Long ago, in a house miles away down an icy gravel road, a little girl listened to her parents talk about Christmas. From the muffled rise and fall of voices she could detect a note of stress, and an overtone of sadness, too. There wasn’t money for presents this year; the check hadn’t come in. Yes, there had been lots of work done, plenty of dark nights waiting and wondering if Dad was going to get home, and was he alright, had he drowned in the river or got stuck or driven off the road? Tirelessly he had worked, making roads, digging ditches, venturing out so far back in the bush there were no roads, just faint tracks through the snow and over the icy creeks. What were they going to tell the kids?
The little family still trekked out into the back 40 and cut a tree, after much deliberation and speculation from Mom, and a great deal of sighing and surreptitious eyes-to-the-heavens from Dad. Eventually the darkening dusk settled it, and a tree was felled. They set it up in front of the playroom windows as usual, with 1980s tinsel hanging in clumps, and spray snow pictures on the glass. Homemade snowflakes dangled here and there, carefully and not-so-carefully cut into patterns by the girl and her brother.
The girl braced herself that year for an empty tree, worrying about her little brother and sister. Hopefully it wouldn’t be too sad – there were still candy canes and books to read beside the fireplace, and a hill outside to sled on. There was no talk of Santa in that house; the myth had been debunked already years ago. And she was glad of it. One time her sweet grandparents had taken her to the Legion Christmas party so she could sit on Santa’s knee, and it was literally the worst night of her life! Somehow, she won a Scooby-Doo stuffed dog, which everyone was “Oohing” and “Aahh-ing” over. Unfortunately, she hadn’t the faintest idea who Scooby-Doo was, and was afraid of Santa and all the heavily made-up faces, bright colours, and close-up smiles of the adults. Poor Grandma and Grandpa thought they were doing a nice thing, bless their hearts. It was good of them to try! But no, Jesus was the reason for the Season in her house. It was His birth they celebrated, so Santa and his reindeer were strange to her.
Christmas eve finally came, and sure enough, there was the crinkling of wrapping paper and the tell-tale sound of tape and scissors late into the night. The little girl must have fallen asleep listening, because suddenly she realized the sky was lighter, and her little brother was jumping on the bed. “It’s Christmas!! Let’s go open our presents!! Get mom and dad!!” Mom and Dad, meanwhile, had probably been asleep for about 3 hours and were typically doing everything possible to stay in an upright position and somehow appear excited. Someone plugged in the tree lights, and sat patiently to hear Dad read the Christmas story from the Gospel of Luke, eyes wide because, Lo and Behold – there were presents under the tree!
Maybe the mysterious Oil Company paid their bills, she thought. Perhaps they realized there were children involved. Yes, that was probably it! She’d never know how the presents came to be. It was a memorable present-opening. There was a small box for her, with the most beautiful, gold and gemstone ring she had ever imagined. So pretty, so sparkly! It must have cost hundreds, she thought. There was a race car track for her brother, sleds, and bright toddler toys for her sister. There was more too, but details are lost to memory. She couldn’t recall anything that mom or dad opened, this time. Suddenly, she jumped up and raced to the living room window to look outside – maybe they had sold the truck! But no, it was still there. “McPhee Construction Ltd” in brown and tan letters. The backhoe rested on the snow beside the fuel tanks, the dump truck and trailer sat idle today, too.
All was peace outside, and lights and colour inside, with warm breakfast and goodies for later on. The milk cows were in the barn, the chickens snug in their house. A horse or two sheltered in the field under the shed. Did they know it was Christmas? Did they know the sleepless nights of the man and woman who appeared that morning to make sure they had fresh hay and water? The little girl knew some sacrifices had been made, but they were never spoken of. There was just joy and love, hugs and scattered wrapping paper being cleaned up, tinsel falling off the tree, excited voices pounding down the basement stairs to set up the race car track. The sound of pancakes being whipped up in the kitchen and ham frying. Mom was in her housecoat stirring the homemade syrup, Dad in his uniform of white undershirt and jeans gathering up any stray wrapping. There was orange juice to mix and fresh butter from the churn. All was well.
In the quiet afterward, the girl sat on the floor beside the now slightly off-kilter Christmas tree and wondered, staring at her perfect, shiny ring. It was a miracle, there was nothing else it could be.
Stories for Humans 