A Miracle Under the Christmas Tree
Real Stories of Hope, Faith and the True Gifts of the Season
Jennifer Basye Sander

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

PAINTED CHRISTMAS DREAMS

DEE AMBROSE-STAHL

CALIFORNIA CAMPER CHRISTMAS

CHERYL RIVENESS

CHRISTMAS LOVE

CANDY CHAND

UNFINISHED GIFTS

BJ HOLLACE

DICKENS IN THE DARK

JENNIFER ALDRICH

FINDING JOY IN THE WORLD

ELAINE AMBROSE

ASPEN’S LAST TRIP

KATHLEEN GALLAGHER

A SEARS CATALOG CHRISTMAS

LAURA MARTIN

CHRISTMAS WITHOUT SNOW

ROSI HOLLINBECK

CIRCLE OF LOVE

VALERIE REYNOSO PIOTROWSKI

MALL SANTA

DAVID SCOTT CHAMBERLAIN

THE BABY FLIGHT

PAUL KARRER

CHILDHOOD MAGIC

JO ANNE BOULGER

SILENT NIGHT

LIZA LONG

THE ONLY STAR

HARRY FREIERMUTH

VIRTUAL CHRISTMAS

PAT HANSON

HUNGRY REINDEER

CHERYL RIVENESS

MISTLETOE MEMORIES

JEANNE GILPATRICK

MR. CHRISTMAS

RUTH ANDREW

IS THIS A GOOD TIME?

RUTH CAMPBELL BREMER

FIRST FAMILY CHRISTMAS

JACK SKILLICORN

LIPSTICK CHRISTMAS

INGRID E. LUNDQUIST

ENOUGH TIME FOR CHRISTMAS

JULAINA KLEIST-CORWIN

FOGGY DAY

LOUISE REARDON

SANDPAPER CHRISTMAS

R. BOB MAGART

TO HOPE AND PRAY

CANDY CHAND

THE GIFT OF THE MAGI

APRIL KUTGER

HOMELESS SANTA

JENNIFER BASYE SANDER

ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS

PAINTED CHRISTMAS DREAMS
DEE AMBROSE-STAHL

Deirdre woke early, just like every December 25. She tiptoed downstairs, hoping against hope that this would be the year her dream would come true. Her parents were already awake and seated at the kitchen table; that fact alone gave the young girl pause, as they were never downstairs on Christmas morning until much later.

“Morning, sleepy head,” Ben, Deirdre’s father said. “’Bout time you rolled outa the hay!” When Nancy, Deirdre’s mother, tried to hide her giggle behind her coffee cup, Deirdre knew something was up.

So began the short story—or some variation—that I wrote every year growing up. It was my dream to walk downstairs Christmas morning and find a paint horse tied outside the picture window. I, like most girls, was obsessed with horses. Usually that obsession passes like any other fad. Mine didn’t. In fact, it set down roots so firm that not even marriage to a “nonhorse” man could pull them up.

Every year I wrote a similar story, “Dreaming of My Paint Horse,” and gave it to my parents, hoping that they would get the hint. It seemed they never would. Every year I looked out the picture window to find an empty yard and disappointment, a vacant space where my horse ought to be.

We were never deprived as kids, far from it. But I’d have gladly relinquished every toy, every item of clothing, even every horse statue and book for that Dream Horse.

My childhood passed, as did many of my interests. Tennis? Too much work. Knitting? Knot! Horses? Now that was the constant passion in my life. I read about them, wrote about them and even joined a 4-H club that taught about them. Of course, I also dreamed about them. My own horse, though, was always out of reach.

My two older sisters each had a horse when they were younger, but in the words of my parents, “They lost interest in the horses as soon as boys came along.” How was that my fault? I didn’t care about boys. Boys were dumb. This was my mantra even through my teen years, until the unthinkable happened… I met Ron.

Ron and I came from similar working-class backgrounds and became best friends shortly after we met. Ron was perfect in every way, except that he barely knew the head from the tail of a horse. This, I thought, I could deal with. I might even teach him a thing or two. We were engaged within six weeks and married a year later. Some things you just know.

We marked our fifth anniversary, then our tenth, and then suddenly we were looking forward to our twentieth anniversary. Through all the years, my obsession with horses lived dormant—below the surface of other goings-on, but it was present nonetheless. Ron dealt with this quirk of mine the way he dealt with most things: with a quiet smile and an “oh, well” shrug of the shoulders, thinking I would get over it someday. But someday never came.

The Internet, however, did, and its information superhighway allowed me access to horses. A voyeuristic approach, I admit, but one which at least gave relief to some of my desire. I discovered a myriad of websites that listed horses for sale, and I haunted them all. I searched for paint horses, torturing myself looking at horses I knew I’d never own. Until one day in December when I found a website owned by Sealite Paint Horses in Ijamsville, Maryland. I immediately searched the Foals page. There, my pulse quickened from a minor trot of anticipation to a full-blown gallop at finding so many paint foals, from weanlings to long yearlings. I was drawn to three in particular: two yearlings and a weanling, all beautifully marked and all fillies. My heart dropped into my shoes.

On impulse, I phoned Kim Landes, the owner of Sealite, although I felt as if I were doing something illicit. We chatted for nearly an hour about horses in general and her paints in particular, and I was thrilled when she invited me to visit. I told her about the fillies that had caught my eye. She said that all three were still for sale. The news was both a blessing and a curse.

As much as I wanted to be horse shopping, Realist Ron made an excellent point when he asked, simply and softly, “How could we afford a horse?”

“So we’ll just go for a drive,” I said, “look at pretty horses and that’s all. We’ll come home right after. I promise.” I knew the truth, though.

A few days later, we loaded our two corgi dogs into the back of the Jeep and began the three-hour drive to Maryland, the home of my dream. Ron has a gift for keeping me leveled, so to speak. I am impulsive; Ron is pensive. It’s been this way between us since we first met. I can see how this difference may cause grief in some marriages, but for us, it created a balance.

While we drove, I chattered on about how beautiful these foals were, how much I couldn’t wait until I saw them in person, how exciting it would be to raise and train a baby and how sweet a paint’s disposition is. Ron nodded a lot and spoke little.

When we arrived, I was breathless, either from my incessant talking or overgrown excitement. We met Kim, her husband Chris and the Sealite gang. I felt like I’d found the Holy Grail, or like a sixteen-year-old who gets a brand new car for her birthday. All of my senses were on overload as I tried to absorb each of the dozen or more paints all at once. Then I saw her. “Oh my God, Ron! Look at her!”

Ron followed my gaze. Off beside the run-in shed stood Sky, one of the black-and-white overo fillies I had seen on Kim’s website. “Wow,” was all Ron could manage, and I had to agree.

Large, brown eyes looked at us from her blazed face. The side closest to us sported a white patch that nearly covered her ribs, and on her neck was what could only be described as a bleeding heart. Her four white socks were of varying lengths, but best of all, she seemed to be very well balanced in her conformation—her graceful neck tied perfectly into a powerful shoulder, and from her back came a strong hip and rear, giving her the perfect equine engine.

As we stood looking at Sky, some of the youngsters became curious about the newcomers and warily approached us. Among them was Lacy, who promptly decided that she could fit in my back pocket. I gave her a pat and told her how pretty she was, all the while keeping an eye on Sky.

“She wants things on her own terms,” I whispered to Ron as I dipped my head toward Sky. “I like that.”

“You do?”

“Uh huh.” Without seeming too obvious, I walked over to Sky. “Hey, sweetheart,” I whispered as she smelled my hand. “How are you, baby girl? Over here all by yourself. You’re not antisocial, are you?”

Sky’s ears flicked back and forth like an air traffic controller’s paddles as she assessed me, too. I scratched her withers, a favorite itchy spot of most horses, and saw her head lower and relax. I was hooked. Sky was independent and refused to beg for a scrap of attention from us mere humans. She was not easily spooked or skittish; she just approached new situations on her own terms. This was a familiar quality, as I too tended to set and adhere to my own terms in most situations. I wanted to see how she might do on her own.

We took Sky away from her herd mates so I could watch her move in a round pen. Her tail became a flag, and her nostrils became air horns as she floated around the pen, head held high. She trotted and cantered beautifully, and her eyes spoke volumes. They were animated but not wild, a thing I loved about her. Sky was so full of joy that it was obvious this filly loved life.

I talked with Kim about Sky’s price, and I could tell that Ron was not, at this moment, loving life as much as Sky. He went off with Chris for a few minutes, then casually called over to me, “I’m going to check on the corgis.” That was Ron’s cue to me that he wanted to go, now, before I did something foolish like put a deposit on this horse.

It’s fair to say that Ron would never say these things aloud, but living with him all these years, I’ve learned how to read his nonverbal clues. But this private message between us provoked me for some reason, even though the tiny voice of reason was knocking inside my head. Usually I’m good at ignoring that voice, but I overrode it and began to talk not just price with Kim and Chris but also transport, shot records, farrier care and the myriad details concerned with a new horse purchase. Ron stayed at the Jeep during this exchange, eyeing me warily. Eventually, I bid Kim and Chris farewell with the promise to be in touch.

Ron, predictably, didn’t say a word as we started our drive home. “Tell me what you’re thinking,” I queried.

“What I’m thinking?” he asked. “About what?”

“The weather, Ron! What do you mean ‘about what?’ I mean about Sky!”

“Oh, she’s nice, I guess. I don’t know…”

“Nice?! She’s gorgeous!” How could he not see this?

However, that pronouncement was met with more silence. Silence that lasted many more miles until I brought it up once again. “But she’s special, Ron! And I know Kim and Chris would negotiate on her price.”

In typical Sensible Ron fashion, my husband pointed out what I already knew in my heart but did not want to hear: “We can’t afford a horse.”

I couldn’t really argue with this. The purchase price of a horse—any horse—is the easiest expense to meet. Maintaining an equine for the twenty-five years or more of its life is where the economic strain comes in. Ron was right, as he usually is in all economic matters. We could not afford a horse, period. I tempered this acceptance by adding silently, “Not now, anyway. I’ll take the coward’s way out and e-mail, rather than call, Kim tomorrow to tell her.” These last words caught in my throat.

Later that evening, we stopped for dinner along the interstate. I don’t know if it was the holiday decor of the restaurant or the Christmas section of the attached gift shop, but suddenly I was transported back in time. It’s Christmas morning. I race down the stairs and offer the brightly lit tree only a quick glance, for just past the tree is the picture window. It can’t be! I shake my head and rub my eyes, certain that my mind is playing tricks on me. I look again, and it—she—is still standing there. Sky is standing in the front yard of my childhood home, her glistening black-and-white coat a stark contrast to the glimmering white Christmas snow.

My husband’s voice brought me back to reality.

“What? I’m sorry, what did you say?” I asked.

“I asked what you were thinking about. You’ve been really quiet, but you smiled just now,” Ron said. That’s when I realized that in nearly twenty years of marriage, I had never shared the story of The Dream Horse with him. Over dinner, I recounted the tale, with a bit of sadness in my voice that I just couldn’t hide. Ron’s normally brilliant blue eyes clouded over.

“I know exactly what you mean,” he said with a sigh as he reached across the table for my hand. Like me, my husband grew up in a blue-collar family with never quite enough money. He, too, knew firsthand the feeling of The Dream, but his dream was a motorcycle on two wheels, not four hooves—the iron horse.

The rest of the drive home, we remained silent, arriving home just after dark. Exhausted and disappointed, I climbed into a hot shower and then managed to read a few chapters of a book. I fell asleep imagining my beautiful new filly cantering across the field to greet me. She offered me her soft, pink muzzle, and I wrapped my arms around her glistening neck and buried my face in her mane, breathing in her heady smell. I felt the level of contentment I’d been searching for, but it was only a dream.

“Are you going Christmas shopping with me on Saturday?” I asked Ron. It was December 18, and we had yet to do any big shopping for family and friends. With our work schedules, the coming Saturday was looking like our one and only hope of accomplishing any shopping together.

“Oh, um, well…” Ron stammered. “We can’t go anywhere Saturday.”

“What do you mean we can’t go anywhere? We’ve got tons of shopping to do!”

“Well, I’m expecting a delivery, and we have to be here when it comes. You know how FedEx can be,” he said.

I was furious with him for having waited until the last minute to buy my Christmas gift. Fine. I left him to his FedEx worries and did the shopping myself during the week. I was not at all gracious about this scenario.

I barely spoke to him that week, and when I did speak, it was only in short, clipped answers to something he said first. My Christmas spirit was obviously going to be absent in the Stahl home this year. I made sure this fact was not lost on Ron.

Saturday morning, I was in the den wrapping presents. I had a perfect view of the driveway via the picture window. I would certainly see the FedEx truck when it arrived.

My anger with Ron collided full force with my eagerness to catch a glimpse of the delivery. Eagerness was winning out. Where could he have been shopping? Did he go on his lunch break from work? That would limit the possibilities. Would the shipping box offer any clues? Would I know what it is from the box that it’s in? Damn!

I wasn’t paying attention and cut the wrapping paper too short. As I reached for a new roll of paper, Ron’s thundering feet on the stairs made me jump. What startled me even more, though, was his voice. “He’s here!” Ron shrieked, hitting a pitch I hadn’t heard from him in all our twenty years together. I had no idea that Ron loved the FedEx guy this much.

“Come here, come here, come here!” Ron chattered. “You’ve gotta come here…” and he pulled me by the hand to stand in the doorway facing the driveway.

“Look!”

And then I did, but what I saw didn’t register. White SUV. SUV? Pulling something. A horse trailer. A horse trailer? A horse trailer with “Sealite Paint Horses” written on the side!

I staggered backward, into Ron’s arms, and he kissed me on the head as he draped a coat over my shoulders. “Let’s go,” he whispered in my ear, gently pushing me out the door.

As my brain spun circles trying to wrap itself around this image, the driver’s window of the SUV rolled down, and the vehicle rolled to a stop. “Merry Christmas, Dee!” I heard the driver yell—wait, that’s Chris!

I remember Chris getting out of the vehicle and giving me a hug. I remember holding my breath as he dropped down the window of the trailer. And I remember thinking, She’s home, as her familiar white face popped out from behind the window. She looked at me, and her soft brown eyes reflected, “I remember you.”

As I stroked her beautiful white face, I said something brilliant to Chris like, “You were supposed to be the FedEx guy!”

So how did Ron do it? How did he make my dream come true?

Apparently, the night we returned from Sealite, he called Kim and Chris and made the arrangements, all on the sly. My sad story of yearning and Christmas disappointment had moved him to action.

I stood wrapped in Ron’s arms, watching Sky become acquainted with her new home. I turned and looked into Ron’s eyes. My question was simple: “Why?”

“Because you wanted her from the beginning. I wanted to be the one who made your dreams come true.”

Somewhere, in the deep, dark recesses of my memory, I felt the curtain drop down on an old yearning and a new kind of contentment fill every bit of those years of wanting and waiting. Then, I felt another curtain rise above a thousand new dreams as I settled my head against Ron’s chest and looked into the eyes of my new paint dream.

Ron and I smiled, laughed, cried tears of joy and talked well past midnight about our new dreams and how we might make them come true for each other.

CALIFORNIA CAMPER CHRISTMAS
CHERYL RIVENESS

It was Christmas morning 1986. Thinking back to the day before, I recalled how everything had come together. It had been a pretty bad year, and Christmas promised to be more of the same. A fabulous holiday for the children was a luxury we couldn’t afford. I had all but given up hope that we would be able to celebrate even in a small way. And then, my husband, a truck tire service technician, received an unanticipated service call. The driver was stranded and trying desperately to make it home in time to be with his own children on Christmas morning. He was short of money, but he had merchandise that he was willing to trade for services, enabling us to give the older girls, eleven and thirteen, exactly what they’d wanted: a VCR.

Two days before, we had driven sixty-five miles to pick up the one thing that our youngest had asked for (a Disney Fievel plush toy) before closing time. The drive and the toy had taken everything we had saved. I scoured pockets and the truck seat on the morning of Christmas Eve and found just over three dollars in change. Feeling optimistic, I headed for the nearest flea market, arriving just as the vendors were packing up.

I had tried repeatedly to get the kids to understand that there simply wasn’t enough room for a tree in the dilapidated pickup camper that the five of us had been calling home for months now. But, I thought, maybe a string of lights and little candy canes would make the surroundings more festive. The camper was small, so luckily one string would do. As I was paying the vendor, something caught my eye, a glimpse of a very small, white artificial tree top being tossed from row to row by the breeze. Hastily wishing the old gentleman a merry Christmas, I waved goodbye and rushed after the treasure. My heart absolutely swelled with appreciation. Now I could grant their special wish, if only in a small way.

That evening, after we’d watched Frosty the Snowman and enjoyed popcorn and hot chocolate, I tucked the children in and listened to their prayers. They were simple: “Please help us find a home soon.” I couldn’t help thinking how Joseph and Mary must have been feeling the night of Jesus’s birth; they too were homeless. At least we had shelter.

Once the girls’ breathing was soft and measured, I retrieved the lights and the tree from inside the truck cab, and after quietly weaving the lights around the small branches, I asked my husband to place the tree in the corner above our youngest child’s bed. After he managed to safely tuck it in, he ran the string down the length of the overhead cabinets and to the electrical outlet. “Well, here goes nothing,” he mouthed, plugging the cord into the socket. We held our breath and waited. They came on, and they twinkled, with the smallest blue lights, their reflection glinting off the rusted chrome trim of the tiny “kitchen.”

The night had been cold, the steady wind magnifying the plummeting temperatures. Assorted leaves and debris still blew through the campground, and our large dog was crying to get inside. I was drained, mentally and emotionally. Crawling into our bunk, I pulled the curtain closed behind me; the gentle blue glow of the lights dancing on the ceiling lulled me into satisfied slumber.

Waking to hushed whispers, I heard Arianna’s voice, quiet in the early light of dawn: “Santa brought us a tree! Look, Sissy, it’s so pretty, and it’s ours.” Peaking through the curtains, I saw that our min pin dog was still nestled asleep in her arms, his breathing rhythmic. Her eyes were fixated on the little tree that had appeared while she slept.

I lowered myself from the overhead bunk onto the burnt orange cushion of the seat below. “Oh, Mommy, it’s so beautiful,” she whispered in amazement. “I didn’t even hear him,” she continued with the wide-eyed wonder that only four-year-olds possess. Santa had brought both of the things she had wanted so much. The little white tree top was absolutely resplendent, and her toy was a treasure that she still has thirty-some years later.

It would be several years before our Christmases became more like the ones the older girls remembered. Yet, when we speak of childhood memories, the magic of this special morning is among our favorites.

CHRISTMAS LOVE
CANDY CHAND

This story shows up every holiday season in e-mail inboxes around the world, frequently attributed to Anonymous. But it is not from an anonymous writer; it is a real-life experience from my friend Candy Chand. I had the privilege of publishing Candy’s first story ever in my book The Magic of Christmas Miracles, and she hasn’t stopped writing since. You will be as touched as the millions who have read this.

—Jennifer Basye Sander

Each December, I vowed to make Christmas a calm and peaceful experience. But once again, despite my plans, chaos prevailed. I had cut back on nonessential obligations: extensive card writing, endless baking, decorating and, yes, even the all-American pastime, overspending. Yet, still, I found myself exhausted, unable to appreciate the precious family moments and, of course, the true meaning of Christmas.

My son, Nicholas, was in kindergarten that year. It was an exciting season for a six-year-old filled with hopes, dreams and laughter. For weeks, he’d been memorizing songs for his school’s winter pageant. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d be working the night of the production.

Unwilling to miss his shining moment, I spoke with his teacher. She assured me that there’d be a dress rehearsal the morning of the presentation. All parents unable to attend that evening were welcome to come to the dress rehearsal. Fortunately, Nicholas seemed happy with the compromise.

So, just as I promised, on the morning of the dress rehearsal, I filed in ten minutes early, found a spot on the cafeteria floor and sat down. Around the room, I saw several other parents quietly scampering to their seats. As I waited, the students were led into the room. Each class, accompanied by their teacher, sat cross-legged on the floor. Then, each group, one by one, rose to perform their song.

Because the public school system had long stopped referring to the holiday as Christmas, I didn’t expect anything other than fun, commercial entertainment: songs of reindeer, Santa Claus, snowflakes and good cheer. The melodies were fun, cute and lighthearted, but nowhere to be found was even the hint of an innocent babe, a manger or Christ’s sacred gift of hope and joy. So, when my son’s class rose to sing “Christmas Love,” I was slightly taken aback by its bold title.

Nicholas was aglow, as were all of his classmates, who were adorned in fuzzy mittens, red sweaters and bright wool snow-caps. Those in the front row—center stage—held up large letters, one by one, to spell out the title of the song. As the class sang, “C is for Christmas,” a child held up the letter C. Then, “H is for happy,” and on and on, until they had presented the complete message, “Christmas Love.”

The performance was going smoothly, until suddenly, we noticed her: a small, quiet girl in the front row who was holding the letter M upside down. She was entirely unaware that reversed, her letter M appeared to be a W. Fidgeting from side to side, she soon moved entirely away from her mark, adding a gap in the children’s tidy lineup.

The audience of first through sixth graders snickered at the little one’s mistake.

But in her innocence, she had no idea that they were laughing at her as she stood tall, proudly holding her “W.”

One can only imagine the difficulty in calming an audience of young, giggling students. Although many teachers tried to shush the children, the laughter continued until the last letter was raised, and we all saw it together. A hush came over the audience, and eyes began to widen.

In that instant, we understood—the reason we were there, why we celebrated the holiday in the first place, why even in the chaos there was a purpose for our festivities. For when the last letter was held high, the message read loud and clear:

CHRIST WAS LOVE

And I believe He still is.

UNFINISHED GIFTS
BJ HOLLACE

“I need to find the perfect gift. I need to find the perfect gift.” The words circulated through my mind like the woodpecker that tapped on our chimney. Christmas was coming, and I needed it to be perfect this year.

Years had passed since my entire family had celebrated together around one Christmas tree. Those things that had kept us apart, including time and distance, were being put aside. It was time to heal old wounds. Forgiveness and healing were on my Christmas list this year.

The search began for the perfect gift for my mother. What does a perfect gift look like anyway? My mom’s favorite treats are Brown & Haley’s Mountain bars, so I quickly scribbled those onto the list. Hmmm, what else? The blank page stared back at me. Candy, even her favorite candy, was not going to be sufficient.

“What can we get for my mom?” I asked my husband, Bill. He shrugged his shoulders. Clearly, this assignment would require some soul-searching. Sometimes even husbands don’t have all the answers.

As I went about my daily tasks, I thought and prayed and thought some more. Suddenly, in my mind, I could see the perfect present in wonderful detail. I knew exactly what would surprise and delight my mother, but the question was, Where was it? Living in a one-bedroom apartment, my filing system isn’t what you would call perfect. It is adequate for those things that are filed, but as for the unfiled items stored in miscellaneous bins, well, it would be like finding a needle in a haystack.

Somewhere in the apartment was a gray envelope sent by my brother and sister-in-law about a year earlier. Inside were several photos and a note from my mom. I walked from room to room, eyeing stacks and piles. Which one had I put it in? After some digging, I found it. The first piece of the puzzle was in my hand. As I opened the envelope, I found the photos and note just as I remembered.

My great-grandmother Janke liked to knit. As a family tradition, she’d made baby bootees for her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. The photos showed an unfinished bootee with knitting needles still stuck in it, as if she’d put it aside for a few moments to go make a cup of tea.

My mom’s request was that I write a short poem to go with this photo. I was touched and flattered that she’d asked, of course, but then reality set in. I didn’t have a clue how to put words to this piece of my history. How can you honor someone who died when you were only two years old? I never really knew her, not like my mom knew her grandmother.

Memories of my own grandma and the many hours I spent with her over a cup of tea or laughing, baking and praying came easily to mind. Grandma is long gone. She was my mother’s mother—she is a part of me.

I had the photo, now I needed some inspiration. Maybe if I knew more about the actual woman, I could give her the tribute she deserved. Hmmm, I looked around my apartment again, checking all the logical places for the family history book. Ah, yes, here were the facts. Janke Heeringa was born on January 22, 1874, in Holland. In May 1891, seventeen-year-old Janke came to America by herself, joining her brother and sister who lived in Iowa. Immediately, she began doing household work in the area for American people even though she knew no English. She was married two years later in 1893 to my great-grandfather.

In October 1900, twenty-eight Hollanders from Iowa rented a train car and hired a porter to help them travel to Washington to start a new life. When Janke began the journey from Iowa, she was seven months pregnant and had three young children, all boys—two, four and six years old—to care for as well. Her fourth child was born in December 1900 after arriving in the Pacific Northwest.

Janke was described as a woman of determination. Yes, you would have to be to survive that cross-country trip while pregnant, I thought. My mother and grandmother and even I could be described that way. Must be a family trait.

When Janke died in 1961 at the age of eighty-seven, she left behind twenty-five grandchildren, fifty-six great-grandchildren and one great-great-granddaughter. Great to have so many solid facts, but I was still without a shred of poetry.

The clock ticked on. This present didn’t need to be finished until we arrived to visit family just after Christmas, but time was still short. The days flew by as I struggled to find the right words. How could a poem and picture convey the message of healing and forgiveness that I sought? Only God knew. I still didn’t get it.

My husband and I talked again. “It’s something that I need to do. The time is right, but I just don’t know what to say.”

“I know you can do it. I have faith in you.”

“Thanks, sweetheart. It’s more than faith I need. I need divine inspiration.”

Finally, I was at peace. My struggle for understanding was over. Mentally and emotionally, I stood in her shoes, this woman who was part of me, whose blood ran through my veins. The answer was etched in my DNA. I just needed to write what was in my heart.

The frame was small, so the poem needed to be Goldilocks size—not too long and not too short, just right.

I needed to understand the subject matter, my great-grandmother, but also the audience, my mother. Mom had a special relationship with her grandmother. I understood that kind of grandmother–granddaughter relationship. For inspiration, I drew on the stories Mom shared of visiting Janke on Saturday afternoons after catechism and again on Sundays after church, sitting on her grandma’s lap and slurping tea from the saucer. And if she was really good, dried apples were a special treat.

How could I bring these generations of women together? My great-grandmother and grandmother had passed on to their heavenly reward, leaving my mom navigating through life’s changes, and me, who hoped to unite these generations with words and give them the honor they deserved.

I needed my poem to be a mixture of love, healing and wholeness that we seek to find in our families. It was a high calling, but I knew it was possible. Finally, the words came. The message was short, laden with emotion, and it painted the picture I saw in my mind—to honor Janke and this moment.

Holding the paper before me, I read it out loud in its final form and knew this was it.

With each stitch, she weaves a prayer,

for the tiny foot that will fit in there.

She stops for a moment and gazes outside;

the children are looking for a place to hide.

Her trembling hands slow her pace;

she knows that soon she’ll see her Savior’s face.

Now her knitting needles lay silent…

Yes, it was right. I believed it conveyed the message on my great-grandmother’s heart in her final days. She knew the time had come to go to her husband, gone almost twenty years previously. Janke was ready, ready enough to leave this last bootee unfinished.

The photo and poem were carefully framed and secured in my carry-on bag as we flew across the state. The gift was precious and couldn’t be trusted as checked baggage to be jostled around in the plane’s belly. It wouldn’t leave my sight until it was delivered to its intended destination.

We all gathered for Christmas at my parents’ home, a place laden with memories. The Christmas tree was surrounded by mountains of gifts, and Mom’s special package was tucked safely in a corner.

When it was Mom’s turn, she opened several gifts before opening ours. Tearing away the paper, Mom realized quickly what it was, gasping as she removed the last scrap of wrapping. A piece of her grandma Janke was returned to her that day.

Four generations of women were united that night. We were four women who had known life’s joys and sorrows. Women who were filled with determination to live their lives with all they had and to offer no less than the best to their families and their Creator. Women who know that miracles are found every day in unusual places, not just in perfection but also in the unfinished projects of our lives. There are miracles in the making that are often left for future generations to piece together until the circle is complete. My part was finished. I closed the circle of love that Janke, my great grandmother, set in motion years ago while traveling from her birth country to a land she did not know, a land where she would find hope and love and, yes, miracles.

DICKENS IN THE DARK
JENNIFER ALDRICH

It seemed like a good idea at the time. “Come to the Great Dickens Christmas Fair with me,” he had said. “You will be able to dress in a beautiful costume.” And here I stood, in a plain, twill, button-down dress, watching the rain pounding the steel roof, the sound louder on the inside than outside. How did I get here?

Daniel, my husband of three months at that point, and I were spending our Christmas season working at the largest Dickensian festival in California. San Francisco’s Cow Palace becomes London as Dickens saw it for four or five weekends each year.

Charles Dickens’s characters are here: all the ones you would expect for this time of year (Mr. Scrooge and Tiny Tim) and others you may not expect to see at Christmas (Mr. Fagin and Bill Sikes), not to mention Mr. Charles Dickens himself. In addition to the Dickens characters, there are historical characters of the Victorian Era (Queen Victoria and Prince Albert) and even some fictional characters known to all at the time (Father Christmas, Sherlock Holmes and Mr. Punch).

Rounding out this eclectic collection of characters is the family of Charles Dickens himself. That’s where we are: the Dickens’s Family Parlour. Daniel is Charley Dickens, the eldest and most ne’er-do-well of Dickens’s seven sons. I am Mrs. Cooper, the cook. I make a midday meal to feed the actors in our immediate cast of twelve.

It was the last day of the Fair for the season, and I had been inside the building since 8 a.m. preparing a special tea for singing performers, getting water hot before everyone else arrived. By 10 a.m., my castmates were dressing in our environmental area, the carpeted Parlour floor a sea of hoopskirts and crinolines. We all dress in costumes appropriate to the period, with great care given to historical accuracy. As I was playing a servant, I did not have the hoops under my skirts that the other ladies of my household were wearing. But like them, I was in a laced-up corset, long dress and button-up boots; my pin bib apron and hair tucked under a mop cap completed my less than glamorous look.

“I’m going to deliver teas now,” I said to Mamie, the eldest Dickens daughter and our director. “I’ll be back before opening.”

“You okay, honey?” she asked concerned. “You look done.”

“Stick a fork in me,” I replied. “I’m just glad it’s the last day of the season.”

In truth, I was exhausted. There are some things which, even though you love to do them, can take a lot of effort. Working at the Dickens Fair was a lot of work, plus I had a full-time job on the weekdays. Also, it can be a very expensive hobby. This was the first year I worked at the Fair. I had only attended once before as a patron, watching Daniel perform in one of the stage shows.

I have always loved the fantasy of time travel and have been an avid reader of historical novels for years. I had such a great time as a patron that I decided to join in, jumping into the deep end feet first. I could be, if only for a short time, somewhere and someone else, to live the fantasy. I could have asked to do something simpler to start, but I have a hard time asking for help, especially when it involves doing something I say I like doing.

I walked out of the Parlour, near the entrance to the Fair, past the stalls and storefronts of the artisans who sell their wares of Christmas decorations, bonnets and wreaths, pewter goblets and jewelry. I headed into the breezeway, home of the London docks and the Paddy West School of Seamanship, which is in reality a band of very musical sailors who sing sea chanteys and nautical songs. I dropped off one air pot of tea, received a hug of thanks from one of the cabin “boys”(a lively woman with short hair) and headed down to Mad Sal’s Dockside Alehouse at the other end of the bay to drop off the rest. Mad Sal’s is where naughty music hall songs are performed and represents the seedy end of our London.

The rain was really coming down, booming and loud against the roof, the occasional thunderclap joining in for good measure. Heading backstage, I dropped off the last air pots to Weasel, our chief chucker in the Music Hall. Short in stature but big in heart, he can get you to sing along with a music hall ditty faster than you can say “Burlington Bertie from Bow.”

“Oy! Weasel!” I said, in my best Cockney accent. “Where’s Sal an’ everybody?”

“Over by the door,” he replied, gesturing with his thumb. “I’m stayin’ in ’ere. Too bleedin’ cold for me near the door.”

“Too right,” I said, nodding at the air pots. “I’ll pick ’em up afore the last show.”

I turned away from the stage and headed back to the Parlour along the sidewall of the Concourse. I saw Mad Sal, Dr. Boddy, Molly Twitch, Polly Amory and a few others sitting and watching the rain. I gave a quick wave and continued walking.

“Gee,” I heard someone say, “you think all this rain might affect attendance?”

Suddenly, there was another loud thunderclap, and POP all the lights went out! The few exit lights in the building came on immediately after.

“That might,” came the reply.

We will not be opening the Fair on time today, I realized. The entire hall felt nearly pitch-black at first, with the exception of the exit signs. We wouldn’t be able to bring customers in until we could get the lights back on. I slowly made my way back to the Parlour, taking my time and stepping carefully, overhearing pieces of conversations as I went.

“Somebody forgot to pay the electric bill!”

At an ale stand: “I guess we have to drink all the champagne before it gets warm.”

Someone talking to the dancing light of a cell phone screen: “What’s that, Tink? The pirates have captured Wendy?”

I came back into the Paddy West area to see the whole group sitting on the stage, playing softly in the semidarkness. The side exit doors had been opened a crack to let in some light. I didn’t want to move another step back into the darkness of the next bay, so I sat down on one of the benches facing the stage.

They started to play my favorite sea chanty, “Rolling Home.” The beauty of the music, my fatigue, the dark and the rain all came together and washed over me. I started to cry. Then I started to think.

Do I really want to do this, year after year? “Rolling home, rolling home.” I am so wiped out, and it’s such a huge commitment. “Rolling home across the sea.” Is this something that Daniel and I should share? “Rolling home to dear old England.” What if we have kids? Will we bring them, too? “Rolling home, fair land to thee.”

Our minutes in the dark stretched on past 11 a.m., our opening time. I returned to the Parlour at about 10:45. Daniel and I began to take the small, unlit candles off our Christmas tree, light them and set them in candelabras on the dining table. It gave a beautiful glow to our set, now a very realistic looking Victorian parlor.

We sat down at the settee, and I told him about my little breakdown in the Paddy West area. He held my hand and said, “Okay, today is our last day.”

“Yeah,” I said, “until next year.”

“No,” he said, “our last day ever. I don’t want you to do anything that doesn’t make you happy. And I definitely won’t make you do something that is supposed to be just for fun when you hate it.”

It didn’t sound right to me the minute he said it. I love doing this, I thought. I love creating the type of Christmas that probably never existed, but we all wish could have. I love the friends I’ve made here. They’ve become my family.

“I love you,” I said finally. “I love that you would be okay with my quitting. But I’m not going to. I found my people, where I belong. I may do things a little different next year to make it easier, but I won’t give it up. There would be too many things I would miss and too much.”

Daniel smiled at me in a way that told me he had known I would change my mind, cheeky bugger. Before we met, I wrote down all the things I wanted in a guy. One of them was “someone who would call me on my nonsense.” Damn if I didn’t find him.

A call went out to the cast members inside to gather together all the umbrellas in the building; the line of customers had extended past the building well into the parking lot for several yards. Charles Dickens and other cast members went out to hold the umbrellas and keep everyone as dry as possible. All the musicians available entertained them. The servers from Cuthbert’s Tea Shoppe came out, too, dispensing hot tea.

Some people were escorted in small groups past the Parlour to the restrooms. Walking past, one woman gave a small gasp. “Oh!” she said, turning toward the Parlour and seeing our candlelit set, “You all look like a painting!”

By 11:30, I was providing the last of our tea supply to Cuthbert’s when the lights came back on. We could hear the cheer from the crowd outside as plain as if they were standing next to us. As soon as it was safe to do so, the doors were opened to let the patrons into the Fair.

The abbreviated schedule didn’t seem to diminish the experience of the day for anyone. The spirit of Christmas, it seemed, was present everywhere. Everyone was happy and smiling, patron and participant alike. The small kindnesses that our cast and crew gave to those outside was repaid tenfold back to us, in every heartfelt “Merry Christmas” and word of thanks. Patrons who had originally planned to spend only an hour or two at our fair told me they were going to stay all day, just to support us!

“Thank you for bringing the Dickens Fair outside!” one woman exclaimed.

That was my first year working at the Great Dickens Christmas Fair. Did I go back? Yes, and with a renewed enthusiasm. Last year, we brought our four-year-old for his first year as a participant. Daniel built a train for him out of cardboard boxes so he could be part of the Toy Parade. Bringing a baby or a small child to the Fair as a participant takes a considerable amount of careful planning, but it can be done. Those who are the most successful are those who ask for help. The Fair’s community, like any large family, takes care of its own.

Will our son share our passion for this and join us even when he is older? It’s hard to say at this point, but he will be raised knowing how much we love it and hearing stories of the Fairs of Christmas Past. And I am sure we will tell him about the day the Fair went dark.

Looking back, the best part of that day for me was seeing the quality of people in our Fair family. Some say we are crazy to spend our time, our money and our holiday season on this theatrical enterprise. But now I can’t imagine a better way to spend my Decembers than with this group I am proud to work with and proud to know.

FINDING JOY IN THE WORLD
ELAINE AMBROSE

December 1980 arrived in a gray cloud of disappointment as I became the involuntary star in my own soap opera, a hapless heroine who faced the camera at the end of each day and asked, “Why?” as the scene faded to black. Short of being tied to a rail-road track in the path of an oncoming train, I found myself in an equally dire situation, wondering how my life turned into such a calamity of sorry events. I was unemployed and had a two-year-old daughter, a six-week-old son, an unemployed husband who left the state looking for work and a broken furnace with no money to fix it. To compound the issues, I lived in the same small Idaho town as my wealthy parents, and they refused to help. This scenario was more like The Grapes of Wrath than The Sound of Music.

After getting the children to bed, I would sit alone in my rocking chair and wonder what went wrong. I thought I had followed the correct path by getting a college degree before marriage and then working four years before having children. My plan was to stay home with two children for five years and then return to a satisfying, lucrative career. But, no, suddenly I was poor and didn’t have money to feed the kids or buy them Christmas presents. I didn’t even have enough money for a cheap bottle of wine. At least I was breast-feeding the baby, so that cut down on grocery bills. And my daughter thought macaroni and cheese was what everyone had every night for dinner. Sometimes I would add a wiggly gelatin concoction, and she would squeal with delight. Toddlers don’t know or care if Mommy earned Phi Beta Kappa scholastic honors in college. They just want to squish Jell-O through their teeth.

The course of events that led to that December unfolded like a fateful temptation. I was twenty-six years old in 1978 and energetically working as an assistant director for the University of Utah in Salt Lake City. My husband had a professional job in an advertising agency, and we owned a modest but new home. After our daughter was born, we decided to move to my hometown of Wendell, Idaho, population 1,200, to help my father with his businesses. He owned about thirty thousand acres of land, one thousand head of cattle and more than fifty 18-wheel diesel trucks. He had earned his vast fortune on his own, and his philosophy of life was to work hard and die, a goal he achieved at the young age of sixty.

In hindsight, by moving back home, I was probably trying to establish the warm relationship with my father that I had always wanted. I should have known better. My father was not into relationships, and even though he was incredibly successful in business, life at home was painfully cold. His home, inspired by the designs of Frank Lloyd Wright, was his castle. The semi-circular structure was built of rock and cement and perched on a hill overlooking rolling acres of crops. My father controlled the furnishings and artwork. Just inside the front door hung a huge metal shield adorned with sharp swords. An Indian buckskin shield and arrows were on another wall. In the corner, a fierce wooden warrior held a long spear, ever ready to strike. A metal breastplate hung over the fireplace, and four wooden, naked aborigine busts perched on the stereo cabinet. The floors were polished cement, and the bathrooms had purple toilets. I grew up thinking this decor was normal.

I remember the first time I entered my friend’s home and gasped out loud at the sight of matching furniture, floral wallpaper, delicate vases full of fresh flowers and walls plastered with family photographs, pastoral scenes and framed Norman Rockwell prints. On the rare occasions that I was allowed to sleep over at a friend’s house, I couldn’t believe that the family woke up calmly and gathered together to have a pleasant breakfast. At my childhood home, my father would put on John Philip Sousa march records at 6:00 a.m., turn up the volume and go up and down the hallway knocking on our bedroom doors calling, “Hustle. Hustle. Get up! Time is money!” Then my brothers and I would hurry out of bed, pull on work clothes and get outside to do our assigned farm chores. As I moved sprinkler pipe or hoed beets or pulled weeds in the potato fields, I often reflected on my friends who were gathered at their breakfast tables, smiling over plates of pancakes and bacon. I knew at a young age that my home life was not normal.

After moving back to the village of Wendell, life went from an adventure to tolerable and then tumbled into a scene out of On the Waterfront. As I watched my career hopes fade away under the stressful burden of survival, I often thought of my single, childless friends who were blazing trails and breaking glass ceilings as women earned better professional jobs. Adopting my favorite Marlon Brando accent, I would raise my fists and declare, “I coulda been a contender! I coulda been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am.”

There were momentary lapses in sanity when I wondered if I should have been more like my mother. I grew up watching her dutifully scurry around as she desperately tried to serve and obey. My father demanded a hot dinner on the table every night, even though the time he would come home could vary by as much as three hours. My mother would add milk to the gravy, cover the meat with tin foil (which she later washed and reused) and admonish her children to be patient. “Your father works so hard,” she would say. “We will wait for him.” I opted not to emulate most of her habits. She fit the role of her time, and I still admire her goodness.

My husband worked for my father, and we lived out in the country in one of my father’s houses. One afternoon in August of 1980, they got into a verbal fight, and my dad fired my husband. I was pregnant with our second child. We were instructed to move, so we found a tiny house in town, and then my husband left to look for work because jobs weren’t all that plentiful in Wendell. Our son was born in October, weighing in at a healthy eleven pounds. The next month, we scraped together enough money to buy a turkey breast for Thanksgiving. By December, our meager savings were gone, and we had no income.

I was determined to celebrate Christmas. We found a scraggly tree and decorated it with handmade ornaments. My daughter and I made cookies and sang songs. I copied photographs of the kids in their pajamas and made calendars as gifts. This was before personal computers, so I drew the calendar pages, stapled them to cardboard covered with fabric and glued red rickrack around the edges. It was all I had to give to those on my short gift list.

Just as my personal soap opera was about to be renewed for another season, my life started to change. One afternoon, about a week before Christmas, I received a call from one of my father’s employees. He was “in the neighborhood” and heard that my furnace was broken. He fixed it for free and wished me a merry Christmas. I handed him a calendar, and he pretended to be overjoyed. The next day, the mother of a childhood friend arrived at my door with two of her chickens, plucked and packaged. She said they had extras to give away. Again, I humbly handed her a calendar. More little miracles occurred. A friend brought a box of baby clothes that her boy had outgrown and teased me about my infant son wearing his sister’s hand-me-down, pink pajamas. Then, another friend of my mother’s arrived with wrapped toys to put under the tree. The doorbell continued to ring, and I received casseroles, offers to babysit, more presents and a bouquet of fresh flowers. I ran out of calendars to give in return.

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