God bless you, Mr. Jones. God bless The Griswold House.
~Paula L. Silici
Lights of Hope
In the depth of winter I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer.
~Albert Camus
I was diagnosed with cancer in October of 2004, which meant my treatment lasted straight through the month of December. Chemo for Christmas was not something I looked forward to. I prayed every day that Christmas would not be ruined by my illness and treatment. With two small children, and a need for hope, I wanted desperately to keep the magic alive.
The doctors were very aggressive because I was only thirty-four years old and in an early stage. The chemo didn’t knock my hair out, but it made me sick as a dog. The radiation zapped all my energy. At 5’9” I actually felt puny. Weight loss and exhaustion left me weak and barely able to walk across the house. In the past, I’d carried the Christmas tree into the house, but that year I could barely manage the ornaments and had to delegate most of the decorating to my mom and kids.
The outdoor Christmas lights went up around my neighborhood, and my husband, Jeff, asked if I’d like to go out and see them.
“Not if I can’t see all of them,” I said. I wanted to go on our traditional family Christmas walks at night, but how could I when I couldn’t even make it to the end of the driveway to get the mail? I wanted to drive around the surrounding neighborhoods, but how could I when riding in the car caused motion sickness? The thought of sitting in front of the house, staring at the same blinking string of lights across the street, roused the snarly head of depression.
“I know how you can see all of them,” Jeff said, and darted to the phone to call his parents. “Mom, Dad... do you still have Grandpa’s wheelchair?”
Night after night, Jeff loaded me into the wheelchair, covered me in thick blankets, and pushed me—thump, thump, over the threshold—out the front door.
My two-year-old daughter, bundled in her little pink jacket, snuggled under the blankets with me, her warmth calming my shivering bones. My son, four years old and much bigger than his sister, walked next to us and held my hand or helped his daddy push.
And just like that, wrapped in the love of my husband and two kids, I rode around my neighborhood.
The Christmas lights were more amazing than they had ever been before—than any lights had ever been before! Colorful, white, twinkling and bright, they sparkled of promise and joy... hope and healing. My spirit lifted higher than I thought possible because of those lights, and because of the love that allowed me to see them all.
Chemo took away my cancer, and it didn’t take away my Christmas.
~Kat Heckenbach
A Cloth Full of Memories
Hem your blessings with thankfulness so they don’t unravel.
~Author Unknown
It was an old white sheet discarded and thrown in the back of the linen closet. I was a young mother with two small children and a very small budget. We didn’t have a lot of money for Christmas and we definitely didn’t have money for any elaborate decorations. But I wanted to make something for my family. Something that could be used year after year as a family tradition. I had already handcrafted matching Christmas stockings from red felt appliquéd with Christmas trees, teddy bears, baby dolls and tin soldiers, but I wanted something else for my family. Then I remembered the sheet. Could I possibly use that white sheet to craft a Christmas tablecloth? My sewing abilities were amateurish, but my love for family and tradition was strong. I got out my sewing machine and started hemming the material in red and green thread. I wrote the words “Merry Christmas” in the middle of the tablecloth and spread it across the dining room table. I was so proud!
My daughter was two and a half and my son was only seven months, but I wanted to include them in this tradition. I traced their little hands and feet on the cloth, wrote down their names, ages and the date and then I penned a message for my family. I told them how much I loved them, wished them a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. I signed my name and wrote down the date.
Now, over thirty years later that tablecloth is full of messages, greetings, small handprints from my children and grandson Layton, large handprints and food stains. Each message is precious and contains sentiments of love, cute poems, and comical sayings. Four years ago I had to add a white border to allow more room and it’s already filled with words from family and friends.
As I sit down to look at each handwritten message, my eyes tear as I come across signatures from my precious mother Bonnie, my stepfather Joseph, my friend’s daughter Lindsay, my aunt Olyne, my sweet cousin Karen, all gone but never forgotten. I see the small handprints of my two children and grandson and I remember the day that I traced around their little hands for the first time. I see the messages they wrote as small children, silly teenagers and young adults. I read about snowstorms, cold weather, pecan season, new bikes, new love, old friends and departed loved ones and I remember. I see how my writing has changed as I’ve gotten older, the scribbles of young children and the squiggly drawings they made when I wasn’t looking. All the messages are important and treasured as each one signifies a part of their lives and a journey into mine.
I realized after I made the tablecloth, in fact many years later, that this tablecloth can’t be divided into squares. Some of the signatures are written so close to one another that if cut apart, a word or two would be lost forever. I know this tablecloth is old, stained and ugly, but it’s full of love and laughter and is a priceless heirloom to me. I look forward to digging it out each year, spreading it out on the table and sitting down to read and remember. I enjoy writing my message each year—it really never deviates. I ask for God’s blessing, good health, happiness and a wonderful new year. I savor each written word from my family and friends knowing that one day most of the messages written will be from loved ones gone but never forgotten. This old white sheet has been transformed into a beautiful gift from that young mother, me, who only wanted a tradition for her family, a simple tablecloth full of memories.
~Glenda Carol Lee
The Most Expensive Bike Ever
Never do anything that you wouldn’t want to explain to the paramedics.
~Author Unknown
It all started when our family went Christmas shopping and my husband, Jerry, decided he wanted a bicycle. While he was contemplating the best model for him, my son’s heart was drawn to a black freestyle bike. He begged and pleaded but I stoically ignored him and left with Jerry’s bike in tow.
A few days later I had the opportunity to go Christmas shopping on my own and was able to pick up Eli’s dream bike. After all, it was a good price, and that would take care of the “special” present for Eli. When I got home I left the bike in the back of the van so I could hide it after the boys went to sleep. Jerry had been up since 3 AM and was exhausted so he headed for bed. Soon after, I sent the boys on their way. When I was sure they were asleep, I brought the bike in to hide until Christmas. I thought it would fit behind the bed in the spare room but quickly saw that that idea was not going to work, so I headed for the attic.
The door going into the attic locks automatically, so my main worry was that the door would close behind me and I’d be stuck in the attic overnight. If only.
I entered the attic and looked around, finding the perfect spot to hide the bike. As I rolled the bike over to its new home, the floor gave way beneath me. I was hanging in mid-air! You see, our attic floor is covered in plywood except for one spot that has three short planks. One of the planks had been moved and wasn’t situated on the rafters properly. When I stepped on it, it flipped up like a teeter-totter, whacking me in the shin and dropping me through the ceiling of the garage.
As I dangled there listening to unknown things crashing to the ground beneath me, my first thought was, “Oh no! I hope the boys don’t hear that and come out and see the bike!”
No worries. Everyone—yes, everyone—slept right through it all.
I reac
hed down and grabbed my shin, only to pull my hand away when I felt all the blood through my jeans. Of course, my hand was now covered in blood which I wiped off on my already blood-soaked jeans. After all, I didn’t want to get it on the bike. Somehow I managed to extricate myself from my dangling position and find some footing in the attic.
I examined my shin and saw that most of the blood had been soaked up by my blue jeans. The rest of the blood had reached the top of my sock and had pretty much stopped there. I decided my leg could wait while I finished hiding the bike. Part of my reasoning was that the real pain might kick in and I wouldn’t be able to finish the job. The other part of my reasoning was that by taking care of it now I could avoid having to climb the stairs again (I’m almost fifty and am very good at escaping anything remotely like exercise).
After hiding the bike behind empty boxes I went downstairs. Curiosity overcame pain and I headed for the garage to survey the damage. I noticed it was rather dimly lit in there. Then I realized we were missing one of the florescent lighting boxes which had always hung on the ceiling right in the general vicinity of the now gaping hole. It occurred to me that the falling box was the delayed crashing sound I’d heard after puncturing the ceiling. I’d knocked the box off, it had dangled by the wires for a moment before coming crashing down—on Jerry’s car! His prized possession!
I panicked! The car was covered in glass shards so I couldn’t get a good look at the damage. I knew that if I brushed the glass off the car it would scratch it, so I went inside and got the vacuum cleaner. I gingerly took the vacuum and sucked up the glass, trying to pull it off the car vertically. Once all the glass was off, I took a look at the car in the dim light and saw that the side mirror was badly scratched and there was a two-inch scratch on the door next to it. Later, in full light, I noticed the windshield had scratches all over it and there was a small dent in the door as well. The original price of the bike combined with the cost in sheetrock, lighting, and car repairs had now become astronomical.
After finishing things up in the garage I finally took a good look at my leg. After washing the blood off, I saw that I had a scratch about the size of the one on Jerry’s car. It didn’t seem to be very deep. Next to it, however, was a small gouge that seemed to be the source of all the blood. On examination I realized that it could probably take one stitch, but I was determined not to add an emergency room fee to the cost of this bike. I butterflied the edges of the cut together, covered it with a huge bandage and Neosporin, and got into bed.
Before falling asleep I started thinking about the big bruise I was going to have on my upper thigh in the morning. I thought, “It’s probably not a good thing to just lie down while this bruise forms. Couldn’t it form some clot that will migrate to my brain and kill me?” I tossed and turned most of the night from pain and worry about blood clots and telling Jerry about his car.
Around 5 AM I woke up, turned over and was startled by flashing lights around me. I thought that possibly the neighbors across the street were driving out of their driveway and shining their lights through our windows. Then I woke up enough to realize that we have room darkening curtains and nothing ever shines in that brightly. I turned over the other way and saw more flashing lights! Now I was more panicked than I was over Jerry’s car. “The blood clot has reached my brain and I’m dying! This can’t be! Surely this is not IT!” But every time I moved I saw flashes of light before my eyes. I stopped moving. I lay there and thought about the cost of the funeral added to the cost of the bike.
Jerry woke up and I told him, “I fell through the ceiling in the garage last night.” He chuckled, stopped short and said, “What?” I repeated, “I was hiding Eli’s bike in the attic and I fell through the ceiling into the garage.” He quit chuckling and said, “You’re not kidding!” I related the evening’s events to him and to his credit he didn’t even ask how damaged the car was. I ended my story with the statement of my imminent death from a brain clot that was causing blinding flashes of light. It was a mystery to both of us.
I decided to get up and let the clot do its work. As I sat up I was hit with more blinding flashes. I also noticed that my pajamas were sticking to my body. As I pulled on one of my sleeves a flash of light emanated from the static electricity in my pajamas! I leaped out of bed with the realization that I wasn’t dying! I told Jerry, “Look!” and proceeded to pull my clothes away from my skin up and down my body. Sparks were flying everywhere and in the pitch-blackness of the room, they were blinding.
At least I was going to live to pay the bills.
~Barbara Nicks
The Green Christmas Ball
If you have much, give of your wealth;
if you have little, give of your heart.
~Arabian Proverb
By the third year of teaching I had begun to anticipate Christmas break more for the school holiday and less for the excitement of the children. I was teaching fourth grade and my students, combined with medical problems, had exhausted me. I prayed for strength enough to get me to 3:15. I just had to get through one of the hardest days of the school year.
I groaned out loud as the morning bell rang. Time to begin the circus. I trudged through the cold between my mobile classroom (nice name for a trailer) and into the overly heated school building. I sighed and turned the corner. Twenty-two smiling faces greeted me on the fourth grade bus hall. I forced myself to return their smiles and enthusiastic hugs. “Seven and a half hours to go,” I thought to myself.
Back through the cold and into the room they chattered, comparing plans for the vacation. I had to remove one student from each arm and one from around my waist before I could take a seat at my desk for my morning duties. Before I could find my roll book my desk was covered with cards and gifts followed by a chorus of “Merry Christmas” wishes.
“Oh, thank you,” I must have responded a million times. Each gift was truly special to me, despite my sour mood. It was kind of them to think of me.
After the tornado had calmed to hurricane levels, I heard a small voice say my name. I looked up to see Brandon standing shyly by my desk, holding a small, round gift. “This is for you.”
“Thank you, Sweetheart.” I hugged him and laid it on my desk with the others.
“Um, could you open it now?”
I stopped my frantic pace to give him my full attention. This was important to him. “Sure.”
I gently tugged at the crumpled paper and mounds of tape. “Careful,” he said, “it’s breakable.”
“Oh, okay,” I assured him. Slowly I unwrapped a small, green Christmas tree ornament, complete with a hook already attached. It dawned on me what he had done.
“You know he just pulled that off his tree!” a nearby student commented rudely.
I swallowed some tears. “Yes, I know,” I answered. “That makes it even more special.”
“It’s my favorite,” Brandon informed me.
“It’ll be my favorite, too. I don’t have anything green on my tree.”
He beamed.
Later that day, during a rare quiet moment, I sat turning the ornament over in my hands. Was I really so important to this child that he had searched for something to give me? His mother did not hand him a gift bag with an elegant bow as he ran for the bus. He had considered this gift himself.
Now every year as I delicately pull a green Christmas ball from my ornament box I remember the profound impact adults have on children. More importantly, I remember the impact my students have on me.
~Aletheia D. Lee
Wreathed in Tradition
Perhaps the best Yuletide decoration is being wreathed in smiles.
~Author Unknown
“Make sure that the wreath is centered,” I instructed my husband as we finished the last of our Christmas decorating. Looking around the house, I was proud of our day’s work: stockings hung by the fireplace, colorful candles sat atop our mantle, and bright lights glittered on the tree. But nothing seemed to say “Christmas” to me like our wre
ath. I quickly grabbed a tape measure to assure its perfect placement on our front door.
The scent of freshly cut pine filled the air as I lovingly ran my hands through the prickly green needles. I imagined my extended family—aunts, uncles, and cousins—each hanging similar wreaths on their own front doors. Though hundreds of miles apart, we were connected, bound together by our annual pre-holiday wreath-making tradition, the “gathering of the greens” on our Western Pennsylvania family farm.
More than forty relatives assembled again this year, making their annual late-November pilgrimage to our homestead, a dairy farm first settled by my ancestors some two hundred years ago. My uncle, a retired farmer who still lived in the old white farmhouse, looked forward to our visit each year. We arrived bearing pies and casseroles, weary from our travels, but comforted by the warm embrace of family. After a feast of turkey and stuffing, we pulled on warm coats and headed outside.
“Hurry, Daddy! Everyone is getting ready to leave for the woods!”
Our two young girls bolted through the muddy yard, hoping not to be left behind.
Piled onto an old wooden wagon, hitched to my uncle’s green John Deere tractor, we made quite the sight—a load of chatty Scotch-Irish relatives, ranging in age from three to seventy-something.
Stones flew up along the uneven gravel road as we bumped along the rural countryside for about a mile before turning into the woods. A canopy of pine trees welcomed us as we made our way across a muddy trail, ducking to avoid wayward branches.
“This is it,” my uncle announced, turning off the engine. Jumping down from the wagon, we scrambled to collect nature’s bounty—fragrant evergreens that beckoned to be cut and collected for Christmas wreaths. The youngest children, quickly disinterested with the task at hand, found a little stream that seemed just right for splashing and rock-skipping.
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