It was a picture-perfect Christmas Eve. The snow had begun falling late in the afternoon, and the world outside our windows was blanketed in white. The tree, decorated earlier in the week, looked beautiful despite the slight tilt to the right. Our stockings were hung, and Santa’s snack awaited his arrival. But something was missing that year.
I was eight years old, a little girl with a huge imagination. My little sister, Marilyn, was three and a half. While my parents very diligently instilled in us the real meaning of Christmas, it was the stories of Santa that made my young spirit soar. I loved everything about those stories and could recite “‘Twas the Night Before Christmas” when I was two years old. However, that year I had to face the facts about Santa. I was feeling sad and a little too grown up.
It was because of those feelings that I was determined to make this Christmas special for my little sister. I wanted her to experience the magic of Christmas. Together we pored over the Christmas catalogue from Montgomery Ward. We spent hours carefully deciding what we most wanted Santa to bring. Then we sent our letters off to the North Pole.
Mom began baking Christmas cookies right after Thanksgiving. We watched, helping whenever she had little jobs we could do. She deftly shaped and decorated dozens of cookies. Tin after tin was filled with delicious treats and stored carefully in the basement.
That year we made our own decorations. We cut out stencils and covered the windows with colorful snowflakes. Mom put out the ornaments that had become familiar over the years. I loved the little Santa figure with his cottony white beard and one leg flung over the little cardboard chimney.
The whole family helped decorate the tree. Dad went up into the attic and brought down the box full of decorations. The most breathtaking were the little candles filled with a liquid that bubbled when it was heated up. By now we were so excited it was catching. Our dog Shep knocked over the tree in his exuberance. He was banished to the kitchen while Dad righted the tree. It looked a bit disheveled and slightly off center, but it was still lovely.
The Sunday before Christmas the girls group I belonged to at church presented their annual Christmas program. I was one of the youngest ones and proudly marched into the church sanctuary at the end of the line. As we stood around the darkened room with our lighted candles singing “Silent Night”, I began to understand the true meaning of Christmas. I felt a different sort of excitement. It was a quiet joy.
The last few days before Christmas seemed like an eternity. We counted down the days until at last it was Christmas Eve. We were overjoyed when we saw the snow begin to fall. I told Marilyn that Santa would be so pleased. It would be easier for him to make his rounds now. We kept running to the window to make sure it was still coming down.
After dinner we made the final preparations for Santa’s arrival, setting out the milk and cookies and hanging our stockings. Then it was time for Marilyn to go to sleep. We sat together on her little bed as Dad read the Christmas story from Luke and the familiar stories about Santa. When he was finished, Marilyn snuggled under the covers, and we tiptoed out.
Shortly before my bedtime, we heard a soft knock on the front door. While Mom went to answer it, Dad walked quietly to the little bedroom Marilyn and I shared and gently lifted her out of bed. He came into the living room as Mom was opening the door. I will never forget the look of wonder on Marilyn’s face when Santa stepped into the living room. I think perhaps my eyes got a little bigger too. He was dressed in his beautiful red suit and covered with snow. He spoke quietly to us. I cannot remember what he said. I know that neither of us could say a word.
With a gentle smile he turned and walked out the door. We all hurried to the window to watch him go. The soft light from the street lamp illuminated him. He walked slowly through the falling snow, bent slightly under the weight of the sack he carried on his back. It was a magical moment seeming to embody all the things that are so special about Christmas: the wonder in the eyes of a little child, the giving of something precious to someone else. It was a Christmas I will never forget.

I wanted to take part in Sandra's Christmas Tradition blog, but I just ran out of time today. This is something I wrote years ago and submitted to a magazine. It was rejected (sigh), but I thought my friends would be a bit more forgiving of my feeble attempt at writing.

Blessings,
Linda