The Joy of Christmas

by Amy Newmark

  ~Myrna CG Mibus

  The Christmas Surprise

  You know you’re in love when you can’t fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams.

  ~Dr. Seuss

  “Merry Christmas, darling. I love you, and I promise this will be over soon and we’ll be together again.” My voice was quivering ever so slightly that night, despite my attempts to hide it. I tried so hard to protect her from the things going on around me, and like all good soldiers, I had to put up a brave front for loved ones back home.

  But this time, I had a much different reason for hiding my emotions. It was not fear, but rather an overwhelming excitement that threatened my calm demeanor. For as I hung up that phone half a world away from my sweet Southern belle, the single most expensive call of my life ended, and what would become my greatest adventure began. And if my plan came to fruition, this Christmas would be like no other before or since.

  At the time, I was a twenty-year-old staff sergeant stationed in Southeast Asia, compelled by duty to the field of war, far away from my loving bride of three years. Our communications during that year consisted of infrequent handwritten letters and even more infrequently traded cassette tapes.

  Words cannot even begin to describe how much I craved hearing her sweet voice in person. We had already missed so much time together during that very difficult year; our wedding anniversary had come and gone, celebrated only with those same letters and tapes.

  And now this was to be our first Christmas apart in the six years since we first met. While the military made an admirable attempt to provide us with a Christmas experience, I had determined that neither distance, nor oceans, nor even war would prevent us from experiencing the joy of this holiday together.

  As I hung up that phone in the USO, I walked out of the dilapidated building to a waiting bus for Bangkok, carrying the money I had put aside each month for the trip. As the bus bumped along the twisting jungle road, I had ample time to dwell on the adventure I had been planning almost from the beginning of my June arrival in Southeast Asia. Everything leading up to that day was scripted, down to the tiniest detail — the bus, the flight, even that last-minute phone call.

  I boarded my flight in the enormous Bangkok airport only four days prior to Christmas. The first leg of that almost twenty-four-hour journey would take me high above the lush, bombed-out hills of Cambodia, barely skirting the war zones of Vietnam. Our brand-new Boeing 747 would skim over the high, chiseled mountains of Asia and glide carefully down between the tall apartment towers built into the side of the mountains surrounding Hong Kong’s Kai Tak Airport, our first stop. I experienced more than a few uneasy moments during that landing, as our aircraft bounced down the runway, wings dangling precariously on either side over the waters of Victoria Harbor. After a short layover to take on passengers, we returned to the air, headed for an uneventful flight to Tokyo, and then eastward across the Pacific to Honolulu. During what seemed to be an unending journey, the amber sphere of the sun seemed to set multiple times in the sky as we traversed the deep blue expanse below. And the closer the plane came to delivering me into the arms of my love, the more excited I became.

  After leaving Honolulu, the sun set one last time, revealing before us in the darkness a large, low dome of light glowing dimly at first in the black, distant east. At once equally amazed and confused by this phenomenon, and knowing that it was far too early for the sun to be rising ahead of us, I slowly began to recognize that the glow in the darkness ahead was actually the mainland of Southern California, still hours away. With each passing moment, the light grew closer and more pronounced, drawing us ever so slowly into its beauty. The closer we got, the more nervous I became, and the more my resolve began to waver. I couldn’t wait for the surprise. By the time we reached Los Angeles International Airport, I had to hear her voice.

  “Hi hon, how are you?” I asked.

  “Wow, our connection is so good. Why are you calling again?”

  “Hon, there’s a reason the connection is good; I’m in Los Angeles.” Dead silence greeted me on the other end of the line. “Did you understand me?”

  “No…” she said.

  Slowly, I repeated, “I’m in Los Angeles.”

  The words no sooner left my mouth than I heard “Mama, HE’S IN LA!” I don’t remember much more of the conversation, nor do I recall very much about that last hour before landing in Phoenix. I do remember running into her waiting arms. We kissed, I lifted her off her feet, and as we clung to each other there in the airport terminal, it felt as if I had never left her side.

  We did not sleep that night; in those early morning hours, as we lay in each other’s arms, oblivious to all around us, talk seemed to flow much easier than any time before or since. It was as if we were meeting for the very first time, getting acquainted once again. And for the next thirty days it was Christmas. That was the most wonderful present I ever gave her, and I don’t think the glow from the surprise ever wore off.

  ~Rus Franklin

  Built with Love

  He didn’t tell me how to live; he lived, and let me watch him do it.

  ~Clarence Budington Kelland

  He had the typical lifestyle of a district manager for a busy grocery chain. He was always on call and there were always problems to be solved. He traveled too much, too. Due to this hectic and stressful schedule there wasn’t much opportunity for his young family to see him. And when he was home, he was much too exhausted to enjoy it.

  As a child I didn’t understand why my father was gone so much. In my simple, innocent mind his absence meant that there were other places he’d rather be and other people who were more important.

  But on Christmas Day, when I was ten years old, I was given a doll-house. It was an unusual gift for a rough and tumble girl who preferred climbing trees to playing dress-up. I was perplexed but also completely enamored of it at the same time. It was so large I could have almost lived in it myself. I studied the dollhouse, all the details and finishes. It was a beautiful, two-story farmhouse with a wraparound porch. The house was mounted on a mobile platform that had been covered with artificial grass turf to look like a yard. Inside it had a kitchen, den, bathroom and two bedrooms that were begging for decorations and doll furniture. Despite my tomboy tendencies, my mind started to run wild with ideas to make this magnificent farmhouse come to life.

  What I didn’t know then, but would later understand, was that the greatest gift was not actually the dollhouse but the fact that my busy father built it himself. He managed to turn his office into a workshop and squeeze in hanging shingles, attaching siding and painting the foundation between meetings and travel. He would stay late into the night and go in earlier in the mornings to do a little more each day. This was not a small task for a man not known for his handiness. However, my dad lovingly put that remarkable dollhouse together for his precious little girl and he did it completely on his own.

  On Christmas Day he proudly showed me all the features of the dollhouse he had labored over for months: the doors that opened and closed; the foundation he’d painted half a dozen times to give it the perfect texture and color; and even the first pieces of furniture he’d picked out to get me started on the decorating. All in all he had spent well over forty hours making sure this house would be fit for his tomboy.

  And he even recognized that despite my tomboy interests, I would still love that dollhouse. The gift started me realizing that his absence wasn’t at all about him finding other things more important than his family. In fact, he was working hard at his job to painstakingly create a life for all of us, with the same care and attention and devotion that he had put into that dollhouse for me. All in all, that dollhouse was the greatest gift he could have ever given me.

  ~Jennifer R. Land

  Artie

  Sometimes being a brother is even better than being a superhero.

  ~Marc Brown

  I rushed through the big glass doors of Lehman’s Pharmacy. I was there to b
uy my grandmother’s hearing aid batteries while my mother waited outside in the car. She would notice if I took too long, but this was my chance to visit the love of my life — Artie.

  I rushed to his aisle, and there he was, right where I last saw him: a brown, fuzzy little guy with a large tan nose that fit perfectly over my shoulder as I squeezed him tightly. I adored that aardvark stuffed animal.

  But my mother noticed, saying, “You took a long time in Lehman’s — and I looked — there weren’t huge lines. Next time, your brother is going in with you.”

  Oh, great! My brother, Rich, was going to accompany me into the pharmacy. He would watch me like a hawk and report everything to our mother.

  I wasn’t going to give up seeing my precious Artie. So, as we walked into the store together, I suggested to Rich that he get the batteries, since he was older. He agreed, but said I shouldn’t be going off to look at the cosmetics, as I wasn’t allowed to wear them yet.

  He needn’t have worried about that; I was already heading toward Artie. There he was, awaiting me. I grabbed him and hugged him tightly, his tan nose fitting perfectly on my shoulder. Just then, I heard him: “What in the world are you doing?”

  My cover was blown. “This is Artie,” I said. “His nose rests perfectly on my shoulder, and I hug him every single time I come here. Don’t tell Mom. I know we can’t afford him, and I hope he doesn’t get sold, because I just love this little guy.”

  The look on Rich’s face was unreadable, but I knew deep down that he wasn’t going to make fun of me. In fact, a few times when he accompanied me to the pharmacy, he said, “Go on and hug your ugly animal, if it’s still there, and I’ll get Gram’s batteries.”

  One day, Rich was working with Dad somewhere, so Mom took me to Lehman’s alone and said, “You get to go in by yourself, again. Just don’t take forever, okay?”

  I rushed into the pharmacy and went straight to Artie’s shelf. But he was gone. I searched high and low. I wanted to cry, but I kept holding out hope that Artie would be on one of the shelves that I hadn’t checked.

  Suddenly, a voice from the counter interrupted my search. It was Mrs. Lehman herself. “Are you looking for that stuffed animal you hug every single time you’re here?”

  “How did you…?”

  “Know? We do have mirrors in the store, dear. See them? We can see almost everything. Honey, I’m sorry to tell you but someone came in here the other week and bought the aardvark.”

  I was crestfallen.

  “Dear, I am truly sorry. I know how much you loved him, but we carry stuffed animals to sell — not to hug and put back on the shelf.”

  She was right — I knew she was right. So why did I feel so empty and upset? I weakly thanked her as I paid for Gram’s hearing aid batteries. Then I slowly walked out to my mom’s car with my head hanging low, trying to hide my tears. I prayed that Artie had found good home.

  A month went by, and it was Christmas Eve. We were allowed to open one present that night and save the rest for Christmas morning.

  Rich walked up to me and said nonchalantly, “Here, you may want to open this one, or you may not — it’s up to you.”

  My interest was piqued. I shook it. It was soft. But it didn’t feel like clothing. My heart was thumping as I ripped open a section of wrapping paper and revealed a tan piece of cloth — a piece that resembled an aardvark’s nose! It was Artie!

  I squealed with delight, my mother looked confused, and my brother smiled proudly as I hugged him. Then I hugged Artie close to me, his little tan nose resting perfectly on my shoulder.

  ~Rebecca L. Jones

  Hidden Blessings

  Any man can be a father. It takes someone special to be a dad.

  ~Author Unknown

  Christmas carols and organ music filled our tiny church as I dutifully sat by my family for our annual Christmas Eve service. The excitement and expectation of the Christmas season hung in the air as I sang. My mouth was moving but my mind was racing with excitement of another kind. Until this night I thought of myself as a good church girl who respected her parents, but that was before they forbid me to have anything to do with an older boy who worked at the bowling alley.

  In a secret phone conversation, I agreed to meet him that night at 10:00 p.m. at a park near my house. As the music ended and the prayers began, I was planning how I would sneak out of the house. I justified my behavior by convincing myself that my parents, especially my father, could never understand me.

  I snuck out and then I snuck back in. And then I almost got caught. In the blackness of the December night the lights of our Christmas tree glittered. Through the shadows I could see the bent figure of my father kneeling beneath the tree. I was barely breathing as I pushed my back tight against the wall, hoping he would return to his bedroom so I could sneak back upstairs to my room.

  My entire body trembled. I was chilled from being outside. But then all of a sudden I felt hot with shame and guilt as I watched my father lovingly put out his gifts for us. I had betrayed his trust and the boy never even showed up!

  Suddenly the house went black; my father switched off the tree lights and was coming toward me in the dark. I quickly ducked into the bathroom and sat down on the toilet.

  “Oh, sorry,” he said as he pushed open the door squinting at me in order to focus in the dim light.

  “Get back to bed,” he said forcefully. “I still have some things to tend to before morning.” With a surge of relief, I ran up the stairs being careful not to wake anyone else in the family. As I got into my flannel nightgown and snuggled beneath the covers I began to cry. I cried for my own disappointment and for the boy who never came, I cried for not listening to my parents, I cried to God and asked him to forgive me. I cried knowing that I must face up to my parents and talk honestly with them.

  I tossed and turned but sleep did not come. My mind wandered back to Christmas mornings of the past. This year I didn’t expect much in the way of presents; I knew money was a problem. The year had been full of unexpected changes for our family. My mother returned to her teaching job, my grandparents moved in with us, my father was struggling to build up his new business, and there was a pile of unpaid hospital bills.

  My older brother had suffered a ruptured appendix, which required him to have several surgeries. Just as he was recovering, my middle brother broke his leg playing football and was sent to the same hospital to have his shattered leg pieced back together. After he returned home on crutches, I had an appendicitis attack that sent me to that same hospital. As my eyes fluttered shut, I smiled at the memory of my father telling the nurse that he needed to sit in the wheelchair after he was handed the hospital bill for all three of us. He sat down and put me on his lap as the nurse guided us toward the car. He had a gift for finding humor even in difficult moments!

  The smell of Grandma’s cinnamon rolls roused me from my sleep and I heard my mother’s voice calling out, “Merry Christmas, everyone. Come on down for breakfast.” The world outside my window looked fresh, clean and pure white. Snow was falling. The earth was getting a fresh start, that’s what I needed, too — a fresh start.

  As we gathered for breakfast I watched my father pour his coffee. He lifted his cup to his lips, smiled directly at me, and put his big hand over mine. “I wasn’t the only one wandering around in the dark last night.” He looked away and continued speaking to all of us, saying, “I realize I’ve not been home much, I’m working hard to get this business going to provide for our family, you have all had to make sacrifices and for that I am grateful. There isn’t much under the tree this year, but let’s see what there is.”

  Bags of whole walnuts and boxes of Cracker Jacks were piled in a heap under the tree. We all looked at each other thinking, “Is he crazy?” He grinned while tossing everyone a bag of walnuts and a pair of nutcrackers. “Well,” he said, “get going, start cracking.” One by one we discovered that some of the nuts had been opened, cleaned out, filled with a surprise and glued back togeth
er again. Inside were coins, folded dollar bills, movie tickets, and assorted trinkets. Soon the room exploded in gleeful expressions of surprise, joy, and laughter. We found more prizes hidden in the Cracker Jack boxes like watches, rings, bracelets, small toys, money and IOUs for trips to the zoo, circus, camping at the lake, and going to the movie theater in Detroit.

  Gratitude filled my heart. Only my father could have come up with such a creative idea to help us give thanks and laugh in spite of our circumstances. That evening we gathered in the kitchen for hot cocoa and warm walnut cookies that Grandma made from all the cracked walnuts. My father took me aside and said, “We’re long overdue for a talk.” My heart was ready to forgive and be forgiven and my rebellious attitude melted as he held me in his arms.

  Even though he passed away a long time ago, I can still hear his voice: “Start cracking and see what hidden blessings can be found even in the difficult moments of life.” Thank you, Dad.

  ~Norma Heffron

  Darren’s Christmas Video

  When you look at your life, the greatest happinesses are family happinesses.

  ~Dr. Joyce Brothers

  I hesitantly place the old videotape in the VCR. It’s Christmas 2015, and it’s been a long time since we’ve watched this video. My thoughts drift back to the day I found it in our mailbox shortly before Christmas 1990.

  I remember holding the slightly marred manila envelope in my trembling hands, clutching it to my chest, for fear it would bear bad news.

  Although I didn’t recognize the name on the return address, I knew it was someone who was serving in the Army’s 82nd Airborne Division with my son Darren. It concerned me that Darren wasn’t the sender.