult with his veterinarian for other options.

"I'm not spending any more money on this animal," the man grumbled and, yanking the leash, he stalked out.

Concerned, the counselor wrote down the license plate of the man's truck and offered up a quick prayer for Samson.

A few days later, a German shepherd was found abandoned. He was brought to the shelter, and the staff recognized him as Samson. The town where he had been abandoned was where his owner lived. The man was contacted by the police and, under questioning, admitted that he was distraught over his recent divorce. He had sought revenge through the shepherd. He hadn't even wanted the dog, but he fought to keep him to spite his wife. Once his wife was gone, he couldn't bear to see the animal. The man was charged with abandonment, and Samson came to stay at the shelter. 

The wife and the couple's son were located in Pennsylvania. They were horrified to hear what had happened to their dog and agreed immediately to have him come live with them. There was just one problem: The wife was nearly broke after the divorce and their initial move. She could take no time off from work to drive to New Hampshire and get the dog, and she couldn't afford any other method of getting him to her. She hated to have Samson in the shelter any longer but didn't know what to do. "We'll come up with something," the staff assured her, but in their hearts, they didn't know what. They were concerned, as well. Samson had lived with his family all his life. Within a few weeks, his whole world had been turned upside down. He was beginning to mope, and the staff could tell by his eyes that if he wasn't back with his family soon, he would give up.

Christmas was only two weeks away when the angel arrived. He came by pickup truck in the form of a man in his mid-thirties. Through a friend of a shelter staffer, he had heard about Samson's plight. He was willing to drive Samson to Pennsylvania, and he would do it before Christmas.

The staff was thrilled with the offer, but cautious. Why would a stranger drive hundreds of miles out of his way to deliver a dog to people he didn't know? They had to make sure he was legitimate and that Samson wouldn't be sold to meat dealers or dumped along the interstate. The man understood their concerns and, thankfully, checked out to be an upstanding citizen. In the course of the conversation, he explained why he had come forward.

"Last year, I left my dog in my van while I went to do some grocery shopping," he explained. "While I was inside, the van caught fire. I heard people hollering and rushed out to see my van engulfed in flames. My dog meant everything to me, and he was trapped. I tried to get to the van, but people restrained me. Then I heard someone shouting, 'The dog is safe! The dog is safe!' I looked over, and there was this man I'd never seen before, holding my dog. He had risked his own life to get my dog out. I'll forever be in his debt. Just when you don't think there are heroes anymore, one comes along.

"I vowed then and there that if I ever had the chance to do someone a good turn when it came to a beloved pet that I would. When I heard about Samson and his family, I knew this was my chance, so here I am."

The shelter staff was amazed. They all knew about the van rescue story. It had been in all the papers, and the shelter had even given the rescuer a reward, but they had never dreamed that Samson's angel was connected to this earlier good deed.

A few days later, Samson and his angel were on their way. The dog seemed to know he was going home, because his ears perked up and his eyes were brighter than they had been in some time. 

Just before Christmas, the mail brought one of the best cards the shelter had ever received. Along with a thank-you note were photos of a deliriously happy Samson romping with his family in the snow and snuggling with them by their Christmas tree. Samson was truly where he belonged, and the staff knew he would live out his days happily there.

They also knew that Samson's journey home was a true Christmas miracle, and that angels - and heroes - may still appear when you need them, even in the most unlikely forms. 

Tom Carlin’s Christmas Miracle

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 anymore.” 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.

The Last Straw

by Paula McDonald

Everyone, unfortunately, was cooped up in the house that typical gray winter afternoon. And, as usual, the four little McNeals were at it again, teasing each other, squabbling, bickering, and always fighting over their toys. 

At times like this, Ellen was almost ready to believe that her children didn't love each other, even though she knew that wasn't true. All brothers and sisters fight sometimes, of course, but lately her lively little bunch had been particularly horrid to each other, especially Eric and Kelly, who were only a year apart. The two of them seemed determined to spend the whole long winter making each other miserable.

"Give me that. It's mine!" Kelly screamed, her voice shrill.

“It is not! I had it first," Eric answered stubbornly.

Ellen sighed as she listened to the latest argument. With Christmas only a month away, the house seemed sadly lacking in Christmas spirit. This was supposed to be the season of sharing and love, of warm feelings and happy hearts. A home needed more than just pretty packages and twinkling lights on a tree to fill the holidays with joy.

Ellen had only one idea. Years ago, her grandmother had told her about an old custom that helped people discover the true meaning of Christmas. Perhaps it would work for her family this year. It was certainly worth a try.

She gathered the children together and lined them up on the couch, tallest to smallest - Eric, Kelly, Lisa and Mike.

"How would you kids like to start a new Christmas tradition this year?" she asked. "It's like a game, but it can only be played by people who can keep a secret. Can everyone here do that?

"I can!" shouted Eric.

"I can keep a secret better than him!" yelled Kelly.

"I can do it!" chimed in Lisa.

"Me too. Me too," squealed little Mike. "I'm big enough."

"Well then, this is how the game works," Ellen explained. "This year we're going to surprise Baby Jesus when He comes on Christmas Eve by making Him the softest bed in the world. We're going to fill a little crib with straw to make it comfortable. But here's the secret part. The straw we put in will measure the good deeds we've done, but we won't tell anyone who we're doing them for."

The children looked confused. "But how will Jesus know it's His bed!" Kelly asked.

"He'll know," said Ellen. "He'll recognize it by the love we put in to make it soft."

"But who will we do the good deed for?" asked Eric, still a little confused.

"We'll do them for each other. Once a week we'll put all of our names in a hat, Daddy's and mine too. Then we'll each pick out a different name. Whoever's name we draw, we'll do kind things for that person for a whole week. But you can't tell anyone else whose name you've chosen. We'll each try to do as many favors for our special person as we can without getting caught. And for every good deed we do, we'll put another straw in the crib."

"Like being a spy!" squealed Lisa.

"But what if I pick someone's name that I don't like?" Kelly frowned.

Ellen thought about that for a minute. "Maybe you could use an extra fat piece of straw. And think how much faster the fat straws will fill up our crib. We'll use the cradle in the attic," she said. "And we can all go to the field behind the school for the straw."

Without a single argument, the children bundled into their wool hats and mittens, laughing and tumbling out of the house. The field had been covered with tall grass in summer, but now, dead and dried, the golden stalks looked just like real straw. They carefully selected handfuls and laced them in the large box they had carried with them.

"That's enough," Ellen laughed when the box was almost overflowing. "Remember it's only a small cradle."

So home they went to spread their straw carefully on a large tray Ellen never used. Eric, because he was the eldest, was given the responsibility of climbing into the attic and bringing down the cradle.

"We'll pick names as soon as Daddy comes home for dinner, Ellen said, unable to hide a smile at the thought of Mark's pleased reaction to the children's transformed faces and their voices, filled now with excited anticipation rather than annoyance.

At the supper table that night, six pieces of paper were folded, shuffled and shaken around in Mark's furry winter hat, and the drawing began. Kelly picked a name first and immediately started to giggle. Lisa reached into the hat next, trying hard to look like a serious spy. Mike couldn't read yet, so Mark whispered the name in his ear. Then Mike quickly ate his little wad of paper so no one would ever learn the identity of his secret person. Eric was the next to choose, and as he unfolded his scrap of paper, a frown creased his forehead. But he stuffed the name quickly into his pocket and said nothing. Ellen and Mark selected names and the family was ready to begin.

The week that followed was filled with surprises; it seemed the McNeal house had suddenly been invaded by an army of invisible elves. Kelly would walk into her room at bedtime to find her nightgown neatly laid out and her bed turned down. Someone cleaned up the sawdust under the workbench without being asked. The jelly blobs magically disappeared from the kitchen counter after lunch one day while Ellen was out getting the mail. And every morning, when Eric was brushing his teeth, someone crept quietly into his room and made the bed. It wasn't made perfectly, but it was made. That particular little elf must have had short arms because he couldn't seem to reach the middle.

"Where are my shoes?" Mark asked one morning. No one seemed to know, but suddenly, before he left for work, they were back in the closet again, freshly shined.

Ellen noticed other changes during that week too. The children weren't teasing or fighting as much. An argument would start, and then suddenly stop right in the middle for no apparent reason. Even Eric and Kelly seemed to be getting, along better and bickering less. In fact, there were times when all the children could be seen smiling secret smiles and giggling to themselves. And slowly, one by one, the first straws began to appear in the little crib. Just a few, then a few more each day. By the end of the first week, a little pile had accumulated.

Everyone was anxious to pick new names and this time there was more laughter and merriment than there had been the first time. Except for Eric. Once again, he unfolded his scrap of paper, glanced at it, and stuffed it in his pocket without a word. 

The second week brought more astonishing events, and the little pile of straw in the manger grew higher and softer. There was more laughter, less teasing, and hardly any arguments could be heard around the house. Only Eric had been unusually quiet, and sometimes Ellen would catch him looking a little sad. But the straws in the manger continued to pile up.

At last, it was almost Christmas. They chose names for the final time on the night before Christmas Eve. As they sat around the table waiting for the last set of names to be shaken in the hat, the children smiled as they looked at their hefty pile of straws. They all knew it was comfortable and soft, but there was one day left and they could still make it a little deeper, a little softer, and they were going to try.

For the last time, the hat was passed around the table. Mike Picked out a name, and again quickly ate the paper as he had done each week. Lisa unfolded hers carefully under the table, peeked at it and then hunched up her little shoulders, smiling. Kelly reached into the hat and grinned from ear to ear when she saw the name. Ellen and Mark each took their turn and handed the hat with the last name to Eric. As he unfolded the scrap of paper and glanced at it, his face crumpled and he seemed about to cry. Without a word, he turned and ran from the room.

Everyone immediately jumped up from the table, but Ellen stopped them. "No!" Stay where you are," she said firmly. "I'll go."

In his room, Eric was trying to pull on his coat with one hand while he picked up a small cardboard suitcase with the other.

"I'll have to leave," he said quietly through his tears. "If I don't, I'll spoil Christmas."

"But why? And where are you going?"

"I can sleep in my snow fort for a couple of days. I'll come home right after Christmas. I promise."

Ellen started to say something about freezing and snow and no mittens or boots, but Mark, who had come up behind her, gently laid his hand on her arm and shook his head. The front door closed, and together they watched from the window as the little figure with the sadly slumped shoulders trudged across the street and sat down on a snow bank near the corner. It was dark outside, and cold, and a few flurries drifted down on the small boy and his suitcase.

"Give him a few minutes alone," said Mark quietly. I think he needs that. Then you can talk to him."

The huddled figure was already dusted with white when Ellen walked across the street and sat down beside him on the snow bank.

"What is it, Eric? You've been so good these last weeks, but I know something's been bothering you since we first started the crib. Can you tell me, honey?"

“Ah, Mom . . . don't you see?" he sniffled. "I tried so hard, but I can't do to it anymore, and now I'm going to wreck Christmas for everybody. With that, he burst into sobs and threw himself into his mother s arms.

"Mom." The little boy choked. "You just don't know, I got Kelly's name every time! And I hate Kelly! I tried Mom. I really did. I snuck in her room every night and fixed her bed. I even laid out her crummy nightgown. I let her use my race car one day, but she smashed it right into the wall like always! Every week, when we picked names, I thought it would be over. Tonight, when I got her name again, I knew I couldn't do it anymore. If I try, I'll probably punch her instead. If I stay home and beat Kelly up, I'll spoil Christmas for everyone."

The two of them sat there, together, quietly for a few minutes and then Ellen spoke softly. "Eric I'm so proud of you. Every good deed you did should count double because it was hard for you to be nice to Kelly for so long, but you did those good deeds anyway, one straw at a time. You gave your love when it wasn't easy to give. And maybe that's what the spirit of Christmas is really all about. And maybe it's the hard, good deeds and the difficult straws that make that little crib special. You're the one who's probably added the most important straws this year." Ellen paused, stroking the head pressed tightly against her shoulder. "Now, how would you like a chance to earn a few easy straws like the rest of us? I still have the name I picked in my pocket, and I haven't looked at it yet. Why don't we switch, for the last day? And it will be our secret."

Eric lifted his head and looked into her face, his eyes wide. "That's not cheating?"

"It's not cheating." And together they dried the tears, brushed off the snow, and walked back to the house.

The next day, the whole family was busy, cooking and straightening up the house for Christmas Day, wrapping last minute presents and trying hard to keep from bursting with excitement. But even with all the activity and eagerness, a flurry of new straws piled up in the crib, and by nightfall the little manger was almost overflowing. At different times while passing by, each member of the family, big and small, would pause and look at the wondrous pile for a moment, then smile before going on. But . . . who could really know? One more straw still might make a difference.

For that reason, just before bedtime, Ellen tiptoed quietly to Kelly's room to lay out the little blue nightgown and turn down the bed. But she stopped in the doorway surprised. Someone had already been there. The nightgown was laid across the bed, and a small red race car had been placed next to it on the pillow.

The last straw was Eric's after all. 

In One Blinding Moment

by Max Ellerbusch

It was a busy Friday, six days before Christmas. I was in my instrument repair shop, working feverishly so that I could have all of the Christmas holiday at home with my family. Then the phone rang and a voice was saying that our five-year-old Craig had been hit by a car.

There was a crowd standing around him by the time I got there, but they stepped back for me. Craig was lying in the middle of the road; his curly blond hair was not even rumpled.

He died at Children's Hospital that afternoon.

There were many witnesses. It had happened at the school crossing. They told us that Craig had waited on the curb until the safety-patrol boy signaled him to cross. Craig, how well you remembered! How often your mother called after you as you started off for kindergarten, "Don't cross until you get the signal!" You didn't forget!

The signal came, Craig stepped into the street. The car came so fast no one had seen it. The patrol boy shouted, waved, had to jump for his own life. The car never stopped. 

Grace and I drove home from the hospital through the Christmas-lighted streets, not believing what had happened to us. It wasn't until the night, passing the unused bed, that I knew. Suddenly I was crying, not just for that empty bed but for the emptiness, the seeming senselessness of it. All night long, with Grace awake beside me, I searched what I knew of life for some hint of a loving God at work in it, and found none. 

As a child, I certainly had been led to expect none. My father used to say that in all his childhood he did not experience one act of charity or Christian kindness. Father was an orphan, growing up in 19th-century Germany, a supposedly Christian land. Orphans were rented out to farmers as machines are rented today, and treated with far less consideration. He grew into a stern, brooding man who looked upon life as an unassisted journey to the grave.

He married another orphan and, as their own children started to come, they decided to emigrate to America. Father got a job aboard a ship; in New York harbor, he went ashore and simply kept going. He stopped in Cincinnati where so many Germans were then settling. He took every job he could find, and in a year and a half had saved enough money to send for his family.

On the boat coming over, two of my sisters contracted scarlet fever; they died on Ellis Island. Something in Mother died with them, for from that day on she showed no affection for any living being. I grew up in a silent house, without laughter, without faith.

Later, in my own married life, I was determined not to allow these grim shadows to fall on our own children. Grace and I had four: Diane, Michael, Craig, and Ruth Carol. It was Craig, even more than the others, who seemed to lay low my childhood pessimism, to tell me that the world was a wonderful purposeful place. As a baby, he would smile so delightedly at everyone he saw that there was always a little group around his carriage. When we went visiting it was Craig, three years old, who would run to the hostess to say, "You have a lovely house!" If he received a gift he was touched to tears, and then gave it away to the first child who envied it. Sunday morning when Grace dressed to sing in the choir, it was Craig who never forgot to say, "You're beautiful."

And if such a child can die, I thought as I struggled, lying in my bed that Friday night, if such a life can be snuffed out in a minute, then life is meaningless and faith in God is self-delusion. By morning my hopelessness and helplessness had found a target, a blinding hatred for the person who had done this to us. That morning police picked him up in Tennessee: George Williams. Fifteen years old. 

He came from a broken home, police learned. His mother worked a night shift and slept during the day. Friday, he had cut school, taken her car keys while she was asleep, sped down a street. … All my rage at a senseless universe seemed to focus on the name George Williams. I phoned our lawyer and begged him to prosecute Williams to the limit. "Get him tried as an adult. Juvenile court's not tough enough."

So this was my frame of mind when the thing occurred which changed my life. I cannot explain it; I can only describe it. 

It happened in the space of time that it takes to walk two steps. It was late Saturday night. I was pacing the hall outside our bedroom, my head in my hands. I felt sick and dizzy, and tired, so tired. "Oh God," I prayed, "show me why!"

Right then, between that step and the next, my life was changed. The breath went out of me in a great sigh—and with it all my sickness. In its place was a feeling of love and joy so strong it was almost pain. 

Other men have called it the "the presence of Christ." I'd known the phrase, of course, but I'd thought it was some abstract, theological idea. I never dreamed it was Someone, an actual Person, filling that narrow hall with love. 

It was the suddenness of it that dazed me. It was like a lightning stroke that turned out to be the dawn. I stood blinking in an unfamiliar light. Vengefulness, grief, hate, anger—it was not that I struggled to be rid of them—like goblins imagined in the dark, in the morning's light they simply were not there. 

And all the while I had the extraordinary feeling that I was two people. I had another self, a self that was millions of miles from that hall, learning things men don't yet have words to express. I have tried so often to remember the things I knew then, but the learning seemed to take place in a mind apart from the one I ordinarily think with, as though the answer to my question was too vast for my small intellect. But, in that mind beyond logic, that question was answered. In that instant, I knew why Craig had to leave us. Though I had no visual sensation, I knew afterward that I had met him, and he was wiser than I, so that I was the little boy and he the man. And he was so busy. Craig has so much to do, unimaginably important things into which I must not inquire. My concerns were still on earth.

In the clarity of the moment, it came to me: This life is a simple thing! I remember the very words in which the thought came. "Life is a grade in school. In this grade, we must learn only one lesson: We must establish relationships of love."

Oh, Craig, I thought. Little Craig, in your five short years how fast you learned, how quickly you progressed, how soon you graduated!

I don't know how long I stood there in the hall. Perhaps it was no time at all as we ordinarily measure things. Grace was sitting up in bed when I reached the door of our room. Not reading, not doing anything, just looking straight ahead of her as she had much of the time since Friday afternoon. 

Even my appearance must have changed, because as she turned her eyes slowly to me she gave a little gasp and sat up straighter. I started to talk, words tumbling over each other, laughing, eager, trying to say that the world was not an accident, that life meant something, that earthly tragedy was not the end, that all around our incompleteness was a universe of purpose, that the purpose was good beyond our furthest hopes. 

"Tonight," I told her, "Craig is beyond needing us. Someone else needs us. George Williams. It's almost Christmas. Maybe, at the Juvenile Detention Home, there'll be no Christmas gift for him unless we send it."

Grace listened, silent, unmoving, staring at me. Suddenly she burst into tears.

"Yes," she said. "That's right, that's right. It's the first thing that's been right since Craig died."

And it has been right. George turned out to be an intelligent, confused, desperately lonely boy, needing a father as much as I needed a son. He got his gift, Christmas Day, and his mother got a box of Grace's good Christmas cookies. We asked for and got his release, a few days later, and this house became his second home. He works with me in the shop after school, joins us for meals around the kitchen table, is a big brother for Diane and Michael and Ruth Carol.

But more was changed, in that moment when I met Christ, than just my feeling about George. That meeting has affected every phase of my life, my approach to business, to friends, to strangers. I don't mean I've been able to sustain the ecstasy of that moment; I doubt that the human body could contain such a joy for very many days. 

But I know with the infinite sureness that no matter what life does to us in the future, I will never again touch the rock bottom of despair. No matter how ultimate the blow seems, I glimpsed an even more ultimate joy that blinding moment when the door swung wide. 

Harry's Carol

by Lisa Dahlgren

I had my mother to thank that I was cooking breakfast for 120 elderly people on Christmas morning. Instead of Santa waking us, the phone rang with a call for help from the nursing home where I worked part-time. No one, the head nurse explained, had shown up for work, and they were desperate. Could I possibly come down for a few hours? My mom said we would all come!

Morning is everyone's least favorite time except for Mom, who managed to be extra coherent with Christmas spirit as she announced the news. "Get up! They need us down at the home.  We'll have our Christmas later. First, we have to go cook lots of eggs."

"What about the presents?" Todd and Christine, my younger brother and sister wailed.

"We've waited all night," Christine pleaded.

"It'll be here when we get home. Now get the lead out. Mom and Dad are serious about this," I said without much sympathy.

Somehow, we managed to pile in the car, and we drove the two miles in silence. The nurse met us at the door looking disheveled and frantic.

"Oh, thank goodness," she said. Not wasting any more time with gratitude, she pushed us towards the kitchen in unison. The only cook to show up that morning, Gladys, was rushing from stove to steam table, scooping out scrambled eggs and shouting orders to Frank, the janitor.

"Get moving on that O.J., will you," Gladys said.  he hadn't noticed her bleary-eyed crew yet.  "They'll be down in 45 minutes, and I can't find the bread, let alone the toaster."

"Uhmmm, maybe we could be of help," offered my dad, a bit reluctantly.

"We're Diane's family," Mom introduced us, steering Todd and Chris over to the newly found toaster. "I think the children can make toast. Oh, by the way, I'm Irene, and this is my husband, Bill," she pointed to Dad. "You know Diane, and the toast makers are Christine and Todd."

"Hi," muttered Chris and Todd together. They were thinking about opening presents, not about buttering toast.

Gladys stood in the middle of the kitchen supporting her latest batch of eggs. After a moment's hesitation, she sized us all up and decided we'd do. Gladys shoved the bowl in Dad's stomach.  "Here, you look like an egg man to me. You can take over the scrambling."

Dad caught the bowl and his breath. "Sure, I can do that," he gasped.

"And you, Diane," Gladys turned me toward the hot cereal. "Oatmeal duty."

We all set to work and before we knew it the breakfast rush was on, over, and breakfast dishes were just beginning.

"Mom, can't we go home yet?" Christine whimpered, emphasizing yet. "It's almost eight and every child in America, probably the entire world, has opened their gifts except us. Doesn't that bother you even a little?"

Mom didn't mince words. "No, not even a little, Chris," she answered watching Dad and Todd squirt each other with the high-powered hoses. "I know it isn't easy to be here on Christmas, honey, but could we really be anywhere else?" When neither Chris nor I responded, Mom started humming a cheery carol. "Let's sing a song," she encouraged.

I honestly wasn't in the mood. Helping others was supposed to make a person feel good, but I was right there with Chris, wanting to be opening gifts and away from the smell of eggs and nursing home.

Mom continued without us, singing her favorite, "I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day." At first, she sang softly, but by the second verse she picked up the volume. Chris and I gave in, joining Mom, and sliding dishes down the metal chute on beat.

"Let's sing 'Rudolph,'" Todd shouted. "Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer...." it was, Dad leading the family along in a loud baritone. This might have ended our musical contribution on that unusual Christmas morning, if it hadn't been for Brother Greenwall.

I turned to pick up one of the last dish stacks, and there he stood, listening at the kitchen serving window. Brother Greenwall had lived in our neighborhood and attended church with us until his wife passed away. "Hi, Brother Greenwall," I said. His lonely eyes stared back, not recognizing me.

My dad smiled over his shoulder and walked to the window. "Harry, how are you? It's Bill. Did you hear us singing away in here?" Dad chuckled, "Hope we didn't disturb you."

Harry Greenwall smiled back at Dad. I wasn't sure if he remembered him or not, but something had been triggered. "Just a minute," he muttered, hurrying off to the TV lounge. Dad watched him go. "I wonder what he's up to," he said as Harry returned with two or three friends and their chairs. Before we figured out what Harry had in mind, he'd pushed open the door and seated them by the stove, then hobbled back to the TV room. Eyebrows raised, Mom checked out the three seated in the kitchen.

"Well, Bill, do you think we're supposed to keep singing?" When no one volunteered an opinion she added, "I think Harry wants a performance."

"Oh, Mom, do we have to?" Todd groaned, blasting his dishes with an extra hard squirt.

Dad put his arm around Todd, "You've heard of singing for your supper, haven't you?"

"Yeah, but . . . "

"Well, you get to sing for your presents."

Chris and I laughed. "Come on and give me a hand helping Brother Greenwall with his friends," said Dad.

By now Harry had returned, cramming in seven more concert goers. Eight more joined the group, bringing the crowd to about twenty. Fully staffed, the kitchen never held more than eight people.

Harry stared at us without recognition, interested only in the music. Mom and Dad exchanged their you'd-better-do-something look, and Dad picked up the cue. "Well, folks, Harry thought you'd all like a little Christmas music."

We sang, starting with family favorites like Jingle Bells, Silent Night, and Oh, Come, All Ye Faithful. Actually, Oh, Come, All Ye Faithful is Dad's favorite. Mom says his eyes twinkle when he sings that song.  I looked over at Dad to catch that twinkle, and its shine filled me with warmth. My voice cracked, and I stopped singing, bowing my head to hide the tears.

Looking down at the floor, I felt love for each of those people listening to my family sing. I tried to join in the music, but the same feeling came again, repeating the impression. This time I knew the Savior wanted them to know of his love. Doubting myself, I hesitated a moment and was overwhelmed for the third time with the same desire to comfort them. My family finished the last few measures of music, and I began without thinking, "I just want to tell you I know Jesus lives.  He's concerned for you and loves you. I didn't really want to come here today, but I'm glad we did. Most of all, I hope you can feel the Savior's love for you like I have. He really wants you to know this."

Dad put his arm around me. "I couldn't give any of you a better gift at Christmas than the knowledge that Jesus lives, as Diane has said."

The kitchen was silent for a minute, the spirit of Christ in our hearts. "Let's sing a carol together," Mom suggested. "What one would you like, Harry?" Considering all the carols available and Harry's love for Christmas music, we should have been surprised when his choice wasn't a traditional Christmas song. I Know That My Redeemer Lives,” he said. Everyone sang his "carol," filling the kitchen with the words:

"He lives, my kind, wise heav'nly Friend. He lives and loves me to the end."

That day became a treasure and started a family tradition of Christmas Day service we enjoy.  And, out of all the carols we sing at Christmastime, Harry's carol is our favorite and the finest way to get a twinkle in any of our eyes.  By the way, my dad says we still sound the best in kitchens.  

Remembered at Christmas

Kristen McKendry 

It was December in Canada-a wet, wind-whipped month that piled snow in sculpted drifts and encased tree branches in ice. I stood at the window, feeling like a hermit marooned in a cave. Then again, with the way I was feeling, a padded cell might be a better metaphor. It had been a frazzling day. My three-year-old was irritable because we couldn't go to the park, and my eighteen-month-old was fractious with a fever. I was waiting anxiously for my husband to come home from work, worried about the long drive he had to make on treacherous highways to reach us. 

It was three days before Christmas-another source of stress. My husband and I had been living in Canada for three years, but I still felt a keen homesickness for my family back in Utah, especially with the holidays approaching. Though I enjoyed our new home and didn't regret the move, there were times when the loneliness hit me particularly hard. I pictured my mother's hot chocolate, my family gathered around the piano to sing carols, and the beautiful crocheted ornaments on Mom's tree. I felt very isolated and left out. I knew almost no one in Canada. At times, I felt I'd wandered so far away from home that even God had lost track of me. 

It had been a difficult month leading up to the holidays. Since we had only one car and my husband had to take it to work, Christmas shopping wasn't much fun. I had to haul both children with me on the bus if I wanted to go anywhere on a weekday. And with my youngest, Ryan, feeling ill and the Canadian weather being, well, Canadian, I hadn't been able to get out of the house as much as I'd wanted. 

I had had a particular present in mind for Ryan–one of those push toys that pops little balls around in a plastic bubble-like popcorn as you push it. Ryan was an energetic, exuberant little boy, and I thought the cheerful popping noise and dancing balls would be great fun for him. I remembered having a toy like it when I was small. But I'd scoured every store I could think of and had had no luck locating one. There were lots of flashy, noisy toys-most requiring batteries or electricity-but no old–fashioned push toys. 

With Christmas looming near, I'd given up and come home with another present for him, but I was still disappointed. Really, it was a small thing, I felt myself grumbling, but couldn't even a small thing go smoothly in my life? Did everything always have to be such a struggle?

By the time my husband came home that afternoon, Ryan's condition had worsened. His fever would not come down. He had a history of having seizures when his fever spiked too fast, and I was anxious that it might happen again. We decided to go to the emergency department at the hospital as a precaution. Usually, whenever I rushed the kids to the doctor for some reason, it would turn out I had panicked for nothing; the kids were fine. So I was alarmed when the physician told us we'd been wise to bring him in and that he wanted to admit Ryan. 

I hadn't expected this. I thought he'd just write a prescription and send us home. A hospital admission wasn't in my plans. I worked evenings at home as a phone operator for a pizza company, a job I hadn't had for long, so I quickly called my supervisor to let him know I wouldn't be able to work that evening. Thankfully he was understanding, so my husband and I settled in to spend the evening with Ryan, getting him situated in his room in the pediatrics unit and trying to keep him and his brother entertained. Finally, I took my older son home and my husband stayed the night with Ryan.

The next day Ryan was diagnosed with a general staph infection, potentially serious but treatable. My husband and I spelled each other off throughout the day. That night I took the hospital shift, spending an uncomfortable night in a chair by Ryan's railed bed. Hospital rooms are foreign and unfriendly places, despite the caring treatment of nurses with teddy bears on their scrubs. The smells, sounds, and hard surfaces all convey discomfort and illness, the sense that things are not right. My son was too unwell to really care where he was and too young to grasp what was happening. But I had an adult's knowledge of potential problems and a vivid imagination, and my anxiety and feelings of isolation only grew during those dark hours. 

The next day Ryan began to respond to the antibiotics and started feeling well enough to become bored with lying in bed. I spent the day devising desperate little entertainments with plastic-cup pyramids and Kleenex puppets until I started to wonder if there was a bed available for me in the psychiatric unit, should I need it by the end of the day. 

Christmas Eve came, and even though Ryan had improved some-what, I was disappointed to learn that the doctor wanted to keep him at the hospital longer. We would not be home for Christmas. Once again, I cancelled my shift, worried my boss would think I was making up excuses to get out of working on the one night no one wanted to work. 

On what was supposed to be the most joyous of all nights, I was feeling sorry for myself. I couldn't help it. I was far from home, far from family, worried for my son, and wanted my mother so badly. And now we couldn't even have a proper Christmas dinner. All my plans were out the window. My husband and I sat in the hospital room, eating Kentucky Fried Chicken with the boys and trying to make the best of it. 

Ryan was the only child left in the unit over Christmas. All the other kids were sent home. The halls were empty. The staff was cut to the bare minimum. Ryan seemed content and in good hands, and my husband and I were exhausted, so we decided we would both go home for the night, celebrate Christmas with our three-year-old, and return to the hospital in the morning. 

On Christmas Day, the Shriners, a charitable organization, sent a volunteer dressed as Santa Claus to the hospital to deliver presents to the children. But of course, Ryan was the only one there. I was surprised Santa had even bothered to stop by. The bright-costumed gentleman scared Ryan a little, so he didn't linger, but he gave a present to Ryan before he left-a push toy that popped little balls in a plastic bubble as you pushed it. 

I couldn't believe it. I had searched everywhere for just that toy, and here it was, delivered by "Santa" himself. As I watched my son toddle happily up and down the hospital halls with his noisy popper, I felt my weariness and sadness fade away, and I was filled with a strong sense of comfort. I knew God's hand was in my life. I might be far from home and in a worrisome situation, but I wasn't alone or overlooked after all. I hadn't been forgotten. I knew my wishes for a push toy to give to Ryan were not particularly important, especially in comparison to my wishes for his recovery. But Heavenly Father knew the secret and silly desires of my heart. What was important to me was important to Him. And He cared enough to acknowledge those desires of my heart with that simple gift. With tears in my eyes, I turned to my husband, but my heart was too full to express what I was feeling. I could only manage, "See? Someone knows we're here." 

My husband just smiled and replied, "Yes. But is it God or the Shriners?"