For the Love of Christmas (2 page)

It's a Wrap

By Peggy Frezon

M
ike and I were busy gift-givers—shopping, wrapping, and hiding gifts under the tree. Three-year-old Andy sat and watched as we pulled out colorful paper and carefully tied ribbons and bows. When he begged to help, I handed him the tape dispenser.

He pulled out a sticky length as long as his little arm could stretch. He ripped it off, the tape curling around itself, and secured the paper with the tangled mess. His gifts were covered with more tape than paper.

He sat and watched, too, as we wheeled carts through stores, meticulously selecting a sweater for Uncle Randy and a coloring set for Cousin Crystal.

“What's that?” He pointed at the items I placed in the cart.

“These pretty dishes are for Gramma. And this book is for Kate.”

“Me, too,” he said.

“No, these are presents we'll give away.”

“Me, too,” he insisted again. I shrugged and tried to distract him.

On Christmas morning, we all gathered around the tree, ripping paper from packages and exclaiming over new clothes, CDs, and toys. Of course, Andy squealed with delight. He pushed buttons to set off the siren on his new fire truck and gleefully dumped the pieces of his plastic building set all over the floor. Still, several times I noticed him glance anxiously toward the tree.

Finally, he reached beneath the boughs and withdrew a handful of gifts.

“Here Mommy,” he said, plopping down in my lap and handing me a present. I recognized the zealously taped wrapping.

“What could this be?” I asked. Mike hadn't mentioned taking him to the store to select anything. I pulled off the holly-green paper and unwrapped a fork. Just like one of the forks in our kitchen drawer. In fact, it was one of the forks from our kitchen drawer. I looked at Andy's little face, glowing with expectancy and pride.

“Why, thank you, Andy. It's just what I wanted!” I laughed and gave him a huge hug. He beamed. He jumped from my lap and handed out the rest of his presents.

Mike worked at his well-taped gift to discover the garage key dangling from its glowing orange chain. “I was wondering where this went,” he whispered to me, and then, to Andy, “It's perfect!”

His sister Kate stripped away tape and paper and found a small, well-used blue pony with a rainbow-colored tail. “Thank you, Andy,” she played along and gave her brother a big hug.

There were other surprises, too: a deck of cards, a pen, a tape measurer. Andy looked like he'd just given us all a million dollars. And, funny thing was, we all felt like that's what we received.

I don't know when he did it or how he managed to do it in secret. All I know is Andy wanted to be part of Christmas. And he certainly was. He showed us that the spirit of giving really is all wrapped up in the heart—and sometimes with a whole lot of tape.

Finding Santa Claus

By Elisa Korentayer

M
y experience with Christmas was minimal and not exactly positive.

When I was five years old I learned that, unlike my friends, I was not to expect Santa at my house bearing gifts. To console me, my Jewish mother explained that the big jolly fellow didn't really exist. Santa Claus was a tale spun for little children; the children's parents put the presents under the tree.

Armed with this information, I didn't hesitate to denounce Santa to all the kids on my block. I jeered at their belief in the myth. I stole St. Nick from my young friends simply because they would be getting presents when I would not.

With this childhood faux pas as my sole Christmas memory, I was terrified when my boyfriend Chris invited me to Minnesota for the holidays. I channeled my terror into an obsession with finding perfect gifts for each member of his—as yet unknown—Catholic family. I wanted to get it right.

I scoured New York City, searching in every shop I passed. I spent hours considering what might be right for each individual and days purchasing and then returning gift options. I learned the hard way why people try to complete their shopping before Thanksgiving; I waited in line after line and navigated waves of gift-crazy shoppers in crowds that blew even my city-jaded mind.

I tried to consult with Chris on his family's predilections, but he was no help. He seemed genuinely ignorant of what his family might want, and he tended to err on the side of buying gift cards.

“You don't need to get them anything,” he demurred.

But I knew better. I didn't want to seem ungrateful to people who might become important in my life, especially when they were opening their home to me for Christmas.

Only two days before our departure, I finally completed my shopping. I took inventory of the purchases and stuffed a second suitcase with the packages. I even hand-carried a bag of gourmet cookies onto the airplane.

On Christmas Eve, I was as ready as I would ever be. I arrived with Chris to meet his family at St. Henry's Church. They were already there, well-groomed in their Christmas finest. His parents. His sister. Her husband. Their two kids. We filed in as a group.

I was all eyes and ears, taking in the rites of my first Christmas Mass. The choir sang carols as the congregation filled the pews. I was surprised to notice how familiar the songs were. Although I was raised Jewish, it was impossible to avoid the Christmas culture. Seasonal music wafted through stores and from radios. And every year our school choir produced a holiday program full of Christmas songs, with a few Hanukkah tunes tossed in for good measure.

Realization struck: although I was not Catholic, I was American, and therefore Christmas was already partly mine.

After Mass, we joined Chris's family at his parents' house, where we nibbled on hors d'oeuvres and got to know one another. As we sat down to dinner, I could feel the polite smile awkwardly pasted to my face when Chris's father offered grace.

“We give thanks to the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob for what we are about to receive.” I was so touched by his sensitivity to my Jewish background that it took me a moment before I could tackle the feast in front of me.

We had ham and turkey and chicken and green beans. We had salads and cheesy potatoes and roast beef. We had carrots and pickles and—the pièce de résistance—cranberry pudding served with decadent sweet gravy known as “hard sauce.” It was food heaven.

But that was only the beginning of the celebrations. Chris's family exchanged gifts on Christmas Eve, and I was about to be initiated into their gift-giving tradition. With only my limited experience of Hanukkah and birthday gifts, I couldn't have dreamed up this exercise in Bacchanalian indulgence.

After dinner, we all trooped upstairs to the sitting room where a Christmas tree stood guard over a mountain of presents. I saw the presents I had bought, neatly wrapped and adorned with overpriced bows by underpaid retail workers. To my surprise, I saw countless presents with my name on them.

Chris's young niece and nephew diligently divided the booty into individual piles that they placed at the feet of each adult. Soon, a heap of presents accumulated in front of me. I stared. I don't think I'd ever gotten so many presents at one time.

“Now, we go around the room, taking turns opening one gift at a time,” the kids explained the family ritual. They were eager to go first; then I was invited to choose my first gift and open it.

I was paralyzed by indecision. Should I open the red polka-dot box, just the right size for jewelry? Or should I start with the three-foot cube wrapped clumsily by Chris in Santa Claus paper?

“Open that one!” The children decided for me. I reached toward the turquoise and green box they pointed out and got to work.

At first, I tried to open the package neatly. Then I hit the snags of Scotch tape and tore at the wrappings with kamikaze vengeance. Soon, all of us were drowning in crumpled piles of paper, bows, and partly demolished boxes. To the children's amusement, I stuck bows and ribbons on my head.

My smile grew wider and wider till it threatened to split my face in two. I was gleeful. I was giddy. The five-year-old inside me released her disappointment and experienced Santa Claus for herself. At the age of thirty-one, I had finally encountered the jolly old man. He did exist. I found him in the joy of gift-giving and receiving.

It was worth the wait.

A Song for Santa

By Linda O'Connell

L
ast year, one week before my preschool's Christmas pageant, the dad who volunteered to play Santa had knee surgery. As the day of the holiday extravaganza drew near, I asked for a volunteer, but no one offered.

Desperate, I cajoled my husband. “Honey, would you please wear the beard and suit for my school pageant?”

On the day of the performance, Bill telephoned my school and I put him on speaker phone. He told the children he was leaving the North Pole en route to St. Louis and he would arrive that evening. The preschoolers cheered and sang him a song: “He's too fat for the chimney, too fat for the chimney. Open the door and let dear Santa come in.”

Santa ho-ho-hoed. “Yes, I have been eating a lot of ­cookies. Tell your teacher to be sure and leave a door open for me tonight.”

“We will Santa, we promise! We'll leave the door open,” the children shouted in unison.

Before the show began, I escorted Bill to a small back room where the red suit hung on a hook. My high heels clicked like reindeer hooves as I pranced away.

“Wait,” he called. “Come back. There's no ­mirror!”

I had no time to assist him; a crowd of 300 waited. “When you hear us sing ‘Jingle Bells' make your grand entrance.”

Onstage, I situated the children and welcomed parents and grandparents as they took pictures. What a sight to behold!

During the first song, a girl dressed in red velvet toppled backward from the twelve-inch riser where she sat. She landed in the blue velvet curtain like a piece of felt stuck to a flannel board. Her feet pointed straight up in the air. I interrupted the performance to upright her. “Santa's coming. Santa's coming, hop into bed!” We continued with another song. Little voices rang out and children hopped in place. One mischievous twin got carried away and continued hopping until his pants fell around his ankles. His hands flew to his mouth instead of his trousers and he giggled ­uncontrollably.

“Pull your pants up!” his mother shouted as she ran onstage. When they hit his ankles a second time, both his mother and I nearly fainted.

A few songs later, a baby made a wild dash from the crowd, climbed like a monkey onto the stage, and shrieked when I carried her off. I felt my blood pressure rise.

After their last song, we all exited the stage. I hurried the students into the hallway to get ready for our grand finale.

The audience oohed and aahed as all sixty children walked out wearing paper antlers and red sparkly noses. Videos zoomed in and cameras flashed as paper noses fell off toddlers when they did the “Reindeer Hokey-Pokey.” The auditorium rang with laughter, and the show concluded with a huge round of applause.

In the pause that followed, all eyes swung toward me.

“Santa will arrive as soon as we sing his favorite song,” I announced and led the children in “Jingle Bells.”

A hush fell over the crowd; eager expectation filled the room; heads swiveled to search the doorway. But Santa did not appear.

I encouraged them to sing again. Still no Santa.

“He's probably parking the sleigh,” I stalled. “Why don't you parents sing along?”

Voices rocked the room with a rousing rendition. Both adults and children looked confused when Santa still did not make his grand entrance. My heart palpitated; my deodorant quit working; my mouth went dry.

Then it occurred to me that Santa is hard of hearing.

“Once again, all together now—sing as loud as you can!”

Midway through the chorus, Bill heard his cue. He came barreling out of the back room with his sack slung over his shoulder and his wig a bit cockeyed. “Ho-ho-ho, you children remembered and left the door open for old Santa,” he shouted over their excited squeals.

As he approached the stage, I gasped. I jumped from the platform and bellied up to him. Forgetting about my lapel microphone, I sputtered, “Santa, XYZ!”

He lifted a shoulder and cocked a brow, then shrugged and sang obligingly, “A-B-C-D . . .”

Horrified, and wide-eyed, I hissed, “Santa, XYZ!”

“E-F-G, H-I-J-K, L-M-N-O . . .”

“Stop singing!” I could see the confusion in his eyes. “XYZ! Examine.Your. Zipper. Fix your pants,” I shrilled.

In his haste to get dressed, Bill had cinched the fur of his jacket into his belt. I tugged it down over his gaping pants. Thank heavens he'd worn jeans underneath.

“Don't you know what XYZ stands for?” I muttered in his ear.

“Nope,” he whispered back. “In my day, we said, ‘The barn door's open.'”

Well, the children had promised to “leave the door open.” But I never thought Santa would, too!

Christmas in July

By Todd Outcalt

I
n July of 1997, I received a phone call from a social worker.

“I'm a visiting nurse,” she said, “and every Tuesday morning I help a young lady named Myra who is homebound. She listens to your radio broadcast on Sunday mornings and was wondering if you might find time to stop by and see her this week?”

As a pastor, I often get these requests, but this one seemed different. “Certainly,” I said. “Give me the address, and I'll stop by this afternoon.”

On the drive to that part of town that hot day, I made my way past ramshackle houses and a plethora of junkyard dogs and abandoned cars. I slipped along rows of shotgun houses until I found the address and eased my car into a small opening in the barren yard.

I rang the bell on the front porch and was instantly greeted by a shout from the belly of the tiny house. I inched open the door and walked inside where Myra—probably in her early thirties—reclined on a gigantic bed. It was fitted with a system of ropes, pulleys, and lifts, all designed to hoist her limp body from the bed to a waiting wheelchair.

“Are you the pastor I listen to on Sunday ­mornings?”

“Yes, I suppose I am.” I drifted to her side to introduce myself. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Myra.”

Slowly, she lifted a palsied hand and smiled. “Thank you . . . for visiting.” Each word was a struggle that brought her to the edge of breathlessness. “I wanted . . . to give you . . . a gift.”

Although pastors often receive gifts, I was startled. It was clear that Myra could not walk, could barely lift a hand, and that some dreadful disease had been siphoning her strength for years, taking her day by day, week by week, until her body had been reduced to helplessness. I felt at once guilty and awkward, wondering what she could possibly have to spare—and how I could accept a present from this dear woman.

“I love the radio broadcast,” she said. “I am your most . . . faithful listener.”

“You might be the
only
listener,” I joked.

She smiled. “Look behind you.”

The living room was sparse—a cube containing a small couch, a television set on a stand, a wooden stool. I saw stacks of neglected magazines and dusty books, a hodgepodge of family photographs tacked to the wall . . . and a Christmas tree filled with angels.

“I keep my tree up year round,” she answered at the questioning lift of my brows. “It's always Christmas . . . in this house.”

“That's wonderful,” I said, my hesitation obvious.

“I have more than five hundred angels in my collection.”

Indeed, branches on the artificial tree bent under the weight. Angels made of ceramic, tin, and wood. Angels fashioned from paper, wings thin as gossamer, ready to soar toward the heavens. There were angels with halos. Angels with glowing faces. Angels with feet of clay. Some did not look like angels at all—but had sad, circumspect, and fully human faces. Others had arms outstretched and welcoming. Angels of laughter. Of joy. Of mercy.

“I've never seen so many in one place,” I admitted. “They are beautiful.”

“I want . . . to give you one,” Myra said.

How could I pluck an angel from her beloved tree? “Oh, I couldn't disturb your collection.”

“Please take one.”

“I couldn't.”

“It's . . . a gift.”

A gift. Yes. But . . . “It isn't Christmas,” I said.

“It is always . . . Christmas.”

I padded toward the tree, paused to consider the choices. The angels smiled, shimmered, seemed to lift me with hovering wings. I would take a small one—the tiniest, the most homely, the least of these. Reaching toward the back of the tree I plucked a small rosebud angel from its perch—a cherub with hands folded, eyes closed, deep in prayer.

I showed it to Myra, asking permission with my gaze.

“That's little Tommy,” she said. “He is saying a prayer for you.”

“Thank you,” I murmured.

“Take him . . . home with you.”

I edged back to Myra's bedside, still uncomfortable with the idea of accepting the gift. The only thing I could offer in return was a prayer. And so we prayed, amid a Christmas in July, the giver and the gift.

“May I visit you again?” I asked when it was time for me to leave.

“Yes, please,” she said. “Come see me . . . again soon.”

I saw Myra many times during the next dozen years. At each visit, however, she insisted I select a cherub from her Christmas tree to take home and add to my collection—my growing collection—of angels.

And they are still with me, those symbols of heaven.

As is Myra, with earthly angels in the form of friends and family and nurses—guardians who watch over her, steadying her hands, tending her fragile body, recognizing that she is the real gift. Myra, who bears witness to the unseen grace that moves the world and lifts us beyond the shadows of this life.

Myra, a woman who teaches me that it is always Christmas. Even in July.