A Miracle Under the Christmas Tree. Jennifer Sander Basye
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