The 13th Gift

Dear Readers
,

I learned the lyrics to “The Twelve Days of Christmas” carol as a kid in grammar school choir, when the magic of the holiday season still filled me with a sense of wonder and possibility, a dreams-come-true mentality. Partridges and pear trees, ladies dancing and leaping lords—I had thought the words of the tune farcical. I didn’t know then that the key to happiness was hidden within its silly stanzas
.

I had spent my life grasping at those five golden rings: a husband, three healthy children, and a comfortable home. Then just before Christmas in 1999, my beloved husband died in the night, and I realized my gold was fragile as glass
.

We were shattered
.

I found no comfort or joy in the approaching holidays, only memories that cut at my heart like broken pieces of a treasured Christmas ornament
.

I stopped singing. It hurt even to breathe. I wanted to banish the holidays from our lives. But then something extraordinary happened
.

Thirteen days before Christmas, gifts began appearing at my home. They were just small tokens of the holiday season, accompanied by a card with lines similar to the carol. Each was signed simply, “Your true friends.” At first, I resisted the intrusion of Christmas into my grief. But slowly, as the gifts kept arriving, my heart began to thaw. The gifts made my children smile, got us talking, as we tried to identify the source of our mysterious presents. They were teaching us how to function as a family again
.

The romantic in me would like to believe a miracle touched my family that Christmas, and in a way that is true. But I know that the miracle was the way a small act of kindness saved my family and brought us back to each other. Years later, the magic of the holiday season is still colored by the light that those friends shone into our lives. Thinking of what a powerful impact those anonymous gifts made on my family has changed the way I see the holidays—not just as an excuse to give and receive presents with my loved ones, but as a time when it is more important than ever to step outside of my own world and consider those around me, to open my heart, reach out my hand, and engage. The holidays are a time to rejoice, to remember, to reflect on seasons past, and to celebrate our memories. This book is about finding a way to honor those who cannot be with us this season, to create new and joyful memories, to experience this season of giving in a very special way
.

Come
.

Walk with me
.

I will share with you the message that forever changed my family, the healing magic of the 13th Gift
.

J
UST BEFORE DAWN
on December 13, my daughter, Megan, tugs at my nightshirt.

“Mom, we missed the school bus.”

Disoriented and still half asleep, I start calling commands to my children before my feet hit the floor.

“Splash water on your face! Get dressed! We’ve got bananas and granola bars in the kitchen for breakfast. I’ll get the car heated up, but we have to leave in ten minutes!”

Megan dashes off as directed, while I rouse her less cooperative brothers.

When I hear movement in all of their bedrooms, I take a two-minute bath, swipe on makeup, and pummel my hair with baby powder to give it poof. A dark suit hanging on the back of the bathroom door becomes my ensemble for the day. The vision in
the mirror is not enchanting, but at least my red eyes and rumpled clothes seem to match.

“I dare anyone to criticize,” I say, pointing at my reflection.

I check on the readiness of my three Smiths—Megan, ten; Nick, twelve; and Ben, seventeen—dig car keys from my purse, and toss four coats onto the couch.

“Two minutes,” I holler. “Everybody outside.”

I whisper a plea for even a few weak rays of sunshine as I open the front door, but instead I meet typical weather for Bellbrook, Ohio, less than two weeks before Christmas: gray, wet, and cold. It has always been the warmth of the people, our neighbors, the community, mooring us to this southern suburb of Dayton. But this December, I only feel the chill.

In my haste to heat up the car, I nearly knock over a poinsettia sitting outside our front door. Raindrops on its holiday wrapper sparkle in the porch light.

“What the heck?”

Megan peeks around me, and her face lights up.

“It’s so pretty!”

That’s my Meg: ever hopeful even after we’ve been through so much. I wish I could be more like her, but then again, I’m not ten.

“Yes, real pretty. Where are your brothers? Get your brothers.”

“Where did it come from, Mom? Let’s bring it in.”

I stand at the door watching the cold rain beat down on the plant’s four blood-red blooms. For me, bringing the flower into the house offers as much appeal as inviting in a wet, rabid dog for the holidays. I absolutely understand Scrooge now. I want to go to bed tonight and wake up on December 26. No shopping. No
baking. No tree with lights. I’m not in a mood to make memories. The ones I have just hurt; I can’t imagine new ones will feel any better. I don’t expect to avoid the holiday altogether. I merely hope to minimize the affair as much as possible. Christmas is supposed to be about family, and ours has a larger-than-life-sized hole. The flower can’t fill it.

I imagine my husband standing next to the closet he lined with shelves last December. Beside him, our fully trimmed Canadian fir stands in a growing puddle of pine needles
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