The Joy of Christmas

by Amy Newmark

  As the holidays neared, I began to feel mounting tension in my arms and neck. My head ached, and I was miserable. Instead of looking forward to Christmas, I was beginning to dread it.

  Wasn’t Christmas supposed to be a joyful time? Well, something had gone wrong. I had somehow lost sight of the real meaning of Christmas amid all these elaborate ideas. I had been allowing the experts to tell me how I should celebrate our holiday.

  I decided to consult the only “experts” who really mattered — my children. I wanted to make the big day special for them, and so I needed to find out what they really wanted. “How shall we celebrate Christmas?” I asked them on the way home from the store the next day.

  My eight-year-old daughter replied, “Let’s have spaghetti. Spaghetti would be perfect for Christmas because it’s red.”

  I felt better already. Spaghetti was easy to make, and it was my daughter’s favorite meal. I knew she would be happy with that choice.

  My six-year-old son suggested, “Let’s decorate the tree with candy canes.”

  I could purchase candy canes anywhere, and they were inexpensive. I could easily buy extra candy canes for the ones that went AWOL, although I would urge my family not to eat them until after Christmas. I planned to sweeten the deal by promising them a party with hot chocolate and other goodies to go along with the candy canes.

  My three-year-old son said, “Let’s have a birthday cake for Jesus. I like the chocolate one in the box. We could play games in the afternoon.”

  All their suggestions seemed easy to accomplish. I could certainly make chocolate cake from a mix, and I knew the children would love to “decorate” the cake themselves. What a relief! I wouldn’t have to spend time creating fancy foods or elaborate decorations to make my children happy.

  For the first time in weeks, I began to smile. Instead of fussing, I could spend this special day playing games and relaxing with my family. This was truly going to be a fantastic, memorable Christmas!

  ~JoAnne Check

  O Wholly Overwhelming Night

  A child is a curly dimpled lunatic.

  ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

  The Christmas Eve children’s service overflowed with little ones, laughter, and anticipation. Kids squirmed in holiday dresses or once-a-year ties in the crowded pews. To entertain the families squeezed into every possible seat, piano students pounded “Silent Night” or “The First Noel” on the choir director’s piano. When their turns ended, they rushed back to their smiling parents and grandparents.

  My little family missed most of this. We decided to forgo getting seats at the children’s service in favor of a shorter wait time beforehand. Our younger daughter, two-and-a-half-year-old Mary Claire, has been nicknamed “Our Lady of Perpetual Motion.” She needed room to roam so we were off standing at the back of the church anyway.

  We strolled into church just before Father Jim began his procession. Twinkling lights and Christmas hymns greeted us. I spied an opening near the low baptismal font. It provided some breathing room, perfect for a toddler on the move. A few minutes later, my husband came in from parking the car and we stood together, holding hands, for the opening prayers.

  When Father Jim called the children forward for the Christmas story, the real magic began. Each Christmas Eve, he creates a giant flannel storyboard on his vestments and robes. The little ones place felt pieces of the story — cutout sheep, shepherds, baby Jesus — on his vestments. By the end, Father Jim is covered with fabric, the children enjoy the story, and the congregation giggles at the show.

  Our older daughter, a kindergartner, grinned with excitement. She was in charge this year, and took her role seriously. Throughout December she had “practiced” reenacting the Christmas story with our toy nativity set. She’d perched her little sister on her lap and told the story — with a few fractured carols sprinkled in — over and over. It always ended with a rousing rendition of “Happy Birthday” to Jesus.

  I watched nervously as our girls walked hand-in-hand down the long center aisle for the children’s message. Kids poured out of every pew, clamoring for a seat on the altar steps. We were on high alert, afraid Mary Claire might make a run for it. We didn’t need to be. Our daughters sat sweetly side by side in their fancy holiday dresses and hung on every word. My eyes were damp when Father Jim finished and the girls ran back toward us. I hugged them tightly. What a special Christmas this was becoming!

  Yet as the service continued, Mary Claire’s patience wore thin. She hadn’t napped enough that day. My husband sent me “the look.” He thought it was time to go. I waved him off. I was high on Christmas spirit and didn’t want the joy to end.

  “Look at Father Jim,” I whispered quietly into Mary Claire’s ear. “He is saying prayers for Baby Jesus!” She watched for a moment. I pointed toward the lights on the Christmas tree. “Aren’t they pretty? Look at all the colors!”

  The distractions worked. Soon her hot baby breath whispered questions into my ear. Pleased with my solution, I caught my husband’s eye and smiled. “See!” my confident smile said. “We’re good. I’ve got this!” In my smugness, I wasn’t paying attention when a few moments later, another question came.

  “Mama, who’s that?” she whispered, while her chubby finger pointed toward the large stained glass window on our left.

  “That’s Jesus,” I answered.

  “What’s he doing?” she hesitantly asked.

  And then I did it. Unthinkingly, and with complete disregard for the not-even-three-year-old sensibility, I answered, “That is when he dies.”

  A quiet moment settled over the church. Then she erupted.

  “He DIES?” she shrieked. “Baby Jesus DIES? HE WAS JUST BORN!”

  My mind raced to catch up as she shouted louder and clearer than I thought was possible.

  “Noooo!” she sobbed. Every person around us turned to look while I frantically tried to undo what I’d done. “Of course he was just born! Today is Jesus’s birthday! Yay! Hurray for Baby Jesus!”

  It was too late. She sobbed with all the grief a child can muster. Tears slid down her flushed round cheeks faster than I could wipe them. Despite the understanding smile and stifled chuckle of the grandmother nearby, I knew it was time to go. I looked toward my husband, who already had our five-year-old bundled up and the activity bags packed. I had never been more grateful to him as we made our quick exit.

  At home, with presents under the tree and carols in the background, we returned our little family’s attention to the celebration of the season. Bedtime stories and cookies for Santa restored the magic. With the kids tucked into their beds, my husband and I laughed and laughed over the evening’s events and the unpredictability of children.

  ~Katie O’Connell

  A New Home for SarahRose

  Christmas. . . is not an eternal event at all, but a piece of one’s home that one carries in one’s heart.

  ~Freya Stark

  In 2012 our local paper ran a winter photo contest. I carried my camera outside that day and snapped a few pictures of our “Little Cabin in the Big Woods” and actually anticipated winning the contest. That seems a bit amusing, looking back. After all, we live along the Front Range of the Rocky Mountains and every single day people photograph the spectacular scene — breathtaking photographs of wildlife, the Garden of the Gods, Pikes Peak, and the like. But when my photo was chosen as the winner, I wasn’t surprised at all. This was a photo of my home. . . and I loved it.

  There wasn’t really anything spectacular about our little log cabin. Built in the 1940’s as someone’s summer vacation home, it appeared tiny next to the ancient pine trees that surrounded it. But, it was our cozy home of twenty-seven years. We fell in love with the place as a young family looking to escape the confines of city life. Here we raised our children and figured that even though “Whispering Pines” had its faults, we’d stay there forever — because it was home.

  Growing up in a military family, I had the privilege of traveling extensively
around the world. In those days, I was perplexed to hear statements of longing to “go home.” Wasn’t “home” the place you went to sleep at night? Wasn’t it where your mail was sent? But I had noticed many people referred to their “home” as someplace they were not currently living. How odd — a distant place called “home.” That was when I noticed that “home” was not just a noun, but more of an emotion, as in “I feel at home here.” Home is where you feel protected, embraced, and understood.

  So there it was. The place called home by our family for nearly three decades.

  What our cabin lacked in square footage, it made up for in charm. And it was host to a wide variety of events over the years, including impromptu dance and drama presentations by the seven rowdy children who grew up there. Weddings, baby showers, graduation parties, music recitals, and other holiday celebrations were held within its walls.

  Then, on June 11, 2013, Whispering Pines vanished along with more than five hundred other homes in the Black Forest Fire — still counted as the most destructive fire in Colorado history.

  Fortunately, we had time to gather the children, pets, some photos, computers, and important documents ahead of the flames. At the time of the mandatory evacuation, we unknowingly checked in to the same hotel where firefighters from across the country were staying while helping to battle the blaze.

  Over breakfast each morning we thanked them for their service and chatted with fellow evacuees. The fun of the evacuation evaporated when the official news arrived that our address was among those listed as a “total loss.”

  Our youngest daughter, twelve-year-old SarahRose, exclaimed after a long deluge of tears, “I’ll never dance again.” This was the child who was such a joyful dancer that her grandfather had often commented to whomever might be listening, “Someone should really teach that girl to walk.”

  It was still early summer, but our devastated daughter was already thinking ahead. “This will be the worst Christmas ever!” she cried.

  The idea of celebrating Christmas anywhere else seemed impossible, and pretty improbable as well. Many of our family, friends, and neighbors had lost their homes in the fire, too. It seemed that there would be no joy in this holiday season for SarahRose.

  In an attempt to reclaim some element of normal life, I encouraged SarahRose to attend her regularly scheduled summer dance programs. “It will do you good to focus on something else,” I told her. But she was reluctant. “Maybe it will help,” I said.

  Expectations were low, emotions were volatile, and stress levels high. We knew moving forward was our best option but we weren’t sure how to do so. Logically it seemed to me that if SarahRose were spending all day with her friends doing what she loved, those were steps in the right direction.

  Ted Mehl of A Better Image Photography, courtesy of Colorado Ballet Society

  By the time her summer programs were over and the fall semester began, she was beginning to feel excited about dancing again. Looming large over all the dancers at that time of year is the upcoming Nutcracker season. Cast lists typically appear toward the end of August and eager eyes scan the corkboard for postings.

  We have long been a family of traditions. Stockings hung by the chimney with care, the Advent log, and other favorite activities were repeated year after year. As a family with three dedicated dancers, our girls have been dancing toy mice, soldiers, dolls, sugar babes, party girls, sugarplums, garland girls, angels, marzipan, flowers, and probably some parts we can’t remember. Yes, The Nutcracker is a huge part of our holiday every year.

  But things seemed different that year. There was no chimney on which to hang our homemade stockings, and although a friend made us a new Advent log, we had no mantel on which to place it. So many traditions were changing for us, whether we wanted them to or not. Feeling a bit apprehensive, SarahRose decided she would dance only in the Youth Ballet’s production of The Nutcracker that year. Although sometimes it’s fun to be part of two or three Nutcracker productions in the same year, she thought that would be too stressful when we didn’t even have our real home anymore.

  The chatter around the Ballet Society studios was all about The Nutcracker casting. A few people had commented to SarahRose, “I bet you’ll be Clara this year.” or “I hope you get to be Clara this year.” She thought they were all being especially kind and encouraging because of the fire and she didn’t expect to get the lead role. She figured she was too tall, because the prior year she had been in the correct age/ height group for Clara.

  Surprisingly, SarahRose was cast in the coveted role for the Colorado Youth Ballet’s production! Her tears turned to laughter and she enjoyed every one of those rehearsals. It was one of the highlights of her life, giving her a new home for the holidays — the ballet studio — right when she needed it.

  ~Donna Lorrig

  Manners Mishap

  Politeness is the art of choosing among one’s real thoughts.

  ~Abel Stevens

  We bundled up in our coats, mittens and hats to head out the door to Grandma’s house. We loaded the wrapped gifts into the trunk and I saw that the kids were all buckled into their car seats. As we began to pull down the driveway, the kids were animated in their discussion of what awaited them at their grandparents’ house.

  “I bet Nana made cinnamon rolls!” Kyle said.

  “And Grandpa will probably get out some shrimp later!” said Karen, matching his anticipation.

  There’s not much that’s more heartwarming than listening to eager children on Christmas morning. Before they got too much further into their holiday chattering, I thought it would be a good time to launch into my annual conversation about good manners. “Be sure to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ at Grandma’s today — at all of the meals and when you open your gifts — even if you don’t like something,” I lectured.

  “Okay,” they responded, as if they were wondering how I could be thinking of something as boring as manners on an exciting day like Christmas.

  “How grown-up of me!” I chuckled to myself.

  We finally arrived at the house and the kids dashed inside. They would only ask fifty times when it would be time to open gifts and I would only remind them fifty times to mind their manners.

  Finally, the moment they’d somewhat patiently waited for arrived. We all gathered in our designated spots. The kids helped their grandmother and various aunts and uncles pass out the gifts. Then it was time to unwrap the gifts, one at a time as everyone watched.

  Every year, my grandmother created handmade gifts. This particular year, she had knitted rainbow-striped cardigan sweaters. My daughter’s was made with beautiful pastel yarns and my son’s was made with primary colors. As they opened their sweaters, I watched as my young, elementary-aged son pulled his out of the box, held it up with an awkward look on his face, and said, “Thank you! Even though I don’t like it!”

  I was mortified as giggles broke out around the room. I couldn’t really discipline my son because he’d done exactly as I’d instructed him. He said thank you even though he didn’t like the gift. He just missed the context a bit.

  Oh well! Out of the mouths of babes. Even my grandmother got a good laugh out of it and commented later that maybe the colors weren’t quite suited to a young man. Kyle gave the sweater to his sister, who was very grateful to have two! Her enthusiasm for the sweaters and the group’s laughter more than made up for my son’s unfiltered but obedient comment.

  ~Stephanie Davenport

  A Gift from the Heart

  While we try to teach our children all about life, our children teach us what life is all about.

  ~Angela Schwindt

  It had been a tradition for my husband to give me a box of Nutchos chocolates at Christmas. They don’t make them anymore, but at the time, they were delicious: a swirly mound of milk chocolate filled with ground nuts.

  In one of my “woe is me” moments, facing the first Christmas after my husband and I had separated, I moaned and asked who was going to buy
me my Nutchos that year.

  Days later, I took the kids to the local department store and handed them money so they could do their own Christmas shopping. They had been instructed to stay together, and we had a set time and place to meet before we headed home.

  A short time later I saw the kids lugging their purchases. It made me smile to see their excitement with their first foray into holiday shopping. But as we walked home, I saw one of my son’s purchases hanging out of his bag.

  It seemed that instead of using the money for gifts, he had spent the money on a huge bag of Doritos or some sort of junk food for himself. I was annoyed, thinking that was not the giving holiday spirit I was trying to teach him.

  “Why did you buy chips?” I asked. “That money was for gifts for the family, not for you to buy yourself a snack.”

  He looked at me, his sad eyes looking hurt, holding back tears. “They’re not for me,” he said. “They’re for you. You wanted to know who was going to buy you your nachos, and I wanted to make sure you got some.”

  Nutchos… made from chocolate and nuts. Nachos… a chip made by Doritos. I guess they could sound very much the same to an eight-year-old boy.

  I gave that thoughtful little boy a big hug right there on the sidewalk.

  ~Deborah Lean

  Perfectly Presented

  What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

  ~William Shakespeare

  Even if I’d won the lottery, I wouldn’t have sounded as excited as my daughter did that day. She had just come home from school and she stood at the door, grinning from ear to ear and holding a shopping bag.

  For over a month, my daughter had worked extra chores around the house in order to earn money she could spend at the school’s Christmas shopping day. The teachers transformed the cafeteria into a store where the children could buy inexpensive gifts. They would learn how to pay for items and receive change while shopping for their friends and family.