by Amy Newmark
I didn’t know what to say. I felt so blessed and so humbled. They wanted my daughters to have these because they were “such good little girls” and because I “worked hard and didn’t complain.” I surely didn’t feel I deserved them but everyone else was gone. So I thanked them over and over again as they helped me load things into the car. On my way out, they plied me with more leftover toys.
We had one of our best Christmases ever. Our little girls were thrilled. I don’t know why God decided to bless me that way, that night, but bless He did, through those wonderful ladies. The toys were eventually outgrown and passed down to other children who would enjoy them as much. My granddaughter now has the bunk beds in her playroom. I will never forget the love and caring of those ladies and the most wonderful “shopping trip” of my life.
~Sandra Holmes McGarrity
In Security
The greatest happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved; loved for ourselves, or rather, loved in spite of ourselves.
~Victor Hugo
We had been married for nine months, and I was still learning the ways of my in-laws. It was my first Christmas away from my family and our familiar traditions, and my heart ached for home.
My in-laws are lovely people, in every sense of the word. Their home belongs in a magazine, with hardwood floors and chic country-home decor. My mother-in-law is always perfectly dressed for every affair and my father-in-law is a beloved pastor of the largest church in their town. I felt even more insecure because my brother-in-law had married his high school sweetheart so they had known her for years. I was the new person — a short geeky science nerd who had never been out in the country.
My husband told me not to worry so much. Everyone would like me. But I still felt out of place. I didn’t know all the people they knew and I didn’t understand their insider jokes. I couldn’t even learn the family games quickly enough, and I felt as though every misstep I made was being recorded in their minds whether they were conscious of it or not.
On Christmas morning, I called my family to wish them a happy Christmas morning, I told them I loved them, hung up and started to cry. I felt like a failure in every way: a failure as a daughter-in-law and a failure as a daughter to my parents by not being with them on the most special holiday of the year.
I crept downstairs, trying to blend in with the perfectly decorated walls. They were all gathered at the table eating… fresh cinnamon rolls. Just like at my parents’. With real cream-cheese frosting. And there was a plate waiting for me.
“Happy Christmas morning, hon!” said my father-in-law.
“Your stocking is over here,” said my mother-in-law.
My mother-in-law had put out stockings sometime during the night. She had handmade every one herself. And there was mine, with my name stitched across the top in red thread, with a little heart woven beside it.
My insecurity disappeared. I finally felt loved. But I suddenly realized it wasn’t the first time — they had loved me the whole time. I looked up at my mother-in-law, and I saw in her eyes the same hope I had: that I would love and accept them back.
The best present I received that year was the other half of my family, and I’ve been reminded of my good fortune every single Christmas since.
~Nan Rockey
How the Grinch Tried to Steal Our Christmas
Always give without remembering and always receive without forgetting.
~Brian Tracy
I stared at the empty parking space where our car had been. It had been such a good day, too. For the first time in several years, we’d actually had a little extra in our budget for Christmas, and we had spent the morning shopping for each other. We left the Christmas-crazed shopping mall with a packed car and decided to stop at a handy fast-food spot for a quick taco.
Twenty minutes later we were standing in stunned disbelief looking at the oil-splotched patch of pavement where our loot-filled old Subaru should have been waiting.
For me, it was like my heart was a giant balloon, and someone had just poked it with a pin. I could feel myself deflating and the world around me turning grey. Like the scene in the movie when the Grinch’s heart grows three sizes… but in reverse. Deflated, defeated, depressed. Suddenly everything, including Christmas, sucked.
Suddenly, I noticed how much my feet ached.
Not only had our entire gift budget been in the back of that car, but also a thousand dollars worth of groceries for our church’s holiday breakfast, which I was supposed to be cooking the next morning. They had given me the cash to pay for all the food.
The moment passed, the rain continued to fall, and people kept coming and going around us, but my mind remained in an endless loop of, “What am I going to do…what am I going to do?”
My wife went back into the restaurant to call the police, while I made the call I’d been dreading. Pastor Doug answered, and hearing the tone of my voice, immediately asked what was wrong. I told him about the stolen car, the lost gifts, and worst of all, the loss of a thousand dollars worth of groceries and gear for the big breakfast.
Doug asked if he could pray with me, which he did. He asked me how much I’d spent on all the stuff in the car, and I told him. Finally, he asked me where I was, promising to be there shortly to pick us up and take us home.
I went back inside, and sat, staring grimly out the rain-splattered window, feeling my heart shrinking three sizes, as my wife valiantly fought tears in the seat beside me. The police came, took our report, and left. I drowned my sorrows in another taco. Forty-five minutes later, I saw my pastor’s familiar white pickup truck swing into the parking lot, followed by a car I didn’t recognize.
Doug and one of our church elders came in and plopped down in the seat across from us. Sighing and shaking his head, Doug threw an arm around me and assured me that everything was going to be okay. I felt terrible. Everyone had trusted me with this event, and I had blown it.
Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope, which he passed across the table to me.
“I called a couple of the guys,” he said with a smile, “and they called a couple of guys. You feel like doing some more shopping?”
I opened the envelope and found a thick stash of cash, more than I needed to cover the stolen food. I realized there was an extra thousand dollars in that envelope, for us.
“Doug,” I said, my voice quavering, “I can’t…”
“Yes, you can,” he interrupted. “This is what family does. We bless each other when things are good and we let ourselves be blessed when bad things happen.”
Then he tossed me the keys to the car that our elder had followed him in, telling me that we could borrow it until we got ours back or got a new one.
I was shocked and overwhelmed. I could feel the tears welling in my eyes as I thanked him.
Only a moment before, everything had been hopeless, dark and cold, and then, just like that, the clouds parted and the sun was shining again.
Late that night, when I finally collapsed, exhausted, into bed, I reflected on how it wasn’t only gifts and food that had been stolen, but also our joy. Through the kindness of our church family, that was only a temporary loss.
I was reminded, just when I needed reminding the most, of Dr. Seuss’s Grinch and his own discovery that “Christmas, in fact, doesn’t come from a store. Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more.”
It’s something that cannot be stolen, no matter how big your Grinch is.
~Perry P. Perkins
The Children’s Christmas
Christmas, in its final essence, is for grown-ups who have forgotten what children know. Christmas is for whoever is old enough to have denied the unquenchable spirit of man.
~Margaret Cousins
I’d been up since the crack of dawn preparing a Christmas feast that would feed twenty-one friends and family members plus the three of us. It was almost noon, and the delectable aroma of turkey and stuffing permeated the house. I’d already prepared two gi
gantic pots of peeled potatoes and diced fresh vegetables. The glazed ham, roast beef and meat pies sat waiting to be popped into the oven.
I put the finishing touches on the appetizers, carefully storing them in the fridge beside cranberry sauce, salad, condiments, and other side dishes I planned to serve. As holiday music played softly in the background, I measured spices for my gravies and set the table.
Though the plates and cutlery didn’t all match because I was feeding so many, everything gleamed and looked picture-perfect. Poinsettia centerpieces with matching crimson candles lay nestled among breadbaskets I’d fill at the last minute. I was admiring my work when the call came. It was my younger brother’s girlfriend.
“We can’t come,” she groaned into the phone. “We have the stomach flu.”
“Oh dear,” I gushed soothingly. “Get back into bed and try to rest. If you like, I can send some food over later.” The gagging sound she made before quickly hanging up suggested it was the wrong offer to make.
The phone rang again. This time it was a friend. She’d just had a heated argument with her sister, another of our invited guests, and her husband. “Jake and I refuse to sit at the same table with those two and their annoying brats,” she hollered, hanging up with a loud slam.
A second later a call from her sister came, saying basically the same thing. Before I could tell her it was safe to come, the dial tone hummed in my ear. I was down four adults and three kids.
I was just about to ask my fifteen-year-old son, David, to clear and dismantle one of the folding tables when the phone shrilled a fourth time. I picked it up warily.
“Mary, it’s Janice. I’m so sorry, but we can’t make it today. Glen’s mom had a heart attack. We have to get to the hospital. I’m dropping all three kids off at my cousin’s on the way.”
I clucked sympathetically. As I was telling her I would send good thoughts, my call waiting beeped. With a quick “stay strong” to Janice, I switched over to hear my older brother announcing there was a blizzard in Ontario, and that they had no choice but to stay home. In the span of three minutes, my guest list had dwindled by nine more people. I could feel a headache rapidly approaching.
Seconds later, I heard my husband Don stamping snow off his boots in the foyer.
“Honey, I have bad news,” he hollered.
“Who bailed this time?” I bellowed back, dragging my feet into the living room.
“Ursula called on my cell while I was walking the dog. She, Frank, and the four kids are all down with bad colds. They don’t want to come and make us all sick,” he said. “What’s wrong?” he added when he saw tears starting to slip down my cheeks.
“Everyone cancelled!” I wailed. “It’s only the three of us left! What am I going to do with all this food? I was expecting two dozen people.”
He caught me in his arms right as I started to sag and sob at the same time.
“Shhh,” he soothed. “We can always freeze the leftover food. It’s not the end of the world.”
He was right, of course. Except for two couples, everyone had a perfectly good reason for backing out. I was instantly ashamed of myself for feeling “inconvenienced” when people I loved were so sick. As for my brother in Ontario, if anything had happened to him while traveling through the snow, I’d never have forgiven myself.
My son got up from the couch and handed me a tissue. I smiled at him through watery eyes.
“It’s Christmas,” I hiccupped. “Let’s make the best of it. I’m sorry I reacted like a baby”
“Mom,” David began, “can I invite some of my friends for dinner instead? A lot of them have no plans. Some of them are pretty poor and have nothing special for dinner either — and we have all this food….”
Don and I stared at each other, both nodding at the same time.
“Of course. Go ahead and call them,” I told our son.
“How many can come?” he asked.
“I have food for twenty more people… maybe thirty. Some may have to eat off paper plates,” I warned, “but everyone is welcome.”
The doorbell began buzzing at 2:00 p.m. By three, twenty-one teenagers and two of their little sisters filled my home. The kids proudly handed me a bouquet of flowers they’d all chipped in to buy, thanking me politely for inviting them. I pushed back tears at the sweet gesture, and shooed them all downstairs to wait for dinner.
The volume on David’s stereo went up several decibels as heavy metal music drowned out carols, but Don and I didn’t care. The house was alive with laughter and the spirit of the holiday. Many youngsters dribbled in and out of the kitchen offering to help, and as I delegated small chores, we chatted.
That Christmas dinner was one of the best we ever had. Our table was packed with hungry kids who demolished the twenty-pound turkey and the roasts, digging into the vegetables as if they were eating ambrosia. No one muttered about diets, indigestion or allergies. They simply enjoyed and appreciated every morsel of food that went into their mouths. As I watched them eat, any thoughts of leftovers being transformed into potpies, hot sandwiches or midnight snacks rapidly disappeared, but it didn’t matter.
After dinner, those kids banished our family to the living room while they pitched in and cleaned up my kitchen until it was spotless. Someone had brought a newly released movie and before I knew it, my living room floor was covered with fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds, generously allowing the “old people” to sit on the couch and watch the movie. The two little girls curled up on either side of me, cuddling close. After passing out bags of microwave popcorn and canned soft drinks, we turned off the lights to enjoy the film.
By 10:00 p.m., everyone began to leave, but not without warm hugs and sincere thanks that made my eyes well up yet again. That night, I turned to my husband in bed. “Why is it we never thought to invite David’s friends for Christmas dinner before?”
“I don’t know,” he replied sleepily. “You always hear that Christmas is for kids, but we seem to make the meal itself more of an adult occasion, picking and choosing who we want at the table.”
“Not anymore,” I vowed, remembering the grateful young faces that saved our day from being a quiet, lonely disaster.
~Marya Morin
The Spirit of Santa
They err who thinks Santa Claus comes down through the chimney; he really enters through the heart.
~Charles W. Howard
The opulence took my breath away. Long tables draped in ivory and gold filled a room lit by a hundred candles. The smell of turkey and pumpkin pie filled the air as a huge fire crackled in the fireplace. Ah, Christmas Eve.
I smiled at the irony. Three different projects had failed that year and we were careening toward bankruptcy. I’d miscarried and was still deeply mourning. Our own Christmas dinner would be a turkey roll from Walmart. But, the saddest part of all was explaining to Matthew, Mary and Katie that Santa would not be coming that year.
At ages eight, six and three, they were unfazed by my warnings. “Don’t worry, Mama,” they’d assured me. “Santa won’t forget us.”
The warm pajamas and used books I’d hidden away would not compare to the bounty they had received in the past.
So when my friend invited us to dinner and a visit from Santa at her house, I was grateful. As we dressed up, I’d told the kids that a visit from Santa was worth far more than presents and that they were the lucky ones of all the kids in the world.
Dinner was wonderful. Good food, fine wine, and the companionship of people with open hearts. And, when Santa came, even I was excited.
This was no store Santa either. His white beard and round belly were all home grown. And his eyes twinkled with a light that came from his pure, loving soul and radiated clear around the room. Indeed, this was really Santa.
Eight-year-old Matthew took one look, ran to hide and had to lean on us to make his way back to meet the jolly man. Six-year-old Mary, on the other hand, leapt into his arms. And the jolly old man caught her with an open belly laugh t
hat assured her she was right where she belonged. “Oh, Santa, it’s you!” she cooed as she gently stroked his beard.
But, despite the wonder and joy of the moment, I could not hide my sorrow at our plight. This should have been a time of joy for my children, and all I could think of was what was lacking. I tried to get Santa aside to explain our situation before he talked to the kids.
But, I never got the chance and as Matthew sat reciting his list Santa promised and promised and promised, then left to “begin his evening rounds.”
Soon, we said our goodbyes and piled into the car for the five-minute ride home through the snowy streets. The DJ on the radio announced that Santa had been spotted over our town.
Mary squealed and looked up at the sky as she searched for her new friend.
But as Mary cheered, Matthew cried, “Oh no, oh no, OH NO!”
“Honey, what’s wrong?” we asked.
“He’s here and I’m not asleep!” Matthew began ripping at his clip-on tie as he wiggled out of his shoes.
“It’s okay. He knew you were at the party,” I consoled.
“No. He told me to be good and go to bed tonight. I’m up. I’m being bad! He’ll never come!”
“But, remember,” I said, seizing my chance. “You got to see him tonight, and he gave you your truck. He may not be able to come to your house too; he has so many other children to see tonight.”
“Silly Mommy,” laughed Mary in the midst of all the chaos. “Santa always comes.”
“But, honey…” I began as we pulled into the driveway, and then there it was.
“Look kids,” Steven pointed. “What is that?”
“Santa!” they yelled.
And it was. For there, on the deck, was Christmas. A big red sled sat by the front door. Propped up inside were trucks and telescopes, Barbies and plush toys… and magic. For the second time that night, a scene had taken my breath away.
There, in the cold and snow, we knelt down to explore the miracle. Tears flowed down my cheeks as my babies shrieked and giggled in wonder. Clearly Santa knew my kids and had brought them each a special, personalized treasure.