A few months ago a dear friend told me a wonderful story about Christmas. Below is the story exactly as it was told to me.
My daughter Becky was a precocious girl who always struck us as being mature for her age, no matter how old she was. When she was only six she started displaying the mediation skills that would later serve her as one of the youngest district judges in American history. If she happened to overhear a family dispute or problem she’d solemnly sit down and start twirling her fingers through the dark curls that often adorned her shiny hair. After a few minutes of contemplation she’d stand up and offer, in rapid succession, a plethora of solutions. My husband, Frank, claimed she got her problem solving skills from his mom, but I knew they really came from my dad.
I should have known it would be Becky who would bring my dad back and change Christmas forever.
My dad was always the problem solver. Family and friends often came to our house to seek his council. His advice was never questioned and his wisdom seemed to be that of a person much older. His mom, my Grammy, said he had an old soul.
She said the same thing about Becky.
I remember the night Becky was born. My family and Frank’s family were all gathered together in the waiting room. It was a special birth because she was the first granddaughter in both families. When the nurse brought Becky out for the first time, Grammy looked into her little brown eyes and said she had an old soul and that she’d always be wise beyond her years.
Grammy was gone before Becky took her first step. I wish they could have spent more time together. Becky took to Grammy more than she did anyone other than me. Grammy always said Becky would be the last one. As her sixth Christmas rolled around Becky was still the only granddaughter. At first I worried that her boy cousins would resent the attention that she received, thankfully they took to her and spoiled her as well. They looked after her as if she was a baby sister instead of a cousin. Everyone doted over her. Everyone except my dad.
My dad was once an outgoing jocular man who could always cheer up a room. But by the time Becky started talking my dad had completely changed. He had become somber and uncommunicative. He didn’t completely stop talking, but his conversations became concise and topic specific. He never initiated a conversation and he never elaborated beyond two or three responses. Becky called him “Grandpa No Talk.” She once asked why Grandpa No Talk doesn’t talk much. I didn’t know how to answer so I gave her a vague non answer. I couldn’t tell my little girl that when she was six months old my younger brother Jeffrey took Grammy out driving on the very first day that he got his driver’s license. I couldn’t tell her that a drunk driver slammed into the car on Grammy’s side, killing her instantly. I couldn’t tell her that Jeffrey was thrown from the car and was knocked into a coma from which he would never wake. I didn’t think she needed to know that in essence we lost three family members that day.
My dad also left us that day. He was still physically with us, but he was only a shell of his former self. He had lost his mom, his son and his optimism. He needed therapy, but the mention of such a thing always resulted in a sad you-just-don’t-understand look. I couldn’t bring myself to tell Becky any of these things, but somehow my non-answer seemed to provide some insight because she walked away without any follow up questions.
That was the first time that Becky allowed me to answer a question without really answering it. Somehow I think she gathered her own answers because she seemed to study Grandpa No Talk after that. She didn’t stare at him, but I noticed that she observed him an awful lot.
When I told her that we were going to Grandpa No Talk and Grandma Alice’s home for Christmas, she jumped for joy. I was surprised because she seemed to prefer Frank’s parents to mine. When we got there, my three brothers were already there with their wives and their little boys. My two uncles on my dad’s side were there as well. Both were bachelors with questionable taste in women. Thankfully both had enough respect not to bring their “lady friends” to Christmas dinner.
My mom, who Becky affectionately called, Grandma Alice, let me, my brother Fred and his wife Wendy help with the dinner. Every holiday season she let us deeper and deeper into her kitchen. Fred is a chef so he couldn’t wait to take over the holiday cooking. I told him that he’s second in line behind me. He asked if he could eventually have Thanksgiving, but I teasingly told him he could have Groundhog Day. He wasn’t amused.
When the food was finally prepared, we gathered everyone to the large dining room table. My dad sat at the head of the table and the children sat at the other end, which meant Becky was at the complete opposite end of the table from my dad. Everyone except dad talked and laughed as we brought the food in. It was a warm feeling and I tried to savor the moment. When all the food was placed on the table Grandma Alice nodded to Grandpa No Talk who instantly stood up. He didn’t have to say a word, everyone knew why he was standing, and the room became silent. He said a beautiful prayer and then quickly sat down, but before anyone could pick up a utensil, Becky jumped to her feet and ask the question that would forever change Christmas.
“How come we never give presents to Jesus?”
There was a moment of silence as everyone contemplated the question. Before we could answer she asked more questions.
“Christmas is supposed to be the celebration of the birth of baby Jesus, so why do we talk about Santa instead of Jesus?
Do you think Jesus is sad because we care more about Santa and the reindeer than we do about him and his apostles?”
I looked around the room and I saw shock and awe. Everyone looked at my Becky as if she had three heads and two of them had just exploded. I felt like I needed to defuse the situation.
“Those are thought provoking questions honey, why don’t we talk about them after dinner.”
In retrospect I should have known better. Becky was asking rhetorical questions. She didn’t want us to answer her because she already had the answer.
“Mom, Dad, can we all give Jesus a present before we eat?”
I looked at Frank with pleading eyes, he needed to do something because I was perplexed. Unfortunately, he looked just as confused as I did.
Thankfully the answer came from the head of the table.
“Come here child.” Said my dad in a booming but gentle voice.
Becky squeezed out from her chair and walked down to Grandpa No Talk. It seemed like the longest walk I’d ever seen. I put my hand in Frank’s hand and he squeezed it. I wanted to look into his eyes and gauge his reaction to all of this, but I couldn’t take my eyes off our daughter. My dad had never asked her to come to him before.
When she got to his chair she looked down as she was expecting a scolding. My dad pushed his chair back and in one quick motion he scooped her up and put her on his knee. It was only then that I saw the tears rolling down his cheeks. My mom grabbed a napkin and started toward him, but he waved her off.
“Tell us child, what presents should we give Jesus?” He asked tenderly.
“Well,” said Becky, “Jesus is the son of God so I don’t think he wants toys or perfume or things like that. I think he wants us to be good to one another, to be good to everyone, all people. So, I was just wondering if we can all stand up and make a promise to Jesus to be good to everyone and to love everyone.”
My dad started to tremble and tears flowed down his cheeks. He looked at my Becky with so much love that I started crying as well. We all cried, even Uncle Thomas and Uncle John wept behind concealed hands. The boys ran to their parents with tears in their eyes. Frank pulled me close and tried to wipe my tears as he used his sleeve for his own. We cried for Grammy and Jeffrey, and we cried because we had our dad back. Somehow we knew he was back. Then I felt a feeling of goodness and purity that I had never felt before. It was the most wonderful feeling. It was as if Jesus himself had entered the room. It felt like we were being cleansed and loved at the same time. I have never felt so close to my family as I felt at that moment.
Becky collapsed into Grandpa No Talk’s chest and gave him a big hug. He hugged her back but kept looking at her as if mesmerized. He took the napkin from mom and composed himself. Then he asked Becky if he could be the first to give Jesus his present. She excitedly said yes and ran back to her chair so she wouldn’t miss it. Then my dad, Grandpa No Talk, stood up and talked. He thanked Jesus for the years he had with Grammy and Jeffrey, and then he thanked him for the years he’d had with the rest of us. He promised to love each of us each day that Jesus gave him. He also spoke of loving those who look and think differently, even those who don’t love Jesus.
Just before he sat down he thanked Jesus for, Becky, the old soul who had helped an old man.
We all gave Jesus our presents, then we had the most wonderful Christmas celebration anyone has ever had. I’m still amazed when I think about how Becky came up with the idea of giving presents to Jesus. I often wonder if she knew she was helping my dad. She was the only one who didn’t cry at dinner, but later that evening when we were driving home I heard a sniffle and I turned back to see her crying her eyes out. I hadn’t seen her cry in years and it scared me.
“Becky are you okay?” I shriek as I whipped off my seat-belt and dove in the backseat. Frank, who caught a heel to the head during my dive, safely pulled the car over and jumped out and opened Becky’s door. We both tried to talk to her, but she continued to cry inconsolably. Finally we just hugged her, me from right beside her, Frank from outside where he knelt.
After a while she said she was fine and told us we could return to our seats, but she never told us why she was crying.
This Christmas will be Becky’s 31st , and we’re all gathering at Grandpa Always Talking and Grandma Alice’s home for dinner. Fred will officially cook dinner, we decided that he would take Christmas and I would take Thanksgiving, but in truth be we both share the honor on both days.
Uncle John has since passed, but Uncle Thomas, who has found himself a good woman, will be there, as will all the rest of us. We haven’t had any divorces or break-ups in our family and we all get along fabulously. Thanksgiving and Easter are special days, but no day is more important to our family than Christmas. That’s when we renew our family bonds as well as our spiritual ones. We’ll talk and we’ll laugh, but most importantly we’ll give our presents to Jesus.
Dad will go first, and Becky will go last, and while we give our gifts we’ll all cry and feel the spirit as Jesus comes for his presents.