Surprise Christmas

The end of 1964 was an incredibly turbulent time. In November on my fourteenth birthday, President Kennedy was assassinated. It was in the beginning years of the Vietnam War. The Cuban Missile crisis was not long before that. Uncertainty was everywhere. So herewith, the story of Christmas 1964.

Christmas 1964. That was the year that Christmas wasn’t going to bring even one gift…we thought. It was a poor financial year. I didn’t exactly know that we were poor. We had plenty to eat. We had clean, warm clothes. We had a warm, sheltering apartment in Chicago that my stepmother, Maxine, worked hard to make a haven for us.

As a parent now, I realize how difficult it must have been then for her to sit us down a few weeks before Christmas and explain that there wasn’t any money for gifts. If all the money she had managed to save was pooled, we could have a special Christmas dinner.

Solemnly, we considered the dilemma, and then one by one, we agreed that a special dinner was the best use for the money we had. Once that was settled, we put it behind us and life went on.

One day, a couple of weeks before Christmas, Mum told all of us to hurry home immediately after school, as there would be a surprise. Friends of the family planned to bring each of us a gift and wished to be present when we opened ours. So on this day, I slung my books into my locker at school and rushed home. Pounding up the stairs to our second floor apartment, I eagerly flung open the door—and froze in my tracks.

Every level surface in both the dining and living rooms was covered with gifts. Beautifully, lovingly decorated gifts. A tree twinkled merrily in the corner. The melodies of familiar Christmas carols filled the air. Unexpectedly, Christmas had come to our home.

I could not imagine what had happened. Certainly, we hadn’t gotten rich overnight. I walked around the room gently touching the lovely boxes. Mum, more excited than I had ever seen her, urged me to look in the kitchen. Two boxes of groceries, a ten-pound ham, fifty pounds of potatoes, and a five pound box of chocolates. A special Christmas dinner indeed!

A little later we opened the gifts. Of all the Christmases in my life, this is the one I can remember every single thing I received. Not because I was a greedy kid, but because they were all gifts of sacrifice from strangers. Our family friends were a minister and his wife with a church in Indiana. One of their church families approached them, seeking a family that wasn’t going to have any gifts for Christmas. The parents and children of this church family voted to give up their Christmas gifts so that a family, unknown to them, would have a special Christmas.

The minister and his wife undertook the responsibility of obtaining clothing sizes and special needs, plus transportation and delivery of the gifts. And they delivered our heartfelt thank you letter to the anonymous family.

As Christmas grows closer, whether we are rich or poor, I look back on that Christmas and know that we are blessed because we are together. Every year I remember the blessing of being loved unconditionally by strangers.

A miracle.

Anny

St. Pat's This and That

Computers. Does anyone out there remember when there weren't any personal computers? Yeah? No transfer of information and files and programs when you swapped out the old one for a new one, right?

I spent the day on Sunday upgrading, swapping, installing, etc. all my stuff from my old computer to the new one. In addition to all that moving (both electronic and physical), I've had to learn how the new programs work. Upgraded Microsoft Office. Upgraded desktop setup. This thing doesn't talk to that thing now. Sigh. And today it's back to the writing whether I have it all set up or not.

Two programs will not install. So later today I also need to call the customer service people and find out why my programs don't like the new computer. It's like I told the househunk--just thinking about the adjustments almost make me consider sticking with the old computer. And then that sucker will freeze up while it's doing something real complicated like connecting to the internet and I just shake my head. All right! I'll deal!

St. Patrick's Day. Not being of the Irish persuasion, I have to admit that St. Patrick's Day never was of much importance in my general scheme of things...until thirty years ago today. And what happened then, you say? Well, I found out I was pregnant.

Now I suppose that wouldn't normally be an earth-shaking event, but in my case it was more than a little startling. We had three children 9, 8, and 5. My househunk had his tubes clipped when I was pregnant with number three. So you could likely see why I was less than prepared when the ultrasound tech announced, "There's your baby!"

I was twenty weeks pregnant. That's right. Five months. There are certain benefits to being five months pregnant before you find out. That only leaves four more months to get through. All that morning, afternoon, evening sickness? I thought it was a particularly virulent flu. That lump in my belly that suddenly popped up? I was terrified that I had cancer. Overall, pregnancy was a goooood thing.

We were way past broke, verging on life below the poverty level. Because our family was officially past the baby stage, we'd given all that stuff away--you know, the crib, baby clothes, maternity clothes, stroller, etc. As I drove home that afternoon all those things were swirling in my mind. I was in my second semester of college and in fact had to miss my English midterm because of the ultrasound appointment. I couldn't wrap my mind around having another baby.

When I finally got home, I sat on the side of my bed and just sort of blanked out. What were we going to do? My oldest son came rushing through the door after school and ran into my room. "Mom? What did the doctor say?"

Heh. He sat down next to me, expecting me to tell him that I had to have surgery or something. Instead I said, "We're going to have a baby."

My nine year old patted me on the back. "It's all right Mom. We'd rather have a baby than a vacation anyway."

Well, we survived that bump in the road as we always do. The picture at the top of this post was taken when I finally graduated from college seventeen years later. As you can see, all the kids were at home. The young man on the right came home on leave from the Navy to watch me walk across that stage. And the young lady on the right? Well, she was my caboose. And she turned out mighty fine in the end. Happy St. Pat's Day.

Anny

Start out your week right by stopping at Kelly's blog at www.kkirch.blogspot.com and then popping over to Amarinda's Place at www.amarindajones.blogspot.com for fresh insights on living the life. Blessings on your day!