The Joy of Christmas Page 5

  Darren had been deployed to Saudi Arabia for Desert Shield that August; but we knew from his letters that the 82nd was preparing to go into Iraq at any time. The thought was frightening!

  My husband and kids were there when I returned from picking up the mail. We opened the package and discovered, to our delight, that it contained a Christmas video recorded by Darren as part of the USO’s “Better than a Letter” project.

  Attached to the video, was this beautiful handwritten letter dated December 4th:

  Dear Mrs. Pullen,

  Greetings from Saudi Arabia. This is John, Darren’s squad leader, with a gift for you. Inside is a VHS tape that Darren made last night. The reason I am sending it is because Darren is getting some eyeglasses made. You will understand why when you see the tape. I don’t know when he will be back so I’m making sure that it is sent out with the rest of the tapes.

  This also gives me the opportunity to say thanks for all you have done. People like you and your family make all of us service personnel proud to be Americans. You have done a fantastic job raising Darren and I count him as one of my best troops and a friend.

  If it does come to war over here you can rest assured that I will take care of him. Heck, without him we wouldn’t get those great cookies. As a squad leader I know how to take care of valuable assets like that.

  Well, Mrs. Pullen, it’s time for some Army training. Enjoy the tape and have a Merry Christmas.

  Sincerely,

  John F.

  Our hearts were full before we even began to watch the tape. What a blessing to have our son serving with such awesome fellow soldiers. I knew I’d never forget John’s comforting words.

  As my husband placed the tape in the VCR, we gathered close to the TV to see Darren for the first time in nearly a year.

  I didn’t make it much past “Hi, Mom,” before the tears were flowing. I never knew that a video could be so heartwarming and so heartbreaking at the same time.

  Not many people owned video cameras back then, so having the opportunity to actually see and hear our son was extraordinary. Today it is commonplace for families to see their soldiers no matter where they are in the world.

  We immediately noticed why Darren needed new glasses; his thick, black-horned-rimmed BCGs, or Birth Control Glasses (as the soldiers called them), were held together with duct tape, making them even more unattractive. But, to our eyes, he still looked extremely handsome in his combat fatigues, heavy boots, and desert tan.

  Darren began by wishing us a Merry Christmas, and then addressed each member of the family with a special message:

  “Mom, your poem was great, but it really made me sad. Please keep sending cookies; they are a hit with all the guys.

  “Your letter was hilarious, Dad. Your spelling was pretty good, too.

  “Timmy and Elijah, thank you for the drawings, they make me so happy; and be good for your mommy.” That was for his three- and five-year-old nephews.

  “Sis, the guys love the pictures you send; but I’ll have to talk to you when I get home about showing too much leg.” He chuckled.

  “I’ve been working out, Tim; I’m catching up with you.” He smiled, showing off his biceps for his older brother.

  “I miss you so much, Granny!”

  He went on to mention each of his siblings and asked us to pass on his wishes for a Merry Christmas to extended family and friends.

  Our twenty-one-year old son had grown up out there in the desert. He spoke purposefully, choosing his words carefully, and taking time to organize his thoughts prior to changing topics.

  He said it was difficult to believe they’d been there four months already, and that he had no idea when they’d be coming home. He was happy that new tents had arrived that day, and said they’d be spending both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day on guard duty.

  “We’ve been training hard, but in our limited free time, we play basketball in the sand with our makeshift hoops, and write lots of letters back home. I love you all; it’s real sad talking to you like this.” Ironically, the thirty-minute tape ran out just as he finished his sentence.

  I think everyone agreed that Darren’s video was the very best Christmas present we received that year.

  In February 1991 the 82nd Airborne Division paratroopers went into Iraq. Thankfully, the war was over quickly; and after the liberation of Kuwait, the 82nd began its redeployment back to Fort Bragg.

  Now it’s twenty-five years later, and we sit down to watch the video once again on Christmas, blessed to be joined by Darren’s sons Nathan and Andrew, who are home on leave from the U.S. Army.

  Both boys were born after Darren was honorably discharged from the military, and this will be their first time seeing the video. Although I’m pretty sure they’ve heard all about their dad’s army adventures, it should be fun for them to watch.

  John’s letter is still with the tape, so I pass it over to the boys and Darren to read as I turn on the VCR player.

  “He was such a great guy,” Darren says, as he recalls his squad leader John. “He really did love your cookies, Mom.”

  The thirty-minute tape seems to go by quickly as everyone laughs at Darren’s glasses and talks about how much the military has changed over the years. But, the boys look so much like their dad in their fatigues that the resemblance is almost uncanny. They thoroughly enjoy watching the video, and my heart is warmed by the sight of the three of them sitting on the couch together.

  I look around the room at all the kids and grandkids and I’m reminded that we have so much for which to be grateful, not the least of which is Darren’s Christmas video.

  ~Connie Kaseweter Pullen

  Labor of Love

  If the relationship of father to son could really be reduced to biology, the whole earth would blaze with the glory of fathers and sons.

  ~James Baldwin

  Farm chores were as predictable as the sun rising and setting each day. The cows were cared for and milked by my husband and his brother seven days a week, regardless of holiday festivities. There was no sleeping in for them, even on holidays.

  Then our fourteen-year-old twins came up with a stellar idea. They decided to surprise their dad and uncle with the gift of sleeping in on Christmas Day. Bruce and Blaine recruited their little brother Steve and their cousin Jon to become members of this loving conspiracy. Nearly every day since they were little, they had helped with both morning and evening chores — feeding calves from a suckle bucket, separating the hay bales into chunks, washing udders, and scraping down the walkway; therefore, they knew what needed to be done.

  After finishing Christmas Eve supper, the boys feigned sleepiness, changed into their pajamas and brushed their teeth with no prodding. Without the usual protests, they disappeared upstairs for bed.

  “I’m surprised the boys are ready for bed so early,” my husband remarked.

  “Oh, they played hard in the snow today, up and down the hills on the toboggan,” I replied, fluffing up the sofa pillows to avoid looking into his eyes. “Let’s enjoy the peace and quiet for a change.”

  After cleaning up the kitchen, we cuddled on the sofa with our Siamese cat curled up by my side, his purr motor on high volume. While we gazed at the glittering Christmas tree, Bing Crosby crooned “White Christmas” from a record on the stereo.

  Upstairs, the boys set the alarm clocks in their bedrooms for an early rising, closing their doors to muffle the sound.

  Sworn to secrecy, my sister-in-law and I made certain we did not set the alarm clocks for our husbands.

  Long before daylight, the boys tiptoed down the stairs, donned heavy outerwear and sneaked out of the house. The icy slap of Minnesota wind greeted them as they raced on the crunchy snow to the warmth of the barn.

  They found forty cows lowing for their breakfast, calves out-bawling one another for attention, the heavy scent of bovine breath and overnight manure — inspiration for the boys to shift into high gear, determined to finish the milking, feeding, and barn
cleaning before their dad and uncle awakened. Jon and little Steve did their part by feeding calves, running errands, and taking direction from Bruce and Blaine, who assumed the role of elders.

  “Jon, you climb up in the haymow and toss down the bales for later,” ordered Blaine. “I’ll get going with the silage.”

  Bruce called to Steve, “Come with me and we’ll start washing udders. Bring the balm with you.”

  Trying not to show his fear, Steve crouched by the first cow and did as he was told. They soon had the milkers attached to the first cows, and the pipeline throbbed with warm milk streaming into the bulk tank.

  “Jon, it’s time to put a scoop of ground feed on top of the silage,” said Blaine.

  Back in the warm, quiet house, I quietly sneaked out of bed without disturbing my snoring husband. Wrapping my robe around me, I groped my way out of the bedroom in the dark and headed to the kitchen to begin breakfast preparations for the boys. As I stirred the pancake batter and started the bacon sizzling in the fry pan, a sense of pride and joy washed over me as dawn crept over the eastern horizon, bathing the sky in glorious hues. I breathed a prayer that the new heifer, Trudy, wouldn’t cause any trouble.

  Suddenly Bruce was back in the house, changing into his dad’s jacket and cap. “No time to talk now, Mom,” he whispered. “I’ll explain later.”

  Back in the barn, he sidled up to high-strung Trudy, lowered his voice and stroked her flank.

  “Easy now, Bossie, take it easy, take it easy,” he murmured. Fooled by the disguise, Trudy settled down and stood still to have her udder washed and the milker apparatus attached.

  In record time, they finished up — sweet-smelling straw fluffed under the forty cows and in the calf pens for fresh bedding; the milking equipment washed, disinfected, and hung to dry in the milk house.

  By 8:00 a.m. the boys raucously bounded into the house, shouting and laughing. Startled awake by the commotion, their dad stumbled over the cat as he emerged from the bedroom.

  “What’s going on? What time is it?” he moaned. “I must have overslept!”

  “Merry Christmas, Dad! Surprise!” they yelled, smiling ear to ear, as they threw their arms around their dad. “Yes, you did oversleep, but the chores are all done! We love you, Dad! Merry Christmas!”

  A similar exchange was taking place at the house next door between their uncle and cousin.

  Our sons and nephew continued this Christmas morning labor of love throughout their high school and college years. We no longer farm, my husband has passed away, and the boys are now middle-aged with sons of their own. They often reminisce about the special gift they gave for so many years and of the joy their kind deed brought to their dad and to them. Given with love and paid for with effort, this gift meant more to my husband than anything money could buy.

  ~Margaret M. Marty

  My Crazy Dad

  I believe that what we become depends on what our fathers teach us at odd moments, when they aren’t trying to teach us. We are formed by little scraps of wisdom.

  ~Umberto Eco

  I thought my dad had lost his mind. Night after night he asked me to look at the angel on the top of our Christmas tree. She wore a little gold net skirt and she was pretty, but we had bought her a long time ago. She was old news.

  “Isn’t she pretty, Donna?”

  “Sure, Daddy, it’s the same angel we’ve had for years.”

  I was an eighteen-year-old college freshman and I knew my dad was ancient, being in his mid-forties. He was definitely losing it.

  There were still two weeks until Christmas, and he was pointing out the angel to me almost every day.

  The Sunday before Christmas I found my dad sitting on the couch looking up at that angel again. He smiled at me and pointed toward the angel again. What in the world was going on with this man?

  Finally, it was Christmas morning. Dad was still talking about our beautiful Christmas angel. We opened our gifts and then Daddy brought out the camera and a chair.

  “Donna, come over and stand on this chair,” he said. “I want to take your picture next to the angel.” Now I knew he was out of his mind.

  “Go ahead, Donna,” my mother whispered. Did I have to worry about her state of mind, too?

  I stood on the chair and turned toward the cheap little angel made in China — obeying my “aging” parents.

  And then I saw them — diamond studs inserted into the angel’s skirt. My dad had wanted me to find them early because he was so excited. I felt like such a brat to have doubted him.

  I miss my dad. He’s been gone thirteen years now and one of the earrings has gone missing, too, but that warm feeling of being loved will never go away. I’ll never forget how cute he was that Christmas when he was so excited and proud to give me those diamond earrings.

  ~Donna Van Cleve Schleif

  Gifts of Hope

  The wings of hope carry us, soaring high above the driving winds of life.

  ~Ana Jacob

  The doctor stared into my eyes, “I’m sorry,” he said. “Your condition is permanent.” I should have felt shock, disbelief or even sadness. But I felt nothing. I was already numb; he had only confirmed what I suspected to be true. Pain and disfigurement would be my constant companions for the rest of my life. An unexpected illness had taken its toll, leaving in its wake a broken, insecure person who just wanted to be herself again.

  “If you need anything, just let me know,” dozens of kind people offered. My answer was always the same — a small smile and a thank you, but I would never ask them for help. Somehow that would have been admitting I was weak and that I couldn’t handle life.

  With each passing month, I felt myself sinking a little deeper. No one knew the dark place I was in. I put on a good face, never letting on how much this illness had cost me. I had lost hope, and a life without those four small letters became very bleak indeed.

  One morning, a couple weeks before Christmas, I opened my front door to a bright colored bag sitting on my porch. “How sweet,” I thought. “One of my neighbors must have left some holiday goodies for my kids.”

  I picked up the bag and was shocked to see that it was addressed to me.

  I’ll admit, I felt a small thrill that someone had left me a gift. My kids received presents and trinkets all the time. A trip to the dentist meant balloons and digging in the treasure box; birthday parties yielded bags of goodies. But as an adult, I had learned not to expect happy surprises. Magic was for the children.

  That gift tag even had a poem on it:

  On the first day of Christmas,

  We’ve often heard it said,

  It’s nice to give your friends

  A box of candy with a bow of red.

  The bag contained a box of chocolates tied with a red bow. I stood there staring in disbelief. Someone had done this for me. I wondered: if this was the first day of Christmas, would there be a second? The next morning I woke feeling a bit lighter as I raced to the front door to find another package waiting.

  On the second day of Christmas

  Some stickers and sticky tape,

  To help you wrap the presents

  To be opened Christmas Day.

  And on it went for twelve days. Candles, tissue paper, candy, soda, fancy pens, gum… each wrapped present with a tag containing a poem. So many wonderful things that brightened each day, reminding me that someone cared enough about me to make the effort to shop for gifts, wrap them up, write gift tags, and place them on my front steps in the middle of the night for two weeks.

  I asked every one I knew about this mysterious gift-giver. I would tell them the story about the lovely packages arriving on my porch. “Is it you?” I would ask, hopeful that I could discover the identity of this secret angel. As much as they wished it had been their idea, it never was.

  As I opened each gift, I found something in those bags that the sender never knew he or she had left at my front door. They were gifts of hope. Hope that there was still goodness in thi
s world. Belief that people still cared. And the realization that I was wrong to have given up on myself.

  One of the clues mentioned there would be twelve days, so it was bittersweet to open the last. It had given me something to look forward to each morning. With a grateful heart, I silently thanked this elusive person who had brought me so much joy. I didn’t even think to check the porch the next morning. To my surprise, later that day I found yet another gift waiting.

  Yesterday was the last day of surprises,

  But here is a little hint.

  Can you guess who’s responsible

  For this stuff being sent?

  I would finally know the identity of my secret Santa! Slowly unwrapping the tissue paper, I savored the last gift from this kind friend. I pulled out a sparkly ornament in the shape of a red bicycle.

  But that didn’t help. I searched to the farthest recesses of my mind for someone relating to this red bicycle, but came up completely empty. I tried a play on words, rhyming, analogies. . . nothing. I had absolutely no idea. Years later, I am no closer to learning its origins than I was on that first day when I held that red bicycle in my hands for hours.

  Perhaps never finding out the giver’s identity made it all the more special. It taught me the meaning of true kindness. It was the people that didn’t ask, but just did, who touched me the most. A card to let me know a friend was thinking about me. A meal that unexpectedly showed up at my door. A gift basket after a surgery that I told no one about. Like the gifts on my porch, those acts of kindness stayed with me and showed me how to be a blessing to others.

  I decided to banish these words from my vocabulary: “If you need anything, just let me know” Instead, I would give my friends who were facing a rough situation a small pick-me-up. A book, a candle, a card, a sweet treat, a handwritten note — the options were endless.

  Even though I pick out something I think they might enjoy, I’ve discovered that what’s inside the bag doesn’t really matter. It’s the hope that I offer that makes a difference. I want my friends to know that despite their troubles, life can still be good.