Life is Like a Lengthy Road Trip

 I hope everyone had an enjoyable holiday season. I know I did.

My husband and I traveled more over the holidays than we have traveled in ages, spending over two weeks driving and flying from destination to destination. The trip was necessary, occasionally fun, every so often difficult, but definitely worth it. During the last two weeks of December, 2023, we were able to attend one son’s college graduation at Brigham Young University-Idaho as well as participate in three separate Christmas celebrations with family members. 

The last leg of our trip found my husband and I coughing, sneezing, and wheezing due to illness—not a pleasant occurrence because the virus plagued us for over a week afterwards (we have reached the productive coughing stage.) The trip, however, was still absolutely worthwhile.

While driving from Oklahoma to Tennessee to reach our little two-bedroom apartment we presently reside in, I was telling my husband that I felt our trip was a mini model of life. The whole trip was too short in some ways, yet it felt exceptionally long in other ways. We were able to spend precious moments with family members—talking, relaxing, and celebrating. I felt appreciation for the relationships I have with family and friends. We caught up on personal news, feasted on delicious dinners, and hugged each other a lot. There were difficult and disappointing moments too. For instance, I got sick with food poisoning which put me down for a couple of days (an awful way to clean out your system.) My husband felt the onset of cold symptoms on Christmas day; I was right behind him two days later. Luckily, no one else caught the virus, so we managed not to share it. There were other good points and difficult points about the trip. The airports and flights were great. The driving conditions and roads were clear—exceptional conditions for winter months in the Pacific Northwest. There was too much driving overall: one trip from Salt Lake City, Utah to Rexburg, Idaho and then back; one trip from Salt Lake City, Utah to Central Washington and then back; and one trip from Oklahoma to Tennessee. That was about 2,700 miles driven! Not to mention the two plane rides. Yes, the traveling was tiring.

 

The interesting thing to me is how both good and unpleasant moments comprised the trip. We experienced the greatest days as well as miserable days. If I wanted, I could list an abundance of blessings we received, while on the other hand I could list an abundance of hard disappointments. That is why I say it was like a mini model of life. The trick was deciding where to concentrate our attention. If I focused on the food poisoning, the many hours of driving, the friends I was unable to visit, the small and uncomfortable beds, the amount of money spent, the coughing and sneezing on the drive home, etc.—it would be easy to argue that this was a really bad trip. But the thing is, it wasn’t! it was wonderful! Why? Because I focused on the chance to see my kids and my family, the warm hugs I gave and received, the delicious dinners we shared, the gifts we exchanged, the perfect weather we were blessed with for driving, the safe travels, the chance to see my mom and sisters and nieces and nephews, the opportunity to attend a Jazz basketball game, the quick recovery from illness, etc. It is all in what we choose to focus on. Good and bad exist in everything. How we view an event, a trip, a relationship, a lifetime depends on what aspects we choose to focus on. I am truly grateful to know that life honestly feels better when we focus on the good.

Yes, life is like a lengthy road trip, filled with great moments as well as unpleasant moments. It is our focus that determines whether our travels through this life are deemed positive or not. 

A Christmas Story... Feeling Needed

 

It was early in the morning, three days before Christmas. I was in bed with my eyes closed, struggling to decide if my latest dream was less or more reality. I had retired to bed late the previous night, having stayed up to wrap gifts and watch It’s a Wonderful Life all by my lonesome while the rest of the house snored peacefully in the background. I had wept emotionally over George’s realization that the world was a better place with him alive. Then I’d turned off the TV and gone to bed.

Years ago when my children were young, viewing this holiday classic had been an annual tradition. But ever since my four darlings had entered puberty, they’d unanimously agreed it was more torture than treat to watch a black-and-white rerun of some crazy, old, dead guy……no matter how many tears it cost their mother. My husband had sided with the majority—a little too eagerly—so I now upheld the holiday ritual alone.

Still in bed, I opened my eyes and stared up at a ceiling that resembled muddy tapioca. The grogginess had lifted enough for me to realize I’d been dreaming, but the impact I felt from those realistic visions bothered me. Sometime in the night I’d assimilated George Baily’s experience into my subconscious, and I’d become a ghost in my own home, invisible to my husband and four children. I was painfully aware of them but unable to interact with anyone. Though I stood directly in their path, they were entirely oblivious of me.

The worst part wasn’t my sudden ghostliness. Nor was it the fact that I couldn’t communicate with the ones I loved. What weighed heavy on my heart in the dream—and now while awake—was the fact that my family didn’t appear the least bit troubled by my absence. No one had stopped for even a second to question where I was, to call out my name or expend the slightest amount of effort searching the house for me. They simply went on with their daily routines, engrossed in whatever selfish activities each had planned for the day.

No one missed me. It was disheartening.

The fact that my entire family had opted out of movie night the evening prior only made my condition graver. I may as well have been a real ghost for as little as I was wanted. In truth, every other soul in the house was capable of taking care of him or herself; my family could go right on functioning without me.

My goal as a parent had always been to teach each child to be self-sufficient and independent, so I had succeeded. That was good! But I felt miserable nonetheless.

Pulling the covers over my head, I curled up into a ball and fell back asleep, depressed and envious of the fact that Bedford Falls had fallen apart without George Baily.

I was jolted awake—startled upright. A glance at the clock showed I’d overslept by a couple hours. Five unsmiling faces surrounded my bed, all focused on me. I realized it was my youngest daughter squawking, “Moth—er!” that had awakened me. The silence accompanying four tight stares only lasted long enough for me to wipe at the mascara I imagined was smeared beneath my eyes.

“What are you all…?” I started, only to be drowned out by sibling teens talking at once.

“Mother, I need a ride to Joslin’s house—stupid ‘Big Foot’ won’t take me.”

“Because I can’t, Bratilda. I told you, I’m scheduled to work…”

“So drop me off first….Mother, tell him!”

“Mom, I’m short on cash, and I need gas money…”

“No, no, no way! He hasn’t done one chore around here; I’ve been doing everything!”

“Forget them—I really need some money, Mom. We’re Christmas shopping at the mall…”

“Hey, Ma, did you get my red sweater washed? You said you’d have it ready for my concert tonight…”

“Mom, please tell me you are not going to make me go to his dork concert tonight! I have that Christmas cookie exchange—you said you’d help me make sugar cookies today…”

Just then, my husband squeezed his head in. “Hunny? Have you seen my car keys anywhere?”

If in reality I were to wake up and find myself a ghost, this beautiful family of mine would probably find a way to function. But my dream had been wrong. My family needed me, even if I was slightly taken for granted. The truth felt radiant and clear—Bedford Falls was in chaos. Good old George Bailey’s wonderful life had nothing on mine.

Copyright 2017 Richelle E.Goodrich, Making Wishes

A Santa Story by Richelle E. Goodrich

I could feel excitement radiating from every person in the auditorium. Holiday carols featuring jingly bells and brash horns boomed from surrounding speakers. Glitter-heavy, paper snowflakes twirled overhead, dangling from silver string. There were lots of kids. Dozens. Most of them my age, some younger, not many older. An entire line of us were eagerly waiting, smiles pinned on our faces. Why would we not smile when Santa Claus—plump, jolly, fluffily bearded, and in the flesh—sat on his golden throne at the front of the line?

The fat man in red was surrounded by skinny, happy elves dressed in festive attire. None of the elves were as dwarfed as I had imagined they would be, but that meant nothing. Short or tall, they were plainly Santa’s elves. I could tell by how they beamed pure joy while handing out candy canes to mesmerized kids seated on Santa’s lap. I could hardly wait for my turn to tell the big guy how well-behaved I had been this year and how desperately I hoped for a brand new, cobalt-blue, silver-striped, Razor SX500 McGrath Rocket Electric Motorcross dirt bike for Christmas… with matching-blue full-face helmet of course.

I’d been waiting in line for a full thirty minutes, watching elves twirl candy-canes around their fingers, when a larger kid at the front of the line climbed up a set of wide, wooden steps to meet Santa. It was hard not to stare at the kid because he looked like an actual son of St. Nick. They were both big guys, both dressed in Christmas-red pantsuits with black belts and gold buckles. I suppose what happened next should have been anticipated, but it actually surprised us all.

It’s not like I never imagined doing the same thing, but a nagging inner voice always warned me that no-way-in-the-north-pole could I expect a gift from Santa Claus if I ever succumbed to the temptation of tugging on his snow-white beard. Such an act of disrespect seemed a naughty-list offense for sure. That said, it genuinely stunned me (and everyone else in the room) when the big kid seated on Santa’s lap had the nerve to do just that! It was no gentle tug either. He yanked so hard that the pillowy beard ripped clean off the old man’s face! A collective gasp echoed within the vaulted ceiling like a sound of rushing water, and we all stood there frozen…stunned…staring at a most unexpected sight.

Green.

That was the color of the exposed facial hair. It was short, scruffy, and green. I had never seen a green beard before. Well, except once on an animated character from a show that rhymed a tale about some dastardly creature who hated Christmas so much he tried to steal it from an entire township of Whovillers.

The big kid who was holding an apparently fake, white beard quickly tore off Santa’s velvety hat as well, revealing a matt of hair as green in color as the man's real beard. A few girls screamed at seeing it.

I pointed an accusatory finger at the charlatan. “He’s not Santa!” I hollered. “He’s the Grinch!”

The little girls who had screamed a note of shock were joined by others who screeched much louder and much longer, supporting my hasty deduction.

Now, I’m not sure if things that happen as a result of what you say are rightly your fault, for I had no intention of setting into motion what transpired next; nonetheless, my announcement caused a bit of alarm. The Grinch—that Christmas-hating monster—had already heard and memorized the gift-wishes of numerous children. He knew what kind of presents would be under their trees on the eve of December twenty-fourth. Aghast at this thought, we understood that the greatest enemy of Christmas had tricked us in the same way he had tricked unsuspecting Whovillers! Christmas was in jeopardy, and unless something was done to prevent it, the holiday would be spoiled for everyone!

The bold kid who had unmasked the pretender was first to assail the Grinch, grabbing him by his green whiskers while accusing him in a loud voice of abducting the real Santa Claus.

“Where is he?” the boy demanded. “What have you done with Santa?”

The Grinch growled a sound of pain and attempted to pry the boy’s hands from his face, but the kid held on tight, demanding the release of old St. Nick. Many other children chimed in, voicing their concerns about the welfare and whereabouts of poor Santa Claus too until all at once we witnessed an unthinkable betrayal by none other than the candy-cane-toting elves! Three of them laid hands on the big kid and yanked him off the Grinch’s lap; however, the green-haired villain was pulled along because no one thought to remove the chubby fingers clamped to his beard.

A child in line shouted out the obvious. “Traitors! You’re not elves!”

I had suspected as much earlier, having naïvely forgiven their uncharacteristic tallness in light of a convincing merry performance. They had fooled us and nearly gotten away with it!

The nonelves ganged up on the big kid and worked together to pry him off their boss—the nasty Mr. Grinch. Just then, a lanky, blonde-haired boy in Harry Potter glasses cupped his hands on either side of his mouth and sounded a deafening war cry. It was instantly heeded by good little children desperate to protect their spot on Santa’s nice list. We rose up like an army, prepared to defend the old man who would have been dizzily proud of us had he witnessed our united act of loyalty.

Children stormed the stage—despite parental attempts at interference—and tackled the Grinch, taking down his pointy-eared cronies as well. The villains tried to resist but were outnumbered by angry boys and girls who hugged tight to limbs, tugging at hair and clothing. It was enough to force them to the ground where they were stripped of their candy-canes and festive hats. Soon enough, a chant began that quickly rose in volume.

“Bring back Santa! Bring back Santa! Bring back Santa!”

“Okay, okay!” the Grinch surrendered, shaking two toddlers off his arms in order to sit up. “I’ll go get Santa.”

“We want the real Santa Claus,” growled the big, bold kid. He eyed the Grinch distrustfully.

“Yeah, yeah… the real St. Nick.” But no sooner had the name been voiced when a hearty “Ho, ho, ho!” carried across the room. It was a strong voice. It was confident. And it was jolly.

The nonelves were allowed to sit up as all eyes darted about, looking for the man in red. He appeared from behind a tall, decorated Christmas tree, his tubby tummy shaking with every “Ho, ho, ho.” No one moved. No one blinked or breathed or uttered a word. We simply watched the fat man in his plush, red suit; black, shiny boots; full, blushing cheeks and snow-white beard make his way to the stage before climbing up to take a seat on the golden throne.

“Well, now,” he said to the big kid who still looked the spitting image of St. Nick. “You mind letting my elves have their hats back?”

“Those are really your elves?” the kid asked. He looked skeptical. I was skeptical too.

“Yes, son, they are some of my best elves.”

The big kid scrunched his eyes wondering. There was only one way to tell if this jolly old man was telling the truth. Without missing a beat, the boy’s fingers clamped onto a fistful of beard and tugged. A collective gasp echoed once again but was quickly drowned out by cheers of joy.

The beard was real! The old man truly was Santa Claus in the flesh!

He belted a good, hearty laugh and accepted warm hugs from relieved young persons who then lined up to have a turn on the real Santa’s lap.

Thank goodness Christmas had been saved—due to the combined efforts of good, brave, observant boys and girls. We were heroes! At least I think we were. Our parents seemed less than pleased. And apparently no one noticed when the Grinch slyly slithered away. 

Copyright 2019 Richelle E. Goodrich, Being Bold

Christmas Story in Haiku Poetry

New light in the sky
announces a sacred birth.
Shine brightly young star.

Hallelujah song
carries on a gentle wind,
heralding a king.

Shepherds lift their heads,
not to gaze at a new light
but to hear angels.

"Unto you is born

in the city of David

a Savior for all."

Born on straw at night
under low stable rafters,
Baby Jesus cried.

Sheep and goats and cows
gather 'round a manger bed
to awe at a babe.

Wise men come to see
a child of greater wisdom
and honor divine.

Rare and precious gifts,

gold and myrrh and frankincense,

to offer a king.

Mary and Joseph
huddle snugly together.
They cradle God's son.

On this wise He came,

the Son of God to the earth.

A humble wonder.

Mine's a Wonderful Life

It was early in the morning, three days before Christmas.  I was in bed with my eyes closed, struggling to decide if my latest dream was less or more reality.  I had retired to bed late the previous night, having stayed up to wrap gifts and watch It’s a Wonderful Life all by my lonesome while the rest of the house snored peacefully in the background.  I had wept emotionally over George’s realization that the world was a better place with him alive.  Then I’d turned off the TV and gone to bed. 

Years ago when my children were young, viewing this holiday classic had been an annual tradition.  But ever since my four darlings had entered puberty, they’d unanimously agreed it was more torture than treat to watch a black-and-white rerun of some crazy, old, dead guy……no matter how many tears it cost their mother.  My husband had sided with the majority—a little too eagerly—so I now upheld the holiday ritual alone.   

Still in bed, I opened my eyes and stared up at a ceiling that resembled muddy tapioca.  The grogginess had lifted enough for me to realize I’d been dreaming, but the impact I felt from those realistic visions bothered me.  Sometime in the night I’d assimilated George Baily’s experience into my subconscious, and I’d become a ghost in my own home, invisible to my husband and four children.  I was painfully aware of them but unable to interact with anyone.  Though I stood directly in their path, they were entirely oblivious of me. 

The worst part wasn’t my sudden ghostliness.  Nor was it the fact that I couldn’t communicate with the ones I loved.  What weighed heavy on my heart in the dream—and now while awake—was the fact that my family didn’t appear the least bit troubled by my absence.  No one had stopped for even a second to question where I was, to call out my name or expend the slightest amount of effort searching the house for me.  They simply went on with their daily routines, engrossed in whatever selfish activities each had planned for the day. 

No one missed me.  It was disheartening. 

The fact that my entire family had opted out of movie night the evening prior only made my condition graver.  I may as well have been a real ghost for as little as I was wanted.  In truth, every other soul in the house was capable of taking care of him or herself; my family could go right on functioning without me.

My goal as a parent had always been to teach each child to be self-sufficient and independent; so I had succeeded.  That was good!  But I felt miserable nonetheless. 

Pulling the covers over my head, I curled up into a ball and fell back asleep, depressed and envious of the fact that Bedford Falls had fallen apart without George Baily.

I was jolted awake—startled upright.  A glance at the clock showed I’d overslept by a couple hours.  Five unsmiling faces surrounded my bed, all focused on me.  I realized it was my youngest daughter squawking, “Moth—er!” that had awakened me.  The silence accompanying four tight stares only lasted long enough for me to wipe at the mascara I imagined was smeared beneath my eyes. 

“What are you all…?” I started, only to be drowned out by sibling teens talking at once.

“Mother, I need a ride to Joslin’s house—stupid ‘Big Foot’ won’t take me.”

“Because I can’t, Bratilda.  I told you, I’m scheduled to work…”

“So drop me off first….Mother, tell him!”

“Mom, I’m short on cash, and I need gas money…”

“No, no, no way!  He hasn’t done one chore around here; I’ve been doing everything!”

“Forget them—I really need some money, Mom. We’re Christmas shopping at the mall…”

“Hey, Ma, did you get my red sweater washed?  You said you’d have it ready for my concert tonight…”

“Mom, please tell me you are not going to make me go to his dork concert tonight!  I have that Christmas cookie exchange—you said you’d help me make sugar cookies today…”

Just then, my husband squeezed his head in.  “Hunny?  Have you seen my car keys anywhere?”

If in reality I were to wake up and find myself a ghost, this beautiful family of mine would probably find a way to function.  But my dream had been wrong.  My family needed me, even if I was slightly taken for granted.  The truth felt radiant and clear—Bedford Falls was in chaos.  Good old George Bailey’s wonderful life had nothing on mine. 

This story is from "Making Wishes: Quotes, Thoughts, & a Little Poetry for Every Day of the Year".  

About Christmas

Christmas Day is right around the corner which means for many of us a rush to finish holiday shopping and preparations while squeezing out time to decorate trees, adorn table tops, wreath our front doors, and light up windows and eaves. Not to mention all the added Christmas parties and Winter concerts to attend.  As our check-listing scramble begins to overwhelm, inevitably the spirit of the season diminishes.  

It happens.  Often without notice.  

And so, I would like to revive that tender spirit of Christmas and gently warm your holiday heart once again... that is, if you will take a moment to check-list a short story.

About Christmas
By
Richelle E. Goodrich

　

My identity is not important—age, gender, or ethnicity.  The year and circumstances make little difference either, other than to know it was a cold Christmas night when this miracle occurred in my life.  And though the memories are distinctly mine, vivid and unforgettable as if years had never passed since their transpiring, I sincerely hope through this retelling of events you will acquire every thread of understanding I gained in a remarkable moment of truth.

It was cold enough to snow, yet warm enough to melt every flake that touched the ground.  I sat outside on my front porch, bundled in the warmest wrap I could find.  Inside, the sounds of merriment tickled my ears—a celebration of Christmas among friends and family.  I was missing their exchange of homemade gifts, having put no thought or effort into the task.  Christmas didn’t thrill me like it seemed to for so many others.  And as I sat in the darkness staring up at the twinkling aura of a particularly bright star, I wondered for what reason exactly this holiday existed.

I pulled the wrap more snugly around my shoulders while contemplating a string of traditions practiced yearly at this time.  What was the big deal about observing silly rituals?  Why the extra jollity and efforts this time of year? 

What was Christmas all about? 

I’m not sure how to explain what happened next, only that everything seemed quite natural in its occurrence.  The shimmering star that had locked my eyes upon it—a celestial light I knew to exist far, far from my world—suddenly changed perspective, appearing within my sight as if it hovered above me at an arms throw.  I blinked a number of times thinking my focus would return to normal and the star would once again hang sensibly in the heavens.  Instead, every flitter of my lashes produced a change in the star that revealed with decreasing brightness a male figure centered within the light.  He was beautiful beyond description—white, radiant, and smiling down upon me.  The thought occurred that I had passed on to the afterlife.  Perhaps unawares to my conscious self, I had frozen in the cold and suffered death.  Was this radiant being God?

The man’s smile broadened as if he found amusement in my thoughts, and I worried he could actually read them.  Anxiety made me sink lower, pulling the woolen wrap up over my hair.  The blanket warmed me, and so I doubted I was dead.

“Fear not,” the man said in the softest voice ever to caress my ears.  “Your prayer has been heard.”  I assumed then he was an angel.  To think God would personally come for me was a highly vain notion.

The smiling messenger reached out his hand, and I stared at it, wondering how light appeared to radiate from every inch of his skin.  It turned out he stood even closer to me than I had first perceived.  I blinked again, disturbed by the way distance seemed an incalculable thing in my eyes. 

“Fear not,” he repeated.  “Take my hand.”

Stunned by all the unusualness there was to perceive, I asked, “You heard my prayer?”  My forehead tightened at the idea.  I didn’t recall offering a prayer. 

Suddenly, his radiant palm was pressed against my chest.  “In here,” the angel explained.  “He knows all your heart’s desires.”

I wasn’t sure whether to attribute it to the glowing touch of an angel or the knowledge that God actually knew me, but a warmth beyond any physical source consumed my chest.  All my fears dissipated.

Again a hand was extended to me in offer, and I took hold. 

As inept as I had proven myself at perceiving distances, it seemed time and travel also elected to bewilder my senses.  For I knew we were in motion, and yet my discernment was of the world revolving around me and my heavenly guide.  A whirlwind of chaos encircled us, slowing within a blink to a nighttime sky.  I noticed one difference among the stars—a brighter light shone above the others, penetrating the darkness more effectively than any star I had ever witnessed. 

“Christmas,” the angel breathed, following my gaze upward.

“This is Christmas?” I wondered.  “Is this what Christmas is about?  A star?”

The angel smiled.  “Not entirely.”  He continued to look up.

“Is it about Heaven?” I asked, broadening my guess.

He flickered a glance at me with his beautiful, bright eyes.  “Not entirely.”

I watched him as he watched the heavens, the two of us still holding hands, for I was afraid if I attempted to sever our bond I might fall to the ground which we presently hovered above.  It wasn’t my intent to gawk at him, but withdrawing my eyes proved a difficult thing until something more amazing than a celestial companion lured my focus skyward again. 

Singing, rich and harmonic and penetrating, affected me first.  Such beautiful carols I had never heard before.  As my eyes swept across a choir of angels, I held my breath in awe.  They were singing hymns of joyous praise.  Carols of a newborn king—the Christ child.

I listened silently, my heart affected so profoundly as to bring tears to my eyes.  The whole time my guide squeezed my hand, beaming.  It wasn’t until the choir began to fade that I noticed a meager audience of sheep and shepherds gathered beneath them, witnessing what I saw.

Then we were all at once standing among the shepherds, mingled in their numbers as if we belonged with them.  I could understand their acceptance of me, being wrapped in a woolen blanket that resembled their draped attire, but I knew not why my companion received no incredulous looks.  Perhaps because of the messenger angel above?

“Fear not.  For behold I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.  For unto you is born this day in the city of David, a Savior which is Christ the Lord.  And this shall be a sign unto you; ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.”

After a final chorus of praise, the angels went away.  I was sad to see them go, to have their inspiring music no longer permeating the atmosphere.  Naturally, I sighed at such a stark loss.

My glorious companion sighed likewise.  “Ahhh, Christmas.”

I nodded.  “Is this what Christmas is about?  Singing carols and songs of heavenly praise?”

The angel smiled kindly at me.  “Not entirely.”

“Is it about the message then?  Is Christmas about heralding Christ’s birth?”

I was given another patient smile.  “Not entirely.”

We separated from the shepherds, our feet touching the ground now, taking steps on a dirt road.  I felt secure enough to let go of my companion’s hand.  He released my fingers readily.  Our walk remained quiet; hushed but for the nocturnal sounds of herding country.  I pondered the things that had transpired—the message delivered by heavenly hosts to humble, poor shepherds willing and ready to hear.  This was the first Christmas.  This was Christ’s birthday.  What else would Christmas be about if not Him?

I had taken a few steps beyond my angel guide when I realized he was no longer at my side.  Turning back, my eyes opened up, aroused from my deep, inner reflecting.  We were standing in the shadows of a lowly stable.  Stone, wood, and straw were arranged as shelter for docile animals.  A small light shone from within, sustained by a single candle.  I squinted to make out two silhouettes that appeared joined.  Mother and baby.

I couldn’t help but ask, whispering, “Is it Him?”

The angel nodded, his smile tempered by reverence. 

“This is the first Christmas,” I said, making sure my understanding of events was correct.

The angel nodded again, concentrating on the newborn child.

“Christmas is about the baby, Jesus.” I declared. 

The angel’s smile reappeared as a result of my certainty.  “Not entirely.”

I crumpled my brow, frustrated, but a large shadow distracted my attention, appearing from the back of the stable.  A man approached and knelt beside the mother and child.  His arm fell gently around the woman, his free hand careful to cup the baby’s head.  He leaned in to kiss his wife.  The picture touched my heart.

“Is Christmas about family?” I asked.

I mouthed the echoed response.  “Not entirely.”

My eyes flickered from the forms beside a manger to my companion.  It was strange that his brilliance didn’t light the darkness within the stable.  But what hadn’t proved strange thus far?  I was about to question his definition of “entirely” when the scuffing of collected footfall caught my ear.  I twisted my neck to find strangers approaching—shepherds in rags and sandals followed by men garbed in finer, richer fabrics.

“The wise men?” I guessed.

My companion nodded.

I watched as the visitors cautiously approached, waiting for permission from the stable’s occupants to come close enough to witness the Christ child.  I wanted a closer look myself and followed the others across a carpet of strewn straw.  I watched the wise men kneel to place gifts at the mother’s feet.  She appeared truly grateful.

“Is Christmas about gifts?” I asked.  It was a holiday tradition spanning the ages, to be sure.

“Not entirely.”

The mother, a pretty young woman, held up her baby for all to see.  His features were glowing in the candlelight.  He was asleep.  Adorable.  He appeared so tiny and fragile, snuggly wrapped in a single blanket. 

“He came to save the world,” the angel told me.  “To suffer and die for all of us.”

I nodded, aware of the truth.

“Is that what Christmas is about?” I asked.  “Christ’s purpose?  His suffering and death?”

There was no smile on the angel’s face when he turned to me, only gravity in his eyes.  “Not entirely.”

I sighed.  What in the world was Christmas about then?  I thought of the few Christmases I had celebrated in my own lifetime—gathered around family, singing carols, exchanging gifts, retelling the story of our Savior’s humble birth, rehearsing by heart the angel’s tidings of joy to the shepherds.  Was this not what Christmas was about? 

When the others stepped back, I knelt before the new mother, questioning her with my eyes as to whether or not it would be okay to touch her child.  She smiled with understanding and held him out to me, offering the chance to cradle the babe in my arms.  I couldn’t make myself do it.  To hold my savior was a privilege I was unworthy to accept.  I yearned, though, to at least touch him.  With a trembling reach, I let my hand fall gently against his cheek, so soft and warm.  I feared for a moment my touch might be too cold, but the baby stirred and turned his face toward me, his little nose nuzzling in my palm.  I exhaled raggedly and chuckled at this.  My breathing stopped entirely when his eyes opened up. 

He looked right at me. 

I couldn’t turn away, even when my sight blurred with tears.  His tiny fingers moved to wrap around my one, clasping on.  Behind him, I caught his mother’s smile as she assured me, “He loves you.”

I bawled like a baby at her words because I knew they were true.  His life, his actions—they proved it to be so.

It took some time to regain my composure before I could speak again.  My companion waited patiently for my eyes to dry.  He was nodding before I even asked the question.

“Is Christmas about love?”

“It is.”

As my angel guide departed to take his place in the heavens, I found myself once again seated on the porch outside my own house.  I looked up in time to catch a shooting star.  The laughter of friends and family carried to me from inside.  Rising to go join them (wondering what the chances were they would believe my miraculous story) I heard the truth proclaimed in the quietest, piercing voice.  Words of a loving Father.  Words I resolved that very Christmas night to forever abide.

“For I so loved the world that I gave my only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.  Love one another, even as I have loved you.”

Copyright 2012 Richelle E. Goodrich

 

Christmas is a Whisper

A whirlwind.

That is Christmas.

Turmoil, demands, expectations, and anxiety swirl internally while I rush to and fro, trying to accomplish in very little time what is deemed necessary for a successful holiday.

Tree up. Decorate the boughs, lights first. No, not like that, spread the ornaments around. Mix up the colors. Attempt to show helping hands how to do it right, but everyone is apparently colorblind. Whatever. Determine to fix it later. Where did that blasted star get stored? Check inside ten different boxes and then settle on an angel topper.

"But, Mom, we used the angel last year and the year before that!"

"Ugh, just deal with it."

Online shopping―because it's easier, right? Have gifts shipped to the front door and avoid the crowds. Why is the cursed internet so slow? Out of stock―ugh. Only the sizes I don't need, of course. Click, click, click―tick tock, tick tock. Oh, oh, wait a minute... great prices here! Yes, my shopping cart is full at last! Check out with VISA; charge it and worry about the bill later.

"What the criminy? HOW MUCH IS SHIPPING?!!!"

Search the internet for a free shipping code. Find none. Try twenty discount codes―all denied. First-time-shopper code―invalid. Invalid? Really? Did our house elf shop at this site when I wasn't looking? Feel a serious headache coming on. So much time wasted surfing the net, inserting useless codes. Fine; just forget it. Empty out half the shopping cart and swallow the exorbitant shipping rates. Determine to finish the Christmas shopping downtown―later.

 

Do not forget the holiday baking! Sugar cookies, gingerbread, chocolate chip... you want brownies and fudge? Gain 10 pounds just mixing the dough. Bake, clean, bake, clean, bake, clean, clean, clean... I'll clean up the rest later.

Make up plates to deliver to friends. Run from one side of town to the other.

"Merry Christmas! No, sorry, no time to sit and talk. More deliveries to make."

Go, go, go. Nearly done!

"Hey, Mom, what about so-and-so? We didn't give them any cookies."

Dang it, forgot about so-and-so. Hurry home. Find a paper plate. Extra cookies, but no red candy kisses. So what, good enough. Head across town... deliver... finally done!

 

Exhausted. Whirlwind intensifies. Still have shopping to finish―later.

 

Just smile one time for this photo. Please? Yes, you have to wear the Santa hat. For the Christmas card. Because, dear.

Because.

Because.

Just because.

Because I said so, alright! Now smile! Grrrrr.

Good enough―not really; kids look like angry little elves. Patience has left the building (mine and theirs.)

 

Sign a hundred Christmas cards.

Lick a hundred stamps.

Hand cramps. Tongue numb.

Christmas shopping to finish―later.

 

"Mom, you didn't put up any mistletoe."

"I know."

"Mom, you didn't get out the Countdown-to-Christmas chart."

"I know."

"Mom, you haven't watched Scrooge with me yet."

"I know."

"Mom, you didn't make my hot chocolate yet."

"I know."

"Mom, how many days until Santa comes?"

"I don't know."

"Mom, I have a Christmas Concert tomorrow at school."

"Eeek! What? I forgot about that."

"Yeah, Mom, I have one too for band next week."

"Uh, forgot about that too."

"Yeah, Mom, and we have to sell Christmas trees to go to camp."

"You have to sell what?"

"Mom, I have to bring brownies to school tomorrow for a party."

"Mom, I wanted to make that Christmas wreath, remember?"

"Uh, right."

"Mom, I have to go caroling with our group tonight."

"Mom, did you find that Countdown-to-Christmas yet?"

"The company Christmas party is next Friday; don't forget."

 

Whirlwind escalates. And I still have to finish the Christmas shopping―later.

 

Time stretches thinner to allow for attending Christmas concerts and parties and tree sales and to finally dig through storage boxes for that begged-after, must-have, young-lives-will-be-ruined-otherwise Countdown-to-Christmas chart. "Thanks, Mom!"

 

Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock...

"Twelve days to Christmas, Mom!"

"Seven days to Christmas, Mom!"

"Five days to Christmas, Mom!"

 

The whirlwind picks up internally; anxiety levels spike. I seriously need to finish my shopping!

Make a list and run to the store between work and piling events.

"WHY ARE THE LINES SO *%#@$*•ING LONG?!"

 

Hide in a room to wrap gifts.

Wrapping, wrapping, wrapping―"Mom, where are you?"

Ignore the question; hope it goes away; wrapping, wrapping, wrapping―"Mo~o~om, where are you?" Sigh and answer. "I'm in my room. I'm busy."

Young mouths press up to the door―"Mom, we need... Mom, we want..."

Ignore their demands to wrap a little more, a little faster. "Mom, can we come in?"

Doorknob twists and jiggles. Throw blanket over exposed gifts. "No, no, no! Stay out!"

Return to wrapping―frantically. Whining now begins, traveling through the locked door. "Mo~o~om, we're starving."

Might as well give up. This means wrapping all night on Christmas Eve, but who needs sleep?

 

"Two days to Christmas, Mom!"

Grumble under my breath. No time, no fun.

The whirlwind inside feels awful.

 

Dinner over. Dishes done. Everyone in bed. Lights out. So much left to do but too exhausted. Still have last-minute items to shop for―later.

 

I plop down on the sofa in the dark, but it is not entirely dark. Christmas lights on the tree blink soundlessly, on and off and on again in repeated patterns. It is beautiful. I stare at the light show, mesmerized.

The silence is astounding. Therapeutic even. Internally, the whirlwind eases by degrees, melting like magic. My breathing slows as colors dance on needled tree branches, consoling me. Sinking into the sofa, I wonder at this strange feeling of calmness that invades my being, seeping in from the top of my head to travel in warm tingles throughout my body. It makes me smile.

How sweet the silence that needs no straining ear. How perfect it is, like a whisper that only my soul can hear―"It's alright. It's alright." This gentleness settles into my heart, and I wish for it to remain. This is what has been missing. Too caught up in the whirlwind that society declares Christmas to be, my racing thoughts have drowned out the still, small voice that now brings genuine comfort to my soul. The Christmas spirit does not rush. It does not shout. It does not expect or demand or constrain.

I joy in this rare moment of stillness. My soul hears and believes.

A whisper.

That is Christmas.

"Christmas is a whisper of peace and a sigh of hope on the lips of love."  ~ Richelle E. Goodrich

Being Mrs. Santa Claus

It’s nearly Christmas.

A mid all the festive and traditional runaround, we generally perform a few extra acts of goodwill during this giving season.  So, upon a request this year, my husband and I agreed to dress up and play Santa and Mrs. Claus at a craft bazaar held inside a small-town elementary school.  Children lined up to sit on jolly, old Santa's lap and receive peppermint candy canes from his sweet and cheerful wife, Mrs. Claus.  Our teamwork made a bunch of kids happy—twinkling, eager eyes and grinning lips reciting long lists of what-I-want-for-Christmas.  We also made a few wary children cry at their parents' insistence they sit on the old, bearded man's lap for as long as it took to snap a few keepsake pictures.

O verall, it was a merry day.  But it was more than that; it was an eye-opening marvel.

I  began noticing something fascinating the moment we walked out our front door all dressed up in red-and-white Claus disguises.  Observers who looked our direction beamed cheerfully, pointing us out to others in their company.  Nudging my husband, (who had also become aware of the fact that his presence was excitedly noted by kids in the car ahead of us) we waved at the smiling onlookers.  They returned eager waves.  It was an interesting drive along the freeway noting brightened expressions on those who glanced our way, traveling the same road.  And by the time we arrived at the little elementary school, a distance from our own hometown, I understood that great expectations rest on the shoulders of those who dare garb themselves in the famous 'Claus' uniform.

A s  Santa and I walked up the sidewalk to the front doors of the school, we were taken in by a sea of eyes.   It was an illuminating and surreal experience.  People smiled.  People waved.  People offered cordial greetings.  The unanimous assumption was that we were a happy, kind, generous couple with warm hugs to offer and open ears available to hear every last youthful want and wish.  And as we went about our business—visiting with strangers, holding their children, giving them sweet hope and happy hearts and candy canes—it occurred to me I'd never in my lifetime been approached by such an abundance of friendly smiles.  It felt wonderful!  So I had to ask myself, why this collective thrill at Santa's presence?  

E asy enough to answer... because people know that Santa cares.  They expect a jolly character, open arms, and a warm lap.  They trust that this white-bearded man dressed all in red will be attentive to their wants, patient with their reservations, kind in his words and gestures, and generous with his gifts.  A short visit with him grants acceptance and love and affirmation to all.  A moment in his presence lets them know they are indeed precious individuals worthy of his time.  What an honorable thing to assume the role of Santa Claus!  What a treat to have Santa's fixed attention!

U nderstanding of these facts came to me bit by bit throughout the afternoon as I did my very best to perform as people expected.  My time as Mrs. Claus passed delightfully.  My thoughts, however, continued to mull over the event even days later until I finally understood why this experience had affected me so intensely.

T  he truth—I want people to look at me the way they looked at Mrs. Santa Claus.  Is that silly?  Perhaps.  Perhaps not.  All I know is this: when I walk into a room full of individuals who know me presently, the response isn't nearly as delighted and good-spirited as what I experienced from those faces turned on Mrs. Claus.  Not that I don't receive smiles or kind words, but the reception is mild compared to the joyful acceptance of those who greeted Mr. & Mrs. Claus.

I  t seems I have my work cut out for me.  For it is one thing to care about people; I do care.  It's an entirely different story to have people know you care and respond to that surety.  And that is where the Claus's have taught me a valuable lesson.  And so this Christmas season I will turn over a new leaf and do more than simply feel for others.  Then perhaps, eventually, people will see in me the heart of dear Mrs. Santa Clause and naturally brighten up in my presence.

"Act like you care. Pray like you care. Speak, smile, reach out, and live like you care. The point is to make sure those in your life know beyond doubt that you do care." 

~ Richelle E. Goodrich