A Miracle Under the Christmas Tree. Jennifer Sander Basye
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