The Joy of Christmas

by Amy Newmark

  As I wrap these little presents every now and then, I remember the magical twelve days of Christmas gifts that made their way to my door during my darkest hour. Now I get to say thank you over and over again to my mysterious benefactor for the hope I received when I wasn’t sure I could ever believe again.

  ~Katie Bangert

  The Cookie Plate Christmas

  When someone you love becomes a memory, the memory becomes a treasure.

  ~Author unknown

  One Christmas, two years after my mother died, my sister gave my husband and me two place settings of Christmas china. Over the years, I added more pieces to my collection.

  One year, when it was close to Christmas, I went shopping for more pieces of our Christmas china. What I really wanted was the cookie plate. I knew it was one piece I would really use. But when I saw that the price of that one plate was three hundred dollars I knew it would never be a possibility!

  Arriving home, I had a message from my father to call him. He said that he had been going through a cedar chest and found something of my mother’s that I might like.

  The next day, I went to my father’s to see what he had found. When I pulled my present out of the gift bag, I was speechless. It was the cookie plate that went with my Christmas china.

  My father had not known I was collecting the Christmas china. He didn’t know I had been shopping for that piece the day before.

  The cookie plate was the only piece of Christmas china my mother ever owned. Everyone in the family had forgotten about it.

  So, even though my mother had been gone for a decade, I still received a wonderful gift from both of my parents. We always call this special Christmas the “Cookie Plate Christmas.”

  ~Katie Martin

  A Giant Box of Love

  If the whole world were put into one scale, and my mother in the other, the whole world would kick the beam.

  ~Lord Langdale

  It couldn’t have been easy for my mom — a single mother with three energetic kids ages ten to sixteen, who worked long hours to provide us with clothing and food. Somehow she did it, keeping us busy and out of trouble. Sometimes she had to be really creative.

  One Christmas, Mom came home from work with three boxes… three refrigerator boxes. Seriously. Refrigerator boxes. That weekend, she sent us out to the garage with those boxes and several cans of paint. Our only instructions were to paint them however we wanted. We had no idea what those boxes would be used for and I painted mine my favorite color: bright purple. To add a touch of whimsy, I added huge yellow and orange flowers. It was the 1970’s, after all. I can still picture that box; it was awful, really quite hideous, but my ten-year-old self was so proud!

  After our day of painting, my siblings and I put those boxes out of our minds and began to look forward to Christmas Day. We knew Mom didn’t have a lot of extra money; we shopped at the thrift store for school clothes, gathered supplies at Pic-N-Save, and bought dayold bread at a local bakery. But that certainly didn’t keep me from wanting something very special that year. A just-for-me gift that wasn’t a hand-me-down from my older brother or sister.

  I knew, though, it was unlikely. We didn’t have the money for the one gift I wanted and I was okay with that.

  Christmas Eve came, and we followed our tradition of going to Christmas Eve service at church. We sang all the standard Christmas songs. Our pastor spoke of the birth of Jesus, the choir sang, the nativity scene was played out. Afterward, we sipped apple cider and munched on sugar cookies. My friends and I talked about what we hoped would be under the tree. I didn’t even mention the special gift I wanted.

  I kept telling myself that it wasn’t going to happen. I would be happy with whatever my mom gave me.

  We headed for home and followed another tradition of opening our stockings and one gift. Just one. As always, our stockings were full of candy, small toys, and a pair of socks. Finally, we opened that one gift — matching pajamas. We drank hot cocoa and sang a few more carols. Then it was off to bed.

  On Christmas morning, we were not allowed to even peek in the living room before breakfast. This Christmas was no exception. After inhaling eggs, bacon, and toast, we ran to the living room… and stopped dead in our tracks.

  Those refrigerator boxes were in front of the tree. But we still weren’t allowed to open them. We had to sit quietly in our matching pajamas and read the story of Christ’s birth from the book of Luke.

  After prayer, we were finally allowed to open the giant boxes.

  My sixteen-year-old sister’s box was hiding a bright red beanbag chair, a very cool thing for a teenaged girl. She immediately settled in to what would be her favorite seat. My fourteen-year-old brother found a refurbished drum set in his box.

  And in mine?

  My very first, all-for-me bicycle! Exactly what I wanted! It too was refurbished, but that didn’t matter. It was sparkly and purple with pink and white tassels! The basket was white with purple flowers! It was perfect. Just perfect. I could ride all I wanted without having to wait for my brother or sister to let me use theirs, which was never as often as I would have liked. I don’t know how she did it, but my mom had once again made a Christmas wish come true.

  Yes, it couldn’t have been easy, but somehow, my mom made that Christmas one of the best I’d ever had… and few since have topped it. No other refrigerator boxes have appeared before my tree. And no other gift has illustrated a mother’s love in quite the same way.

  ~Sauni Rinehart

  Relative Strangers

  Miracles come in moments. Be ready and willing.

  ~Dr. Wayne Dyer

  It was Christmas morning, and I was the first one up at my parents’ house in Vancouver. It was only seven, but I knew my best friend Rita would be awake because she had young children.

  I dialed the number and heard someone say “Hello” in a weak, “crackly” voice.

  “Rita, are you all right?” I asked in shock.

  “Who is this?” said someone who was not Rita.

  Oh no. Apparently, I had reached a wrong number and bothered an elderly woman on Christmas morning. I apologized for waking her, but she said, “Not to worry. It is nice to have someone to talk to, as I don’t have anything to do today, nor anyone to talk to.” My heart went out to her, and we began chatting.

  I had phoned Rita on the Island, which is a long distance number, so I was curious as to where this woman lived. “Burnaby,” she said.

  “Wow!” I thought. That was local and not even in the same area code as Rita’s number. How could my call to a long distance number have been directed to this woman nearby?

  The woman said that her name was Faith, she was eighty years old, and a widow. She had no children and nothing to do on Christmas so she was glad that I had called. I talked to Faith for an hour, and she was so sweet that I asked my mother if we could invite her over for Christmas dinner. She said yes and Faith accepted our invitation and hurried off to get ready.

  The mood in our rather somber household was transformed. My stepfather was dying of cancer, so we had been planning a low-key Christmas Day. Now our home’s atmosphere was transformed from “doom and gloom” into joy as we awaited our mystery guest.

  We had a wonderful time with Faith, and then, as she was saying her goodbyes, my mother realized that we had not exchanged last names.

  “What is your last name?” my mother asked, to which Faith replied, “Holden.”

  “No!” my mother said. “That’s MY last name. What is your last name?”

  Faith, looking confused, repeated, “That is OUR last name. Holden. H-o-l-d-e-n.”

  What are the odds?

  We sat down on the living room couch and Faith revealed even more surprising coincidences. Her late husband was from England, as was my stepfather Jim Holden, and both families had immigrated to Winnipeg, Canada. Faith’s husband and Jim were the second of four children, with the same combination of brothers and sisters in the same birth order, and all of the sib
lings remained childless after marriage. Faith and my mother had attended the same high school.

  How was it possible to dial a long distance number on Christmas morning, but end up connecting with a local number and a person who needed us as much as we needed her, and was possibly a family member, too?

  We remained friends with Faith until her passing a few years later.

  ~Mary Ellen Angelscribe

  Pages of the Past

  I think miracles exist in part as gifts and in part as clues that there is something beyond the flat world we see.

  ~Peggy Noonan

  “You are not going to believe this!” said my friend Susy. “We were opening gifts on Christmas morning and I handed Bill that book that you found. He unwrapped it, gasped, and burst into tears!”

  Susy and Bill were celebrating their second Christmas together after a number of lonely years. Bill had been widowed after a happy fifty-year marriage to his first wife, Maggie, and Susy had been divorced for a long time.

  When I spotted a book that I thought Susy might like to give Bill for Christmas, I had texted her. We were selling it in the Book Nook at Northland Public Library in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania where I volunteered. The book was called Consider the Lilies, and it was in beautiful shape for a secondhand book. It checked all the right boxes for Bill: a retired minister, avid gardener and nature lover.

  Susy had texted back that it sounded just right, so I had picked it up for her. When she leafed through it and saw the pretty watercolor prints and lovely Biblical quotes, she declared it the perfect gift for Bill.

  Neither of us had noticed the inscription at the front of the book:

  To Bill and Maggie

  Love, Meta

  This book had been given to Bill and Maggie more than thirty years ago — in Michigan! He and Maggie had given the book away when they left Michigan for Pennsylvania many years ago.

  Seeing that book again on Christmas morning was a shock and a surprise to Bill — maybe even a message. I choose to think it’s Maggie’s way of telling Bill “Merry Christmas. Be Happy.” And I cannot think of a better Christmas present or love story than that!

  ~Rosemary McLaughlin

  A Random Gift of Sweetness

  There is no greater loan than a sympathetic ear.

  ~Frank Tyger

  Dennis glanced at his watch and smiled. He was tired and there were only forty-five minutes to go until closing time at the Rite-Aid where he worked. The store was nearly empty anyway, even though Christmas was right around the corner. It was probably because it was raining.

  The automated doors opened and a middle-aged couple entered purposefully, wet from the persistent precipitation. The man was carrying a portfolio under his trench coat to protect it from the rain. The woman was wearing a stylish red raincoat, very appropriate for the holidays, but looked sad and stressed. Dennis offered his assistance.

  “You print photos, right?” the man inquired with an accent that tipped Dennis off that the gentleman wasn’t local.

  “Yes sir, machine’s right over there,” Dennis said, pointing past colorful, holiday displays featuring an assortment of gift ideas. “Let me assist you, please.”

  As the trio walked over to the kiosk that housed the photographic equipment and supplies, Dennis noticed that the couple looked tired and sad.

  Dennis positioned himself behind the equipment, and briefly reacquainted himself with its functionality. “Okay, how can I help you good people?”

  The man started to speak, but the words did not come. So his wife, her graying blond hair covered with a rain bonnet, explained: “We have some photos from our wedding nearly thirty years ago we’d like to get copies of,” she said. “Please make them pretty. They’re for John’s mother, my mother-in-law, Joyce.”

  Dennis smiled warmly at the couple. “That’s very nice. A Christmas gift, huh?”

  “Well… no, not exactly. We’ve promised her these photos for years, but always put it off. Maybe we were just lazy, or forgot, I don’t know. She always wanted a set from our wedding day, but it just never happened. It’s funny how things get away from you in life.”

  “Well, better late than never, right?” said Dennis.

  The woman pursed her lips together tightly and gave a slight nod in agreement.

  Dennis went to work reproducing the stack of about fifty photographs, but halfway through the process the machine began to overheat. Somewhat embarrassed, Dennis called another employee, Sandy, to the section to assist. They needed to make this holiday gift for this nice couple before the store closed.

  For nearly fifteen minutes, Dennis and Sandy tinkered with the equipment, disassembled and then reassembled components, until finally, they got it working properly again. The couple never complained and patiently stood there throughout the ordeal, in dripping attire.

  With only five photos left to copy, Dennis, with a note of excitement, exclaimed, “I just know your mom’s going to be overjoyed to finally get these photos from you guys! I almost wish I could see her face when she opens them up.”

  There was a long, awkward silence from the couple. Dennis immediately sensed he had said something that initiated the uncomfortable moment, and quickly apologized. “Sorry, I’m being chatty tonight; we’re almost done. Thank you for your patience, folks.”

  “No, you’re fine, Dennis,” John answered, reading the employee nametag. “These photos are indeed for my mom but she won’t be able to see them. You see, she died this week and the funeral is tomorrow. We’ll put the photos in her casket, cradled in her arms.”

  The man sighed heavily, and his wife wiped away a tear. “You were right, Dennis, ‘better late than never’, huh?”

  Dennis asked Sandy to finish the job and he stepped away. The couple had been so patient, so kind, despite the equipment malfunctions and circumstances, all the while dealing with the pain of losing a loved one and right before the Christmas holidays. Dennis wanted to offer some token, some small gift, to recognize their goodness and positive spirit. He wandered down one of the aisles and randomly grabbed a seasonally decorated bag of red, green and gold foil–wrapped candied mints, and discreetly purchased them with his own cash. Then he bagged the item and pushed it aside.

  The couple approached the register to pay for their completed photos. Dennis smiled and rang up the purchase, and thanked the couple again for their patience, then offered his condolences. They nodded and began to leave.

  “Oh wait, sorry, I nearly forgot,” Dennis announced. “It’s nothing, really, but I wanted to get you two something for your incredible patience tonight with our stubborn equipment, and with it being so close to Christmas and all.” Then he handed them the plastic bag with the candy. The couple shyly accepted the gift and pulled out its contents. They both started crying.

  Dennis began to apologize.

  “No, no, you’re fine,” the lady stammered with a smile. “You see, you just made our night, Dennis. The only way I can say it is you are an angel… our Christmas angel.”

  Dennis was dumbfounded. It was only a simple bag of chocolate mints.

  The man explained, “You would’ve never known it, but every Christmas when we would visit my mother in New York for the holidays she would give us three things: a gift card to our favorite restaurant chain, something she quilted that year, and…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

  “A bag of Andes chocolate mints,” his wife concluded. Then she repeated, “A Christmas bag of Andes. . . the exact same thing you just gave us.” Dennis could not speak. Out of hundreds of items he could have selected from the shelves for this couple, he had selected the one item that offered them hope and peace and joy and love.

  “Thank you Dennis; we’ll never forget you,” John managed as they began to leave the store. “You have no idea how much this means to us!”

  Then the couple departed into the rainy chill of night while Dennis silently locked up the store, turned off the lights and set the alarm system. But not before purchasing
a second bag of Andes chocolate mints, an early Christmas gift to take home to his wife.

  ~David Michael Smith

  The Apron Angel

  This is the message of Christmas: We are never alone.

  ~Taylor Caldwell

  When I asked my five-year-old granddaughter what she wanted to give her kindergarten teacher for Christmas, she said, “Grandma, I want to give my teacher a special Christmas present, because I love her.” She didn’t want to give her teacher an apple ornament, a piece of costume jewelry, or a gift card. She wanted “something that no one has ever given her before!” I told her we’d sleep on it and talk about it more the next morning.

  Usually, I don’t remember much, if anything, about my dreams, but when I awoke the next day, I recalled every single detail about the most vivid dream I’d ever had. My Grandma Blanche visited me. That in itself was surprising because she had died when I was only five, so I didn’t really know her. Grandma Blanche said she would show me a unique gift that my granddaughter could give her teacher — one that no one would have ever given her before.

  And then she showed me the most beautiful red lace apron I’d ever seen. At first I laughed, telling her it was see-through and too fancy for the kitchen. She explained, though, that it was a hostess apron. The hostess put it on after she finished cooking.

  Grandma then showed me how to make the apron. I paid close attention to the design, the bric-a-brac, as she called it, along the hem and the pocket, and the rhinestones formed into a diamond shape in the center of the sash. Grandma assured me that the teacher would love it.

  For a long time after I woke that morning, I sat on the side of the bed thinking about that dream. It was so vivid. How could I have been visited by a grandmother I hardly knew, with a gift idea for her great-great-granddaughter’s teacher?