Category: Christmas Stories

My mom was never the typical homemaker. She didn’t sew or make crafty things with her children. When the house was clean, it was because someone had been hired to do the dirty work. And dinner menus were planned around local fast food restaurants. My mom certainly was not like the moms I saw at school helping with the talent show or bake sale.

Mom was also different because she worked outside of the home to help support our family. Traveling to and from work, my mom often passed a group of homeless people huddled together on the sidewalk. As the weeks went by, the group remained. On occasion Mom would stop and have a chat with a few of them or bring by some of her famous dinners from the local fast food joint. Poor and cold, they were in need of many things that we took for granted. Warm clothes, food, a bed to sleep in and the comfort of a home.

Christmas was approaching and Mom came up with the perfect idea. One thing we learned as kids was that when Mom had a plan, there was no stopping her. Full speed ahead, Mom came home and told us about her friends. We talked about her idea and what we could do to get things moving. While we had little money ourselves, Mom was determined to make a real Christmas for her new friends. I listened in as she made phone calls to business owners and vendors, asking them to help create a true Christmas for these people in such desperate need.

In a short time Mom had two complimentary hotel rooms where we could host our Christmas celebration. At the hotel our friends would be able to enjoy warm showers and comfortable beds to sleep in for the night. Soon we had a local caterer donating a full Christmas dinner, a tree lot owner giving us a fresh cut pine tree to decorate and friends donating basic hygiene items and small gifts.

Christmas Eve arrived and Mom took my sister and I to meet her friends at the hotel. We sat a talked with people who really needed a listening ear. We watched them become overjoyed at receiving simple gifts like a toothbrush. And we saw the tears stream down their cheeks as we sang Christmas carols and hymns together. One lady told us that we were her angels. I knew the true angel that Christmas was my mother. She had organized all of this in such a short amount of time and with the pure love of Christ in her heart. It was her ability to love people even when they seemed unlovable, and her willingness to step out and try something new that made a meaningful Christmas for all of us.

I was nine years old that Christmas and am grateful to my mom for teaching me how to give to others and helping me learn that talents do not come in prepackaged boxes. Even though her talents were not as visible as some of the other moms I knew, they were just the right ones to help those around her feel the joy of the Christmas season and the true spirit of Christ.

The children were out of school for the long awaited Christmas break, but in the Brooks home, it was not a welcome alternative to school. In fact the children in the Brooks home would have rather been in school all the way through Christmas.

“Why,” do you ask? Mr. and Mrs. Brooks are at wits end and are about to become Mr. and Miss.

Kevin the oldest would rather have a chemistry test than be at home. Kayla their youngest would leave early in the morning to spend the long days with her girlfriends.

Jeff Brooks is a bit of a business man who does not get as much business as his wife Sandra would like. Sandra is a reporter and an aspiring writer. She has written several books but published none of them. Her free lance work she does for the local paper barely pays the mortgage.

The Brooks home looks normal from the outside, on the inside things are clean and well kept, yet the air is cluttered with accusations, excuses, and mordant words of blame.

One night Jeff got on his side of his bed and was just drifting off to sleep as Sandra came into the room. She bustled about the room getting ready for bed, asking questions like, “How are we going to pay for the kid’s Christmas?” and, “What family activities do you plan on doing this Christmas since we don’t have any money.”

Jeff sat with his back to Sandra his eyes open looking at the wall. He did not say anything to Sandra, because he just felt the questions were only attacks, instead of actual legitimate questions.

Sandra got in the bed, making sure she stayed on her side. She said “You know what? You just go and do whatever you want this Christmas, I just don’t want you here messing it up for the kids and me.

The lights went out, but Jeff sat looking into the darkness. He needed refuge, he felt so mad at Sandra but he was done telling her. He had never before in his life ever considered anything extreme. It was only weeks before Christmas and the love was all gone, and his life was spinning out of control.

Jeff got up early. He called one of his contacts he had met weeks before. She had given him her number, and Jeff was out of options. “Yes,” said Jeff talking on the phone, “I will meet you at the park.”

Jeff grabbed a breakfast donut and some papers off the printer. He tucked them along with a few other things into a duffle bag and walked out the door. As he was walking down the road Jeff had too many emotions to sort out, so he let them consume him. He was scared, angry, jealous, and a bit hopeful. A bit hopeful that he would find the refuge he was looking for, even if it was in the wrong place.

At the park Jeff saw Erin’s car. Jeff met Erin a few weeks earlier, she was attractive, about ten years younger than Jeff, and she was an ambitious business woman. Jeff would have never thought he would do anything like this, even when Erin had given him her number.

Jeff got in Erin’s car and she smiled at him and said, “So, did you get out of your house Ok? Did your wife see you at all?” Jeff’s hands were trembling when he said “She does not suspect a thing, let’s go.”

That night Jeff sat at the dinner table quiet as usual, so nobody noticed anything out of the ordinary. Kevin and Kayla waded though the atmosphere to finish their dinner. Sandra sat and looked at Jeff. He felt in a way he had betrayed her, but what else did he have left? What he was doing was risky, but he felt Sandra left him no choice.

That Friday came and Jeff got up early in the morning like he always did. He was expecting a phone call. He sat and ate some breakfast as his children and wife slept. The phone rang and Jeff answered, “Hello,” Jeff said. “Jeff, this is Erin. Everything is good, so what does your day look like?” “I am free today.” Jeff replied. “Great,” Said Erin, “Meet me in ten minutes.” “I’ll be right there.” Jeff said. He hung up the phone. Up in his bedroom Sandra put the receiver back to where she had carefully picked it up from, she never guessed that Jeff had it in him.

That night rolled around and Jeff came home kind of late. He use to be afraid of Sandra whenever he came home late, but now he knew there was nothing she could say that could hurt him. He had taken risks in life but nothing this big and in a way it made him feel sort of invincible. Sandra could say anything.

“So Jeff, who is Erin?” Sandra asked as Jeff walked through the door. Well anything but that. “How do you know Erin?” Jeff asked. “That does not matter how I know.” said Sandra. “She is an associate I met on my trip to Denver last month.” Jeff said. Sandra removed herself and shut herself in her study. She knew where Jeff was going with the conversation, if she were to accuse him of anything she would have to get proof.

One morning Jeff called Erin back up and said, “What are you doing today?” Erin told him, “This all was so exciting.” “When can I meet with you next?” Jeff said, “how about in one hour only this time, at your office.” I will be there Erin said.

Jeff grabbed his coat and walked toward the door. Sandra came out of the hall way and said, “Who was that, and where are you going?” Jeff told her “I thought you told me you didn’t care what I did as long as I was gone, so here I am leaving.” Jeff walked out of the house and left Sandra fuming. She knew that is what she said, but that is not what she meant. What she was hoping to accomplish by using the hurtful words, was to be a catalyst of change for Jeff, but instead he was shutting her out.

Christmas morning came Sandra’s and Jeff’s bedroom was as cold as the December frost. Sandra and Jeff made their way downstairs. Jeff looked at Sandra and his children and then he felt ill. He wished he could have been a better husband, and a more loyal father. There were gifts under the tree which all belonged to the bank. And Sandra felt a little bit of guilt. Had she not been so hard on Jeff maybe he would have had more success as a business man.

Jeff felt culpable as well, and though it was Christmas morning there was a small piece of him hanging on for a Christmas miracle. Not because of him, but in spite of him. In his quest for peace he still felt he might have ruined anything he had left with Sandra.

After all the gifts were opened Kevin and Kayla left the room to go their separate ways with their new toys.

“You know,” said Sandra, “They were so much cheaper to shop for when they were younger.” “Amen to that,” Jeff said. Jeff sat in the Chair in the living room wanting to come clean with Sandra. He knew it was about time, and it was now or never.

“Sandra,” Jeff said. “There is something I need to tell you, I am not sure how you will react. I wanted the Children to be out of the room so I could tell you.” Sandra stood in the messy living room and braced herself emotionally, and Jeff pulled a brown package out from under the chair he was sitting on, and he handed it to Sandra.

“What is it?” Sandra asked. “It is a year’s worth of unpaid parking tickets.” Jeff said. “Just open it.” Sandra tore the paper and it fell to the floor. Shock came across Sandra’s face. The novel that came out of the package was, “The Gauntlet Request” The cover looked clean and new. It had the author’s name written in bold letters across the top, “SANDRA BROOKS.” What is this? Sandra said in shock.

Jeff said “I will let Erin explain it to you.” Jeff stood up as he dialed a number and handed Sandra the phone and Sandra said, “hello?” “Is this Sandra Brooks?” Erin asked. Sandra was still confused looking at Jeff she said “Ya..yes,” “It is so good to meet you. What you have in your hand is a rough unedited copy of the next best seller. Your husband really believes in you and said I had to look at your book. I am glad I did. This is going to be the best thriller since; well, ever.

Sandra stayed on the phone with Erin for a few more minutes, while Jeff stood next to her trying to listen to the conversation. Sandra then hung up and looked at Jeff speechless. “So are you mad?” Jeff asked. Sandra looked at her husband and she for a moment saw a little boy, vulnerable and thoughtful. “Jeff I am not mad, you gave me a Christmas present that nobody else could have given me. Something I have been searching for, for years; confidence.

“You had no idea how I would react, yet you…” Sandra stopped, tears filled her eyes. Jeff was crying too, Sandra hugged him. “We can love again,” Sandra said. “I would not want another woman in my life,” Jeff said. The two best friends, lovers, and confidants stood in the living room knee deep in wrapping paper hugging. “Merry Christmas my love,” Jeff said. The road ahead was not easy but it was bright, and a place where love could grow.

The cries roused Herman, but his memories kept him awake.

Peaches and Christmas, dreadful day that it was, and a girl dressed in calico and lace.

“Lily, what’s wrong?” Reflected from the snow outside mid-afternoon sun blazed through the window. Herman squinted against it and raised a gnarled hand to his brow to shield his eyes. He’d fallen asleep right in the middle of reading the Farmer’s Almanac. Right in the middle of trying to determine the best days for pruning peach trees next spring.

“Lily? You say somethin’?” He looked across the room to where his wife was taking a nap on her bed. “Where’s John? Nah!” He drew a shaky breath. Cobwebs of sleep still draped his mind. Yes, every fruit farmer knew that a good pruning is the key to a successful harvest.

His son always helped. “John, time to prune.” Herman tried to get up, but his arms lacked the strength and his lower body refused to cooperate.

Disinfectants mingled with bitter medicines and human suffering assailed his nose and all at once the cobwebs dissipated, cotton candy dreams thrust under a stream of water. Herman thumped the armrest of his wheelchair with his hand. Unable to bear the truth he’d turned to the almanac in an attempt to erase the horrors of his life. Impossible. He could no more hope to attend to pruning than he could stand on his own two feet. He was a crippled old man in a nursing home. John was far away. There were no trees anymore.

And it was Christmas Day.

“Ohhh.” The piteous cries that first awakened him pulsed through the hallway.

“Nah!” Herman craned his neck toward the door of the room he shared with Lily.

“Oh. Ohhh. No.”

The moaning unnerved him. “You okay?” He mustered his loudest voice. “Hello?”

Grasping the wheels of his chair, he inched forward. Grab, pull. Grab, pull. “Hello?”

No reply.

Darned nurses. Where were they when you needed them?

At a snail’s pace he moved into the hallway. The hub of the chair grated a scratch into the wall. Grab, pull. Grab, pull. Arthritic fingers gripped rubber and metal. Grab, pull. He shuffled his feet against the floor in an effort to speed himself along.

Christmas wrote itself on every surface. Gaudy wreaths and bows on doors. Trees and lights and popcorn garlands. A bulletin board with glaring red letters: Today is December 25.

Herman moved his head rigidly from side to side. He didn’t need a reminder. A piece of emotional shrapnel, the anguish he associated with Christmas had embedded itself in his soul.

Grab, pull. He kept track of his progress with the tile squares on the floor. There were eighteen squares between he and Lily’s room and the room next door; he knew from visiting Miss Annie, Lily’s girlhood friend. She’d occupied the room until two weeks ago. Herman pulled his lips into a tight grimace. Now she was gone, death had taken her in the night.

Nine squares. Halfway there. He paused. His near-century-old body throbbed with exhaustion.

“Oh. Ohh. Awh.”

Herman’s chest tightened. “Hello?” No answer. Hallway empty. No one in sight.

Grab, pull. Darned old fool. What did he think he could do? Lily couldn’t withstand anyone suffering. She’d expect him to help. But how? Grab, pull. A rivulet of perspiration trickled over the rough terrain of his cheek. He dabbed a crooked forefinger at it. Thoughts of Lily bathed him in bittersweet pain.

He could still remember the moment he first saw her. Harper’s Mercantile. Spring of 1932. He’d stopped to buy flour. With him one step away from the door she walked out, the most breathtaking girl he’d ever seen.

He was twenty. She was seventeen.

Grab, pull. Grab, pull. Memories drove him as the tile squares inched beneath the wheels.

That day Lily wore a calico dress. He’d never forget the color. Azure. Like the soothing waters of some far away ocean. The lace at the neckline, against her milk-white skin, made the spring day turn summer. He nearly dropped to his knees when she looked at him. Those jade- green eyes of hers taking in his work boots and torn overalls—all he could afford at the time— she smiled her approval.

“Now here’s a man who doesn’t mind hard work.” This to the friend accompanying her, Miss Annie.

Three months later they married.

Grab, pull. Five squares left. Grab . . . pull. Images of his bride drifted through him. Lily.

Radiant in her wedding dress. Lily. Damp with sweat on the bed as she proudly presented his son, years later a daughter. Lily. Ever beautiful, dancing with him in the moonlight on their twentieth anniversary, their fiftieth, and then on the unprecedented mark of seventy years together. Surely, they’d teased, eighty was in the bag.

That was before her mind began to go.

Herman’s throat spasmed. Lily now retained scant recollection of their years together.

Most days she didn’t even know who he was.

Herman felt alone and angry. Tears of frustration pricked at his eyes. Gone was the Lily he’d shared his life with—gone was his life. Why hadn’t God been merciful and allowed them to die before it came to this?

At the nurses’ station Christmas carols blared from a radio, the lyrics salt in old wounds.

Grab . . . pull. Miss Annie’s room. Herman bit his lip and reminded himself the room no longer belonged to Lily’s friend. Now another poor soul was imprisoned in it, awaiting the inevitable.

He tapped on the half-open door with his knuckles. “Hello? You . . . okay?”

Head turned to the wall, the figure in the bed issued a feminine whimper that tugged at his heartstrings.

Grab, pull. He moved closer.

“Mr. McClure.” The crack of the nurse’s voice made him jump. “You know Miss Annie’s gone. What are you doing in here?”

“Nah!” Herman growled. “Came to see what was the matter . . .” His voice trailed off then softened. “She was cryin’.”

“Yes,” answered the nurse, “Nell’s had a rough day.”

The name unleashed a rush of sentiment. Herman rubbed at the stubble on his chin.

“What’d you say?”

“I said she’s had a rough day.”

“No. The name. What’s her name?”

“Nell.” The nurse pointed to a tag on the bed. “She’s having a hard time getting used to being here.”

“None of us like it much.” Herman bristled. “Just what happens when you’re old.”

“Ah, but for Nell it’s different.”

The nurse smoothed the woman’s hair, drawing Herman’s attention to something he hadn’t noticed. Instead of white or silvery gray the figure in the bed had hair the color of chestnuts. Young looking.

The nurse took a hold of the handles on the wheelchair. “Almost time for Christmas dinner, Mr. McClure.”

“Christmas. Nah! What’s wrong with her?” Herman bolted the words. “How old?”

The nurse pushed him into the hallway before responding. “Nell has a neuromuscular disorder. She’s lost the use of most of her body. Her family can’t care for her anymore.” She paused in front of the bulletin board. “Today’s her birthday. She’s twenty-three.”

The words pierced Herman’s heart. “Her folks comin’?”

“Probably not.”

“Take me back.”

“Excuse me?”

“Take me back.”

“Mr. McClure, it’s almost time for your medicine . . .”

“Not for another hour. Now I’m askin’ please, or I’ll do it myself.” He groped for the rim of the wheelchair.

She leaned over and cocked her head. “You sure?”

“Course I’m sure. Nobody should be alone . . . today.”

“Alright, but only for awhile and only if it doesn’t upset her.”

The nurse positioned Herman next to the bed. “Nell, you have a visitor. Mr. McClure from next door. He’d like to stay with you for a few minutes. Is that okay?”

Herman made out a nod—ever so slight—in the affirmative.

“I’m going to turn you over so you can see him.”

The eyes of the young woman searched Herman’s face. As the impact of her condition settled on him his chest constricted, stealing his breath. Only a girl she would never have the chance to dance in the moonlight on her anniversary, give birth to her children, or walk in the soft dirt of a peach orchard hand in hand with the one she loved. And, by the looks of the feeding tube attached to her nose, she would have no Christmas dinner.

Embarrassed by his own selfishness he couldn’t meet her gaze. He let his head drop. His mind raced trying to think of what to do, what to say.

And there was something more.

Long-ago lodged in his soul that emotional shrapnel, festering for decades, tore into his senses. He fought back tears. Then, thinking of how Lily would face the situation, he rallied courage and spoke.

“I had a daughter once.” He stuck out his chin in determination, “Her name was Nell, too. Nellie Hazel. It’d been a terrible winter. She had the croup. Couldn’t lick it. She died on this day back in 1944, just seven-years-old. I haven’t celebrated a Christmas since.”

Overcome, he let his tears brim and spill down his face. Tears for his Nell, who never lived out her childhood. Tears for Miss Annie, whose passing he’d not yet mourned. Tears for Lily, losing herself to dementia. And, tears for this Nell who, so young, bore burdens he couldn’t even comprehend. Why? Why did life have to be so hard? Why was there so much pain, suffering, and sorrow?

Herman looked up through his tears into Nell’s eyes.

She blinked twice, slow and deliberate, as though to communicate she understood his grief.

He reached out and placed his hand on hers. “Happy birthday, girl. I’ll be comin’ round to visit, that is if you can put up with a cantankerous old man like me.” He forced a smile.

Nell’s eyes smiled back.

From behind him came the sound of shuffling. His wife appeared at his side.

“Nell!” Lily clasped her hands in front of herself like a joyful child. Moving to the side of the bed she began to sing, “Away in a manger no crib for His bed the little Lord Jesus laid down His sweet head. The stars in the heavens looked down where He lay . . .”

Herman couldn’t be certain how Lily knew Nell’s name. Did she see it on the tag? Or had her mind convinced her this was the child she lost so many years ago?

It didn’t matter.

The fan on the nightstand billowed the hairs on the top of his head, a three-quarter halo of white. Lily sang, radiant. Nell’s eyes smiled with increasing light. Herman looked from one woman to the other. Could it be that suffering was the catalyst to bring about the best in folks? If so, it would appear God knew the same thing fruit farmers knew: a good pruning is the key to a successful harvest.

“ . . . Be near me, Lord Jesus, I ask Thee to stay close by me forever and love me I pray.”

Warmth wrapped Herman, a quilt of serenity. He knew it wasn’t a coincidence that brought Nell into their lives on this particular day.

“Bless all the dear children in Thy tender care and take us to heaven to live with Thee there.”

He closed his eyes. The words of the song reminded him of the soothing waters of some far away ocean—azure—the color Lily wore that first day when she’d been dressed in calico and lace.

Erica looked at her mother’s red eyes. Tears flooded her own eyes as her mother explained their Christmas would be different because her father had been out of work for awhile. They needed to keep food on the table for Erica and her little brother, Michael. There would not be any gifts this year.

Later, after Erica and Michael had been put to bed, their mother, Angie, worked feverishly crafting special gifts for her children. She did not want them to do without. For children this was a special time of the year and she knew at six and four years old they couldn’t comprehend the meaning of their father not working.

“I see you’re at it again,” John said to his wife. After another unsuccessful day his spirits were down. “How do you do it?”

“If you had seen the look in Erica’s eyes you would know,” Angie replied to her husband. “She doesn’t understand. I know she’ll be devastated if there isn’t a gift under the tree.”

“With all our problems and adversity you find time to think about what is most important,” John said, continuing to marvel at his wife’s commitment. “It’s no wonder I love you so much.”

“I need to keep working. Tomorrow night is Christmas Eve. Dinner is in the fridge. You’ll have to warm it up.” Angie returned her attention to the homemade gifts.

Dawn of the next morning brought a chill wind. Blowing across the already frozen ground covered in white, it tossed around the little sparkles of crystallized flakes. Erica and Michael scurried into the kitchen for breakfast. A small bowl of warm cereal awaited them. Powdered milk and a spoon full of honey to sweeten were poured on top.

Erica looked at the cereal and wanted to complain. Her mother had given her and her brother the same thing every morning for the past week. Michael wasn’t bothered by the repetition, he was hungry. Erica began eating, thankful there was something.

It was a special day, the day before Christmas. There was loads of activity as people finished preparations for Christmas day. Shoppers bought last minute items, knitters finished their knitting, and sewers finished their sewing. And Angie worked hard to finish her homemade gifts.

Bundled up, the children played in the yard giving their mother the needed extra time to work on their gifts. Because John was out of work, they could not afford to buy gifts for their children. One homemade gift under a small tree from the woods behind their house was all they would see in the morning. Even the day before Christmas there was nothing under the sparely decorated tree.

As Erica and Michael played, their mother worked. The children played so well together. Erica loved her little brother and doted over him. She thought she was his guardian. Angie watched her daughter and smiled. At such a young age she saw the signs of a caring person. Her heart was warmed by the actions of her daughter. She watched and remembered that Christmas was about more than receiving gifts. It was about family and love and being together. It was about loving one another and loving Jesus, whose birthday they would be celebrating. She thought about her emotions in the morning when they listened to the story of Jesus’ birth. But, she also knew children needed a gift under the tree.

“I’m hungry, mommy,” Erica said, startling her mother. “What are you doing?”

Angie looked up at her daughter and then at the wall clock. She had gotten so involved in finishing her children gifts that she had lost track of time. It was three in the afternoon and she hadn’t fed her children any lunch. Ashamed, she put her work down in the basket beside her feet and rose from her chair. “I am so sorry, sweetheart. I will get something for you and Michael right now.”

She handed her children a slice of bread with a thin spread of jam on top moments later. Erica took note it was the same as the past few days, but she did not complain. Instead, she looked at her mother and asked, “Are we going to have Christmas this year? It is okay if we don’t, mommy. We can wait until next year. Maybe daddy will be working.”

“We will have Christmas, I promise. It will just be a little different.”

“What do you mean, mommy?

“I can’t explain it, sweetheart, but you will be happy. I will make sure of that.”

Angie noticed the rosy redness on her children’s cheeks when they’d come in and decided they needed to stay inside. She scooted them off to their room and she returned to her work. If the gifts were to get done, she would have to work into the late night. She looked down at the two baskets and the creations taking on the form of a finished product. It began to look as if her children would have a gift under the tree in the morning. She hoped they would like what she had worked so hard to make for them.

Unbeknownst to Angie, her husband also worked hard into the night of Christmas Eve. His project had special meaning, but it was not directed toward the children. He loved his son and daughter, but knew instinctively their mother was much better equipped to satisfy their needs and make them happy. What he worked on was for her and he wanted to finish so he could give it to her early. His fingers were sore from twisting and molding wire into a special gift for his wife. Angie had been so wonderful to him, never complaining about the hardships she lived with and always being there for the children, knowing exactly what to say to them and do for them to keep them happy. He marveled at the women he’d married and loved her so much. He hoped she would like what he was making for her. It was nothing much, but it was personal and came from the heart.

He worked in his shed, glancing toward their bedroom window. He saw his wife rocking in the chair given to them by his grandfather several years before. She worked to complete the gifts for their children by candlelight so they would find something under the tree in the morning. John looked at the homemade gift he continued to craft for his wife. She would expect him to come in soon so he needed to work faster. He wanted to present it to her before they went to bed. She deserved to be first. It was meant to be a piece of jewelry. John hoped Angie would see it as something pretty and not a bunch of wires strewn together.

Erica and Michael rushed into their mother’s room. “What do you want, momma?” Erica asked.

“It is time for you and Michael to hurry off to bed or Santa won’t come to visit,” Angie said.

The embrace from her daughter brought a smile to her face. “But you said we wouldn’t get any gifts this year because daddy wasn’t working.”

“I know I said that, but then I remembered Santa and Santa’s job is making little children happy, isn’t it?” Angie asked.

“I guess so,” Erica said.

“I want Santa to come tonight,” Michael said to his mother, his small cheeks flushing red, “because I want to be happy in the morning for Christmas.”

“I want you to be happy, too,” Angie said, smiling and brushing the top of her son’s head. “I will put in a special request just for you.”

“Mommy, when I say my prayers tonight I will make a special request, too.”

“Me, too,” Erica echoed her brother.

“I think that is a wonderful idea,” Angie said to her children. “Now hurry off and get your pajamas on and don’t forget to brush your teeth and wash your face and hands. I will come up in a few minutes to help you say your special prayers.”

Without another word, Erica and Michael ran out of their mother’s room. She listened to the bustle of her children preparing for bed on this special evening pulling the basket behind her chair. She would need a couple more hours to finish making the gifts Erica and Michael would find under the tree in the morning from Santa.

When it became quiet she left her room and walked to the small room her daughter and son shared. It would not be long before the two would need to be separated, she mused. Erica would soon be a young lady and Michael a young man. But, for now, at six and four years old, both she and John felt the sleeping arrangement was appropriate. And the children felt the security of being together, which they needed at a young age.

After she had helped both of her children with their prayers and stayed with them as they dosed off, Angie stepped quietly out of their room and returned to her own. She glanced at the wall clock as she passed it. Only three hours to midnight. Three more hours to Christmas, the day she loved more than any other.

Nearly three hours later, just a few minutes before midnight, she heard John come in. She worried and had almost gone to check on him, because he usually came in when the children were going to bed. He liked to say good night and tuck them in. But tonight he hadn’t. After rummaging around the kitchen for several minutes, presumably finding a late night snack, which was true to his character, he walked into their bedroom.

John set the saucer, covered with apple slices, down on the chest-of-drawers and kissed his wife. “You’re still at it, I see,” he said.

“I’m almost finished,” Angie responded. “Just a few more stitches. Erica and Michael will have a gift under the tree when they wake up in the morning.”

“Wonderful,” John said, reaching around to rub his wife’s shoulders.

After a short silence, Angie turned around and saw the tender look of love in her husband’s eyes. She stopped crocheting and met her husband’s gaze. “What is wrong, dear? You look sad.”

John pulled his wife into a tight embrace. He didn’t want to let her go. Angie was everything he’d ever dreamed of and he often felt he didn’t deserve her. And yet, he loved her very much and knew he couldn’t be without her.

“Please put your beautiful creations down for a minute,” he said. “The children are not the only members of this family who deserve a gift. Mother deserves a gift, too. I made something for you.”

He reached into his pocket before his wife could respond. “Please close your eyes,” he said. John then reached around his wife and clasped the homemade necklace with locket at the nape of her neck.

Angie opened her eyes at his request. She looked at her husband’s gift and began to cry. It was made from fencing wire that he’d taken the barbs out of. The clasp was his creation and the locket touched her chest just below her Adam’s apple. “It is beautiful,” she cried, hugging her husband. “I love it.”

“Open it up. There’s something inside.”

Angie found the release pin and opened the locket. Inside John had placed a picture of Erica and Michael. She looked at the small picture for several moments and then closed the locket back up. She didn’t say another word, but returned to the gifts she had nearly completed for Erica and Michael. She soon finished and placed the homemade gifts under the Christmas tree.

She looked at her husband, sleeping soundly. She kissed him on his cheek, lingering for a moment. She opened the locket once more. At the midnight hour, just as Christmas began, he gave her a special gift and a memory she would never forget.

Jake lifted the piano key and slammed it down. A tiny distorted noise echoed from the piano. He dropped his forehead on the keys with a loud thud. “I hate this piano.”

“I thought it sounded great,” his mother said.

“It’s hard to recognize Jingle Bells on this piano. You’ve never heard me play at Le Chic. Last night I played O Holy Night and made one lady cry.”

“I can’t afford to eat at your work,” she reminded him as she draped a popcorn garland over a pathetic little tree.

The women at Le Chic wore tight dresses in shades of red, green, and black. Jake looked over at his mother dressed in old sweats and a worn sweater. She would never fit in with the bright lights and beauty of Le Chic.

Jake stood and pulled a faded felt strip over the piano keys. The last thing the old beast needed was dust in the keys. “I’m going for a walk.”

“Don’t be too late. My sister and her kids are coming over for dinner.”

Jake lifted the door as he pulled it closed so the latch would shut all the way. He regretted going outside the moment he saw the row of plastic Christmas ornaments decorating the houses that surrounded his. It was like Christmas just upchucked everywhere except his house. Christmas vomit was too expensive.

It was warm, for Christmas Eve. Most of the snow from last week’s storm had melted and the roads were clear. He got on his motorcycle and headed for the mountains. They would be free of Christmas decorations.

A strange melody wrapped in the roar of his engine began to play in his head. He listened to it for a while and tried to identify the tune, but soon gave up. He pulled to the side of the road and cut the engine, expecting the melody to fade, but it grew stronger.

A cold wind caressed his face and pushed him toward a fallen tree. He shoved the branches to the side and found a trail winding its way up the mountain. He hid his bike behind some branches and forced his way past the tree to the trail. The trail widened as he distanced himself from the freeway. As he walked, the melody grew louder and he could make out the distinct tone of a piano.

The trail opened into a small meadow sheltered by snow-covered trees. Jake pushed a low tree branch out of the way and stepped off the path. There, in the center of the meadow, sat a glistening black grand piano. Who would put a valuable piano like that outside in weather like this?

“Hello? Your piano is going to be ruined.” How did someone haul it here in the first place?

Wind rustled the evergreen trees and a light dusting of snow blew around the meadow. The melody in his head grew insistent. He had to play that piano. It was a need as unrelenting as hunger.

The snow around the piano showed no footprints. He looked at the rich dark color of the piano and played middle C. The note rang out, clean and pure, unlike the piece of junk piano he had at home. He slid onto the piano bench and ran his fingers over the rest of the keys. They were warm and inviting. The song flowed from his head and into his fingers. Jake let it take over.

As he played a light appeared behind him and reflected on the shiny black piano. At first it bobbed up and down to the beat and then it started to sway. The light grew as the music swelled and took on a human shape, legs splitting from the bottom half, arms extended from the middle and a head formed on the top. Then it danced.

The light leapt and twirled with the music its form solidifying as he danced. His hair spiraled around his head as he floated around the frozen meadow. His face was young and handsome except for the eyes. His eyes were nothing but black voids.

Jake saw him as he danced around the piano but he couldn’t stop playing. The music had him. He couldn’t tear his hands away from the haunting melody and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to. It was too beautiful to stop.

The ghost floated over the piano and stopped, his face inches from Jake’s. Jake’s fingers froze. His heart pounded as he stared into the face.

“What are you?” Jake meant to ask, but his voice didn’t work. He looked around and found himself staring at his own body, still playing the piano. The strange spirit was gone. But why was he looking at himself? What was happening?

Jake’s body stopped playing the piano. It stood and looked around. “Don’t bother complaining. I can’t see or hear you.” He stretched. “Man that feels good.” He paused for a moment. Jake tried to get back to his body but he didn’t know how to move.

The imposter stood and Jake felt a pull as his body started down the trail. “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” He asked as if Jake could reply. He smiled. “I can’t remember the last time I got to smile.” His chest expanded as he took a deep breath. “Or smelled the snow. Snow does have a smell, but you don’t realize it until you haven’t smelled it for a while.” Water dripped on his head from an overloaded branch and he laughed.

Jake couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed. It was a nice sound. He wondered why he never did it.

“Wow,” the imposter said when they arrived at the spot where Jake’s motorcycle was hidden. “I’ve heard these thing roar down the road but I never imagined I’d get to ride one.”

If Jake had been connected with his heart, he was sure it would be pounding. This jerk was going to destroy his bike! It was the only thing he had. But he was powerless to stop the imposter from lifting his bike and climbing on the seat. Jake drifted behind the motorcycle like a kite tied to the handlebars.

“So this is what you call Christmas vomit,” the imposter said.

Jake struggled to concentrate. How did they get home so fast?

“That’s funny. It is a strange thing—and very large. But look.”

Jake’s attention was forced on a giant blowup Santa. His neighbor’s kid played in the snow at its feet, making a snowman. The kid looked up at the Santa and smiled. “You’ll tell the real Santa that I’ve been good, right? I even built him a snowman.”

“Jake, you’re home.”

Jake forced his attention to his own house. His mother stood in the doorway wearing an old stained apron over her faded best dress.

“Merry Christmas, Mom,” the imposter said. He swept her into his arms and wrapped her into a hug.

Jake waited for his mom to notice something was wrong, that the guy wearing his body wasn’t him, but instead she smiled. “I don’t think you’ve hugged me like that since you were ten.”

“The mountain air cleared my head,” the imposter said. “And I realized what a jerk I’ve been. So I hurried back to see if you needed any help.”

Her smile lit her face like a Christmas tree and Jake realized that she was beautiful—just as beautiful as the wealthy women he played for at Le Chic.

Images blurred past him. Sounds of laughter boomed around and a warm feeling enveloped the evening. Jake found himself watching his body wave goodbye to his cousins and aunt. He couldn’t remember anything that happened that evening but the feeling in the air was almost tangible. He longed for his hands so he could reach out and touch it.

Anger stirred him. That imposter made him miss the entire Christmas Eve celebration. Then he remembered that he’d planned to spend the evening moping in his room.

“I’m so tired,” Jake’s mom said around a yawn. “Thanks for all your help tonight.” Her face glowed with tired happiness as she hugged the imposter.

Jake longed to feel his mother’s love. He tried to move to his body but once again he was powerless.

“I can feel you fighting me,” the imposter said after his mother had gone to bed. “I don’t understand why you want your life back. You hated it. You are poor and you can barely afford to eat. Your piano won’t even play Middle C. You could go back to the meadow and take the next body that comes along. You will be happier.”

No, he wouldn’t be happier. He wanted his life back. He loved his mother and the silly popcorn she’d draped over the tree. The piano wasn’t so bad. His mother had saved for years to buy it. It reminded him of her. He longed to feel the worn keys under his fingers.

It was such a familiar feeling it took a moment before he realized that he was sitting at his piano playing the same haunting song that started the whole mess. He yanked his fingers from the keys. A door opened at the top of the stairs and he saw his mother in her white night gown looking down on him like an angel.

“Where did you learn that song?” she asked.

Jake stared at his hands, still unsure if he was really attached to them. “I…umm…”

“It sound like the song your father wrote before you were born. It was supposed to be your first Christmas present, but he died before he could play it for you.” She smiled, her eyes staring at something far away. “You reminded me so much of him tonight. I’m so glad you found that song.”

Jake felt a chill creep up his spine. “I’m glad too, Mom. Merry Christmas.”

It was the night before Christmas and all through my house, it was nothing but noise, glitter, and gaiety. If you had stood outside my small two story home you would have thought we had a full house while in actuality it was just the six of us, well eight if you included the dogs. Our small house on Nightengale Drive was lit up from top to bottom as my siblings raced from room to room playing hide and seek, one boxer and one shiatsu hot on their heels. Mom sat on the couch her blonde hair pulled back and laughing as I began to entertain her by lip synching Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas.” The Christmas tree sat quietly out of harm’s way in one corner of our living room decorated with multi-colored lights, tinsel, and mismatched ornaments. I loved our ornaments and no two were the same. Some had been broken in our many moves, some were homemade and one of a kind, and some we found in our big blue totes where we kept our Christmas decorations. The top of the tree was bare however, our star having been broken the year before and the current tree topper lost somewhere amidst the chaos that was Christmas. A few presents lay on the blue and snowflake pattern tree skirt while the rest of them would magically appear after Erin and Sean, the youngest of our family, went to bed.

Our living room was small as Patrick proved by measuring the distance from the far wall to the kitchen in ten steps. There was a couch, a love seat, a black leather ottoman torn by the dogs claws, and one giant green chair. They sat in a semi circle around the blazing hearth while six stockings sporting everything from polar bears to penguins hanging from the mantle. The flat screen rested on the mantle top next to two family photos that had been my gift to my mother a few years before on Mother’s Day, and a wooden plaque that read “And they lived happily ever after.” The song changed and I took a seat on the hearth in front of the fire, rolling up my flannel bottoms as I laughed at Mom who was near tears from all the laughter. It wasn’t just me now, my dad was playing the harmonica, the single most annoying instrument in the history of instruments, and causing the dogs Riley and Roosey to howl. It was the same whenever I played the violin, and we weren’t sure if they were singing along, or crying from the grating sound in their ears. Still it never failed to make mom laugh.

Seany-bear, the youngest of my siblings, was doing his best to tip toe from the hall that led to the stairs and into the kitchen without letting his giggles give him away while he hunted for Erin and Patrick.

“Bear! Tst!” I called over to him from my perch on the hearth, feeling particularly mischievous.

He looked over at me with his large brown hound dog eyes and cocked his head to the side in that familiar pose I knew as well as my own face. I grinned as I pointed to the dryer and he broke out in a toothy grin and he padded over to the dryer and opened it.

“Found you.” He said smugly as he danced out of range of the large hand that shot out of the dryer.

Two long legs unfolded themselves from their hiding place, followed by a skinny body and an slightly annoyed face. Blue eyes shot me an accusing look as a frown took hold of his mouth.

“It doesn’t count, Taeg told you where I was.” Patrick said, his voice a deep growl.

“Nuh-uh!”

“Yeah-huh.”

“Hey Flotsom, Jetsum, cool your jets.” I said to them with a smile. “Ahnin’ come on out babe, Pat lost.”

A pale pixie of a girl with a dark brown bob and impish gray-blue eyes crept down from her hiding place on the counter behind the fridge and smirked triumphantly at her brothers. Patrick scoffed and rolled his eyes while Sean gave her a play by play of his win. Except for the color of their eyes and the difference in their skin tones, Erin and Sean could pass for twins given the closeness in age. They were exactly one year, one month, and one day apart, and to be honest I think they rather enjoyed it

Patrick walked into the living room and flopped down on the couch with Mom, talking away about the things he hoped he would get for Christmas and the elaborate dinner we would have the night after.

“Erin and Sean why don’t you come sit down so we can read now?” My Dad called. Though they mumbled they did as they were bid and situated themselves as Dad pulled a blue book from his backpack. They were the scriptures, four books bound into one for our convenience. Dad opened up to Luke and waited for everyone to settle completely before he began reading about a King born a long time ago in Bethlehem. Erin cuddled behind dad’s legs, Sean sprawled out on the floor half under the ottoman with the dogs, while Pat snuggled down under a Christmas blanket with Mom. I watched the events as they unfolded from my seat on the hearth, listening to the words my Dad read. There was something about the way Dad talked, the way he told and recited stories that never failed to entrance us kids. So he read, about the Savior born of a virgin in the city of David, the story behind the holiday we were currently celebrating and as always we listened and even recited passages along with him. When it was over, Erin said our family prayer, and with kisses and hugs Erin and Sean were sent to bed.

A short time later Patrick and I sat in one room with our siblings gifts, wrapping them rather badly, but as best as we could manage with the odd shaped parcels as our parents sat in the other room whispering and wrapping ours. When we were sure they weren’t paying attention to us, we grabbed our own gifts to the family and placed them beneath the tree, giggling at our own craftiness. As we finished wrapping gifts, Patrick sang “Rudolph” to us in a falsetto voice, incorporating random accents into the mix as well. I joined in until I fell over laughing, my sides hurting as I gasped for air. By midnight the last preparations for Christmas morning were done and the rest of the Hutchinson clan turned in for the night.

It was when I was lying there in my bed thinking of the torn paper that would surely come tomorrow and the squeals and smiles of delight that I had an epiphany of sorts. While the gifts and decorations of Christmas were certainly nice, the reason I loved it so was because of the time I spent with my family just being stupid and silly. It was a time for staying up late and watching movies or playing board games and sometimes doing nothing at all. It was a time for unspoken traditions like watching old music videos that were popular when my Mom and Dad were high school, and lazing around by the fire at least one day of each week in December. It was these things that made Christmas in the Hutchinson clan, and we rather liked it that way. So rolling over I shut my eyes and let myself drift asleep to the soundtrack of tinsel, snow, and the Little Drummer Boy, waiting for the break of dawn that would bring about Christmas day.

“You find me wicked, don’t you?” Ava jutted her fingers outright, exhibiting her newly acquired diamond. Her ring finger buckled slightly under the bulbous rock’s weight—the thing must have weighed nine pounds.

“Cider?” I asked, looking away, then grasped the Styrofoam cup before me.

“A diversion!” She laughed, flashing those florescent teeth, her grin matching the cheer of her family’s Christmas party. “ Logan , why can’t you seem to care?”

Because you’re supposed to marry me?

But I laughed, indifferent. “It’s better than the cocoa.” And then I squeezed the thermos button, steaming liquid engulfing the flimsy cup.

“We haven’t chosen a date yet,” she took the cup from my hands, brought the warm liquid to her lips. They parted. Just a slit. The precise crack I needed to tell her how I felt.

“Told your parents?” The careless words fell from my lips. I must tell her. But to remove the façade…

“Richie’s speaking with Daddy right now.”

I traced her nose, the smoothness of her cheeks. The scar peeking under her left eyebrow—evidence of her love for that brutal game, hockey. Three years ago. Her choker had unclasped, whiplashed into her face. She had meant to buy another.

And so I had.

At last.

The most intimate Christmas gift I had ever purchased.

“Well, aren’t you going to go on about how I only love him for his money?”

I considered it. But I couldn’t toss the ring from my mind. Such a comparison—my necklace, resting patiently in my shirt pocket: fragile, cheap. Absurdly pubescent.

And his?

Enormous, impenetrable. Timeless. Horrific.

“Logan! Talk to me! Rave about ‘no-neck!’”

Her reference forced me to smile. He was rich, and built like the hulk. I had once spray-painted my entire body green, stalked into her dorm room, pretended to clean out my ears with five dollar bills. But I maximized his one flaw as often as I could—his chiseled form lacked the completion of a neck. I’d dropped my chin to my chest, mimicking his look. She’d cried, laughing. Laughing so hard.

But she was asking me to tease her? Something wasn’t quite right.

Arms folded, the enormous gem protruded behind her elbow. She twisted it around, agitated, the workings of a nervous thumb.

“Ava, what’s wrong?” I couldn’t tease when she was like this. Maybe she knew how I felt. Understood the wrong of her recent engagement.

Her eyes darted around, seeming to plead for the guests to leave.

Franz and Lola, quasi-friends of Ava’s, appeared to know nothing of our exchange. Lola was inching backward toward the mistle toe. Franz was as eager as she.

Ava’s Aunt Tory was completing her latest cross-word puzzle. Only the pen she tapped against her face in contemplation was leaking, a splotch of ink messing her cheek.

The other guests were in the front of the home, by the piano, singing carols.

No one knew our conversation. It was safe to begin.

“Ava, there’s something I need to–”

“I’m pregnant,” she cut in, her softened voice most pronounced.

A conduit from the ceiling had opened. Vinegar poured inside my lungs. I tried to smell it, make sense of it, but the fluid was drowning me inside.

Taking a deep breath, I forced the fluid out. “Your dad… Richie’s telling him now?” I hated him. He touched her? I hated him. She’d wanted to wait.

“I love him, Logan,” she whispered softly. “I love him and Daddy’s going to kill him. I love him. And Daddy will always hate him.”

The both of us, I tightened my fist. But calm was my practiced skill. “Your dad will get past that,” I offered, but then realized her fear. Confused, I added, “He, of all people, will be willing to forgive.”

“You’re wrong,” I could barely hear her words, had to read her perfect lips. “He doesn’t forgive. That’s why you don’t see Paul.”

Her brother. The one who left her faith.

To abandon his own son?

“So you’re only marrying him because—” Perhaps I still stood a chance.

She shook her head miserably. “No, I couldn’t love him more, Logan . He’s everything to me. But Daddy—he’ll cut us off.”

My gift, that abject token, slithered into a sharpened blade. The snakelike necklace writhed in my pocket, lacerating my useless, wretched hope.

“Ah,” I frowned, successfully minimizing the pain.

That fear she felt. I had seen reason for it only once. I’d golfed with her father—volunteered to be his caddy. Only, when we were late and her mother complained, her father punished the complaint, verbally attacked Ava’s poor mother. I’d wished I hadn’t been present.

But that authoritative man suddenly strode into the room. Blackened eyes purposeful, he pulled Richie forward.

“Let us see this magnificent rock!”

I’d forgotten her father was a jeweler.

“I’ve seen it, to be sure,” he winked at me, “but to see it on Ava’s hand is quite another matter!”

Ava’s arms were still folded, but quickly melted to meet her father’s advance. Her hand shook, it trembled. I’d never seen her so scared.

“Flawless,” her father beamed, lifting her gem-clad hand into the light. “And nearly one point five carrots,” he whistled. “It’s nice to know my daughter will be taken care of.” He laughed, jubilant, then noticed his daughter’s silence.

“Ava?” he asked, then saw her face.

“You…” her lip trembled, “You didn’t tell him?” Her eyes pled with her fiance’s.

He apologized with a smirk.

“Tell me what, darling?” Her father’s hand clutched hers, his eyes searched her desperate face. “It’s quite all right that you want to marry so soon.”

“But he didn’t tell you why!” she cried. She pulled her hand away. Determined to face this alone.

But I couldn’t allow it; and she had made her choice. She would truly marry the louse. I now had but one purpose.

Smiling broadly, I grasped Richie’s shoulder. “Thanks for savin’ my bacon, pal!” I squeezed it three times. “Ava knows I had no intention of marrying. Give the little tike my name! I pray he doesn’t get my nose.”

I faced Ava’s Richie, only to watch her father’s reaction. He stiffened, clenched his fist. This would hurt.

“What did you do to my daughter?” He snatched my shoulder, pulled it toward him, pummeled his knuckles into my jaw.

I sailed to the floor. Face down. It burned.

“Merry Christmas, Ava,” I was going to say while handing her the necklace, exposing my regard. “Only don’t be a fool and wear it on the ice. I simply won’t stand here and watch you get hurt.”

Leila was dying, and she knew it, and death tasted bitter in her throat. She’d really blown it big this time, and now there was no way out. I’m a failure, just like everyone said I would be. Leila shut the blinds in her tiny one room apartment to keep out the lights and general good will of the world around her, the cheer of the stupid holiday she would probably never celebrate again. Some neighbor’s Christmas music floated through the walls, and the memories sprang unbidden into Leila’s mind.

She could see herself as a little girl again, happy and hopeful. Before everything started to go wrong. She’d always set up the little Nativity scene near the Christmas tree. She pictured the shepherds and the wise men gathered around Mary and Joseph and Baby Jesus, offering the Christ child their gifts. All shining softly in the glow from the tree and surrounded by the scent of pine.

Now it was gone, all of it. She couldn’t go back to the past and she had no future to speak of. Now there was no way out.

* * *

The carpenter sits in his solitary cottage deep in some forgotten forest, and picks up a shapeless piece of wood to begin carving another figure. What this one will become, he doesn’t yet know. He just works as his hands direct him, lovingly and with great care.

* * *

Something about remembering Christmas got Leila to thinking that maybe she should try to set things right before it was too late. She hadn’t a phone in her apartment, so now she shivered in the cold at a pay phone on a corner. Trembling, she dialed the phone number that she had never forgotten though she hadn’t dialed it in years. Almost, she hung it up when it started ringing, but she stayed on the line.

“Hello?”

Leila hesitated for the briefest moment. “Mom?”

Silence on the other end. Cold, deep silence. Then at last a single word. “Leila.” Her mother’s voice was icy, and Leila could picture her standing at the phone in the gleaming white kitchen with her lips pinched together in disapproval. Just the look that Leila tried to escape when she ran away all those years ago.

“Mom . . .” Her voice caught, and she coughed for a time before she could speak again. Still her mother kept her silence. “I had to call, mom. I’m . . . I wanted to set things right with you. You see, I’m dying. I have AIDS.”

“AIDS,” her mother said at last. Her words were crisp and clipped. “Good lord, Leila, I always knew it would come to this. You think that you can just desert your family and run wild, and have all the ‘fun’ you like, and then when it’s time to pay for your mistakes, you crawl back to us and expect us to take care of everything. Well it doesn’t work that way, Leila. You dug your own grave, now you lie in it.”

Leila sat silent through the tirade, then quietly said, “I’m sorry,” and hung up. A burning anger flared up in her when she put down the phone. How dare she say those hateful things?

But the anger left as quickly as it had come, as though Leila just didn’t have the strength in her body to sustain it. Her mother was right, anyway. It was all her own fault. She had left them. There was no reason why they should accept her now. And she resigned herself to the fact that she was alone in the world. A failure and a disgrace.

* * *

Surrounded by years and years of shavings and the sweet smell of soft pine, the carpenter moves his carving knife skillfully and gracefully across the wood. The figure is beginning to take shape now. The carpenter smiles. It will be another fine work.

* * *
Leila wanted to just curl up on her bed and never get up again, but something kept tugging at her heart, urging her out of her isolation. She couldn’t stop thinking of Christmas. In all her years away from home, Leila had forced Christmas from her mind. The memories of happier times were too painful. But now that she was certain that she was seeing her last holiday, Leila couldn’t keep Christmas out of her mind.

She found herself aimlessly wandering around the streets, staring at the lights and decorations, watching the busy shoppers move like a sea around her. She felt like she was searching for something, but she didn’t know what. And whatever it was, she couldn’t find it.

The disease that ravaged her body left her too weak for walk for long, so she simply sat on a park bench and thought. That was the hardest part, thinking. Thinking about all she would miss out on when she died. Thinking about how she would never see her family again, and worst of all, how she would never have a family of her own. She was surprised to find that there was no more room in her heart for bitterness or anger. Only regret and despair.

A light snow began to fall and Leila knew she should go home, but she couldn’t seem to remember how to get there, and she couldn’t make herself care. As the snow fell harder, her mind became more and more muddled. All her thoughts slipped away before she could grasp them, and tears welled up in her eyes. Not much time left now. Not much time at all.

It surprised her when, through the haze of her thoughts, a little girl stepped up to the bench, and held out a candy cane. Leila took the offered gift and looked questioningly at the little girl with a face like an angel. “Merry Christmas,” she whispered then scampered shyly off to grasp her mother’s hand. As they left, the little angel turned and waved to Leila. Then they disappeared into the crowd.

Leila stared numbly at the candy cane in her hand. Why would she do that? What was a skinny, sickly looking stranger to a little angel girl, that she would want to wish her a Merry Christmas? She scanned the park to see if she could see the little girl again and thank her, but she couldn’t see her anymore.

Instead, her eyes were drawn to a billboard depicting the holy family, all bathed in a soft light. The baby Jesus smiled and reached for his mother, Mary. “Jesus is the Reason for the Season,” the billboard proclaimed. Leila stared at it for a long while, and found her thoughts getting muddled again. Her vision blurred until all she could see was the shining face of the Christ Child.

And suddenly she was a young child again, sitting in the warmth of her living room, looking at the Nativity scene while her father told her the story of the first Christmas; of the angels and the shepherds and the wise men and the star, and why they had all come to worship the little baby Jesus. The memory hit her right in the heart.

“Oh, God,” Leila gasped. “God, please forgive me. Please help.” Then she wept as the cold, numbing snow continued to fall around her.

* * *

The figure is finished now, and the carpenter is pleased. It is a shepherd this time, another humble shepherd. The shepherd is a woman, her face thin and sad. She kneels to worship the Christ Child, and in her hands she holds her gift for Him. Her broken heart.

The carpenter gently sets the shepherd down in his carefully carved Nativity scene to join the countless other worshipers, some shepherds and some kings, who all kneel before the baby Jesus and offer Him their hearts.

“And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.”

Grandpa closed his worn Bible. “And that’s why we celebrate Christmas,” he said, smiling down at the children at his feet, and their parents, who had gathered behind them.

“Tell us the other Christmas story, Grandpa!” said young David.

Grandpa stroked his mustache. “Now, what story would that be?”

“You know, Grandpa! The story about the crash! And I’m in it!” Peter said, nearly bursting with excitement.

“Oh, that story,” Grandpa said. “Let me see if I can remember. Because it happened a long time ago, you see . . . ah, yes, I’m beginning to recall . . . But it’s a very ordinary type of story, about ordinary people.”

“No it’s not!” the children protested. “It’s our family’s very own story!”

“All right, then.” Grandpa smiled and the children settled on the rug again.

It all began on the day before Christmas, in a terrible blizzard. The snow came down like millions of feathers from millions of pillows, and the wind was so strong, it felt even colder [than what?]. The roads were icy and slick and drivers couldn’t see where they were going.

And driving through this blizzard was a little family, a long way from home: a mother, a father and a baby, The father saw the flashing red and blue lights of a police car ahead, so he slowed down and pulled over to the side of the road. And then—

“Bang! Crash! Smash!” the children said. “They had a smash-up,” added Annie.

“Yes, indeed, they did. There were two cars behind them, going too fast. Both hit the family’s car and spun it around.”

“It was all squished,” said Peter.

But [I don’t like starting paragraphs with But, but even if I let that slide, you’ve got two in a row. Lose this one.] The mother and father and baby were all right. So were the other drivers.

But because their back window was broken, the snowstorm came whooshing in, right inside the family’s car. Even with their coats on, they were very, very cold.

Just then a man knocked on their door. “I saw the accident happen,” he told them. “I’ve called for help. Come and wait in my car. You can get warm. By the way, my name is David.”

So they all got in David’s car, where it was warm and cozy. It wasn’t very long before a Highway Patrolman came by. He said the family needed to be checked by a doctor.

An ambulance came. It was big and it had red and blue and white lights on it, almost like Christmas lights, and the siren was wailing. The family got in and David followed them to the hospital. The doctors found that the mother had a bruise on her face and a sore neck. The father’s knee hurt but nothing was broken. And the baby didn’t have a mark on her. So the doctors said the family could go home. They gave them blankets to wrap over their coats, because it was so cold.

“But they couldn’t drive their car because it was all squished,” said Matthew. “And they had nowhere to stay.”

“That’s right. So David invited them to come home with him.”

“Even though it was Christmas Eve?” Luke asked.

“Especially because it was Christmas Eve.”

The snow and the wind had settled down some, and David drove carefully to his house, which wasn’t too far away.

A beautiful lady opened the door. Behind her, they could see the glowing lights of a Christmas tree. They heard the crackling of a log burning in the fireplace and they smelled a turkey roasting in the oven. Music was playing, too: “Silent Night, Holy Night.”

Suddenly a little boy in stocking feet dashed down the hallway, over the shiny wooden floor, and nearly skidded into the little family. He looked up, and when he saw a man and woman with blankets draped over their heads and shoulders, and a baby in the woman’s arms, he said—

“He said, ‘It’s baby Jesus!’” the children chimed in.

“That’s right.”

Another boy came running in. He stared at the family, too.

David chuckled and closed the door behind them. “No,” he said, “it’s not baby Jesus. In fact, this little baby is a girl.”

The boys, whose names were Michael and John, were disappointed at first. But then the baby opened her round blue eyes and smiled at them.

David’s wife, Anna, took off her apron and hurried to the door. “Come in,” she said. “We’re so glad you’re here.”

“Are you sure you have room for us?” they asked.

“Of course.”

Soon the little family was sitting by the warm fire. Michael and John brought some toys for the baby to play with. She sat on the rug with them and giggled when they pretended the toy cars were going to run into her.

There was a scratching noise at the back door. David opened it and in came a big German Shepherd, who shook snow all over the rug.

“Lizzie!” the boys laughed. “You brought the storm in with you!” Lizzie padded over to the visitors and gently sniffed them. The father scratched her behind the ears and she wagged her tail happily.

Soon dinner was ready. It was delicious, just as ours was tonight. And, just as we have done tonight, David read the Christmas story from the Bible.

Michael whispered something to his father. “Shouldn’t we give them some presents?”

“You are a wise young boy,” his father said. “We can change the tags on a few gifts. There are so many, we won’t even miss them.”

And soon there were gifts for everyone under the tree.

David and the boys climbed upstairs to the attic. They came downstairs carrying a baby’s crib.

“This is where you two slept when you were babies,” their mother said, but they couldn’t remember ever being that small. She dusted the crib and took sheets and a soft baby blanket from the cedar chest, and the bed was ready for the baby.

Michael and John got sleeping bags from their closet. “They can have our room,” they told their parents. “We’ll sleep in the family room.”

And soon their room was ready for the young family. The mother wrapped the baby snugly in a blanket so she would feel safe and loved, and laid her in the crib. Soon she was fast asleep.

Then her parents stepped outside into the night. The storm was over and it was clear and quiet, very different from the big city where they lived. The woman looked up at the sky. “I forgot how bright stars can be,” she said. And indeed the dark sky, especially to the east, was sprinkled with twinkling stars that shone down upon the snow, making each snowflake sparkle like a diamond. They stood on the porch for a long time, their arms around each other, as they marveled at the sparkling stars and the calm, peaceful night.

When they came back inside they realized they were very, very tired. So they said goodnight to David and Anna and went into the boys’ bedroom.

A moment later Lizzie pushed her nose against their door, which wasn’t completely latched. [transition him into the hallway] David reached for her collar, to pull her away, when he heard soft voices in the room. He stood very still. The mother and father were kneeling by the crib, praying. Lizzie padded into the room and settled on the rug. David knew she would keep watch over them though the night. He smiled and closed the door quietly.

David and Anna turned off the Christmas lights, put out the fire in the fireplace, and headed upstairs to bed.

And so on Christmas morning, there were presents for everyone, and they sang the beautiful old carols like “Away in a Manger” and “Angels We Have Heard on High.”

That afternoon, the snow plows cleared the roads and the family was able to take a bus back to their home.

“And that’s the end of the story,” said Grandpa.

“No, it isn’t!” protested the grandchildren. “There’s more!”

“Well, now, let me think. Oh, yes.”

Every Christmas after that the two families sent letters and cards and presents to each other. And their children grew up.

“The end.”

“Tell the rest!” the children begged.

“What else is there to tell?” Grandpa asked, but his eyes twinkled. “Oh, yes. Now I remember . . .”

The children all grew up, as children do, and went away to college.

One Christmas Eve, John was at the airport, waiting to fly home to be with his family, but there was such a terrible winter storm, the airplanes couldn’t fly. And then the roads were closed, so no one could drive anywhere, either.

John would have to spend Christmas at the airport.

But John always made the best of things. There were other people who missed their planes, too, so they all decided to have a party, right there at the airport. The restaurants at the airport brought them food, and the people from the airlines gave them blankets and pillows. They ate and sang and laughed and shared stories, all of them missing friends and family they couldn’t be with, but still happy to be celebrating Christmas with new friends.

There were half a dozen students who sat in a circle with John, and each told a Christmas story of their own. Kate, a pretty girl with blonde hair and blue eyes, told hers: “My very first Christmas was spent in the home of kind strangers, after we had been in a terrible accident during a blizzard . . .”

As Kate told her story, John’s heart began to thump. Could this girl be the baby who had stayed with his family? He remembered her smiles and giggles.

“Really?” he said when she was through. “When I was three years old, we took in a little family that had been in an accident. There was a mother and a father and . . .” he looked up at the young woman, “a beautiful baby girl.”

“Did you have a dog?” asked the girl, who didn’t remember it, but had heard the story of her first Christmas many times from her parents, “named Lizzie?”

“Yes!” said the children, beaming at each other. “Yes, they did!”

Kate and John smiled at each other. And that was how they met again, on another Christmas Eve, during a terrible storm. Suddenly the airport felt warm and friendly. Everyone who heard their story came over to meet them.

And it made everyone smile.

“The end.” Said Grandpa.

“Grandpa! Tell the rest!”

“Oh, did I forget to say that they fell in love and got married a year later, on Christmas Eve? And that the boy was my son John and the girl was indeed the baby in the story, our very own Kate? And that they had three children, Annie and Gabriel (who is this? David?) and Peter? And that Kate’s mother and father are here with us tonight, too?”

“You were David, the man who brought them home from the hospital, and Grandma was Anna, who cooked the dinner and fixed the crib for Kate, my mom! And the little boy who thought she was baby Jesus was John, my daddy! It’s the best Christmas story ever!” said Annie, who sat on her mother’s lap.

Grandfather looked at his family and then at the nativity scene on the mantel, “I think we could say it was the second best Christmas story ever.”

For I was an hungered, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger and ye took me in . . .Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me. Matthew 25: 35, 40

Critique: The biggest issue I have with this is tracking who is who. I know that’s part of the story, but I found myself not knowing who was an adult, who was a child. To help with this, I wouldn’t name the children after any of the adults. I’d also cut down the number of children in the story. Oh, and find another time transition word besides “soon”.

What I liked best: I know it’s improbable, but I love those quirky twists of fate.

Publication ready: Yes, as soon as the naming and who is who issues are resolved.

It was a simple plan: leave a piece of a nativity set on the doorstep of an unsuspecting recipient on each of the twelve nights preceding Christmas.

Mary was the first to go.

The next morning we celebrated our supposed success and spoke of how Joseph would be next. Then we compared notes and discovered the awful truth. Mary had been delivered to the wrong address.

Eyes were wide. Mouths too. How could this have happened? The intended receivers needed the nativity. They had to have it. That’s the way we’d planned it. Joseph needed a wife, the Christ child needed a mother. We had no choice.

Mary couldn’t stay.

We didn’t know the people at the wrong address. We rationalized that they didn’t want a nativity, especially a lone Mary. “How do you kidnap a nativity piece? One of us is going to have to ask for her return. I’m sure they’ll understand it was all a mistake.” Amidst our scheming to recover her someone in our group felt inspired to present a differing opinion. What if it wasn’t a mistake? What if we were supposed to take Mary to that address? What if the people there needed her just as much as the first family?

We mulled over the situation and felt embarrassed. Asking if we could have Mary back implied we thought the people at the wrong residence weren’t as deserving—as important—as those we anticipated taking her to. A few questions to their neighbors and a short time later we discovered that by any standard—mortal or heavenly—the family who received Mary very much needed her. Those who knew them, we found, had been praying that their lives would be blessed and their hearts somehow touched by the Christmas spirit.

Humbled, we purchased a second nativity.

Joseph from the first nativity went to join his Mary that night.

Critique: You’ll notice that there are no red marks within this story. The reason is, there’s nothing wrong with what is there. This critique covers what is NOT there. Word count was low, so you have room to expand. Add a little more depth and tension to the story. I’d like to see more live action, “in the moment” feelings, dialog. Also, I prefer individualized characters, rather than an anonymous “we”.

What I liked best: The concept that Mary was delivered to the “wrong” person.

Publication ready: Yes, but not for my purposes. I want more active stories.

Sergeant. Spell check the title.

Nestled in the foot hills of the Bavarian Alps is a little not very well known [awkward] US [U.S.] military installation called Hohenfels. There, abandoned German villages left since World War II now have large trees growing through their ruins while in the surrounding valleys and mingled among the crumbling structures US, and coalition forces train together to prep [prepare] for their turn in the middle east. [Middle East]

Teah was excited to move to Hohenfels with her husband, Jade. [This is an unusual name. I’d recommend using one easily recognized as a man’s name—like, Jaden.] one summer. She had watched her husband He had secured a nice non–deployable job as observation and control for the training forces. The quaint village with the pitched roofs and the heavy timber with stucco was picturesque to say the least and neither Teah nor Jade could wish for anything more.

At the end of a Bavarian summer, Teah, and Jade somewhere at the end of a Bavarian summer were blessed with a pregnancy. While Jade went to work each day Teah worked on organizing her home, getting baby clothes, crib, and toys ready for the anticipated arrival.

“Looks like the end of April or first of May,” the doctor said. Jade put his arm around Teah. She looked so beautiful, his wife, a mother, the mother of his children. [repetitive]

Jade moved into full swing with his unit that fall. Units were on the move and were constantly transforming which kept the young Sergeant busy for most days. Jade had early mornings and late nights. Night operations in the training aria often had several iterations with several [drop one of the “severals”] platoons and squad size elements moving through urban training sights. [a lot of telling; show us a few scenes instead]

Thanksgiving came, accompanied with a four day weekend. On the last day of that break, Jade and Teah spent the day getting ready for their favorite holiday; Christmas.

[Start your story here. Weave in a few of the facts from above.]
Excitement and love adorned the small German cottage as the two Jade and Teah decorated for Christmas. Teah was up on a step ladder pinning up the garland she had recently purchased from the Post Exchange, when Jade came through the door, and said, “I am going to need more fasteners… now, Teah you know you shouldn’t be climbing around on things.” Teah laughed and said, “Jade, I am pregnant not incapacitated. Plus this is my favorite holiday.”

Jade walked up to the ladder and grabbed Teah and she let out a scream of surprise as she fell back into his arms. Jade cradled her and kissed her forehead and lips. Jade was a romantic, the type of man that nauseated most men, but Teah adored him, and they were both in love.

That night after decorating, Jade sighed as he sat down on a thirty dollar Goodwill couch and Teah followed suit. She curled up next to Jade and he looked into her eyes and Christmas lights shimmered in the deep blue sea that surrounded lonely islands in her eyes as she smiled. Jade wrapped his arm around Teah and placed it on their unborn child. “This will be the best Christmas ever.” Jade said.

December came with a visit from winter’s old man and christened the earth with a thick blanket of powder. Training for Jade’s unit had slowed somewhat, and by mid month they were down to half days as part of the unit started block leave.

Jade loved spending the afternoons and the weekends with Teah. Whether it was a road trip to Prague, or lazy afternoons watching through the living room window, frail flakes of snow complete their journey to the ground, all while sitting in the amber, red and green quiet.

When things go too good for too long we ignorantly think we have beat opposition, and that somehow trials forgot us. It is in the panorama of life, we in retrospect realize, life’s most harrowing changes graced our mortality at the close of those vistas.

Coming to work one day Jade’s platoon sergeant said “SGT Kempton I need to see you in my office.” Jade stood up from his desk in the hanger and went to see his Platoon sergeant. [repetitive]

“SGT Kempton,” said Sergeant first class Gambill, “1st armor division is deploying and as you know none of us are safe.”

[new paragraph with each new speaker] Jade cut off SFC Gambill and said, “Well, you didn’t call me into your office to tell me you are deploying with the 1st Armor, so how much time do I have?”

[new paragraph with each new speaker] “They want you over in Baumholder Germany by the 23rd of December and the unit is leaving for Afghanistan on the first.” Said SFC Gambill. [correct punctuation: “…the first,” said SFC Gambill.]

That afternoon Jade left his car parked at the hanger and walked the four miles to his village. Humid crystals of ice clung to Jade’s black fleece turning it to match the frosted backdrop on the lonely highway. Jade did not feel the cold. How could he?

That afternoon Teah sat on the couch as Jade expounded on the details of his Christmas he was going to spend in barracks on the west side of Germany before his deployment to the Middle East for the next year. After he got done explaining he stood with straight arms and fists clenched in his pockets.

“So that’s it, you are going away.” Teah said. “I have less than ten days.” Jade added. “Maybe you can fight this?” Teah suggested. “Fight what?” Jade said, “This is coming from United States Army European command. This is above my unit I don’t have a choice.”

That week the cold humid air put enough moisture on the snow to make it disappear. Teah sat in her bed awake as Jade left early on a Friday morning. She looked out the window to the last summer’s dead lilacs standing naked against grey horizon and brown fallow. She had a tear in her eye because she started bleeding the night before, but did not have the heart to tell Jade.

Jade was ignorant for only a short time, because it was he who rushed his sweetheart to the University Hospital in Regensburg.

It was four days before Jade had to get on a bus leaving for West Germany then off to War, but he was not home. Jade was in a German hospital holding Teah’s hand as she winced in pain. Her body was rejecting the baby and it was not far enough along to save. Jade would not wish that pain on his worst enemy, yet his best friend lie in agony.

When they released Teah from the hospital Jade and Teah had one night. Teah sat in Jade’s strong arms one last time, hours before he got on the bus. Jade watched with her for a time then she slept. He got up and kissed Teah’s forehead and walked out to the road and met SFC Gambill.

Jade watched the black forest rush by on the autobahn as he stared out his window on the bus. The Northern parts of Germany were often bitter and cold without snow to justify its bite, and the grey sky was without silver lining.

The next morning Jade woke up in his barracks room alone and empty. He had deployed before but never had he felt so dark and helpless.

At the first formation of the day Jade watched some of the single soldiers’ horse around and talk of their wild weekends. A fairly dark skinned E6 walked up to Jade and said, “Hi I’m Sergeant Williams, so who are you?” Jade said, “I am your new medic. I got in last night.” “Oh no, we were expecting you but… hold that thought.”

“Fall in,” a First Sergeant said with a commanding voice. Jade stood by SSG Williams and the First Sergeant took the report from the platoon sergeants.

After the formation the squad leader went to the first sergeant and said “Here is our extra. I will get him on the bus today top.” “Extra?” Jade thought. “Isn’t that just precious,” said the first sergeant, “A little Christmas miracle in our own ranks. You can thank that other medic SGT Ward who just showed up out of the blue. Now get out of my face.”

The squad leader pulled his car up and said, “Common we need to get you a bus home.” Jade said where is SGT Ward? I have to see him.” Staff Sergeant Williams said, “You will miss your bus.” “I have to see him.” Jade said more determined than before.

Somebody put their hand on Jade’s shoulder. Jade turned and saw him. His name was Ward he was a sergeant just like Jade. He said to Jade, “Go home Jade, your wife needs you.” “Where did you come from?” Jade asked. “It does not matter. My higher told me you needed to be with your family.”Sergeant Ward smiled turned and disappeared into a sea of uniforms. [needs some foreshadowing here]

Teah sat on Christmas Eve, plucking peddles petals from blossoms on holly, then letting them fall to the floor. Too sick, to stand yet in too much pain to sleep, she wept in the beautifully decorated living room. The early dim evening fled from the dark village. Teah went to turn off the colorful lights her and Jade had put up. Then she stopped.

A knock on the door startled Teah. She went to the door and saw a masculine shape behind the amber glass. Jade smiled as she opened the door Teah recognized her husband and leapt into his arms. Large flakes of snow fell, as Jade spun Teah around in her bath robe on the frozen grass.

The next day the sun came out and it was shining bright on heavy snow that blanketed the country side the night before. “It’s Christmas,” Teah whispered in her husband’s ear. He smiled and kissed Teah.

Later that day they sat and opened presents from family back in the states, which had been placed under the tree.

“And this one is from your Mom,” Teah said. Jade opened the brown paper and there was a note from his mom along with a binder.

Dear Jade, Here is a collection of Journals from your grandfather who died in the service. Included is his story of World War II and a picture, enjoy. Love, Mom

Jade, Opened the binder then he stopped. Teah never before seen Jade cry but his eyes watered some as he picked up the photo and said, “Teah, this is Sergeant Ward.”

Critique: Work on spelling, sentence structure and grammar. Each new speaker gets it’s own paragraph; some of your dialog tags are awkward and interfere with the story. Work on your dialog—differentiate the voices. Using third person is fine, but it’s too distant and you hop heads a few times. We need a little more characterization, more personality; more sense of place and sensory-based images. You spend a little too much time on things that don’t add to the story (like the beginning) and not enough in other areas (like losing the baby). The story has too much “telling”—we need more showing, action.

What I liked best: The twist at the end. I like those goose-bumpy things.

Publication ready: No. The basic concept/idea is fine, but the delivery doesn’t do it justice. Keep working on it.

LDSP’s 2009 Christmas Story Contest

Prize: Publication in a Christmas collection that will be published and ready for sale in October.

The stories will start posting in just a few minutes. I have them scheduled to post four per day, a few hours apart. If we get more submissions in, I may need to post a bunch on Friday and Saturday.

Just a quick review of some very important points:

• SUBMIT your story any time between NOW and Saturday, August 15, 2009. Yes, there’s still time, if you hurry. Details HERE.

• If you submit more than one story, I’ll split them up to post on separate days, if possible.

• Please tell your friends that you’ve submitted a story and to come reade and vote, but DO NOT tell them which story is yours. We want the stories to win on merit, not personal popularity.

• We will have Reader Voting for the best stories, as we have done in previous contests. The winners are guaranteed a spot in the book. Voting will take place August 16–22nd. I will post voting rules then. You may comment any time your like, but voting doesn’t count until the 16th.

I had planned to start posting Christmas stories today (I’m now up to 8 submissions) but since voting is nearly two weeks away, I think I’ll hold off until next week.

Submissions are low and I was trying to determine why that is and came up with this:

1. You aren’t inspired to write about Christmas in the summer time—to which I say, deal with it because most seasonal books/magazines are like this, calling for submissions out of season
   or
2. You are intimidated because the prize is publication—to which I say, suck it up because if you want to be published you have to get past that and I promise to be gentle when I tell you your story didn’t make the cut
   or
3. You hate me, think I’m a loser, think my book idea stinks, and you’re trying to make my life miserable—to which I say, grow up and send your stinkin’ story because chances are you’re going to hate your publisher/editor/agent at one time or another.

Whatever the reason, get with it and write, polish and submit.

The clock’s a-ticking!

LDSP’s 2009 Christmas Story Contest

Prize: Publication in a Christmas collection that will be published and ready for sale in October.

Submission deadline: August 15th.

Details HERE.

I will start posting stories next week.

Right now it’s slim pickins. Only 5 entries. Get those stories finished and send them out to me ASAP.

As with last year, Publisher’s Choice winners were selected based on originality, how well it captured the spirit of the season, and how close it was to publication quality. I will make comments on each of these stories during this week, giving you my opinion on what was done well and what needed a little more polish. If you’re not a winner and you’d like to take credit for your story, you may do so in the comments section.

Readers Choice Published Author Category: Christmas Story #9—Too Old for Santa by Janice Sperry

Publisher’s Choice Published Author Category: Christmas Story #21—A Real Baby in the Manger by Christine Thackeray

Readers Choice Unpublished Author Category: Christmas Story #11—A Lesson for Sylvester by Lori Labrum

It was hard for me to select a winner in the Unpublished Author category. In my opinion, while many of them were very close, none of them were quite ready for publication. All would need a little more tweaking. There were four that I felt had a lot of potential: #4 Cricket’s Gift, #7 The Choir Practice, #10 Untitled (The Animals Knew) and #13 Santa’s Gift Card. But I could only choose one as a winner. . .

Publisher’s Choice Unpublished Author Category:
Christmas Story #10—Untitled (The Animals Knew) by Rachel Jensen

Winners, please send me an e-mail with your mailing address ASAP.

And thanks again to the Christmas Story Contest Sponsors.

A huge thank you to the following authors whose books are sponsoring the 2008 Christmas Story Contest.

Publisher’s Choice, Published Author Category Prize: The Spirit of Christmas by Jennie Hansen, Betsy Brannon Green, Michele Ashman Bell


Rekindle the spirit of Christmas with this touching trio of timeless stories told by some of the finest LDS storytellers — each with a heartwarming message for the Season.

Will Sophie really be able to get what she needs by spending the holidays alone? Will Miss Eugenia be able to give a struggling family the Christmas they want? Has five-year-old Janie’s visit from Santa really been canceled because she was bad?

Take a journey into the minds and hearts of three engaging characters who each need to believe in their version of Christmas — and discover that believing in people is what the spirit of Christmas is all about. A perfect assortment for sharing and celebrating the holiday season.

Jennie Hansen was born in Idaho Falls, Idaho. She lived in many farming and ranching communities in Idaho and Montana. Her family moved more than 20 times as she grew up. Born the fifth of eight children, Jennie had a ready supply of playmates during her childhood. Her brothers and sisters are still among her closest friends. She married Boyd Hansen of Rexburg, Idaho, and over the next ten years they became the parents of five children. They have made their home in Utah since their marriage.

Jennie graduated from Ricks College in Idaho then continued her education at Westminster College in Salt Lake City, Utah. She has been a receptionist, a model, a Utah House page, freelance magazine writer, newspaper reporter, editor, library circulation specialist, mother and grandmother.

She has nineteen published books to her credit, three stories in compilations, and has two more books currently under contract. Her published books include: Run Away Home, Journey Home, Coming Home, When Tomorrow Comes, Macady, The River Path, Beyond, Summer Dreams, Chance Encounter, All I Hold Dear, Abandoned, Breaking Point, Some Sweet Day, Code Red, High Stakes, Wild Card, The Bracelet, The Emerald, The Topaz, and The Ruby. She is one of three contributors to The Spirit of Christmas along with Betsy Brannon Green and Michele Ashman Bell. Jennie also writes a monthly review column for Meridian Magazine.

Betsy Brannon Green was born on June 1, 1958 in Salt Lake where her father was attending the University of Utah. After he finished his undergraduate work, the family moved to Birmingham, Alabama for medical school. When her father graduated from medical school he joined the Army so over the next few years her family had the opportunity to live in several different cities, including Honolulu, Ft. Knox, San Antonio, and Colorado Springs. They finally settled in Decatur, Alabama where she met and in 1979 married Robert (Butch) Green.

She has always loved to write but decided to make a serious attempt at writing a novel during the fall of 1999. It took her 8 months to complete her first book which was later rejected by publishers. Her second attempt, Hearts in Hiding, was published in May of 2001.

Michele Ashman Bell—What can I say, I’m a middle-aged mother of four, who, after ten years of hard work, perserverance and a lot (and I mean A LOT!) of rejection letters, finally got a book published.

As a young girl I was a devoted journal keeper. I would express my most personal thoughts and feelings in my journal in a way I could never express them verbally. Coupled with my great love for reading it only seemed natural to become a writer.

During the course of having and raising my children, as a beginning writer, I spent any free time I had writing and learning the craft. I attended workshops and conferences, joined critique groups (I have the scars to prove it) and sent many of my stories and novels off to magazines and publisher, only to receive rejection after rejection. I came close a few times, but something wasn’t quite right.

Still to this day I wonder why I didn’t give up. You’d think after ten years of rejections I’d finally get the message. Actually I know why I kept writing, I couldn’t not write. It’s in my blood. When I get cut, ink comes out. There’s something so wonderful and fulfilling about the creative process of developing characters and storylines and pouring your heart out on paper that can’t be matched by anything else. I feel very fortunate to have the opportunity to write. And I want to encourage anyone who has the desire to write to never give up on their dream. If you want it bad enough and are willing to work hard enough, you will become published. I believe that with all my heart because that’s exactly how it worked for me.

I grew up in St. George, Utah, where a lot of my family still lives, but now reside with my husband and family in the Salt Lake City area. My favorite thing to do is support my kids in their many interests. Between basketball, ballet and piano lessons we squeeze a lot into a week, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Readers’ Choice, Published Author Category Prize: Brick of Mormon Stories by Steven Van Wagenen

Brick of Mormon Stories is a collection of scripture stories from the Book of Mormon, with LEGO bricks and character illustrations.

Parents and children now have a resource for reading actual Book of Mormon scripture text with illustrations that bring the scripture stories to life. What a better way for children to become familiar with the scriptures than by combining them with the toys and characters children use during play?

Twenty-six illustrated LDS scripture stories from the Book of Mormon are presented in an easy to read format for parents who are reading to their children, or young readers who are becoming familiar with the scriptures.

The purpose of Brick of Mormon Stories is to acquaint children with the passages from the Book of Mormon, provide illustrations that will help them remember the stories, and motivate them to include discussions of people and events from the scriptures in their playtime activities.

Steven Van Wagenen —I wondered how playing out some of the Book of Mormon stories with my boys using LEGOs would compare with all of the other ways we can teach our children the stories from the Book of Mormon. The thought came into my mind that there should be a children’s book that uses actual scripture verses to tell the story, illustrated in such a way that children could find a way to bring the stories to life. I wanted something that would help my boys learn how to read the scripture text and still have the fun illustrations.

I am not sure who had more fun in building the LEGO sets, me or the boys, but I think it was a great experience for us to spend all of that time together. Regardless of whatever happened with the book, I wanted to put together the book for our family as a reminder of that time and all that work and the experience overall.

Publisher’s Choice, Unpublished Author Category Prize: Counting Blessings by Kerry Blair (d0nated by Taffy Lovell)

Spiritual refreshment is only pages away in this down-to-earth collection of inspiring stories and essays.

Like a wise and witty friend, Kerry Blair leads you through the rough spots of life by poking gentle fun at herself in such a vivacious way that you’ll be smiling at your own foibles.

You’ll laugh out loud — and occasionally be moved to tears — as you discover some of life’s greatest truths hidden within these simple pages.

Reclaim your sanity and enrich your soul with this humorous and poignant anthology that celebrates the joy of being alive and shows how greatly each of us is blessed.

Kerry Blair wrote her first novel when she was eight years old and promised herself that she would do it again when she “grew up.” She makes her home in West Jordan, Utah, with her husband, Gary, and four children.

Kerry says, “I’d always said I wanted to be an author when I grew up—and forty is pretty darn grown up by anybody’s standards. The Heart Has Its Reasons was released in 1999 and I’ve since published 8 more books (one was a collaboration) and been included in a compilation of inspirational essays for mothers. I’ve edged from LDS romance into romantic mystery into murder mystery with romantic overtones into romantic comedy into the new Nightshade series— books one reviewer said is what you’d expect ‘if you watched Buffy join CSI on the Romance Channel.'”

Readers’ Choice, Unpublished Author Category Prize: Sharing Through Song: My Eternal Family by Alison Palmer

Music can teach when word fail. Combining words and music creates beautiful opportunities for children to learn things they will always remember. When music and gospel lessons are combined, young minds are enlightened and better able to understand gospel messages.

Combine music and gospel principles with the help of these 24 easy-to-prepare sharing and music time lessons. Each lesson includes a list of materials, necessary preparations, teaching suggestions, and relevant songs to help children learn the gospel principles about, “My Eternal Family.” Perfect for choristers, leaders, and parents. Make teaching children more effective and fun with Sharing Through Song: My Eternal Family. Also available on CD-ROM!

Alison Palmer is a life-long member of the LDS Church. Born in Mesa, Arizona, she grew up in West Virginia and holds a bachelors degree in Nursing. She currently lives in Michigan.

Over the years, Alison has held many callings in the Church, including several that have helped develop her great love for the Primary children. She has served as nursery leader, pianist, chorister, teacher, den leader and Primary president. She has also been spotted teaching Sunday school, and serving as a teacher or leader in Relief Society and in Young Womens.

Writing is Alison’s favorite past time, but you can also frequently find her reading, playing piano, cooking, attending the temple, taking long walks, sewing, or playing with her family.

Other works by Alison Palmer include: multiple volumes of Sharing Through Song, Planting Seeds of Faith: Fun Character-building Activities for LDS Children and Walking the Path of Faith: More Fun Character-building Activities for LDS Children.

I apologize for being a tad late getting the last of the Christmas contest stories up here on the blog. I had/have a close family member with a serious illness and I got behind. However. All the stories are now up.

Votes timestamped before 12:01 a.m. on Sunday, December 14th, will not be counted. If you voted too early, you may come back and vote again.

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• VOTE any time from 12:01 a.m. on December 14th through 11:59 p.m. on December 20th. Time stamp on the voting comment determines whether or not your vote will count.
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All stories have been posted anonymously. You may take credit for your story after the winners have been announced. Authors, please let your friends know that you’ve entered this contest and encourage them to come vote, but don’t tell them which story is yours. We want the stories to win on merit, not the popularity of the author.

Due to the previously mentioned personal issue, I will announce the winners on Monday, December 22nd. I will post comments on the stories beginning December 22nd and continue until I’ve commented on every story. Then I will take a break until the new year.

Good luck everyone!

LDSP

“Whoa! Hello up there!” Jed is usually taller than I am, but only by a couple of inches. He gave me an appraising look. Jed works in the accounting department, so most of his looks—at anything—are appraising.

“Like my new shoes?” I took a step back and twirled. It had taken me a while to find a black skirt that was both slinky and swirly. Christmas lights glinted off the subtle sparkles in my red sweater—also slinky, but not too slinky. I kicked a foot up behind me so he could appraise my new shoes.

“Whoa! Don’t point those heels at me! You’re dangerous.”

I sniffed and grabbed my jacket. “They don’t call them killer high heels for nothing, you know.”

“Just don’t try them out on me. Seriously, Miri, you look gorgeous.” He walked me to his car and opened the door for me.

“You really think so?” I’d been so busy glorying in my new Christmas finery that I’d managed to ignore the sinking pit in the bottom of my stomach. Until now.

Jed smiled. “You’re a knock-out. A pretty knockout, and at these parties, those are scarce as frog-hairs.”

“Um, thanks, if that’s a compliment.” Sometimes you couldn’t tell with the country-boy accountant. He just kept smiling Jed continued to smile at me, so I quickly turned to face forward. “Do you think he’ll notice?”

Now This time, Jed turned forward with a snort. “Only if he can manage to disengage one of his four available brain cells from thinking about himself long enough to notice.” The car made an awful noise as he started it up with more violence than necessary.

“Come on, Jed. Trevor’s sweet.”

“So is antifreeze, but dogs die if they drink it.”

“Uh…yeah.” I was pretty sure that wasn’t a compliment, so I changed the subject. “Thanks for driving tonight, Jed. It means a lot to me.” Jed had been patiently listeninged to me talk about Trevor for the last six months, and he’d volunteered—I had NOT said a word—to take me to the work party tonight, for moral support.

“No problem.” He patted his pocket. “It should be entertaining to watch, but I’ve got my book, just in case.”

I bonked [awkward] him lightly on the shoulder. “That’s what you call my desperate, so-far-unrequited passion? Entertainment?”

“It, the party, not it, your unrequited passion.” I could see him smirking at me out of the corner of my eye.

[Need a transition]
At the door, Cindy, my boss from the art department, greeted me with a hug. “See if you can find where I hung the mistletoe,” she whispered in my ear, with a meaningful flick of her eyes toward her living room.

I followed her gaze. Trevor. Gesturing as he told an apparently hilarious story to a crowd of admiring women. The pit in my stomach sank somewhere under the front porch, and I followed Jed as he made the absolute minimum social conversations, grabbed a soda, and headed for the kitchen.

He was already settled in a chair with his feet up on another, opening his book. “Miri! What are you doing in here?”

I grabbed his footrest chair and sank down on it. “Chickening out. Did you see how Ashley Owens was falling all over him?”

“No more than she usually does in staff meeting.” He Jed held his book in front of his nose. “Stop bothering me and go away. I’m trying to read.”

“No, you’re trying to make me mad on purpose.”

He didn’t look up. “Seems to be working great.”

“Fine!” Secretly grateful for the rush of adrenalin, I dropped my purse on the table for him to watch and stomped out of the brightly-lit kitchen, into the dim living room. Then [I] almost fell off my killer heels as I ran right into Trevor.

“Whoa! Careful.” He grabbed my shoulders to steady me, sending tingling electricity all through my body. I knew my one big chance when I saw it, so I looked up at him from under my extra-thick eyelashes.

He didn’t let go of Trevor kept his hands on my shoulders as he looked down at me. Even with the killer heels, I still stood a good head shorter than he did. “Miri?” I didn’t know whether to feel flattered or annoyed at the look of surprise on his face. I’d known I was invisible, but I didn’t know I’d been nonexistent in his mind.

That just meant it was time to get to work. “Trevor.” I tried to sound surprised, and glad, and enticing, all at once.

It, or the heels, or the Christmas magic must have worked. “Would you like a drink?” he asked, releasing my shoulders but taking my elbow. My previously leaden stomach was suddenly leaping and dancing for agitated joy.

When we’d chosen some snacks, he led me passed past the kitchen. Behind Trevor’s back, Jed stuck his head out [of the kitchen] and, grinning, gave me a thumbs-up. I scowled at him. If he messed this up for me, he’d find out the real meaning of “killer shoes”! Still grinning, he Jed saluted me with his book and disappeared back into the kitchen.

Ashley Owens glared. Jessica Frampton pouted. I glowed, and giggled, and snuggled. Halfway through the evening, Trevor’s arm was around me. An hour later, we were standing under Cindy’s well-concealed mistletoe, in a secluded doorway toward the back of the house.

“Miri.” Trevor was a man of few words, it seemed, but his arms around me, and his deep, fervent brown eyes said all sorts of things I liked to hear.

“Trevor.” I tipped my head up, and his lips touched mine.

A warm, enticing tingle ran through me. Then my lips started swelling up. [Lead into this just a bit more slowly. Have her notice the tingle in her lips getting stronger, hotter, etc.]

I took a step back from him, shrugging his hands off, and clamped my hands to my mouth as my tongue suddenly ballooned to twice its normal size.

“Miri, wha—?”

“Shrimp,” I gasped, as my throat and neck started to block off my air. “Did you eat shrimp?”

“Shrimp?” I was dying, and he was rubbing those four brain cells together, trying to make a spark. “Well, that one salad, I guess…”

“Help,” I squeaked, grabbing the doorframe behind me.

That, he understood. As I struggled for air and sank to the floor, he dashed toward the living room, unsubtly yelling, “Help! Help!”

At least Trevor’s long legs were good for something. Cindy arrived a moment later, skidding to her knees beside me on the floor. But Jed was right behind her, frantically digging in my black, beaded purse.

He met my eye as he triumphantly produced a bright-yellow tube and flipped off the cap with one hand.

“Hurry,” I croaked. My vision was turning dark and swirly around the edges. All I could see was Jed’s face, swimming in the darkness.

“Stand back!” he cried to the crowd [.] [It would be better to include this earlier, have her hearing then] of coworkers who’d gathered to exclaim, “Allergies!” and then tell each other stories about their relatives’ dire bee stings.]

Tube clutched in his fist, he Jed raised it high in the air. A collective gasp went up [from who? Identify] as he whammed the needle into the side of my thigh, right through the swirly black skirt.

Jed held the needle, which stung like crazy, in the side of my leg until long after all the medicine had drained from the tube. He didn’t let go until I’d drawn a long, shaky breath.

Everyone else must have been holding their breaths, too, because they all sighed at once. People started crowding in, asking what they could do to help.

I struggled [to] find enough breath to ask them to please all go away.

Then I threw up. That did the trick. I didn’t miss the look of shocked disgust on Trevor’s face as he beat a hasty retreat, Ashley Owens already clinging to his arm.

By the time the paramedics arrived, I was sitting up and breathing after a fashion, but I thought some other party guests might need medical care if one more person asked, “Are you sure you’re OK?” The paramedics didn’t make me ride in the ambulance, but they extracted a firm promise—from Jed—that I would go straight to the emergency room to get checked over.

Dressed in a pair of Cindy’s pajamas, I leaned gratefully on Jed as we walked slowly to his car. He opened the door for me, but then he grabbed my shoulders and turned me to face him, his face [change one] stern, almost angry.

“Miri, didn’t you promise yourself never to go out with anyone until you told him about your shrimp allergy?”

“Well,” I stammered, “it wasn’t exactly a date, and it’s not very romantic, and—” I clamped my mouth shut and met his eye. “Quit yelling at me. I almost died just now!”

I’d never seen Jed so deadly serious before, and it scared me almost as much as my swelling throat had scared me. “Exactly.” He folded me into his arms, my favorite Jed hug, and we stood there shaking in the cold as the enormity of what almost happened washed over us.

I pulled away first, my teeth chattering. “Come on. We promised you’d take me to the emergency room.”

He didn’t let me go, and I suddenly realized how close his face was to mine—and how warm his breath was, and how nice he smelled, and how glad I was that he’d come with me this evening.

He leaned even closer, but I jerked my head back. “Hold on! There was shrimp in one of the salads.”

“Didn’t eat any,” he murmured, gently putting his hand on the back of my head and pulling me in again. “I never eat shrimp when I’m with you, Miri.”

Our lips touched as he whispered, “Just in case.”

What I liked best: I liked the twist with the lips swelling up. Funny.

Magazine ready: Close enough, although I agree with the commenter who said this felt like part of a longer work. Could be expanded to be part of a novel.

It was Christmas Eve. Ten more minutes and Matt Parker could close up the store. It had been a long day. A busy one, but long. He was the sole owner of Parker’s Jewelry and Fine Silver store. It had been built by his grandfather after they had [watch out for passive voice] arrived here in the United States in the early 1900’s. He Grandpa had been a silversmith in the old country, and had brought his talent with him. He’d also taught his son, who was Matt’s father, the business. His Matt’s father had in turn taught him. He Matt loved the work and was grateful when his father had passed the business onto on to him. He had done well over the past five years. Working hard had allowed him to give his family a good life.

Matt glanced at his watch. It was now In five more minutes and he could close. The day had been busy. He couldn’t believe how many people waited until the last minute to get gifts. He was glad he’d had made up several pieces ahead of time. As he looked in the case where he’d kept them, he noticed there was only one piece left. A delicate silver heart necklace. Maybe he should save that one for his daughter, Annie. He reached inside the case, pulled the necklace out and placed it inside a red satin box, then placed it in his pocket.

He looked out the window. and noticed it was now beginning to watching the snow. Then he remembered. This morning his daughter had reminded him, for the umpteenth time, about her singing in the pageant at church tonight. Seven o’clock, she’d said, and don’t be late. He was just about to go to the door when he noticed a car pull up in front of the store.

A few moments later, a woman walked into the store.

“Matt, I’m so glad you are still open.”

“What can I help you with Martha?” Matt’s grandmother had come over from Europe with Martha Johnson’s grandmother. Their families had been friends ever since. Martha now lived just a block over from where he and his wife, Tracy, lived with their daughter Annie.

“I’m looking for something for my grandmother. I’ve been all over town, but have found nothing she’d like.”

Matt understood. He knew Martha’s grandmother had to be in her mid-nineties by now. His grandmother had also been hard to buy for too, when she was still alive.

“Any idea what she would like?”

Martha shook her head. “No. I’ve racked my brain and can’t think of anything she’d like. I really need your help on this.”

Matt looked at each of the glass topped cases as he walked along the counters. He tried suggesting several items, but couldn’t come up with anything either. Just then, he remembered something.

“I do have something. Just a moment.” Matt walked into the back room where he did most of his work. He reached up on a shelf and pulled down the box, then returned to the front.

“I’d almost forgotten about this. Your grandmother came in with your mother a few months ago. She told me about a music box she’d had when she was a little girl.” He lifted the silver music box out of the box, then opened the top. The music playing was Blue Danube.

Martha sucked her breath in, then reached for the box. “Matt, it is beautiful. I’d forgotten about the story she’d told. The music box actually belonged to her mother. She told us she was supposed to have gotten the music box, but was unable to before they had to leave.”

“I had my grandmother’s music box, and your grandmother said it was just like hers. I had no trouble making this one. But, your grandmother fell shortly after that and didn’t come back in. I guess I should have brought it over to her.”

“No, don’t worry about it. This will make a perfect gift for grandmother.” She hugged it to her. “What a wonderful gift this will be.”

It was fifteen minutes later before Matt was finally able to lock the front door. He finished closing the store, then went to the back door. He glanced at his watch. It was now six thirty, and snowing hard, as he turned the light off and shut the back door. He got in the car and pulled out onto the road. If he hurried, he could still make it to the church in time to see his daughter sing in the pageant.

He turned on the radio and listened to Christmas music as he drove. The snow plows were out, but traffic was light. And the roads were a bit slick. He knew he’d have to be careful. As he drove, his mind went back to the silver music box. He smiled when he thought of what Martha’s grandmother was going to say when she opened the music box. Yes, it was the perfect gift. And, the necklace in his pocket was the perfect gift for Annie.

Matt was five minutes away from the church. He was making good time, despite the fact he could hardly see where he was going. Just then, the song ‘Oh Little Town of Bethlehem’ came on the radio. Suddenly, he saw an SUV come up quickly behind him. He had no where to go, so he sucked in his breath, waiting for the SUV to hit him, but it pulled over to go around him. He let his breath out in relief, but just as the SUV was almost around him, it began to fishtail, slamming into the front of his car. He lost control, his car spinning and sliding on the road. No matter what he did, he couldn’t get it under control. He couldn’t see where he was going. Suddenly, something large loomed in front of the car, but he couldn’t stop. The last thing he heard was a loud crash.

[This is a new story. It’s a little confusing at times. Needs more work.]

When Matt opened his eyes, it was dark. He was sitting on the ground next to a wagon. His head hurt. When he touched his head, he found a large knot in of his forehead. As he stood up, he found he was a little dizzy, so he leaned against the wagon for a few moments. He felt a broken wagon wheel next to his feet. A wagon? he wondered.

He could barely see, but ahead of him, was a town. There was a nearby bonfire, but most of the houses were dark. Just a few houses had faint lights showing in the windows. He remembered something had happened. His car, of course. His car had slid off the road and he had hit something. Maybe if I go into town I can get some help, he thought.

As he began walking he realized, he stopped. There was no snow. Something was wrong. Where am I? Suddenly, there was a bright light overhead. It lit up the area enough so he could see what was ahead of him. It was a small town, nestled near a mountainside. When he looked up, he saw a star. A very bright star. A star whose tail began lengthening towards the earth. It settled somewhere on the other side of town.

A few moments later, a group of men in robes and sandals walked quickly passed him. As he watched, he saw they were heading towards where the light had settled. Matt followed the men. The star was bright enough to clearly see the road they were on. They walked to the other side of town, stopping in front of a barn. The light of the star ended here.

“What is going on?” Matt asked the men. They turned towards him.

“You didn’t see?” one man asked.

Matt shook his head. “See what?”

“The man who talked to us.”

“No. What did he say?”

“He said the son of God had been born.”

A chill ran down Matt’s spine. “What is this town?”

“Bethlehem.”

Matt looked at the barn. He now understood. Opening the wooden door, he walked in. In silence, the other men followed him. Inside, there were wooden posts and beams. Stalls had been built in, and cattle and other animals were secured inside them. His eyes scanned the inside. A long trough ran across the back wall of the barn. There was a small trough sitting separated next to the longer one. It was filled with straw and there was a cloth laying on top. A large pile of straw was in the corner of the barn. Bags of feed were to his right in the other corner.

Behind the smaller trough was a wooden bench. Sitting on the bench was a young woman holding a baby, her husband standing next to her. They looked surprised to see the men walking in, then the woman’s face softened and she smiled. She stood up, placing her newborn baby in the makeshift cradle, then sat down again.

Matt walked up to the cradle. The baby was laying quietly, his arms stretched out, and his eyes open. He knew this just wasn’t any baby, this was the Savior. A baby so powerless now, he knew would have all power later. Without thinking, he got down on his knees, tears running down his face. Father, forgive me, he prayed. He looked up at the young mother. She smiled at him, as he stood up. He looked again at the baby. The baby was looking at him, smiling. The Savior looked at him. Feelings flooded over him. Peace, comfort. Most of all, a feeling of overpowering love.

As Matt walked back out into the night, he was numb from the feelings running through him. He now understood why he was here, and what he was supposed to learn. It brought him comfort. As he walked along the road, he pondered what he had seen and heard. Suddenly, he tripped over a broken wagon wheel, hitting his head on the wagon.

“Matt?”

Matt slowly opened his eyes, and looked into the face of his wife, Tracy. He felt his daughter’s hand in his.

“Are you alright?” Tracy asked.

“Yes. I think so.”

Tracy leaned over and kissed him. “Good to have you back,” she said.

He looked out the window of his hospital room. It was still night.

“I didn’t miss it.”

“Didn’t miss what? Annie’s concert is over.”

“I didn’t miss Christmas.”

“No, you didn’t miss it.”

Matt closed his eyes. “It was beautiful. The most beautiful scene I’ve ever seen.”

The room was quiet for a moment. Then, Annie leaned over the side rail of the bed.

“You saw the baby Jesus, didn’t you?” she asked.

He looked over at her. “Yes, I did.”

A big smile came across Annie’s face. “I prayed you’d learn the true meaning of Christmas.”

He nodded. “I sure did.” He squeezed her hand. He looked over at his wife. “I’m taking a week off from work. We are going to talk about some changes.”

Tracy shook her head. “If I’d known it was going to be that easy, I’d have hit you in the head instead of you running into that semi.”

“Is that what I hit?”

She nodded. “Yes. I don’t know what happened to change your mind, but we will talk about it.”

“Yes. You know, tonight I sold Martha Johnson a gift for her grandmother. She said it was the perfect gift. A silver music box. But, tonight, I found the perfect gift.” He looked up at Tracy. “Honey, I know I haven’t been home much lately, but that’s going to change. Tonight taught me there is only one perfect gift.”

You’ve got two stories here. One which is the storekeeper helping his friend find a gift for her mother. The other is the trip back to Bethelehem. Make them into two stories.

Watch out for passive voice. You’ve got a lot of it. Also, identify the he’s and her’s more frequently so your reader doesn’t get lost.

What I liked most: The music box part of the story.

Magazine ready? No.

“Will that be all?” Caroline asked hopefully.

“Yes!” The customer snapped—at the two sticky, whining children in her stroller.

Dang. Caroline handed the woman her receipt. “Merry Christmas.”

Paper angels fluttered on the angel tree as mother, children, and stroller whisked by.

Caroline turned resolutely back to her post. There were still customers in the bookstore, and still forty-five minutes until closing time.

“Good evening. Did you find what you needed?” she recited, sizing up the next customer.

“Yes, thank you dear.”

Polite, elderly, well-dressed—tidily dressed, Caroline corrected herself. Purchasing a dictionary and an unabridged Les Miserables. “Would you like to donate to our angel tree? Each angel shows a disadvantaged child’s Christmas book wish.”

She wasn’t supposed to solicit for the angel tree, but her boss Judy was in the storeroom, and this customer would obviously want to donate, as soon as she knew. To Ellen.

Caroline had Ellen’s paper angel ready. Ellen wanted the latest teenage paranormal romance, but Caroline had penciled in some additional ideas.

“What’s this?” The customer picked up the angel. “Ellen, age 14,” she read. “Wants…” Her voice trailed off into a frown, until she reached Caroline’s suggestions. “Oh! Pride and Prejudice! Of course!”

Of course. “There on the back wall, top shelf.” Caroline pointed. She didn’t know any more about Ellen, or the other children, than what was written on the angels, but she had imagined stories for them all. Caroline felt certain that Ellen, who’d requested Book Four in the romance series, was ready to move on to something meatier. She could always check out the romance from the library.

Caroline watched the elderly woman’s back as she hurried to Aisle 14. Was this the One? Someone had to be, and soon. She had thirty-nine minutes until closing time, and nineteen angels to go, if the nice old woman really did choose a book for Ellen.

A woman using a diaper bag for a purse—or perhaps a purse for a diaper bag—bought angel books for the three remaining toddlers on the tree. On her way out she [who?] passed the old lady, who purchased an upscale, hardcover Pride and Prejudice.

“Merry Christmas!” The lady had a nice smile, too. [which lady?]

Caroline’s reply was sincere [what reply], as she added the lovely book to her growing angel pile. But sixteen angels still remained.

“Am I too late?” A man laid a copy of Goodnight Moon on the counter.

“No. Certainly not too late.” Even before she looked at him, Caroline knew he had to be the One, whether he liked it or not. The store closed in eighteen minutes.

The Goodnight Moon man had lots of hair, white evenly mingled with darker brown [this sounds like he’s old. Two elderly people?]. His collar was frayed along the edges, but a glance at his keys revealed a new-looking key fob for a quality auto make. It might hurt a little—Caroline’s seven angel books had hurt her student budget more than a little—but she thought he’d manage.

“Goodnight Moon! That’s one of my favorites.” Caroline’s fellow English students teased her about the piles of children’s books she checked out at the library.

He nodded, green eyes softening. “Yeah. The baby’s crib is secondhand, but he really needs his own, new copy of Goodnight Moon. The other kids went through one apiece.”

Seventeen minutes left, and the One had finally arrived! Judy hurried down Aisle 12, straightening books and whistling her nearly-closing-time song. Caroline racked her brain. Even if Judy hadn’t been close enough to hear, Caroline couldn’t just suggest that this man purchase every single angel. She had to think of a way to help him figure that out for himself.

“‘Went through’?” she inquired brightly, stalling for time.

The man chuckled. “Wore ‘em right out. It’s not easy to be a favorite book in our house.”

“That’s a lot of reading.” She slowly turned the book over, praying for help. She was starting to scan the UPC when inspiration hit. “By the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off,” she murmured.

The man’s battered wallet matched his frayed collar, not his car keys. His Visa said George Schaeffer.

Now [delete] Mr. Schaeffer’s hands stopped moving. “Shoot. What’s that from?” His brow creased. “It doesn’t happen to people who break easily…something-something…all the hair’s worn off…” He looked at Caroline. “What’s that from?”

Caroline blinked innocently and made a noncommittal noise.

Judy was bending over in Aisle 11. Caroline quickly murmured, “Would you like to donate to our angel tree?” She pushed Eddie’s angel toward Mr. Schaeffer.

“‘Age seven. A book about love’,” he read, frowning.

“There are more on the tree.” She cocked her head that direction.

“Huh.” His brow wrinkled as he wandered over to the tree. “It doesn’t often happen to people with sharp edges…your eyes fall out…What is that from?”

You’re the One! Take them all! But he took only four, in addition to Eddie.

While he shopped, Caroline mentally rearranged her own budget half a dozen times, failing each time to fit in another eleven books.

He returned to the counter with four books at 9:59. “That’s about all I have time for, I guess,” he said as Judy slid the iron gate shut and lights went out in the mall. “Too bad…” He laid Eddie’s angel on the counter.

“Oh, don’t worry. No one else can come in, but we can wait until you finish.” Caroline pretended not to notice Judy’s exasperated glance. Maybe she’d be looking for a new job after Christmas vacation.

“That’s OK. I’ll try to come back tomorrow.”

“The angel tree ends tonight,” Caroline replied without looking at him.

“Oh.” Judy stepped briskly to the back of the store and turned out the lights in Nonfiction. “Hold on.” He pulled out a cell phone and stepped into Aisle 11.

Caroline’s heart sank. It hadn’t occurred to her that the One might have to consult with someone else—like his wife.

She straightened the bookmark display, trying and not trying at the same time to hear his conversation. At last he emerged again, smiling broadly. “I’m buying them all!”

“OK, sir!” She wanted to hug him around the neck, but instead she hurried out from behind the counter to help him pull the remaining angels off the tree. Judy rounded the counter with a red face, but she stopped short when she saw what they were doing.

Like most book lovers, Mr. Schaeffer had strong opinions about books. He called home to consult with his older children twice. Caroline did talk him out of Agatha Christie for Zach, who wanted a mystery, steering him instead toward The Westing Game. And Judy nearly got into an argument with him over Narnia vs. The Hobbit, for Lexie. Before long, Mr. Schaeffer had a pile of sixteen books—fifteen angels, plus his original Goodnight Moon.

“There!” he said again.

“Sir?”

Mr. Schaeffer paused while opening his wallet.

“What about Eddie?” The last paper angel lay alone on the counter.

Mr. Schaeffer and Judy let out simultaneous sighs—his troubled, hers frustrated. He picked up the angel and frowned at it. “Do you have any suggestions for ‘A book about love’?”

Caroline hadn’t had any good ideas, not ones that sounded exactly right, until tonight, so Eddie’s angel had no penciled notes. Now she knew the perfect book, but she also knew that Mr. Schaeffer had to think of it himself. “When a child loves you,” she whispered, “really loves you…”

“…then…” Mr. Schaeffer was staring toward Aisle 11, but Caroline could tell his thoughts were much farther away than that—maybe back in his own childhood. Suddenly, his eyes popped wide open. “…you are Real! That’s The Velveteen Rabbit!”

Judy hurried back to the children’s section to find the book—and turn out more lights. A minute later she brought it back.

Caroline tucked Eddie’s angel under the front cover, rang up the book, and handed it to Mr. Schaeffer.

He flipped through it, scanning text. “Here we go.” Upside down, Caroline could see a picture of the old Skin Horse talking to the Rabbit in the nursery. She nodded encouragement.

“Real isn’t how you are made,” he read, “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you…” His voice trailed off. His white hairs glinted in the darkness, and Caroline noticed that the cuffs on his shirt were frayed like the collar. “…then you become Real.” He read silently for a moment. “Once you are Real, you can’t become unreal again. It lasts for always.” He pulled out Eddie’s angel, nodding back as if it had spoken to him. The cash register blinked Christmas red in the half-light. “Yeah, it does.”

What I liked best: The idea of stretching a little to help others have a Christmas.

Magazine ready? Yes.

“They’re at it again.” Brother Fortner adjusted his royal robes and rolled his eyes.

I huffed, putting down my clipboard. “Those darn shepherds, what is it this time?”

The entire cast of almost one hundred people was shivering under their sewn up sheets at the dress rehearsal of our live nativity. This event had become a wonderful tradition for over twenty years running, and the entire town looked forward to coming on the Saturday before Christmas to watch the Mormon pageant. It was a great missionary tool, using the talents and resources from all three wards in our building. The angels sang in perfect harmony and the three kings wore lavish costumes with gifts of real myrrh and frankincense. We even had a real donkey that behaved beautifully– if only I could say the same thing about the shepherds.

In the past it had always been an ‘adults only’ experience, but for some reason this year the Bishop had gotten the idea to use the sixteen-year-old priests as shepherds. It was a huge mistake. Everyone else took their parts seriously, but the shepherds had spent most of their time joking around or pulling pranks. They had sort of devolved into their own shepherd gang with my son as the ringleader.

As I quickly rounded the corner where the boys were supposed to be waiting for their cue, I nearly fell on my face. Josh had been holding his crook out to intentionally trip me. I barely caught myself and turned to face him, “What are you thinking? This isn’t funny.”

The three other boys held in their snickers while Josh shook his head, “It wasn’t supposed to be for you. Ty had asked Bro. Fortner to come over…”

“Listen, you guys, I am serious. This play is important and I want to see you change your attitudes.”

“Mom, we don’t even want to be here. You can fire us and we won’t mind.” The other boys nodded their heads in agreement.

I looked at them and took a deep breath. “The pageant is tomorrow. Please, I beg of you, just behave for one more day.”

Ty shook his head, “This is stupid.”

“It is so sad you can’t see what we are doing here. [comma]” I said to him and then turned to all the boys. “If you try to feel the spirit of this event and remember what we are celebrating, you might get something out of this.”

I walked away feeling hopeless. When the shepherds started poking fun at the ugly doll in the manger, I let them go home early and we finished the dress rehearsal without them.

The next day the weather was not cooperating. It rained all day. The cold gray added to the dread that filled my heart every time I thought about the manger scene and those darn shepherds. As we started loading everyone in the car to head over for the performance, I cornered Josh in the garage.

“Honey, please, can you…”

“Mom, stop,” Josh shook his head. “I’m going to this stupid thing for you but the truth is I don’t even want to be part of it. All the guys feel that way.”

“But, Josh, we are celebrating Christ’s birth. This is important.”

“Is it?” My son clamped his mouth shut.

I looked at him seriously. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Josh ran his hand through his hair. “I don’t know. I guess I’m just not feeling it this year. Don’t you ever wonder if all this crap really happened or if it ‘s like some myth.”

“What are you saying?”

He shook his head, “Oh forget it. I’m doing it, aren’t I?”

My son’s words struck me with fear. He always attended church and seminary and had never mentioned doubting before. I looked at my watch and was already later than I should have been. I would have to deal with this later. Maybe this was the reason the Bishop had felt so impressed to include the boys, so I could face my son’s feelings. As I drove I said a silent prayer that somehow I could help to touch my son’s heart.

We pulled into the church parking lot as the sun was going down. With many willing hands, the costumes and makeup were complete and everyone was in place at the right time. My stomach was doing flip-flops and I wasn’t sure if it was more from the anticipation of the pageant or from my son’s words. I could see him laughing with his friends in the dim light and didn’t know what to do or say to him.

At that moment a young mother walked up to me. She held her infant in her arms. “Sister Adams? I don’t know why, but I want to ask if you would like to use my baby for the baby Jesus.”

“Usually we don’t use a real baby because of the cold and fear that they might cry.”

“I know.” The young mother bowed her head. “But are you sure? Sammy is a good baby and the night is so warm.”

She was right. I hadn’t noticed that the weather had turned. The sky was clear and I guessed it was probably in almost sixty degrees, warmer than it had been all day. Suddenly I doubted my original reaction and took the small bundle. “Thank you.”

I gave the baby to the sister portraying Mary just moments before the performance began and stood on the sidelines watching the story unfold, while the shepherds seemed oblivious to what was happening under the floodlights on the lawn before hundreds of people watching on blankets and lawn chairs.

Mary rode on the donkey with a caring Joseph. The couple were turned away over and over again until one kind innkeeper led them to the stable. There amid the animals, Mary held her new baby and laid him in a manger.

The lights cut out and suddenly a spotlight danced across the shepherds who were swaggering around at the back of the lawn. When the light shone on the angel, they pantomimed extreme shock with a comical attitude that brought chuckles from the audience. Once the full choir appeared, they stole the show by one of them full out fainting. I shook my head in frustration.

The angels finished their musical number which was beautiful and Josh stood and said, “Let us go and see where the child lay.” He said it with a flat meaningless tone that made me cringe. The boys walked in unison across the lawn as though they were in a music video, moving their shoulders and hips from side to side. I covered my face and didn’t want to look but peeked through two of my fingers.

As they came to the stable, they each looked and then did a double take. Josh fell to his knees, followed by his friends. They bowed their heads in rapt silence and the angels began to sing. I lowered my hands and felt the Spirit fill my heart. The sudden change seemed to affect the entire audience and the power of that scene made the reality of Christ’s birth and life once again shine in my heart.

The pageant ended and people flocked forward to congratulate everyone in the cast. Many said it was the best one we had done and more than one person mentioned the shepherds and how they had been so touched by their performance.

Late that night I finally got in the car where Josh was waiting for me. Before I turned the key in the ignition, he reached out and touched my arm. “Mom?”

“Yes.” I turned to him and couldn’t read the look on his face.

“That was awesome.”

“You did an incredible job, by the way. When you knelt before the manger, people said they felt like they were there. I never knew what an incredible actor you were.”

“I wasn’t acting.” Josh swallowed. “No one told me it was a real baby. I was expecting that dumb doll. When I walked up and saw the real baby- it totally caught me off guard and I fell to the ground. I realized that was how I was looking at the church. I was thinking it was something plastic and fake, not real. As I looked at the baby, I knew there was a real baby in Bethlehem all those years ago. There was a real Christ who died for me. It is real, you know?”

I looked at my teenage son smiling, “I know.”

What I liked best: Everything. This one makes me cry every single time I read it. It’s perfect. I can’t find a single negative thing to say about it.

Magazine ready? Absolutely! It would be the lead story.

It was the 24th of December. Black clouds, undoubtedly carrying tomorrow’s dream of a White [not capitalized] Christmas hung low in the sky. On my way to pick up a lay away [lay-a-way] I gazed across four lanes of traffic and noticed the store parking lot packed to overflowing still trying to accommodate dozens of additional cars swarming around a few empty spaces like honey bee’s [no apostrophe] around their hive. Without hesitation I took an open spot on the street and gladly walked the extra block to the entrance.

Inside a frantic crowd of last minute shoppers mirroring the vehicular mayhem in the parking lot outside jammed every isle. Standing tall, I boldly began to pick my way through the maze of harried customers angling for the lay away desk at the back. As the desk came into view I noticed two lines one moving and one not moving. Obviously, I took a place in the line that was moving and was soon at the cash register.

“Wow, that was fast”, [comma inside quote] I remarked to the young clerk behind the register.

She smiled curtly and asked for my lay away card in a distinctly mechanical manner. I obligingly handed over the card and a $20.00 bill. She raced through a practiced routine pushing several buttons then announced in a disinterested flat tone, “that’ll [capitalize] be $17.79″. I smiled and pointed out that she already had my $20 bill in her hand. As if on auto pilot, she pushed several more buttons then dropped some change, my card and a cash register receipt that had THANK YOU, PLEASE COME AGAIN printed across the top into my extended hand. I smiled and she excused me with “step to the line to the left; Next?”

I turned around in search of the end of the line to the left which wound around women’s apparel, through the toy department and ended in sporting goods. A bit dejected, I took a spot at the end of the line, adjusted my hips and proceeded to wait.

After a reasonable 20 minute wait, I inquired of those in front of me how long they had been in line. One person said she had been in line for about half an hour. Another said he had been there over an hour. Soon the entire line was engaged in a lively conversation consisting of hours and minutes expressions [awkward]. As the odd conversation subsided, a person several spaces ahead turned around and offered, “I heard that the person who just got to [at] the front of the line has been here since the store opened this morning a 7am [at 7:00 a.m.]”.

“7:00 am”, I mumbled in disbelief. I left my coveted last place in line and walked up to the lady at the front and casually ventured,
[move to previous paragraph]
“…so I heard you came in six hours ago…” [No ellipses here. “So, I heard you came in six hours ago?”]

“Yup”, was her disinterested reply.

“…and you paid for your lay away…”

“Yup.”

“…and you’ve been waiting in this line ever since…”

“And still haven’t gotten my lay away”, she added very matter-of-factly completing my obvious question.

I expected some additional verbal banter from the lady and when none came I wandered back to my spot in sporting goods, set my hips and continued to wait.

For the next 45 minutes I watched the mechanical clerk at the cash register take in a small fortune in admission fee’s [no apostrophe; plural, not possessive] to the line to the left which had now extended beyond sporting goods into home improvement. While the clerk took in cash several store employees walked by and engaged her in casual conversation. Numerous calls for ‘help in the lay away department’ were announced over the intercom. But the line to the left refused to move and just grew longer.

A very frumpy looking store manager dressed in a dingy white shirt, crooked tie and baggy trousers appeared from a room behind the clerk and asked how things were going.

“Fine, I guess”, she said in her flat absent tone. “We do need to start retrieving again though, I guess. The line is getting pretty long.”

The manager eyed the long line, shook [nodded] his head in agreement then walked over to a popcorn machine on the candy isle and watched the freshly popped kernels fall into a big tub. Obviously no help was coming soon.

My patience, like the heated popcorn corn kernels, then burst without warning. I stormed up to a silver swinging door just beyond the lady at the front of the line and cautiously eased through to the other side. On the other side, a wooden staircase lead [led] up to a crudely built loft lined with plywood shelves, loaded down with hundreds of shopping bags. With my destination easily marked, I began to quietly climb the stairs. I was about half way up when the mechanical clerk surprised me by actually yelling, “Hey; [comma] what do you think you’re doing?”

Turning, I calmly replied, “I thought I would help you out by getting my own lay away”.

“Well, you can’t do that,“ she said, her concern increasing. “Only store staff can retrieve your lay away”.

“Unfortunately,“ I reacted with a chuckle and a smile, “I bought these gifts for Christmas this year not for next year”.

It was obvious from her irritated look that I was not winning her over with my charm and humor. After a quick standoff marked by narrowed eyes and a deep sigh from the clerk, I shrugged my shoulders and continued up the stairs. By the time I was at the top of the stairs the clerk was frantically yelling into the intercom phone, “security to lay away, security to lay away”.

I figured it wouldn’t take long before my chance to retrieve my packages was over so I started jogging down the center isle of the loft. Not to my surprise, store security turned out to be the frumpy manager with the popcorn fetish [not the right word]. He scurried up the stairs as I was jogging past the rows of package laden shelves.

“You know,“ he said in a labored voice, “you can’t come back here.”

“I didn’t see any signs telling me to specifically not come back here,“ I said. “I got to thinking that maybe Lay Away is self service.”

Like the mechanical clerk, the manager didn’t like my humor. He motioned for me to follow him back down the stairs.

“Unfortunately,“ I replied, “I can’t. [can’t what?] “I am not prepared to spend the night”.

“You know there are others who’ve been in line long before you got here,“ the manager snorted, “you [capitalize] could be more considerate of their feelings“.

“You’ve got to be kidding?”, I shot back.

“Lt is our busy season, and the law says I have to provide lunch breaks to employees“.

“Yea, and I hear that the popcorn diet is real effective for the manager on the move“, I added pointing to a popcorn kernel stuck to his tie.

The manager pushed me towards the silver door and said he would get some help. I watched him slide behind the mechanical clerk at the cash register pointing my way with his finger.

“Nice try“, the lady at the front of the line said.

“Oh I am not done yet,“ I replied with raised eyes. “If I don’t see this line moving in a few minutes I am going to get really ugly.”

I sauntered back to my place now in men’s wear and began to count backwards from 500. Soon an overdressed security guard passed by to receive orders from the manager. With their command session complete, the manager stared me down on his way back to the popcorn machine. When I reach one, I left my place in line and headed for the silver door again.

My second attempt at freeing my packages was easier than my first. The clerk was so busy mechanically taking admissions for the line to the left that she didn’t see me sneak through the silver door. The security guard was so busy watching the clerk he had no idea I was on the stairs. And I can only assume that the manager was so mesmerized by the popcorn machine he hadn’t noticed I was no longer in line.

I got to the platform without interruption and raced down the center isle looking for the shelf with my package. I was at more than half way across the loft when the security guard yelled in gruff security guy language, “Hey you“.

I glanced over my shoulder once then resumed scanning for my shelf. As expected, the manager came huffing and puffing around the security guard demanding to know why I was disobeying his instructions.

“I told you to be patient and I would get this problem resolved“, he barked.

Turing I answered very methodically, “look [capitalize], I paid your clerk at the cash register almost 3 hours ago for my packages and it is clear that you aren’t going to get things moving. I am pretty sure my packages are right there,“ I said pointing to the first shelf at my right. “If you let me get my packages, the line to the left will have one less person in it and you can go back to managing your lay away problem from the popcorn machine”.

My intelligence did not impress the manager or the security guard, although the mechanical clerk now standing at the bottom of the stairs was snickering at my managing from the popcorn machine remark.

Hiking up his trousers the manager authoritatively announced, “you [capitalize] will have to leave or I will call the police“.

With out hesitation I quickly replied, “not if I call them first”.

The manager brushed popcorn residue from his mouth. “Why would you call the police first”, [?”] he asked confused“? [.]

“This receipt says I bought and paid for $135.00 dollars worth of merchandise from your store and that you will surrender said merchandise when paid in full. Since I paid my bill in full over three hours ago I can only assume that you are holding my packages hostage. So, I demand that you surrender my goods at once or I will call the police“!

The manager and the security guard were taken back [aback] by my logic and didn’t immediately respond. By this time a small crowd of folks from the line to the left had taken positions at the bottom of the stairs behind the mechanical clerk.

“I think he’s right, [.] I’m going to call the police to” [, too,”] a customer yelled.

Another person started chanting ‘free [, “Free] our gifts, free our gifts’. Soon, others joined in the chant. It didn’t take long before the customers waiting in line to the left were all joining in.

After an exceptionally menacing exchange of dirty looks, the manager grabbed my ticket, retrieved my package and seething with disdain said, “Leave. Now“.

I smiled as the chanting grew louder. “Not so fast,“ I said coyly, [said. “] I can’t leave my supporters sitting in the lurch. Why don’t you and Deputy Fife there take a minute and pull some more packages“. [?”]

The crowd was electrified. The manager was soundly licked. He looked over his shoulder and barked for the security guard and the mechanical clerk to gather receipts. The chanting turned to a full scale stadium roar.

Moments later as I was loading my packages into my car, people driving by honked and waved. I felt pretty good. Winning on the holiday field of battle with a crowd of worthy shoppers was indeed satisfying. As I pulled away from the curb the radio began to play, ‘Santa Claus is coming to town’ [“Santa Claus is Coming to Town”] and I smiled hoping he would judge my recent antics as nice and not naughty.

Brush up on your grammar and punctuation rules. Punch up the humor. It gets a little confusing trying to imagine where things are here. You mention stairs and a silver door sometimes, and just the door at other times. Be very clear about place descriptions. Also, is this a man or a woman? I suppose it doesn’t matter, but readers usually like to know. I’d like to see more interaction with those around him/her in the line. Also a little more contrast between expected Christmas cheer and the reality of the store.

What I liked best: We’ve all been there. Good to see someone finally doing what we all wish we had the nerve to do. I also like the last paragraph, bringing Santa in.

Magazine ready? No. Needs some work. FYI, an editor would reject this after the first few paragraphs. It needs too much clean up work. They don’t have time to sit and correct for you, like I did.

“Children, today is the first of December. What wonderful holiday is coming up?” Shayna asked her first grade students.

“Hanukah! Kwanza! Christmas!” the children shouted.

“And what do all of these holidays have in common?” she bit her lip, hoping for a good response.

Nathan raised his hand as high as he could. Waving it so hard he kept hitting Daniel on the head [why? insert where Daniel is in relation to Nathan so that this makes sense]. “Nathan, what?”

“Presents!” he said, exposing his missing front tooth with a proud grin. As soon as the word hit the air, all the other children latched agreed.

She [who? Need to identify] walked over to the dusty chalkboard. “Class, today we are going to make a wish list. I want everyone to think very seriously about what they want for the upcoming holiday. Then we will go around the room and write or draw it on the board.”

Keisha threw her hand in the air while calling out, “Miss Wright, can it be anything? Anything in the world?”

“Well, what do you think, class?”

Suddenly Brian raised his hand. Shayna remembered meeting Brian’s haggard mother for the first time at parent-teacher conference a few months ago with a child on her hip, two in the stroller and another son ready to start kindergarten. The young teacher knew right away that they must be Mormon. Since moving away from Utah, Shayna had yet to look up where the church building was. This was her second year teaching and she was amazed how easy it was to let go of that part of her life.

Brian looked very serious, “I think we should only write what we really need, Miss Wright.”

“That is a great idea. There are things that each of us need.” She looked at the cruise tickets sitting on her desk. There was no doubt in her mind that she needed this vacation, but why was her mother making such a big deal of her not coming home for Christmas? Her mom had called over a dozen times, since she had found out. Finally, Shayna had hung up on her. Why couldn’t her mother understand?

“You know, maybe if we wish hard enough,” the young teacher added, “we will get what we want.”

They went around the room with each child taking turns writing and drawing his wish, which included various games and game systems, sports equipment and a new Plasma TV with HD. Then it was little Brian’s turn. He wrote the word “suit” and sat down.

Daniel yelled, “What kind of suit? A spaceman suit?”

Brian passed the chalk to his neighbor, “No, a suit for church.”

Riley crinkled up his nose, “Like with a tie? Why would you want that?”

“Well, my dad wears one, the missionaries wear one and the boys who pass the sacrament. I only have plain pants and I want to be like them.”

His answer was lost to the other children, but Shayna heard every word. It tugged at her heart. She envisioned this little boy going to church on Sunday, wanting so badly to have a nice suit and having to wear hand-me-downs from the thrift store. As the class lined up for lunch, Shayna knew what she had to do. Even though she wasn’t going to church anymore, there was something she could do to make this Christmas special for him. She could make this boy’s Christmas wish come true.

The next two weeks whizzed by in a flurry of excitement. Shayna went to the teacher’s lounge during lunch and told the sad story of the little boy whose only wish for Christmas was clothes to wear to church. She told about his poor family that barely had enough money to put food on the table. [How does she know this?]

The kindergarten teacher who taught Brian’s younger brother listened in fascination and her mouth dropped open, “I never would have guessed it. They put up such a good front, but he does bring his lunch and often has leftovers- how sad!”

On the last day of school before Christmas vacation, everything was finally ready. Shayna proudly licked the envelope containing a check for $1250, money from the teachers’ own pockets. Looking at the huge pile of gifts waiting behind her desk, Shayna hugged herself. This was the true meaning of Christmas, the essence of giving, she thought.

At precisely three o’clock a stylish lady stuck her head in the door. Her brown hair was in a sporty cut and she wore a smart tan jacket with straight jeans and neat leather shoes. “Can I help you?” Shayna asked.

“Hi, I’m Amy Pratt, Brian’s mom.”

This wasn’t the over-stressed housewife she had remembered meeting. Unsure of herself, Shayna went behind the desk to her place of safety and invited the woman to sit.

Amy sat and smiled softly, eager to find out the reason for the visit, “Is anything wrong?” she asked.

Trying to sound as professional as possible, Shayna began, “Mrs. Pratt, recently we had an activity where children were asked what they wanted for Christmas and Brian’s answer had us a little concerned.”

“Really?” the mother pulled up to the edge of her seat.

“He said he wanted a suit to wear on Sunday. So we started…”

The mother’s eyes glistened with tears, “That is so sweet. What a great guy he is.” She beamed at the thought of her son.

Shayna tried to continue, “Yes, we thought so too, so we decided to take up a…”

“No, you see,” she lifted her hand to explain, “about three weeks ago I found this wonderful suit that seemed just Brian’s size at the thrift shop in town. It looked like it had never been worn. That boy is so hard to fit, being so small, and they won’t take anything back. I mean, the suit was thirty five dollars. So I blindfolded him and had him try it on. I knew he knew what it was, but at least the color would be a surprise for Christmas.”

Shayna was frustrated. Nothing was going as planned, “Then why would he have said he wanted a suit if he knew he was getting one?” she snapped.

The mother shook her head, obviously proud of her oldest boy, “Because, we’ve taught our children that they should want most what they already have. Our focus should be on the blessings around us, not beyond them. I know it may sound funny to you, but I have very strong feelings about this. I mean, we could afford a new car, but why would we when the one we own fits our family and is paid for. I probably lecture the children too much about it, but I get so tired of children wanting and wanting things they don’t need or shouldn’t even have. Our focus needs to be more on giving, especially at this time of year, don’t you think?”

An expression of sheer joy bubbled from the mother’s lips again, “I can’t believe that Brian totally gets it. Isn’t it awesome when one of them actually listens to you?”

Shayna stood up defensively, feeling like her Christmas surprise was completely ruined, “Well, we started a collection for your family- and I can’t give it to anyone else.” She pushed the envelope toward the young mother angrily who stared at it in surprise and then looked at her son’s teacher across the table with kindness.

“Thank you, I’m so sorry about the misunderstanding.”

“That’s fine… and we have these,” Shayna couldn’t understand why her eyes were edging with tears of disappointment as she handed the packages to this woman who was trying her best to be gracious but obviously wasn’t in need at all. Stiffening her jaw, Shayna decided she would just go through the motions and get this over with- there was no way she could back out now.

She helped the mother carry the mound of packages to her van and after closing the door, the woman turned around, “The children will love these things. Thank you. It must have taken a lot of your time and energy to do this. What a wonderful gift. It means a lot to me that you would make such a remarkable effort for one of your students. I am really grateful that Brian has you as his teacher.”

Shayna looked in this woman’s eyes and saw sincere gratitude. This was not how it was supposed to be, she was supposed to be thrilled to get the presents. The gifts were supposed to change their whole Christmas. Instead, it wasn’t even the gifts she cared about, but the fact that her son’s teacher had spent her personal time thinking about him.

As the mother got in her dented van and pulled away, she waved out her open window and shouted happily, “Merry Christmas.”

Shayna looked at the scene with new eyes. This woman wasn’t forced to drive that car; it was a choice- a gift, in a way. Walking back through the hall alone, Shayna felt confused. Christmas was supposed to be about cool presents, incredible surprises, just plain fun, and, well, wanting stuff, wasn’t it? But what had made the last two weeks so wonderful was the hope of giving something important, something that mattered. She had looked forward to telling all the other teachers the happy ending, but what would she say now that it was all a stupid mistake?

Looking around the empty room, Shayna shuddered. She felt cold and alone. She had a nagging suspicion that she was missing something, but she knew if she let the idea in that it would change everything. Why couldn’t Christmas just be fun? Why couldn’t she do what she wanted without feeling guilty?

As she turned to reach for her coat, Shayna caught sight of a little card on the edge of her desk where Mrs. Pratt had been sitting. Curiously, she ripped open the envelope and held the card in her hand.

It was a picture of a beautiful baby Jesus in the manger, staring warmly at her. She laughed to herself as she remembered the wild nativity plays her family used to put on with her dad as the donkey, wearing construction paper ears taped to a baseball cap. She thought about going to Temple Square at Christmas and feeling the Spirit of that sacred place. Then she thought of rounding the stairs at the visitor’s center and walking up to the large white statue of the Savior and knowing he was real. He was born in Bethlehem and died for our mistakes. And Christmas was His birthday. This was the real story of Christmas, not the silly story she had made up about little Brian’s family.

She opened the card and the message read, “What will you give Him?” Inside was a snapshot of the Pratt family wrestling around on a bright green lawn in a pretzel of arms, legs and smiles. For a long time she stood there in silence, and somewhere in the silence her guilt melted away as a feeling of peace gently spread over her. She knew she wanted to give Him- something real.

The tinny sound of “Jingle bells” pulled her from her thoughts and she looked at her cell phone. It was her mother, again. Well, she thought, this would be a good start.

“Mom, I changed my mind. I’m coming home for Christmas.”

We need some explanation of why Shayna jumps to the conclusion that Brian’s family is in such need. A boy wanting a suit doesn’t seem to be quite enough to me. Also, why such a difference in the way the mother looked before and now? Need some type of explanation. And I’m a little confused about the mother just taking the stuff and saying thank you. I’d rather see her involve Shayna in giving it to others who needed it more? Or something.

What I liked best: With the exception of the few wholes pointed out above, the story is told fairly well. I like the twist that the family doesn’t really need the money or gifts.

Magazine ready? Not quite.