Christmas Through a Child's Eyes (19 page)

BY DONNA SUNDBLAD

L
arge snowflakes drifted past the window while my husband poured over our finances. Two years ago, a failed business had buried us in debt, but by following a budget, we were gradually digging our way out.

Rick rubbed his eyes. “Well,” he said as he leaned back in his chair and stretched, “we have forty dollars for Christmas.”He shrugged. “It's better than nothing.”

I glanced out the window.
forty dollars
. Our children needed winter boots, coats — they'd done without necessities for so long. How would I explain, once again, that they would have to do without?

I shouldn't have worried. Our eleven-year old and nine-year-old children accepted the disappointment like battle-weary troopers.

A couple of days later, my youngest sister called from Florida. With thirteen years between us, my relationship with her had taken on the role of second mother. At seventeen, she desperately wanted to come home for Christmas.

“I'll see what we can do,” I promised.

As the eldest of seven siblings, I hoped we could work together to make this a reality. I knew none of us had the resources to get her home alone. I checked airfare and then divided the cost equally. I blinked at the calculator readout: Forty dollars.

Later, I explained to each sibling, “If we each chip in forty dollars …” After the last call, I slumped in my chair. I pondered the consequences for a few minutes, and then laid out the scenario for our kids. They didn't hesitate. My sister — their aunt — was coming home for Christmas.

Their unselfishness touched my heart, yet my spirit grieved. The following day, I shared my mixed emotions with the nurse at the school where I worked. She encouraged me to be proud of my children. That wasn't the problem. I couldn't be prouder, but they deserved better.

Later that week, I poured out my concerns with my prayer group. Tears trickled and embarrassment burned my cheeks. Everyone gathered around to thank God for the kids' unselfishness, and to ask God to bless them.

At home, we set up our tree and placed a “thankfulness box” beneath it. In the days leading to Christmas, family members wrote what they were thankful for on slips of paper. The notes were then dropped into the box to be read on Christmas morning as our gifts to one another.

Two days later, while I sat in the break room at work, one of the teachers handed me a Christmas card. Because every goodwill gesture hurt as much as it brought pleasure, my emotions clashed as I opened the card with a stoic smile. The generic Christmas wishes on the card said little, but I stared in shock at the crisp one-hundred-dollar bill tucked inside.

“This …” I cleared my emotion-choked throat. “This is an answer to prayer.” I looked around the room to see smiles on faces of teachers and staff now gathering around me. “You don't know what this means,” I said. “The kids will be so surprised.”
forty dollars
With Christmas only a week away, my mind raced with possibilities. We'd have presents under the tree after all! If I was careful and shopped the sales, our children would have new coats and boots and maybe — just maybe — something fun.

That Wednesday, when my family attended Bible study and prayer, I prayed with a new thankfulness. I couldn't wait to share how God had answered my prayer from the week before. Plus, my sister would arrive in two days! It couldn't get much better than this.

After the meeting concluded, people gathered in small clusters wishing each other Merry Christmas. Mrs. Casper wrapped her arms around me in a warm hug and handed me a gaily wrapped box. This hard-working, middle-aged woman told me she had made cookies for our family, and not to leave the package until Christmas morning to open or the cookies would be stale.

I thanked her for her kindness and planned to add another “thank you” to the box under the tree at home.

When we located the kids in the fellowship hall, they eyed the gift in my hands with unspoken wonder. I blinked back tears as I realized how surprised they would be Christmas morning.

“It's from Mrs. Casper,” I said. “She made cookies for us.”

We scurried across the cold, almost empty, dimly lit parking lot to the car — the lake-effect wind biting through our winter coats. My husband and I slipped into the front seat and slammed the doors against the wind. The back doors opened, but the kids stood there, letting the wind whip through the car.

“Hurry up and get in,” I said.

“There're bags back here,” my son said.

“Grocery bags,” my daughter added.

My husband and I exchanged a glance and climbed from the car.

“Oranges!” Heather said as she dug through the bags. “And a turkey!”

The paper bags held all the fixings for a Christmas dinner and more! Christmas tunes on the car radio added the perfect touch on the ride home. We each walked into the house carrying a bag, and talked excitedly while putting the groceries away. After we were finished, the kids added a special thank you to the thankfulness box for yet another secret Santa.

“When you're done, get ready for bed and we'll have a few cookies,” I said as I ripped the gift wrap from the box and opened the lid. They glanced at the variety of sweets and rushed upstairs to change.

I pulled the card from the box, handed it to my husband, and put the tea kettle on. Such a special night called for hot chocolate.

“I can't believe it,” he said as he pressed his finger to his lips and held the card at an angle for me to see the check.

Two hundred and fifty dollars! This hardworking farming family had given us two hundred and fifty dollars!

The next evening, I went shopping while the children thought I'd gone to help my mother decorate Christmas cookies. Walking through the store with money to spend seemed more dream than reality. Tears threatened each time I placed an item in my cart. My sister was coming home, we had three hundred and fifty dollars to spend, and we had enough groceries to make a fine Christmas dinner.

My family has never been more thankful than we were that Christmas morning, when we read the notes in our thankfulness box and wrote heartfelt thank-you cards to all of the generous people in our life.

BY RENIE BURGHARDT

D
uring World War II, we had many sad Christmases. Fear always lurked in some nearby corner. During those times we observed Christmas mainly in our hearts. So, in 1947 when we arrived in the refugee camp in Austria just a few weeks before Christmas, I wasn't expecting anything different. At the age of eleven, I had become resigned to not having much.

The refugee camp, with its wooden barracks and dusty lanes, was pretty drab. But we had a place to sleep, food to eat, and were outfitted with warm clothes, donated to the refugee effort from various generous-minded countries like the United States, Canada, and Great Britain. We considered ourselves pretty fortunate. To top it off, since the camp was located in Carinthia, one of the most scenic areas of Austria, we had some of the most beautiful views available.

As Christmas approached, the refugee camp school I attended made plans to help us celebrate the holiday as a group. In the barracks we lived in, our private sleeping spaces were tiny cubicles with no room for individual celebrations, but the school had a large auditorium where a donated Christmas tree was set up, which we children had helped decorate with our own handmade ornaments. There were candles on the tree, too, which were to be lit Christmas Eve, just like it used to be done in Hungary before the war. Additionally, we were rehearsing the school Christmas play, to be presented on Christmas Eve. I had a small part in the play, as the angel who comes to give the message to the shepherds about the birth of the Savior, and was very pleased and excited about the part.

On the afternoon of Christmas Eve, my grandparents and I decided to take a walk to the small town of Spittal, a few miles from camp. Grandfather felt that even though we had no money to buy anything, taking in the Christmas sights and smells would be worth the walk. The town's cobbled streets, with its many small shops, were decorated with fir branches, and small trees in shop windows glowed with lit candles. People hustled and bustled, getting last-minute items for the holiday, and wishing each other “Froliche Weinachten!”

We stopped in front of the bakery and inhaled the delicious smells coming from the door every time someone opened it. I gazed at the Napoleons in the window, my mouth watering. “Oh, they must taste so delicious,” I said wistfully.

“And that poppy seed kalacs (kuchen) looks wonderful, too,” Grandmother sighed.

“Maybe this wasn't such a good idea,” Grandfather said. “Now everyone is hungry for something they cannot have.”

“But who is to say that you cannot have a Napoleon, or some of that poppy seed kuchen?” a voice behind us asked, as a woman in a fur coat and hat took my hand. “Come on! Let us all go into the bakery.”

“Oh, no!” I protested, trying to pull my hand from her grip. But she wouldn't take no for an answer. Inside the bakery, she bought a large Napoleon square and some kuchen, just for us!

“Froliche Weinachten!” she called merrily as she disappeared into a crowd of people.

I gazed in awe at her retreating form, my mind forming one thought:
I had been visited by a Christmas angel in a fur coat
!

As I sunk my teeth into that delicious custard-filled Napoleon on the way back to the refugee camp, powdered sugar spilled down my face and chest. I hugged myself in delight. I was already so happy this Christmas, and I knew there were more wonderful surprises ahead!

On Christmas Eve, the candles on the community Christmas tree were lit and all the adults in camp came to watch our Christmas play. Everyone remembered their lines, and the choir sang beautiful Hungarian Christmas songs. We all had tears in our eyes by the time they were finished. Then each child was given one present.

When I opened mine, I found a pair of fuzzy red mittens and a matching scarf. Inside one of the mittens, there was a little note, written in English, that read: Merry Christmas From Mary Anne, in Buff alo, New York, United States of America. I was stunned to receive a gift from a girl all the way in America!

When I awoke on Christmas morning, the morning sun, as well as happy noises, poured in through the thin wooden boards of the barrack.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” Grandmother said. “Merry Christmas!”

“Why is there so much noise out there already?” I asked sleepily.

“Well, I guess some early rising children are enjoying all the newly fallen snow,” she said calmly as a smile played about her lips.

“Snow!” I leapt from the cot and scrambled to dress. “How wonderful! And where is Grandfather?”

“He and some of the other men are shoveling paths, so people can go for their breakfast, and to church.”

Within seconds, I was outside, marveling at Nature's power to turn a drab refugee camp into a pristine winter wonderland! Nature's gift was free for everyone to enjoy. It wasn't long before the surrounding snow-covered hills were filled with squealing Austrian children, enjoying the snow as much as the refugee children did.

Later, as I gazed at the majestic snow-covered mountains with their snow-dusted spruce trees — so breathtakingly beautiful — my heart filled with joy. With tears in my eyes, I thanked God for the most wonderful Christmas I had ever had, and one I knew I would never forget.

BY STELLA WARD WHITLOCK

“L
ook, Grandpa!” I shouted. “No hands!” I flung my arms up and then stretched them out for balance. Thick auburn pigtails bounced below my bike helmet.

A horn blared, tires screeched, and I swerved. My bike hit the curb, flipped, and slid sideways, wheels spinning crazily. I hit the road in front of the skidding car.

Grandpa ran to kneel beside me. “Stella! Are you all right?”I lay still, eyes closed as the right front tire nudged my helmet. “Stella, honey!” Grandpa touched my face. “Can you hear me?”

I moaned, struggling to get up. “Who's pulling my hair, Grandpa?” My arms and legs worked, but I couldn't lift my head. The tire on my braids held me prisoner.

“I'll back the car off,” said the driver.

“Wait!” ordered Grandpa. “You might hurt her worse.”

“I'll get my scissors,” said a neighbor. “We'll cut off her braids.”

“No!” I protested. “Don't cut my hair! Please!”

“We won't, sweetheart,” Grandpa said.

“I know!” I exclaimed. “Just push the car backwards.”

When the pulling on my hair stopped, I stood up, removed my helmet, and rubbed my tingling scalp. Grandpa checked me inch by inch. A scraped elbow was my only injury.

I examined the red bicycle. “Not even scratched,” I said in relief. “If I'd wrecked his bike, Chris'd never let me borrow it again.”

“You're fortunate,” Grandpa said. “Do you realize what could've happened?”

“Yeah, another inch and …” I shuddered. “Grandpa, do we have to tell Mama? If we do, she'll never get me a bike for Christmas.”

“
I
won't tell her,” Grandpa answered.

After a pause, I said, “I guess I'll tell her myself.”

“Good girl!” Grandpa said.

When I told Mama, she didn't forbid me to ride anymore. She just talked about safety, to which I promised never to ride “no-hands” again.

As I kissed Grandpa goodnight, he gave me an extra-big hug. That was the last hug I ever got from him. His funeral was three days later.

I sat on the front pew with Mama. I felt like crying, but didn't. I hadn't cried the night the ambulance took Grandpa … not when Mama told me Grandpa had died … not when I saw him lying in his casket. And I wasn't going to cry now.

Dry-eyed, I stared straight ahead, trying not to see Grandpa lying there looking like he did every morning when I tiptoed in to kiss him goodbye before school. Wake up, Grandpa, I thought. Open your eyes. Tell me you'll see me this afternoon. A heart attack, my mother had said. But still I prayed,
Dear God, please let Grandpa wake up.

The minister read from the Bible, but I didn't listen. How could Grandpa leave me? Did he know I loved him? Had I ever told him? The last day of his life — the day of my accident when that woman had wanted to cut my hair — Grandpa had been so reassuring. Had I thanked him then? Why hadn't I told him I loved him?

At the cemetery, the minister talked again, then took my mother's hand and murmured a few words. We drove home in silence. I felt as if I'd left my heart at the cemetery.

On Christmas Eve, I went to church with Mama. The music was beautiful, as usual. Poinsettias, candles, crèche — it was all there. All except Grandpa. I tried to swallow the lump in my throat.
Why didn't I ever tell you, Grandpa? It's too late now.

Why didn't I tell you I loved you?

I woke early on Christmas morning. The lump was still in my throat. Slowly, I pulled on my jeans and T-shirt and walked into the living room. There stood the Christmas tree, with wrapped gifts beneath it. And there stood … a bicycle — a shiny blue Schwinn with matching blue helmet — just what I'd always wanted. But now, somehow, it wasn't the same.

Mama stood in the doorway. “Don't you want to ride it, Stella?”

“Yeah, sure,” I said listlessly. Then I noticed the white envelope on the handlebars, with my name on it in Grandpa's handwriting.

I looked at Mama, who nodded and smiled. “Open it, honey.” I ripped open the envelope and read:

Dearest Stella,

I hope riding this bicycle gives you as much joy as seeing you ride gives me.

I'll always love you, Grandpa

For the first time since Grandpa died, tears came. Grandpa had gotten this bike for me before he died. He said he would always love me. And of course he knew I loved him, too. Suddenly, I felt gladness sweep over me.

I grabbed the handlebars and wheeled my shiny new bike into the daylight. I put on my helmet, jumped onto my bike, and started pedaling. I flung my arms up for a moment, then grasped the handlebars quickly.

“Look, Grandpa!” I shouted. “Two hands! Thank you! I love you, too!”