A Miracle Under the Christmas Tree. Jennifer Sander Basye

      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