The Joy of Christmas

by Amy Newmark

  “Did you have fun?” I asked, remembering how ecstatic my daughter had been when she left for school that morning.

  “You should have seen all the stuff, Mom,” she squealed. “Hurry, come see what I bought everyone.”

  We quickly slipped into her bedroom, away from prying eyes. My daughter’s hands shook from excitement as she gingerly removed the first item from her bag and slowly unwrapped the tissue paper that surrounded the gift.

  The unwrapping took forever, but finally a miniature, tan burlap banner with a stamped picture of a rainbow trout and fishing pole emerged. Under the picture in small black letters it said, “Grandpa, world’s best fisherman!”

  Even though my father wasn’t a fisherman, I knew he’d love it simply because my daughter had gotten it for him. “Wow that’s nice,” I chimed in. “Grandpa will love it!”

  “But it’s not for Grandpa,” my daughter informed me. “It’s for Uncle Paul. He’s the one who loves to go fishing.”

  I could see why she’d gotten it for my brother — an avid fisherman, but hadn’t she noticed the word “Grandpa”?

  Upon unwrapping the next item, out popped a sparkling fabric coin purse with tiny letters that said, “To an aunt who is ‘sew’ sweet.” Inside the purse I found brightly colored threads, a needle, and the tiniest pair of scissors I’d ever seen. While an adorable and useful gift, I knew my sister would never use it. Other than a sewing class in junior high school, my sister had never sewed or mended anything in her life.

  Of course I told my daughter her aunt would love the sewing kit. “It’s not for Aunt Jan,” she replied. “It’s for Grandma. She’s the one who loves to sew.”

  At first I found her mistaken gift choices humorous, but carefully contained my laughter. What had I expected from a first grader who had shopped by herself? I couldn’t blame the school. I asked my daughter if the teachers had helped her pick out her items; she said they had offered to help, but she wanted to shop on her own.

  The next item was an abstract, black and white paperweight stamped with “World’s Best Uncle.”

  “Is that for Aunt Jan?” I asked, now that I understood what my daughter had done. Aunt Jan loved black and white and had recently decorated her bedroom in those colors. My daughter answered, “Yes.”

  She unwrapped a white coffee mug sprinkled with black musical notes that simply said “Dad” on it. “Grandpa’s present?” I asked, since my father loved playing the piano. She nodded yes.

  As she pulled out the remaining presents, any humor on my part evaporated as I stared at my daughter’s collection. In later years, my daughter and I would laugh about her first solo shopping trip, but at that moment my heart melted when it hit me how much love and care had gone into my daughter’s shopping spree.

  I could not have picked out more thoughtful or perfect gifts and she’d done it all on her own. I had no idea she’d known all about her family’s hobbies and passions, but she’d shopped from her heart, making sure each gift perfectly matched its recipient.

  As she lovingly wrapped her gifts, my daughter confessed that initially she’d picked out presents that she would want someone to give to her. Then, she remembered that Christmas was about bringing happiness to others and put them back. Those words alone made me feel the school shopping experiment had been a huge success.

  Christmas morning I opened the present my daughter had gotten for me, a beautiful tiny fabric rainbow banner with the word “Grandma,” and below it, “You’re my pot of gold.” The gift would hang on my wall until it rotted and fell apart.

  But the greatest gift I received that Christmas was the joy on my daughter’s beaming face as she watched her family open the presents that she had bought with her hard-earned money and carefully chosen. All by herself she’d discovered the joy in giving to others, a discovery that would last her a lifetime.

  ~Jill Burns

  Sibling Secret Santa

  We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.

  ~Thornton Wilder

  It was Christmas of 2006 and once again we were planning our Sibling Secret Santa. My six-year-old brother Eric wanted to be included this year, despite the fact that his eight older brothers and sisters always gave him piles of gifts. Participating in Sibling Secret Santa meant he would receive only one gift.

  The rest of us, who ranged in age from eighteen to twenty-seven, warned him that it would be his only gift to open Christmas Eve — a fact even some of us “adults” struggled to accept. Eric assured us that he was okay with this but we didn’t believe him. My oldest sister had picked his name from the hat and decided to have a little fun with it. Our mother was famous for painting a piece of wood with a cheesy saying and giving it to us as a “present.” So my sister gift-wrapped a wooden sign that read “God Bless America” and placed it in the pile for Eric. Hiding in the back bedroom was his real gift — a new bicycle.

  During our annual Christmas Eve party, the nine of us gathered as we always did in the living room with A Christmas Story playing on the TV in the background. We all expected Eric to be disappointed by his wooden “gift.” Some of us sat on the floor, some in chairs dragged in from the kitchen. Eric sat on the couch sandwiched between his two older brothers, giddy with anticipation. One by one we opened our gifts from our Secret Santas: new clothes, glassware for our houses, and other thoughtful and fun items.

  Finally, it was Eric’s turn.

  We handed him his gift and waited for the meltdown. A six-year-old used to receiving stacks of toys and treats on Christmas Eve would no doubt be disappointed with a piece of wood. He began to recklessly tear though the snowflake paper, tossing shreds to each side. I will never forget his adorable little face as he unwrapped that painted sign and smiled bigger and brighter than I’ve ever seen. He beamed as he held the sign up, proudly showing off his gift to his brothers and sisters. I realized then that this little boy didn’t care what that present was; he was just so happy to be a part of our Christmas tradition.

  I was so proud to be a part of my family at that moment and I was reminded of how important our family traditions were. And I’ve never seen someone more appreciative of a gift — that is, of course, until his new bike was wheeled out!

  ~Jamie Kopf

  The Best Present

  Good judgment comes from experience, and often experience comes from bad judgment.

  ~Rita Mae Brown

  My seven-year-old eyes gleamed with envy when I saw my friend’s new Disney watch. Hour and minute hands slowly marked time as Cinderella’s face peeked from behind them. A soft pink leather band encircled my friend’s arm. It was perfect.

  That’s what I wanted for Christmas.

  “You’re not old enough for a watch yet.” My mother’s voice brooked no argument. “What else would you like for Christmas?”

  I hung my head. “Nothing.” I dragged my feet as I walked away. Looking back, I realize my parents had no money to waste on something I would likely lose. The market wasn’t flooded then with cheap disposable trinkets as it is now. A watch was something we kept for years. Still, I wanted that watch.

  When presents began materializing under the tree, none matched the size and shape of a jewelry box that might contain a watch. However, one with my name on it did pique my curiosity. About six inches tall, it had irregular contours — no straight edges or boxy corners. Mama had wrapped it well with thick paper, and the few times I could sneak to the back of the tree to check it out failed to give me any clues about its identity. My curiosity grew. Christmas seemed so far away.

  One day, I could no longer stand it. While Mama cooked dinner, I pulled my four-year-old sister Shelly into the living room and pointed to the mystery gift. “Do you know what that is?”

  Shelly nodded.

  “What is it?”

  “Mama told me not to tell you,” she said.

  I put my arm around her and used my best conspiratorial voice. “Let’s make a deal.
I’ll tell you what I got you for Christmas if you tell me what’s in that present.”

  Shelly brightened. “Okay. Watch.”

  I watched her. Nothing happened. “So what’s in the present?”

  “Watch.”

  I frowned for a moment and then comprehension dawned. “You mean a watch? They got me a watch for Christmas?”

  She smiled and nodded.

  I stared at the gift. It wasn’t the right size or shape for a watch, and Mama had already said I couldn’t have one yet. Shelly must have gotten mixed up. Or could they have changed their minds? Maybe…

  Shelly stomped her foot. “I told you. Now you tell me. What did you get me for Christmas?”

  I continued to study the present. “A coloring book,” I said absently.

  Shelly wandered off as I pondered the possibilities. Finally, I decided she was wrong. It couldn’t be a watch. Whatever was under the bright wrappings would have to remain a secret until Christmas morning.

  The big day came, and I headed straight for that gift. When I tore off the paper, I found a ceramic Cinderella figurine on a pedestal. In front of her, sat a beautiful Cinderella watch with a pink band. I squealed. “You got me the watch! Shelly told me you had, but I didn’t believe her.” Then I gasped and looked up.

  The room suddenly became silent.

  “Shelly,” Mama said, “come here.”

  I froze, too horrified to speak.

  “Why did you tell Tracy about her watch?” Mama asked.

  Shelly, of course, spilled the entire story and received a lecture on keeping secrets. In turn, I got a well-deserved scolding for my deception. What hurt more was the disappointment in my parents’ eyes. Not only had I ruined their surprise, but I had conned my little sister into doing something she wasn’t supposed to do. I couldn’t have felt any worse.

  Mama and Daddy let me keep the watch. I wore it, but Cinderella’s pretty face no longer held the same charm for me. Instead, she served as a daily reminder that I had violated my parents’ trust.

  Years later, I realized how much that reminder helped me stay on the straight and narrow. I never wanted to disappoint my parents like that again, but more importantly, it wasn’t the kind of person I wanted to be, one who would use deceit and trickery to get what she wanted. The scolding, not the watch, was the best present I could ever have received.

  ~Tracy Crump

  The Epiphany

  Other things may change us, but we start and end with the family.

  ~Anthony Brandt

  As a young girl, I started writing my Christmas list in July, and by December I was mailing status reports to Santa about what a good girl I was. Every year on Christmas Eve my father stayed on Santa watch, and at the first sound of sleigh bells or reindeer hooves on our roof he would shuffle me off to bed as quickly as possible. My mother acted as my door guard to prevent me from sneaking out to see Santa at work.

  Christmas morning was always the best. As soon as the sun peeked over the trees surrounding our small country house, I would race from my room, dash around the corner, and slide to a halt in our living room. The gas logs were always lit; the stockings were full; our beautiful Christmas tree was glowing; and Santa’s gifts were displayed in plain sight.

  Christmas morning was special because it was just my parents and me. We would see the rest of the family in a few hours, but the morning was all ours.

  But then one Christmas my father wasn’t there.

  It was a harsh winter that year, one of the coldest that I remember. My father was a hard-working employee of the Department of Transportation. He was on call most nights, and risked his safety during some dangerous situations — lightning storms, hurricanes, ice storms, and even fatal car crashes. That Christmas we experienced one of the worst ice storms the community had seen in years. On Christmas Eve, just before our family dinner, my father was called out to work in order to help clear the roads during the storm. I wasn’t too sad. I knew he’d be back soon.

  He wasn’t.

  As the hours went on, I pestered my mother with questions regarding whether Dad was going to make it home for Christmas. She smiled each time and told me he’d be home as soon as he could. A few hours into the storm, we lost power. I asked my mom if Santa would be able to make it through such an awful storm. She assured me he would; after all, he had Rudolph leading the way.

  Mom let me stay up past my usual bedtime to wait for Dad. By midnight, he still wasn’t home. With no Christmas music, no Christmas lights, and no sign of Dad, I reluctantly gave up and was headed to my room when Mom said we could have a campout in the living room instead.

  She sang Christmas carols and found every blanket and pillow in the house for us. Then she had me lie down on the couch, bundled up against the cold, and she told me stories — stories of past Christmases, stories about Santa, the story of Christ’s birth, and even stories of she and Dad sneaking Santa’s cookies. Before long, I fell asleep, wrapped in my mother’s warm blankets and hanging onto her happy stories about Christmas.

  When I opened my eyes, Santa had come. The presents were there and, for a moment, I felt a giant grin spread across my face. Mom suddenly appeared next to the window and drew open the blinds. We were still without power, but the storm had subsided. The morning sun was bright, and it made the winter landscape left by the storm glitter like a scene from a Christmas card.

  With a happy but tired smile, Mom handed me a present. I hesitated, and after a moment asked if we could wait until Dad got home. Christmas morning was our family’s time. It was the best part of Christmas, and it didn’t feel right without him there. She hugged me tightly and sat next to me on the couch. For the rest of the morning we sat there together, huddled under a mountain of quilts, and entertained each other. We sang, we laughed, and bit-by-bit I felt my missing Christmas spirit return.

  By early afternoon, the power came back on and the phones resumed working, too. We called the family to wish them a Merry Christmas. Travel was too dangerous, so our family gathering was postponed until the roads were clear.

  As the late afternoon sun moved across the sky, a truck door slammed shut outside. Seconds later I heard footsteps crunching through the ice and pounding up the stairs to our front door. The door swung open and my father came bounding in. He was cold and tired, but at the sight of me he broke into a smile and shouted a hearty “Merry Christmas!” I raced into his arms and relished the warm bear hug that only my father could give.

  Happy to finally have us all together, my excitement returned. We spent the rest of the day opening gifts, telling jokes, and enjoying each other’s company.

  I snuck a glance at my parents as they talked. In that one moment, even as a child, I realized the blessing that I had experienced. We were together, and that’s all that mattered.

  ~Whitney Woody

  The Hanukkah Gift

  I brought children into this dark world because it needed the light that only a child can bring.

  ~Liz Armbruster

  It was clear from the moment I entered the toy store that I was a different kind of shopper. I was surrounded by people with lists — people who were on specific missions. I, on the other hand, had not a clue as what to buy. I had asked my son’s former home therapist to help me pick out a Hanukkah present for him and she had enthusiastically agreed.

  I realize it sounds strange, requiring assistance in selecting a gift for my own child; but Josh is on the autism spectrum and doesn’t play with toys. Don’t get me wrong — he has interests. He loves swimming, reading books, music, Sesame Street and the Muppets. He adores being tickled, jumping in bouncy castles and going on amusement park rides. But board games, doctor’s kits, action figures… they’re not his thing. I’ve never had a problem buying books or DVDs that reflect his passions, but I buy those things all year long. I wanted to buy him a Hanukkah gift that would be special — something he would both enjoy and actively play with.

  “What about this?” my shopping companion aske
d, holding up a box of plastic animals.

  “Won’t work,” I responded. “Josh will either mouth them or bang them against the wall.” We passed the sporting goods section where I recalled buying many items for occupational and physical therapy: a deep pressure vest to help Josh feel physically grounded, a beanbag chair for flopping, and a trampoline for when he was feeling especially jumpy.

  After rejecting toy cars, pretend kitchen paraphernalia and other items that had failed to capture Josh’s interest in therapy sessions, we settled on an oversized construction table that would fit in the corner of our living room. It came with large plastic bolts that fit in the table’s surface, a plastic hammer and saw, and sliding doors in which any extra equipment could fit.

  I went home and wrapped it to the best of my abilities, which wasn’t saying much. Living with autism had made me a lot less focused on things like how a gift was presented. The important thing was to try out this gift. Even if Josh never played with that construction table he would remember that his father and I gave it to him. That had to count for something.

  When my husband Aaron came home from work on the first night of Hanukkah we gave Josh his gift. Josh went over and examined it, feeling it out and banging his hammer. He then quickly gravitated toward the bubble wrap that had encased the table and proceeded to happily pop it with his hands and feet, giving himself the needed sensory input that so many on the autism spectrum crave. None of this surprised us; we knew our son well enough to know that this was a likely occurrence, and we accepted it. “At least we know he likes part of the gift,” we joked, making light of a situation that we knew bothered us deep down. As we had with other items we’d bought for Josh in the past, we decided to keep the construction table in its designated corner. We had previously bought Josh toys that he hadn’t shown interest in until months, even years later.