Yearly Archives: 2006

The Christmas angels

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Three children lived across the street from us, the age my children are now, the year my mom, sister and I became the secret Christmas angels. We left little goodies in their mailbox – don’t ask me what the presents were, I’ve long forgotten most of them – but I remember that feeling of being part of a mystery, a miracle, a joy-giver.

From our window, we watched as one of the neighbor children ran to the box at the end of the drive, collected the package and sprinted back to the house with the treasure. It must have been my mother who had the idea to hide a gift in the mailbox when the children were sleeping to increase the excitement of the season.

And how we loved surprising them, these two girls and a boy. But the biggest surprise of all came to us after we left the first gift. A note in little people writing.

“Are you a Christmas angel?”

Only little ones have that faith to believe in what we grown-ups have forgotten. Only a child would ask such a thing. Are we angels? No. Hardly. We were ordinary folk just having fun leaving a small prize in a metal box under the cover of darkness. No angels living next door.

Did we tell them? Did we send this in response? “You silly, foolish children. We are not angels, we are only the neighbors in the yellow house across the street. Stop believing in the impossible. Merry Christmas!”

No. You know we did no such thing. We played along, pretending to be the Christmas angels, taking care not to get caught, selecting inexpensive presents we thought the children would enjoy. For 12 days we watched them collect the gifts while we hid behind the window curtains.

On Christmas Eve, we gave the best gift of all – an angel to place on top of their Christmas tree. That along with these instructions: “Always believe in the miracle of Christmas. Christ has come. He is the greatest Gift.”

We were the Christmas angels more than 20 years ago.

Has it really been that long? Am I now one of them? A grown-up.

Now it’s my turn to show my children how to be part of a miracle, part of a mystery. Our neighbor boy is only a wee toddler, too young to understand, so I’ll wait a few years to teach my children how to select the simple offerings and how to quietly place them without being seen. Together we’ll bring joy to another family; together we can be the Christmas angels.

Picture me blubbering

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Read Christmas Day in the Morning, a picture book by Pearl S. Buck, to my daughter the other day, and in typical-me fashion, I had to wipe away tears by the end of the book. The story of a young man giving a gift, one you can’t buy with a plastic card, gets me every time.

Susan didn’t notice mommy having a hard time getting the words out or my constant sniffling. Or maybe she did, but didn’t say anything, only thinking to herself, “Oh, there she goes again. Crying over a children’s storybook.”

Yes, it’s not the first time I’ve been moved to tears while reading a book aloud. Let’s see, I’ve cried over:

The Runaway Bunny by Margaret Wise Brown (“If you become a bird and fly away from me,” said his mother, “I will be a tree that you come home to.”)

The Rag Coat by Lauren Mills (“Minna,” he said, “don’t you worry about a coat. I’ll think of something.” But he never got the chance. Papa died that summer.)

The Wild Horses of Sweetbriar by Natalie Kinsey-Warnock (Cormorant Island was settled, and Mama was pleased. But I would watch the sea, and see the ghosts of horses crossing the sand.)

The Little House by Virginia Lee Burton (Once again she was lived in and taken care of.)

The Selfish Giant by Oscar Wilde (And the child smiled on the Giant, and said to him, “You let me play once in your garden, to-day you shall come with me to my garden, which is Paradise.”)

And I can be found blubbering over Imagine by Alison Lester, only because my four-year-old has asked me to read it again, again, again and again…