Satisfied at last, I settled to the floor in my favorite nook across from the fireplace—directly in front of a furnace vent. I knew the warm air blew from the basement, but in my mind, the heat spread from the cardboard logs to ignite my imagination. It was there that I spun my boyish dreams and lived my foolish fantasies.
The years drifted on, and so did I.
When all of us kids were grown and on our own, our parents hit the jackpot. I mean, really hit the jackpot. In a big way. They won over two million dollars in the Illinois State Lottery!
As instant millionaires, the first thing they did was look for a new place to live. My father insisted on only two musts: an attached garage and . . . a working fireplace. My mom wanted more space. And they found it: a beautiful two-story house with four bedrooms, a spacious kitchen, a dining area, a two-car garage, a roomy basement—and a living room with a working fireplace.
In December after their move, we all came home for our first holiday together in years. While everyone lazed and chatted by the fireside on Christmas Eve, I rose to my feet to stroll through the house on a private tour.
Mom had decorated with recently purchased crystal ornaments and a hand-carved Santa from Germany. Embroidered holiday doilies graced new end tables, and expensive wrapping paper enveloped dozens of presents under the beautifully lit tree. From top to bottom, the place murmured, “New. Gorgeous. Tasteful.” It certainly wasn’t home as I remembered it.
Near the stairwell, I glanced up . . . and did a double take. Perched at the top, like a forgotten old friend I might bump into on the corner, stood the raggedy cardboard fireplace. With a smile as wide as Mom’s rolling pin, I climbed the stairs and sank to the top step as a wave of boyhood memories washed over me.
Before long, Mom found me upstairs and stood silently at my side. I looked up, waiting for her eyes to meet mine.
“You kept it, this old fireplace in your new home. Why?”
After a long moment, she placed her hand on my shoulder and bent toward me. “Because I don’t ever want any of us to forget the simple joys of Christmas,” she whispered.
And I nodded in understanding, pleased that I could still feel the warmth radiating from the old, cardboard fireplace.
Jim West
Bringing Christmas
Some of life’s events make permanent etchings on your soul.
Like the Christmas our family spent volunteering with the people of Santisimo Sacramento. Situated in the heart of Piura, Peru, this church was the lifeblood of the thirty-three thousand citizens it served. We spent long, hot days sorting and distributing clothes, tearing down and rebuilding a house, fixing donated bikes and becoming part of the community.
I don’t even have to close my eyes to remember endless sand dotted with scraggly trees, the truck’s horn competing with mangy, barking dogs, the smell of heat and sweat, and the gritty taste of dirt roads. And the children. Hundreds of big-eyed, bronze-skinned, dark-haired children chasing after us with the hope of youth.
Several times a day, bouncing along sand and gravel, we all struggled to hold on to the sides of the white pickup truck, laughing so hard that our smiles petrified above our wind-dried teeth. Ginet, our driver, laid on the horn with the jubilation of Robin Hood delivering goods to the poor, while villagers ran from all corners of the surrounding pueblos.
Our three children—Clare, Bridget and Michael— helped prepare barrels of chocolate milk and hundreds of buttered rolls for distribution in the villages and the prison.
One afternoon, we pulled up to a small, dusty church, skirted the ever-present dogs and rearranged rickety wooden benches on the cement floor. One hundred fifty children sat patiently, each with a cup brought from home, to receive the coveted treat. Mothers remained in the doorway, watching as their children participated in prayer and songs before they were served chocolate milk and a buttered roll.
Finally, each child received a token toy. In less than twenty minutes, their Christmas had come . . . and gone.
We trucked through the pueblo, distributing more toys. One tiny girl ran after us for a good two hundred yards. When she finally reached the driver’s side door, she was ecstatic to receive a small toy. As we drove on, an older girl grabbed the gift and left her sobbing among the crowd.
Distressed, at the next stop we explained what had happened and asked Ginet to drive back and search the village. At last, Clare and Bridget spotted the child outside her shack, still crying. When we replaced the toy, her smile was jubilant.
Naturally, questions haunted us during our stay:
How should we handle Christmas with our own children?
Would they expect gifts on Christmas morning?
Surrounded by such poverty, could we justify our giving and receiving?
As Steve and I pondered the situation and faced our choices, we couldn’t help making comparisons between these different cultural traditions.
We saw Christmas in Peru celebrated so simply—with Las Posadas to commemorate the journey of Mary and Joseph, bonfires, panettone (Italian bread) and leche de chocolate (hot cocoa). There were no Christmas trees, no gifts exchanged and no Santa Claus. The only reason for the season was the Holy Family and Christ’s birth. The focus was clearly on people, relationships and doing for others.
What greater gift could we give our own children?
In the end, we presented each with a tiny finger harp from Kenya and a small token from Santa. As a family, we spent Christmas morning writing down what we hoped for each other. Those scraps of paper and their thoughtful words remain priceless to this day, and our children still revel in the memory of that humble celebration.
We had gone to volunteer and bring Christmas to the poor. Instead, the villagers of Piura brought a richer, deeper sense of Christmas to us—Christmas without the trappings.
Toby Abraham-Rhine
A Hush in the Rush
I always began December with Big Plans: baking ten kinds of cookies, decorating the house creatively and entertaining lavishly.
One bright morning in early December, while butter softened for the press cookies and yeast grew in sugar and water, the telephone rang. My recently widowed friend needed to talk. An hour passed. The butter melted; the yeast spilled over the bowl. And the clock was ticking. We chatted a bit longer, and her mood lightened as we made plans to meet.
A voice inside reminded me, Christmas is, after all, about generosity.
Our lunch the next day lasted longer than I anticipated, and snail-paced traffic slowed my trip home. When a car cut into my lane, a flash of anger almost kept me from seeing the old man waiting to cross the street. I braked to a stop and motioned him on.
Patience, whispered the inner voice, allow time for kindness.
While I rushed to wash my front windows before decorating them, an elderly neighbor threw a sweater over her shoulders and came over to pass the time. It got lonely, she confided, with her son and his wife at work all day. Reluctantly, I set aside the spray cleaner and the rags.
“Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?” I heard myself asking.
Ah, I heard the voice say, you’re getting the idea.
Armed with a lengthy master list, I hurried off on the grim task of shopping. After an exhausting battle with crowds in overheated stores, I emerged triumphant and smug. Outside the mall, bell ringers shivered in the blowing snow, and I felt compelled to pull out my last bill for their plump kettle.
“Thank you, ma’am! Merry Christmas!”
I see you’re learning sacrifice, too, the voice praised.
Later in the week, my daughter called long-distance, desperate for a heart-to-heart talk. I glanced at the unwrapped presents strewn across the floor. I looked at my watch. And back at the piles. Then I remembered the loneliness and isolation and frustration of young motherhood— and settled in the overstuffed chair for a long, leisurely chat.
“Check back with me again this afternoon,” I said, “so I’ll know how you’re getting along.”
I tossed another look at the presents and shrugged.
The gift of your time, I heard, is the best gift of all.
The Sunday before Christmas, our still-bare tree leaned against one corner of the living room.
“We should’ve bought a new tree stand. The tree is top heavy, and this one won’t hold it,” my husband groaned. Ignored in my holiday rush, he looked tired and lonely with his rumpled gray hair, worn jeans and untucked shirttail—this man who was as much a part of my life as my own body.
I reached out and touched his rough cheek. “I’ll help with the tree.”
Good, said the inner voice, you’ve remembered the love.
Throughout the afternoon, we pruned and sawed. We got out ornaments accumulated and treasured throughout the long years of our marriage. And when the tree was trimmed, I made hot chocolate and served it in the little pot we first used so many Christmases ago.
On Christmas day, our children arrived, and the house rocked with laughter, conversation, grandbabies and music.
No one noticed the smears on the window where decorations hung askew or the branches missing from one side of the tree. No one cared that dinner was a potluck affair. No one commented on the lack of variety on the cookie tray.
But when I brought out a simple cake with one glowing white candle, the room hushed. Every one of us—wide-eyed children and solemn adults—held hands while we sang “Happy Birthday” to Jesus.
A feeling of contentment welled up inside me that had nothing to do with cookies, clean windows or fancy wrappings.
And that still, small voice said, Yes!
Ann K. Brandt
Whittle-ed Away
“Connie Ann!” Mom caught the piece of tinfoil in midair. “We might need this next time we bake potatoes. You know better than that.”
Ashamed, Connie Ann gave a gusty, seven-year-old sigh and retreated from the kitchen. Yes, she knew better. The Whittle family creed demanded that everything, even a piece of foil, be used again . . . and again. Especially now, with the divorce and all.
And she knew about other things, too. Like salvaging buttons and zippers from old clothes to use on the new ones her mom sewed. Like gagging on dust clouds each time someone emptied the vacuum bag instead of throwing it away. Like walking everywhere when most of her friends rode in cars. Of course, the Whittles didn’t own a car; Dad had left them the Pumpkin.
The bronzey colored, short-bed pickup couldn’t hold all ten children at once, so the Whittle children walked. To school. To church. To get a gallon of milk. Mom said it was simpler than buying a car. Besides, they got exercise and saved on gas at the same time.
Mom said she liked doing things the simple way. In fact, that’s how she got rid of the Christmas tree, too.
Without Dad there to haul it out that year, she puzzled over the problem. “How will we get rid of this monstrosity?”
She circled the tree.
“It seems like a waste to just throw it away. It should be good for something, shouldn’t it?”
Connie Ann nodded in agreement, knowing Whittles never wasted anything.
“It still smells good.” Mom poked both arms through the brittle needles to heft its weight. “Hmmm.” Her brow furrowed a bit, and she glanced over her shoulder where coals still glowed in the fireplace.
“Our gas bill has been sky high.” She scooted the tree from its nook in front of the window. “If I just push it in . . . a bit at a time . . . as it burns. . . .” She wrestled the tree to the floor.
“Connie Ann, you grab that end while I drag the bottom.”
Wincing from the pain and prickles of the browning evergreen, they struggled to get their handholds.
“What could be simpler?” Mom half-shoved it across the floor with a grunt. “A fragrant room freshener,” she tugged at the trunk, “and free heat,” she gave one final push, “and we get rid of this thing.”
With a precise aim, she poked the tippy-top of the tree right into the middle of the glowing embers.
KA-VOOOOM!
In a roar as loud as a sonic boom, the entire tree—from its bushy head to its board-shod feet—burst into one giant flame. Screaming, Mom dropped the trunk, and they both jumped across the room.
WHOOOOSH!
All the branches disappeared. In one big breath. Just like magic. Nothing was left of the Christmas tree except a charred trunk, some scraggly Charlie Brown twigs—and a trailing, tree-shaped shadow of white ashes.
For one long, bug-eyed moment, Mom caught her breath. Then she pulled Connie Ann close to search for burns and swept a glance over herself for singes. And she examined the carpet for damage. Finding none, she slowly shook her head in wonder.
After a stunned silence, Mom brushed her hands together efficiently. “Well! I guess that takes care of that.”
Then she picked from among the newly formed crowd of wide-eyed, jabbering children.
“You and you and you,”Mompointed at the oldest, “help me haul this tree outside. At least now it’s manageable.”
Connie Ann nodded in agreement. She knew how much Mom liked things kept simple. It was, after all, the Whittle way.
Carol McAdoo Rehme
Bottomed Out
It was a difficult week.
He had completed some work in exchange for the promise that “the check is in the mail.” Not. Only bills appeared in his mailbox and never a check to pay them.
It was the holiday season—with its own slew of stressors—and the car was on the fritz again, the larder was frightfully empty, and his regular payday wasn’t until the end of the month. No food. No money. No hope.
For certain, he’d hit the bottom of the barrel.
What was he going to do? Teetering on the brink of despair, he took three deep breaths, reached for his overcoat, scarf and gloves, and headed toward the woods. Nature had always been the sanctuary he sought when he felt hopeless or depressed.
Accommodating his stride to the snow-covered ground, he crunched through the forest of regal pines and snow-flocked blue spruce. He shaded his eyes against brilliant sunlight where it mirrored the diamond-bright snow. The tip of his nose reddened, and his cheeks burned from the crisp air.
As he headed toward the pond backing his property, a deer bounded across the path. A more timid tufted titmouse followed from a distance.
And he felt his breathing gentle and his gait slow.
“Chickadee-dee-dee!” A vigilant warbler sounded its alarm. A crow flitted from treetop to fence post and back again with only an occasional, “Caw, caaaw.” A red-winged blackbird answered from the rushes fringing the pond and flew past in a swooping arc.
As he witnessed the song and dance of these feathered companions, he let go of his cares and felt satisfied as a kind of peace replaced them. Once again, nature had worked its magic—a major spiritual reconstruction on his soul. Satisfied, he turned toward the house while full-throated birdsong echoed an affirmation.
He paused at the backyard barrel to see if any bird food remained to reward his friends for their uplifting music and pleasant company. Under the seed sack he lifted from the barrel, he was startled to discover an unopened bag of flour. Ah, food for the birds . . . and food for him.
A rummage through the kitchen cupboard turned up enough ingredients for two fragrant loaves of yeasty bread. A few handfuls of assorted dried beans, a can of tomatoes and presto: Rhode Island chili with freshly baked bread! Plenty for him and his landlady. Perhaps things were not as bad as they’d seemed.
Just as the two sat down to dine, the postman delivered a parcel from a friend: jam-and-honey spread. Suddenly, the meal became even more interesting!
He gazed at the feast spread before him and the friend seated beside him and marveled at the gratitude he felt within.
Sometimes, he decided, life’s richest gifts are found at the bottom of the barrel.
Margaret Kirk
Secret Ingredients
I press “play” on the VCR and sit back to watch the ten-yea
r-old video. On it was my kids’ attempt to record my father’s secret ingredients as he prepared our annual Christmas meat pies.
“Hi, Mom.” I see myself looking out of the screen, gesturing for Lisa to aim the camera at her grandfather instead.
“Hi, Grandpa,” she says next as the camera sweeps his direction.
My dad nods in acknowledgement while he pries open the lid of a spice can.
“Mom, what are you doing now?” The camera swings back to me.
“The hard part, as usual.” I make a production of stirring the meat in a large pot. “Dad, don’t strain yourself shaking that spice can,” I tease over my shoulder.
We’re making meat pies—my family’s holiday tradition.
As an adolescent, I was not particularly close to my father. After driving a delivery truck and unloading heavy packages all day to support our large family, he barely had energy left to talk to me, except to ask me to get him another beer from the fridge or go buy him a carton of cigarettes.
But one Christmas, he expressed a desire to make meat pies like his mother had. Although he could figure out the filling, he didn’t have a clue about the crust. Then my junior high home ec teacher gave me a recipe for no-fail pastry.
Mustering my courage, I approached Dad and suggested we team up and experiment with the pies. Much to my delight, he agreed to give it a shot.
I began the pastry crust in the morning. Following the instructions precisely, I blended the dough while Dad sautéed the meat in a large pot—equal amounts of ground chuck and ground pork. He added onions and then debated on the spices.
They were the tricky part. Allspice, savory, sage, thyme, cloves, salt and pepper. He added them all on instinct, guessing at the amounts. The meat simmered and teased our noses.
Meanwhile, I successfully rolled out the crust and placed it in a greased and floured pie plate. I held the empty pie shell close to the pot while my father ladled in bubbling meat. When we judged it full enough, I positioned the top crust, crimped the edges with the tines of a fork, brushed it all with milk, and popped it into the oven. We put together several for dinner.