Growing up, Christmas day was filled with every bit as much magic as Tiny Tim must have felt when old Scrooge showed up with all the gifts.
We were far from rich. Actually, our family wasn't even what anyone would consider comfortable. We were well taken care of, but far from spoiled ... except at Christmas.
Every year, on Christmas Eve, we'd climb into our pajamas, put cookies and milk out for Santa and scamper into our beds where we'd hunker down, cozy and warm, trying to get to sleep before Santa made it to our house. We didn't want to be awake when Santa got there. We knew that if we were awake when Santa arrived, he'd pass right over our house. We respected Santa's rules. No one wanted Santa to skip over our house.
Christmas morning was just too much fun. Each year we'd wake, eager with anticipation as we ran into our parents' room for permission to find out what Santa brought. Each year, the small room would be overflowing with toys. Big toys, little toys, bikes, trains and dolls. The lights on the tree never shined as brightly as they did on Christmas morning. Christmas morning was special to us. We felt special. We were special.
But, the true reason for Christmas was never wasted on us, either. Parents, teachers and others made sure we knew the gifts we received were only in celebration of the birth of the One we worshiped. I'll never forget the Christmas it all changed.
On Christmas Eve, as my mother walked through the parking lot of the beauty shop where her good friend worked, on her way to deliver a gift, she spotted children playing in a yard next to it. Being in the Christmas spirit, and knowing how eager all children were for Christmas day, she shouted, "Are you excited about Santa coming tonight?" The reply literally broke her heart.
There wouldn't be any Christmas for them that year. Their mother was sick. In the style typical of my mother, she finished the conversation on as pleasant a note as she could and marched into the beauty shop to wish her friend a Merry Christmas. My mother explained that the gift she was going to get her was now going to the mother of the family next door. She also asked her friend what she could contribute as well, along with asking the other beauty shop patrons what they could give up.
Then, she got into her car, sped home, stormed through the front door and informed each of us to pick out one present that had our name on it and put it on the dining room table. Next, she picked up the phone and started calling everyone listed in the church telephone directory.
By bedtime, my mother had collected enough food, gifts and miscellaneous items to take to the family no one even knew existed a few hours before. She had rounded up a full-sized Christmas tree, complete with lights and decorations, a full Christmas dinner and three gifts each for each of the five children ... and their parents.
That Christmas morning, we awoke to a living room as barren as our hearts were full. The lights on our tree glistened more brilliantly than I had ever seen them as we gathered around it, each opening the gift we had chosen the evening before. I don't remember the gift I chose, but I do remember how proud I was of my mother. I remember how warm I felt as I considered the real meaning of Christmas and how my mother had made us as much a part of it as the shepherds were on the night of Christ's birth.
I remember her tears as she wondered for an instant if she had possibly done the wrong thing, asking her children to give up their own Christmas gifts so another family could have them. I remember, too, the love I felt as I embraced her and thanked her for the best Christmas I ever had.
(This story, written by Stephanie Sparkman and used with her permission, first appeared as a daily "Heartwarmer" on Heartwarmers.com.)