Someone Else’s Miracle

The apartment was small and tired, but at least Jenna had managed to keep a roof over their heads.  But now, two days before Christmas, she knew providing presents for her ten-year-old son Nathan was going to be impossible.  She glanced around the room, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.  How had it come to this?  First, the loss of her husband, then the loss of her job, piles of medical bills, and the final blow: foreclosure.  Jenna shook her head.  She never realized how quickly life’s roller coaster could plummet out of control.  She collapsed at the little kitchen table, and fingered a scrap of paper.  It was Nathan’s Christmas list.  His desires were so simple:  a kite, some games, and a baseball glove.  She dropped her head down on her arms and tried to cry quietly, so Nathan wouldn’t hear.

Suddenly his arms were around her.  “Don’t cry Mama,” he said.  “It’s okay.  I understand.  I’m all grown up now, and I don’t need all that Christmas stuff.”  He took his wish list out of her hand, tore it up and threw it away. 

Jenna pulled him onto her lap.

Nathan wiped the tears off her face.  “Mama, we can still have eggnog and ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas, right?”

Jenna nodded, hugging him close.  It was a ritual handed down in their family, the reading of the traditional poem accompanied by gingerbread and what her husband had dubbed “The Nighty-night Nog”.

 “Of course, Nathan!  We’ll always be able to have that.”  She buried her face in his hair, but abruptly jerked her head up.  What was that noise?  She slid Nathan off her lap and motioned for him to stay put.  Jenna crept toward the front window and peeked through the blinds, but saw nothing amiss. She unlocked the front door, eased it open a crack and peered out.  Everything looked normal.  She started to close the door but something caught on the bottom.

It was a small, yellowed envelope.  She picked it up and flipped it over.  It was completely blank.  Was it really intended for her?  After all, they had just moved in.  They hadn’t met many neighbors yet, except for newly widowed Anna Smith, a young woman whose circumstances were even worse than their own.  She had a son Nathan’s age and a new baby.  Jenna closed the door and lifted the flap on the envelope.  She pulled out a Christmas card with a picture of a starry night on the front.  As Jenna opened the card, money fell out!

Her hands shaking, Jenna scooped up the bills and counted them.   One, two, three, four!   Two hundred dollars!  It was a true Christmas miracle!  Where had it come from?  Who put it there?  Why?  Still trembling, she read the message inside:   Someday, when you can, be someone else’s miracle.

Jenna threw open the door and ran outside, hoping to catch her benefactor, but she was greeted by nothing but swirling snow.  Shivering and choking back sobs, she ran back inside and laid the money on the table.  Now Nathan would have a Christmas!  She could buy gifts to put under the tree, and some to put in his stocking.    Excitedly she said to him:  “Look!  It’s a miracle!  A real one!”

Nathan gazed, wide-eyed, at the four bills.  He picked up the card. “Be someone else’s miracle…” he spoke the words slowly, under his breath.

“Yes!  Nathan, someday we’ll return the favor.  I promise you that!”

Nathan continued to stare at the card.  “What about now?” he whispered.

“What do you mean?”

 “Mrs. Smith,” he said simply.  “She needs a miracle too.”

Jenna’s eyes welled with tears.  Nathan was right.  One hundred dollars was more than enough for the two of them.  She was ashamed she hadn’t thought of it herself.

 She replaced two bills in the card, slipped it back in the envelope and taped the flap down.  She handed it to Nathan.  “Shall we sneak over there and slide it under her door?”

He grinned, bouncing up and down.  “Yes!”

After they returned, laughing harder than they had in a very long time, Nathan sat down to write out a new Christmas list.  Jenna sat beside him.  She picked up a pencil and wrote a personal ending to the poem she would read on Christmas Eve – and for many Christmas Eves to come:

“…and laying his finger aside of his nose,

With these final words, up the chimney he rose:

‘Be someone else’s miracle,

And never let them know….’”

EPIC Award Finalist Violet Rightmire (Debra Webb Rogers) is the author of two novels:  Dancing in Time, a time-travel romance, and A Windfall Christmas, an inspiration romance.    Visit her website: http://debrawebbrogers.com/

Christmas Together

It is snowing again as I back the car out of the garage for one final trip to the store. I could have sworn the package said four D-cell batteries, not eight. One lonely strand of battery operated lights to adorn an eighteen-inch Christmas tree and tiny plastic ornaments will fill the last few inches of a tightly packed box. I find it difficult to pack and ship "Christmas" to a Soldier deployed in active combat, especially when that Soldier happens to be my son, the only child I have.

My little boy, who once wore red Dr. Denton pajamas with feet, will proudly
dress in Desert Camouflage and combat boots this Christmas. My son
Tanner will flush his eyes with Visine in 100-degree temperatures instead
of feeling snowflakes falling gently on his face. Military cuisine mixed with
desert sand will be his dinner, consumed while sitting on the floor of a tent,
in place of his normal holiday meal at home surrounded by family and
friends. Bombs and bullets will replace the revelry of Christmas carols.
For 25 years, Tanner and I have created and shared our own
traditions. As a child, my son was allowed one "early" present on the
afternoon of Christmas Eve…one that would occupy him while I finished
cooking and setting the dinner table.

I wrap that special present this year, its label clearly stating, "Early
Christmas Gift," and place it in the box on top, separated by paper. I can see
the smile on his face when he realizes that although a world apart, our
tradition will continue.

I manage to include a small canned ham, pop-top cans of vegetables,
potatoes, and fruit. There are candy canes and homemade Christmas
cookies, gently set in tin containers surrounded by bubble wrap. Hidden
inside brightly colored paper, is a CD player with Christmas music and a
month’s supply of AA batteries. I add a brand new calendar, allowing him to
mark the days until his return. What am I forgetting?

Ripping open boxes of decorations from years gone by, I finally find his
miniature stocking, a small snow globe, and the most important piece of
tradition: the matching snowman candle holders and tapers. Both lit with
one match, our candles have cast a warm glow on the table every year.
These symbols will separate for the first time…one making its solitary
journey to brighten the darkest Christmas. Gathering the remnants of happier times, I gingerly place this candle among Tanner’s holiday cheer, along with the stocking and globe.

"My son, I am striving to provide you with the best Christmas I possibly
can. I wish I knew how to wrap my heart, my love, and send it nestled
among the tissue paper. Do you recognize the significance of each item I have sent? Can you see past the contents of this box, Tanner? Are you able to feel the Christmas spirit, tucked inside and sealed tightly with packing tape? Can you feel me holding you as I whisper softly, ‘Merry Christmas, my son?’ I am there with you. We both know that I am. Miles may separate us, but nothing can keep us apart at Christmas."

It is now 8:00 a.m. in Connecticut on the morning of Christmas Eve, making
it 4:00 pm in Iraq. I picture a Soldier on his bunk, opening a corrugated box
containing a cache of love and prayers, folded delicately among layers of
papers. My tears blend with a slow smile as I wonder if my son actually waited until 4:00 pm to open his early present. I think not, and my imagination creates a cascading slideshow of images … ones that find me alternating between tears and laughter, while I visualize Tanner’s reaction to each carefully chosen item.

Sitting in a tent in the desert my son opens "Christmas" with a smile,
inter-fused with sorrow and a longing for home. As he lights his candle, he
daydreams…forming his own picture show…of me packing the car with gifts
for our family, along with my contributions to the evening meal at my
sister’s house. His eyes close as he forces the heat and sand to restructure
itself to winter’s chill and swirling snowflakes.

I sit at a bare table, placing my lone candle in its center. As I strike the
match, I feel the presence of my son…traveling within the glow of his
candle, to be by my side this Christmas Eve. My eyes close, holding the image of my little boy in his red Dr. Dentons.

Arlene R. O’Neil

All rights reserved

Celebrating Women in History

While almost all Americans can find themselves, their ancestors, or community through archive research, in celebration of 'women in history' , I urge you to take research a step further, document the influence of women on  your heritage through identifying, recording and sharing family stories.

It was through participating in a national celebration of Abraham Lincoln’s legacy that I understood for the first time, the impact of my family’s heritage, Quaker.  Basically, the Quaker culture views itself as a caretaker, not owner of property - a role which implies providing for the present without sacrificing the future. In my book – A Path Worn Smooth, which is dedicated to the people of my community Laurel Historic District - , I invite readers to walk on a path worn smooth by generational expectation. Savor nostalgia for the places that are near and dear to my heart, recall family traditions and more importantly, renew experiences. Challenging all to celebrate heritage because heritage is more than a possession, it is a gift: the birthright of our children.

So, to emphasize this gift, I want to share with you a few facts/stories that illustrate the influence of my legacy. Due to the influence of a Quaker value - equality, my grandmother directly inherited property from her father and transferred property to her daughters establishing a tradition that influenced the transfer of property directly from my Dad to me. 

As a result, the women of my Dad’s family were self reliant and saw themselves as a ‘caretaker’ working the land along side their husbands.  In my book, I share stories of these women and their influence from initial settlement of the Bolton property in 1838 to the present.  To hear an author interview, link to the Renee Bobb Radio Show -  or view an interview, link to Henrico County Hunt for History -   .

During 2011, my book was recommended by the National Women in History Project. Instead of highlighting national figures, the NWHP encourages individuals to discover stories about women in their own families and communities. Why? They believe awareness of the challenges these women faced, grappled with, and overcame can be an enormous source of strength to all of us.

Because I am a child of the era ‘tell instead of read’ me a story, I'm aware story-telling provided a rich resource for my family history. So, in my e-book edition, I included research tips and strategies which help enable identification as well as publication of family histories.  So, in celebration of 'women in history', won't you join me in an effort to encourage others to research and highlight their legacy. Together, let's insure family histories gathered through story-telling are recorded for the next generation. 


Sylvia Hoehns Wright resides in central VA on 7th generation property. For details of her activities, link to www.TheWrightScoop.com

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Christmas like it Used to Be

Every year when Christmas looms on the horizon, I start longing for home- the land of my childhood and Christmas memories. In Germany, we celebrate on Christmas Eve or Heiligabend as it is called in German. Leading up to it is Advent, starting four Sundays before Christmas, marked by lighting a candle each week on an advent wreath. This is usually kept on the table in the family room where, in the old days, the family gathered and sang Christmas carols.

On 1 December, the tradition is to give children an advent calendar with little doors numbered 1-24, each containing a piece of chocolate.  It makes counting the days and the wait till Christmas easier impatient for  little souls. If you like crafts you can make your own. I used to tie 24 little parcels on a ribbon or garland, filled with mini something’s like candy, tiny toys, or crayons.

Everybody loves St. Nicholas who, on Dec 6, rewards children that have been good during the year by placing little surprises in their boots. Every child puts her pair outside the door that night. Of course they need polishing first. Naughty children only receive a fir twig, a little symbolic punishment. This tradition survives from pre-politically correct days, but it is always mitigated by some goodies.

We exchange our gifts on Christmas Eve. Until then all the presents are well hidden somewhere, not always easy under prying eyes. The 24^th is a busy day marked by secret preparations, with the parents sneaking in and out of the living room where the tree is decorated behind closed doors. The tree has to be a real one, often a noble fir.

My parents had an understanding that Papa would take me out in the car pretending to do a last minute errand while Mama got everything ready including a special meal.

After dark, with all the family washed and dressed up waiting around, a mysterious little bell was heard. That was the sign that Father Christmas had graced us with a visit. The door of the living room would open revealing a tree with real candles and the presents laid out underneath. Children’s eyes would glaze over at this stage; carol singing was to follow before anybody was allowed to open presents. Kids would play till late, but also allow their parents to sleep in the morning.

When we moved abroad we kept up this tradition although it meant hard work. We were facing a tidal wave of early presents and artificial trees with electrical fairy lights all around us. For the neighbors’ kids it was hard to comprehend why Santa Claus would make an exception for Germans and come early.

I can still smell the aromas of fresh Christmas cookies and the combined fragrance of fir trees and candles. For me there is no fascination in electric lights. Naturally, you have to be vigilant and watch the tree at all times; and yes, occasionally someone would have a fire. For extra safety, some people have a bucket of water at the ready. It’s best to blow out the candles when you leave the room.

Stollen, marzipan and advent calendars are available here. But in shorts and T-shirts and with the kids having flown the nest it’s not the same. Maybe with the arrival of the next generation and the patter of little feet, I’ll regain my enthusiasm.

Siggy Buckley