We peeked out from behind the side curtain at the gathering audience, a huge mass of people to our apprehensive eyes. Suddenly, the street-organ dance music began and the girls filed out, now quite composed and self-confident. The performance ended and the applause cascaded with thunderous appreciation. The curtain came down, and we took our place on the stage.
Mother opened the St. Nicholas songbook to a favorite we all knew by heart, about the moon shining through the trees and St. Nicholas, astride his white steed, riding from rooftop to rooftop. When the curtain rose again, we were already singing.
The door of the backdrop opened, and a black-gloved hand tossed candy onto the carpet. We scrambled for the sweets, singing the traditional song that accompanied the action.
Then the door opened again. The white steed we'd seen back stage entered. Astride sat St. Nicholas in a white robe, a gold stole, and a tall mitered hat. St. Nicholas would have looked quite regal, except that the animal balked, its eyes growing big and round. And St. Nicholas, awkward in the saddle, certainly didn't look as though he could handle a whole evening of rooftop riding!
Nodding to the good Saint, my mother played the introduction to “Welcome to Our House, Honored Bishop,” as my older brother and I sang.
But not my younger brother, Hans. He stood, openmouthed, looking at his beloved St. Nicholas. The audience fell silent, and my mother stopped playing to see what had captured their attention. We all stared at Hans.
Then, with a gasp, totally oblivious to his surroundings, Hans blurted out, “That's Papa!”
Laughter exploded from the audience. Then the applause thundered, realizing they had witnessed a rite of passage for my brother: his entry into the adult world of realism. His childhood idol was, after all, merely mortal.
At the reception that followed our performance, a sea of people milled around us, smiling, murmuring appreciation for our skit, complimenting our costumes and our voices. We gravitated toward a table laden with platters of turkey, mashed potatoes, salads, and pies.
“All that food!” my mother exclaimed, choking back tears.
And then, we heard a jingle of bells and a booming voice that filled the room. The crowd parted to make way for a corpulent Santa Claus walking toward my tall, lanky father, who was still dressed in his bishop garments.
We watched every move of the jolly man with the magnificent white beard. Santa opened a large bag and held up a candy cane for Hans.
Then, a smiling Saint and a smiling Santa shook hands. A glimmer of wonder returned to my brother's eyes. And as two traditions mingled, a young boy's faith was restored.
A Musical Miracle
BY AL SERRADELL
My family has always been a great collector of people. Mom was especially gifted in this sport, so gifted, in fact, that I never knew whom she'd bring home for dinner or a holiday celebration. Her strategy was simple: If she met someone she thought needed comforting or just companionship, within twenty-four hours her new friend would be sitting at our table enjoying a home-cooked meal. I remember one Christmas holiday in particular, when I came home from college to find a strange woman sitting in our living room. She wore a shapeless denim smock and looked to be about forty-something. With no makeup, her hair tied in a long graying ponytail, she appeared haggard and worn, a living portrait of a rough life.
After a quick hug, my mother introduced me to her new best friend.
“Say hello to Grace, Al. She's visiting us from St. Grace,” Mom added.
St. Grace was a local nursing home. Images of old, bedridden people too feeble to move flooded my brain. But surely something was wrong. Grace didn't appear to be old and looked pretty healthy, at least strong enough to feed herself.
I smiled and said hello to our visitor. Instead of responding, the strange woman sat perfectly still, her gaze fixed forward, not even looking at me. I wasn't sure she'd even heard me, so I said hello again, louder this time.
Still nothing.
Mom bridged the awkward silence with small talk, which she continued throughout dinner, informing us that our visitor had no blood family to speak of and so was anxious to make new friends. Knowing our mother's strict rules on hospitality, we tried conversing with our guest. “Don't you love Christmas?” “I haven't even had a chance to do much shopping.”“What's your favorite Christmas carol?” On and on we went, ignoring her silence while refilling her plate and water glass every few minutes.
After dinner, one of my brothers decided to hook up the karaoke machine. I wasn't sure this was such a good idea. Grace wasn't having a very good time as it was. Sitting like a statue, not saying a word, she was probably counting the minutes until she could return to the peace and quiet of her own room. But the family tradition won out, as each of us started going through the offered selections to choose our musical numbers. When the songbook was passed to Grace, she just nodded and said, “Number 135.”
I checked the list. Patsy Cline. “Crazy.”
Uh-oh, I thought. This is it. The theme song for the infirmed — Grace was about to crack. I wondered if we'd have to call an ambulance to take her back to the nursing home or a mental ward. After all, she hadn't uttered a sound since her arrival here — surely this would only push her over the edge. But my worries proved groundless. When her turn came, I was shocked. Not only could Grace vocalize, but she sang well — soft and slow, with perfect phrasing and pitch and without even looking at the words on the monitor. She knew the song, and had no doubt performed it before!
Afterward, we applauded and Mom handed our guest the songbook again. This time, the woman chose a Christmas song.
Closing her eyes, Grace poured every ounce of emotion and power into her performance, as if she were onstage. I could feel the song coming to life for her, the joy of Christmas rising from her soul.
I felt the trickle of tears rolling down my face. Grace had blown me away. Looking around, I realized she'd achieved the same effect on everyone in the room. Never had we enjoyed a more beautiful and emotional rendition of “Silent Night.”
Wanting to know how she had learned to sing that well, I risked a conversation with our singing guest.
A smile lit up her face. “Honey,” Grace said in a hoarse, whispery tone, “I sang in a band with my husband for nearly fifteen years. We weren't really professional, but folks seemed to enjoy our singing of the popular songs.” She stopped for a minute, and I thought she was finished for the night, but after a moment she continued. “When Sammy died, I just stopped singing. It was like I just didn't have the heart anymore. But tonight, with all of you around, I thought I could try it again.”
I put my arm around her. “Well, you can come sing for us anytime.”
“For fifteen years I sang with that man,” she explained. “Fifteen wonderful years.”
Grace's eyes sparkled, and I knew she was thinking of Sammy and singing in their band. All those memories had come back, and she was happy once again. I looked at Mom and a feeling of pride raced through me. Not everyone would invite a stranger into their home, but because Mom had, Grace had come out of mourning and was enjoying the warmth of just plain being alive again.
The Last Apple
BY DMITRI BARVINOK
In Slonim, Belarussia, the holidays are celebrated by giving what we can to the needy. That same sense of gift giving circulates down through homes and businesses. Even the day care my little brother, Nicholas, attended always hosted a large celebration, complete with a huge Christmas tree, lots of fruit punch, and presents.
The families of those who attend the day care always come for a bit of holiday cheer, bringing friends and relatives with them. One year, the celebration at the day care was particularly large. At the age of six, my best friend, Kiriil, and I couldn't wait for everyone to arrive so we could grab a piece of fruit or a cookie! As soon as we were given the go ahead, Kiriil selected an apple from the table and shoved it into his pocket, while I grabbed a few cookies for us to share in the big room where the festivities we
re to take place.
We children looked forward to this event and couldn't wait to check out the tree! The Christmas tree stretched up to the ceiling and was draped with shiny ornaments, presents, and candy!
Soon, we were standing beneath the tree looking at the huge assortment of gifts — including a brightly knitted pair of mittens — with a simple tag that read: To Anton C. for a fence well painted.
As we crowded around the tree, adults took various presents off the branches or from under the tree, read the inscription, and passed the gifts on to the prospective recipient. Kiriil and I waited patiently while lucky children raced back to their parents shouting, “Look what I got!”
Grandparents smiled at the chaos, nodding with glistening eyes as they watched the expression on each child's face.
Every year, for as long as I could remember, we always returned home pleased with the new toys we received. It was always an evening filled with happiness from beginning to end. No one expected this year would be different. But in the midst of the holiday happiness, someone rushed into the room shouting that a fire had broken out in the kitchen, and mass chaos ensued!
For a moment, Kiriil and I froze. Then we heard parents yelling for their children, children screaming for their parents. The unmistakable smell of smoke wafted through the doors from the kitchen, and almost immediately, a grey-black cloud rolled into the main room. As people started coughing, those closest to the emergency exit finally got it open and the fire alarm shrieked, adding to the din. Strong arms grabbed us and helped us outside, where we stood for the next few minutes, watching the commotion with wide eyes and wondering where our families were.
Though the excitement of the Christmas Party had taken a frightening turn, even at our young age we could see that in the midst of the horror, goodness had taken over. Those with cell phones dialed 911, while others ran for fire extinguishers. Adults grabbed youngsters — including both of our younger siblings — and hauled them safely from the burning building, and teenagers helped the elderly.
Soon, everyone had congregated outside. As flames lit the night sky, parents counted their children to make sure no one had been left behind. When we heard the first fire siren, a collective sigh of relief fanned through the group. Many looked up at the night sky — some to our Creator, some just to the beauty of the stars. For the first time ever, I realized how precious my vision was, something I had taken for granted before today.
Bonded by trauma, Kiriil's family clumped together with ours as we made our way home.
The next week, as other organizations celebrated the holidays, the day care director posted a small note on a local bulletin board asking for donations to help rebuild the center. Then she placed a small box beneath the note.
When Kiriil and his younger sister, Tanya, accompanied by their grandmother, saw the request and the empty box, Kiriil turned to his grandmother.
“Grandma,” he said, “I want to talk to the lady in charge of the day care. I have an apple that I kept from the party.” The old woman smiled. Moved by her brother's kindness, Tanya smiled, too. She pulled a dollar bill from her pocket and asked if she could donate it to the cause as well.
The woman beamed with pride as she took her grandchildren to see the director. When the story spread throughout the area, the community came alive with the Spirit of Christmas, and donations began to pour in!
The director was so touched by Kiriil's gesture that she, too, made a gesture. She announced that anyone who donated to the fund would get a small slice of the apple as a symbolic gesture of her thankfulness and appreciation.
Over the next month, there were so many donations offered, there was no way an apple could be divided into that many pieces. To make up for it, the director mailed a small plastic replica of an apple — the sort teachers might keep on their desks — to each contributor, with a small plaque bearing the words “To Those Who Care and Give.” And, to mark the generosity of a child, the director decided to add a new tradition to the festivities.
When Christmas came the following year, the day care director retold the story of what had happened the previous Christmas. After she finished praising the community for their quick thinking during a time of panic, she told a story about a little boy who had donated his apple — all that he had to give — in hopes it would help the rebuilding of the center. Then, she asked Kiriil to step forward to accept not only a generous round of applause, but also the first apple of the evening.
Though it's been a dozen years since that Christmas, this tradition still continues, in honor of Kiriil, the “best” best friend I've ever had the pleasure of knowing.
Forty Dollars
BY DONNA SUNDBLAD
Large snowflakes drifted past the window while my husband poured over our finances. Two years ago, a failed business had buried us in debt, but by following a budget, we were gradually digging our way out.
Rick rubbed his eyes. “Well,” he said as he leaned back in his chair and stretched, “we have forty dollars for Christmas.”He shrugged. “It's better than nothing.”
I glanced out the window. forty dollars. Our children needed winter boots, coats — they'd done without necessities for so long. How would I explain, once again, that they would have to do without?
I shouldn't have worried. Our eleven-year old and nine-year-old children accepted the disappointment like battle-weary troopers.
A couple of days later, my youngest sister called from Florida. With thirteen years between us, my relationship with her had taken on the role of second mother. At seventeen, she desperately wanted to come home for Christmas.
“I'll see what we can do,” I promised.
As the eldest of seven siblings, I hoped we could work together to make this a reality. I knew none of us had the resources to get her home alone. I checked airfare and then divided the cost equally. I blinked at the calculator readout: Forty dollars.
Later, I explained to each sibling, “If we each chip in forty dollars …” After the last call, I slumped in my chair. I pondered the consequences for a few minutes, and then laid out the scenario for our kids. They didn't hesitate. My sister — their aunt — was coming home for Christmas.
Their unselfishness touched my heart, yet my spirit grieved. The following day, I shared my mixed emotions with the nurse at the school where I worked. She encouraged me to be proud of my children. That wasn't the problem. I couldn't be prouder, but they deserved better.
Later that week, I poured out my concerns with my prayer group. Tears trickled and embarrassment burned my cheeks. Everyone gathered around to thank God for the kids' unselfishness, and to ask God to bless them.
At home, we set up our tree and placed a “thankfulness box” beneath it. In the days leading to Christmas, family members wrote what they were thankful for on slips of paper. The notes were then dropped into the box to be read on Christmas morning as our gifts to one another.
Two days later, while I sat in the break room at work, one of the teachers handed me a Christmas card. Because every goodwill gesture hurt as much as it brought pleasure, my emotions clashed as I opened the card with a stoic smile. The generic Christmas wishes on the card said little, but I stared in shock at the crisp one-hundred-dollar bill tucked inside.
“This …” I cleared my emotion-choked throat. “This is an answer to prayer.” I looked around the room to see smiles on faces of teachers and staff now gathering around me. “You don't know what this means,” I said. “The kids will be so surprised.”forty dollars With Christmas only a week away, my mind raced with possibilities. We'd have presents under the tree after all! If I was careful and shopped the sales, our children would have new coats and boots and maybe — just maybe — something fun.
That Wednesday, when my family attended Bible study and prayer, I prayed with a new thankfulness. I couldn't wait to share how God had answered my prayer from the week before. Plus, my sister would arrive in two days! It couldn't get much better than this.
After the m
eeting concluded, people gathered in small clusters wishing each other Merry Christmas. Mrs. Casper wrapped her arms around me in a warm hug and handed me a gaily wrapped box. This hard-working, middle-aged woman told me she had made cookies for our family, and not to leave the package until Christmas morning to open or the cookies would be stale.
I thanked her for her kindness and planned to add another “thank you” to the box under the tree at home.
When we located the kids in the fellowship hall, they eyed the gift in my hands with unspoken wonder. I blinked back tears as I realized how surprised they would be Christmas morning.
“It's from Mrs. Casper,” I said. “She made cookies for us.”
We scurried across the cold, almost empty, dimly lit parking lot to the car — the lake-effect wind biting through our winter coats. My husband and I slipped into the front seat and slammed the doors against the wind. The back doors opened, but the kids stood there, letting the wind whip through the car.
“Hurry up and get in,” I said.
“There're bags back here,” my son said.
“Grocery bags,” my daughter added.
My husband and I exchanged a glance and climbed from the car.
“Oranges!” Heather said as she dug through the bags. “And a turkey!”
The paper bags held all the fixings for a Christmas dinner and more! Christmas tunes on the car radio added the perfect touch on the ride home. We each walked into the house carrying a bag, and talked excitedly while putting the groceries away. After we were finished, the kids added a special thank you to the thankfulness box for yet another secret Santa.
“When you're done, get ready for bed and we'll have a few cookies,” I said as I ripped the gift wrap from the box and opened the lid. They glanced at the variety of sweets and rushed upstairs to change.
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