A Miracle Under the Christmas Tree

CHRIST WAS LOVE

And I believe He still is.

UNFINISHED GIFTS

BJ HOLLACE

“I need to find the perfect gift. I need to find the perfect gift.” The words circulated through my mind like the woodpecker that tapped on our chimney. Christmas was coming, and I needed it to be perfect this year.

Years had passed since my entire family had celebrated together around one Christmas tree. Those things that had kept us apart, including time and distance, were being put aside. It was time to heal old wounds. Forgiveness and healing were on my Christmas list this year.

The search began for the perfect gift for my mother. What does a perfect gift look like anyway? My mom’s favorite treats are Brown & Haley’s Mountain bars, so I quickly scribbled those onto the list. Hmmm, what else? The blank page stared back at me. Candy, even her favorite candy, was not going to be sufficient.

“What can we get for my mom?” I asked my husband, Bill. He shrugged his shoulders. Clearly, this assignment would require some soul-searching. Sometimes even husbands don’t have all the answers.

As I went about my daily tasks, I thought and prayed and thought some more. Suddenly, in my mind, I could see the perfect present in wonderful detail. I knew exactly what would surprise and delight my mother, but the question was, Where was it? Living in a one-bedroom apartment, my filing system isn’t what you would call perfect. It is adequate for those things that are filed, but as for the unfiled items stored in miscellaneous bins, well, it would be like finding a needle in a haystack.

Somewhere in the apartment was a gray envelope sent by my brother and sister-in-law about a year earlier. Inside were several photos and a note from my mom. I walked from room to room, eyeing stacks and piles. Which one had I put it in? After some digging, I found it. The first piece of the puzzle was in my hand. As I opened the envelope, I found the photos and note just as I remembered.

My great-grandmother Janke liked to knit. As a family tradition, she’d made baby bootees for her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. The photos showed an unfinished bootee with knitting needles still stuck in it, as if she’d put it aside for a few moments to go make a cup of tea.

My mom’s request was that I write a short poem to go with this photo. I was touched and flattered that she’d asked, of course, but then reality set in. I didn’t have a clue how to put words to this piece of my history. How can you honor someone who died when you were only two years old? I never really knew her, not like my mom knew her grandmother.

Memories of my own grandma and the many hours I spent with her over a cup of tea or laughing, baking and praying came easily to mind. Grandma is long gone. She was my mother’s mother—she is a part of me.

I had the photo, now I needed some inspiration. Maybe if I knew more about the actual woman, I could give her the tribute she deserved. Hmmm, I looked around my apartment again, checking all the logical places for the family history book. Ah, yes, here were the facts. Janke Heeringa was born on January 22, 1874, in Holland. In May 1891, seventeen-year-old Janke came to America by herself, joining her brother and sister who lived in Iowa. Immediately, she began doing household work in the area for American people even though she knew no English. She was married two years later in 1893 to my great-grandfather.

In October 1900, twenty-eight Hollanders from Iowa rented a train car and hired a porter to help them travel to Washington to start a new life. When Janke began the journey from Iowa, she was seven months pregnant and had three young children, all boys—two, four and six years old—to care for as well. Her fourth child was born in December 1900 after arriving in the Pacific Northwest.

Janke was described as a woman of determination. Yes, you would have to be to survive that cross-country trip while pregnant, I thought. My mother and grandmother and even I could be described that way. Must be a family trait.

When Janke died in 1961 at the age of eighty-seven, she left behind twenty-five grandchildren, fifty-six great-grandchildren and one great-great-granddaughter. Great to have so many solid facts, but I was still without a shred of poetry.

The clock ticked on. This present didn’t need to be finished until we arrived to visit family just after Christmas, but time was still short. The days flew by as I struggled to find the right words. How could a poem and picture convey the message of healing and forgiveness that I sought? Only God knew. I still didn’t get it.

My husband and I talked again. “It’s something that I need to do. The time is right, but I just don’t know what to say.”

“I know you can do it. I have faith in you.”

“Thanks, sweetheart. It’s more than faith I need. I need divine inspiration.”

Finally, I was at peace. My struggle for understanding was over. Mentally and emotionally, I stood in her shoes, this woman who was part of me, whose blood ran through my veins. The answer was etched in my DNA. I just needed to write what was in my heart.

The frame was small, so the poem needed to be Goldilocks size—not too long and not too short, just right.

I needed to understand the subject matter, my great-grandmother, but also the audience, my mother. Mom had a special relationship with her grandmother. I understood that kind of grandmother–granddaughter relationship. For inspiration, I drew on the stories Mom shared of visiting Janke on Saturday afternoons after catechism and again on Sundays after church, sitting on her grandma’s lap and slurping tea from the saucer. And if she was really good, dried apples were a special treat.

How could I bring these generations of women together? My great-grandmother and grandmother had passed on to their heavenly reward, leaving my mom navigating through life’s changes, and me, who hoped to unite these generations with words and give them the honor they deserved.

I needed my poem to be a mixture of love, healing and wholeness that we seek to find in our families. It was a high calling, but I knew it was possible. Finally, the words came. The message was short, laden with emotion, and it painted the picture I saw in my mind—to honor Janke and this moment.

Holding the paper before me, I read it out loud in its final form and knew this was it.

With each stitch, she weaves a prayer,

for the tiny foot that will fit in there.

She stops for a moment and gazes outside;

the children are looking for a place to hide.

Her trembling hands slow her pace;

she knows that soon she’ll see her Savior’s face.

Now her knitting needles lay silent…

Yes, it was right. I believed it conveyed the message on my great-grandmother’s heart in her final days. She knew the time had come to go to her husband, gone almost twenty years previously. Janke was ready, ready enough to leave this last bootee unfinished.

The photo and poem were carefully framed and secured in my carry-on bag as we flew across the state. The gift was precious and couldn’t be trusted as checked baggage to be jostled around in the plane’s belly. It wouldn’t leave my sight until it was delivered to its intended destination.

We all gathered for Christmas at my parents’ home, a place laden with memories. The Christmas tree was surrounded by mountains of gifts, and Mom’s special package was tucked safely in a corner.

When it was Mom’s turn, she opened several gifts before opening ours. Tearing away the paper, Mom realized quickly what it was, gasping as she removed the last scrap of wrapping. A piece of her grandma Janke was returned to her that day.

Four generations of women were united that night. We were four women who had known life’s joys and sorrows. Women who were filled with determination to live their lives with all they had and to offer no less than the best to their families and their Creator. Women who know that miracles are found every day in unusual places, not just in perfection but also in the unfinished projects of our lives. There are miracles in the making that are often left for future generations to piece together until the circle is complete. My part was finished. I closed the circle of love that Janke, my great grandmother, set in motion years ago while traveling from her birth country to a land she did not know, a land where she would find hope and love and, yes, miracles.

DICKENS IN THE DARK

JENNIFER ALDRICH

It seemed like a good idea at the time. “Come to the Great Dickens Christmas Fair with me,” he had said. “You will be able to dress in a beautiful costume.” And here I stood, in a plain, twill, button-down dress, watching the rain pounding the steel roof, the sound louder on the inside than outside. How did I get here?

Daniel, my husband of three months at that point, and I were spending our Christmas season working at the largest Dickensian festival in California. San Francisco’s Cow Palace becomes London as Dickens saw it for four or five weekends each year.

Charles Dickens’s characters are here: all the ones you would expect for this time of year (Mr. Scrooge and Tiny Tim) and others you may not expect to see at Christmas (Mr. Fagin and Bill Sikes), not to mention Mr. Charles Dickens himself. In addition to the Dickens characters, there are historical characters of the Victorian Era (Queen Victoria and Prince Albert) and even some fictional characters known to all at the time (Father Christmas, Sherlock Holmes and Mr. Punch).

Rounding out this eclectic collection of characters is the family of Charles Dickens himself. That’s where we are: the Dickens’s Family Parlour. Daniel is Charley Dickens, the eldest and most ne’er-do-well of Dickens’s seven sons. I am Mrs. Cooper, the cook. I make a midday meal to feed the actors in our immediate cast of twelve.

It was the last day of the Fair for the season, and I had been inside the building since 8 a.m. preparing a special tea for singing performers, getting water hot before everyone else arrived. By 10 a.m., my castmates were dressing in our environmental area, the carpeted Parlour floor a sea of hoopskirts and crinolines. We all dress in costumes appropriate to the period, with great care given to historical accuracy. As I was playing a servant, I did not have the hoops under my skirts that the other ladies of my household were wearing. But like them, I was in a laced-up corset, long dress and button-up boots; my pin bib apron and hair tucked under a mop cap completed my less than glamorous look.

“I’m going to deliver teas now,” I said to Mamie, the eldest Dickens daughter and our director. “I’ll be back before opening.”

“You okay, honey?” she asked concerned. “You look done.”

“Stick a fork in me,” I replied. “I’m just glad it’s the last day of the season.”

In truth, I was exhausted. There are some things which, even though you love to do them, can take a lot of effort. Working at the Dickens Fair was a lot of work, plus I had a full-time job on the weekdays. Also, it can be a very expensive hobby. This was the first year I worked at the Fair. I had only attended once before as a patron, watching Daniel perform in one of the stage shows.

I have always loved the fantasy of time travel and have been an avid reader of historical novels for years. I had such a great time as a patron that I decided to join in, jumping into the deep end feet first. I could be, if only for a short time, somewhere and someone else, to live the fantasy. I could have asked to do something simpler to start, but I have a hard time asking for help, especially when it involves doing something I say I like doing.

I walked out of the Parlour, near the entrance to the Fair, past the stalls and storefronts of the artisans who sell their wares of Christmas decorations, bonnets and wreaths, pewter goblets and jewelry. I headed into the breezeway, home of the London docks and the Paddy West School of Seamanship, which is in reality a band of very musical sailors who sing sea chanteys and nautical songs. I dropped off one air pot of tea, received a hug of thanks from one of the cabin “boys”(a lively woman with short hair) and headed down to Mad Sal’s Dockside Alehouse at the other end of the bay to drop off the rest. Mad Sal’s is where naughty music hall songs are performed and represents the seedy end of our London.

The rain was really coming down, booming and loud against the roof, the occasional thunderclap joining in for good measure. Heading backstage, I dropped off the last air pots to Weasel, our chief chucker in the Music Hall. Short in stature but big in heart, he can get you to sing along with a music hall ditty faster than you can say “Burlington Bertie from Bow.”

“Oy! Weasel!” I said, in my best Cockney accent. “Where’s Sal an’ everybody?”

“Over by the door,” he replied, gesturing with his thumb. “I’m stayin’ in ’ere. Too bleedin’ cold for me near the door.”

“Too right,” I said, nodding at the air pots. “I’ll pick ’em up afore the last show.”

I turned away from the stage and headed back to the Parlour along the sidewall of the Concourse. I saw Mad Sal, Dr. Boddy, Molly Twitch, Polly Amory and a few others sitting and watching the rain. I gave a quick wave and continued walking.

“Gee,” I heard someone say, “you think all this rain might affect attendance?”

Suddenly, there was another loud thunderclap, and POP all the lights went out! The few exit lights in the building came on immediately after.

“That might,” came the reply.

We will not be opening the Fair on time today, I realized. The entire hall felt nearly pitch-black at first, with the exception of the exit signs. We wouldn’t be able to bring customers in until we could get the lights back on. I slowly made my way back to the Parlour, taking my time and stepping carefully, overhearing pieces of conversations as I went.

“Somebody forgot to pay the electric bill!”

At an ale stand: “I guess we have to drink all the champagne before it gets warm.”

Someone talking to the dancing light of a cell phone screen: “What’s that, Tink? The pirates have captured Wendy?”

I came back into the Paddy West area to see the whole group sitting on the stage, playing softly in the semidarkness. The side exit doors had been opened a crack to let in some light. I didn’t want to move another step back into the darkness of the next bay, so I sat down on one of the benches facing the stage.

They started to play my favorite sea chanty, “Rolling Home.” The beauty of the music, my fatigue, the dark and the rain all came together and washed over me. I started to cry. Then I started to think.

Do I really want to do this, year after year? “Rolling home, rolling home.” I am so wiped out, and it’s such a huge commitment. “Rolling home across the sea.” Is this something that Daniel and I should share? “Rolling home to dear old England.” What if we have kids? Will we bring them, too? “Rolling home, fair land to thee.”

Our minutes in the dark stretched on past 11 a.m., our opening time. I returned to the Parlour at about 10:45. Daniel and I began to take the small, unlit candles off our Christmas tree, light them and set them in candelabras on the dining table. It gave a beautiful glow to our set, now a very realistic looking Victorian parlor.

We sat down at the settee, and I told him about my little breakdown in the Paddy West area. He held my hand and said, “Okay, today is our last day.”

“Yeah,” I said, “until next year.”

“No,” he said, “our last day ever. I don’t want you to do anything that doesn’t make you happy. And I definitely won’t make you do something that is supposed to be just for fun when you hate it.”

It didn’t sound right to me the minute he said it. I love doing this, I thought. I love creating the type of Christmas that probably never existed, but we all wish could have. I love the friends I’ve made here. They’ve become my family.

“I love you,” I said finally. “I love that you would be okay with my quitting. But I’m not going to. I found my people, where I belong. I may do things a little different next year to make it easier, but I won’t give it up. There would be too many things I would miss and too much.”

Daniel smiled at me in a way that told me he had known I would change my mind, cheeky bugger. Before we met, I wrote down all the things I wanted in a guy. One of them was “someone who would call me on my nonsense.” Damn if I didn’t find him.

A call went out to the cast members inside to gather together all the umbrellas in the building; the line of customers had extended past the building well into the parking lot for several yards. Charles Dickens and other cast members went out to hold the umbrellas and keep everyone as dry as possible. All the musicians available entertained them. The servers from Cuthbert’s Tea Shoppe came out, too, dispensing hot tea.

Some people were escorted in small groups past the Parlour to the restrooms. Walking past, one woman gave a small gasp. “Oh!” she said, turning toward the Parlour and seeing our candlelit set, “You all look like a painting!”

By 11:30, I was providing the last of our tea supply to Cuthbert’s when the lights came back on. We could hear the cheer from the crowd outside as plain as if they were standing next to us. As soon as it was safe to do so, the doors were opened to let the patrons into the Fair.

The abbreviated schedule didn’t seem to diminish the experience of the day for anyone. The spirit of Christmas, it seemed, was present everywhere. Everyone was happy and smiling, patron and participant alike. The small kindnesses that our cast and crew gave to those outside was repaid tenfold back to us, in every heartfelt “Merry Christmas” and word of thanks. Patrons who had originally planned to spend only an hour or two at our fair told me they were going to stay all day, just to support us!

“Thank you for bringing the Dickens Fair outside!” one woman exclaimed.

That was my first year working at the Great Dickens Christmas Fair. Did I go back? Yes, and with a renewed enthusiasm. Last year, we brought our four-year-old for his first year as a participant. Daniel built a train for him out of cardboard boxes so he could be part of the Toy Parade. Bringing a baby or a small child to the Fair as a participant takes a considerable amount of careful planning, but it can be done. Those who are the most successful are those who ask for help. The Fair’s community, like any large family, takes care of its own.

Will our son share our passion for this and join us even when he is older? It’s hard to say at this point, but he will be raised knowing how much we love it and hearing stories of the Fairs of Christmas Past. And I am sure we will tell him about the day the Fair went dark.

Looking back, the best part of that day for me was seeing the quality of people in our Fair family. Some say we are crazy to spend our time, our money and our holiday season on this theatrical enterprise. But now I can’t imagine a better way to spend my Decembers than with this group I am proud to work with and proud to know.

FINDING JOY IN THE WORLD

ELAINE AMBROSE

December 1980 arrived in a gray cloud of disappointment as I became the involuntary star in my own soap opera, a hapless heroine who faced the camera at the end of each day and asked, “Why?” as the scene faded to black. Short of being tied to a rail-road track in the path of an oncoming train, I found myself in an equally dire situation, wondering how my life turned into such a calamity of sorry events. I was unemployed and had a two-year-old daughter, a six-week-old son, an unemployed husband who left the state looking for work and a broken furnace with no money to fix it. To compound the issues, I lived in the same small Idaho town as my wealthy parents, and they refused to help. This scenario was more like The Grapes of Wrath than The Sound of Music.

After getting the children to bed, I would sit alone in my rocking chair and wonder what went wrong. I thought I had followed the correct path by getting a college degree before marriage and then working four years before having children. My plan was to stay home with two children for five years and then return to a satisfying, lucrative career. But, no, suddenly I was poor and didn’t have money to feed the kids or buy them Christmas presents. I didn’t even have enough money for a cheap bottle of wine. At least I was breast-feeding the baby, so that cut down on grocery bills. And my daughter thought macaroni and cheese was what everyone had every night for dinner. Sometimes I would add a wiggly gelatin concoction, and she would squeal with delight. Toddlers don’t know or care if Mommy earned Phi Beta Kappa scholastic honors in college. They just want to squish Jell-O through their teeth.

The course of events that led to that December unfolded like a fateful temptation. I was twenty-six years old in 1978 and energetically working as an assistant director for the University of Utah in Salt Lake City. My husband had a professional job in an advertising agency, and we owned a modest but new home. After our daughter was born, we decided to move to my hometown of Wendell, Idaho, population 1,200, to help my father with his businesses. He owned about thirty thousand acres of land, one thousand head of cattle and more than fifty 18-wheel diesel trucks. He had earned his vast fortune on his own, and his philosophy of life was to work hard and die, a goal he achieved at the young age of sixty.

In hindsight, by moving back home, I was probably trying to establish the warm relationship with my father that I had always wanted. I should have known better. My father was not into relationships, and even though he was incredibly successful in business, life at home was painfully cold. His home, inspired by the designs of Frank Lloyd Wright, was his castle. The semi-circular structure was built of rock and cement and perched on a hill overlooking rolling acres of crops. My father controlled the furnishings and artwork. Just inside the front door hung a huge metal shield adorned with sharp swords. An Indian buckskin shield and arrows were on another wall. In the corner, a fierce wooden warrior held a long spear, ever ready to strike. A metal breastplate hung over the fireplace, and four wooden, naked aborigine busts perched on the stereo cabinet. The floors were polished cement, and the bathrooms had purple toilets. I grew up thinking this decor was normal.