Jennifer Sander - A Miracle Under the Christmas Tree

As my brain spun circles trying to wrap itself around this image, the driver’s window of the SUV rolled down, and the vehicle rolled to a stop. “Merry Christmas, Dee!” I heard the driver yell—wait, that’s Chris!

I remember Chris getting out of the vehicle and giving me a hug. I remember holding my breath as he dropped down the window of the trailer. And I remember thinking, She’s home, as her familiar white face popped out from behind the window. She looked at me, and her soft brown eyes reflected, “I remember you.”

As I stroked her beautiful white face, I said something brilliant to Chris like, “You were supposed to be the FedEx guy!”

So how did Ron do it? How did he make my dream come true?

Apparently, the night we returned from Sealite, he called Kim and Chris and made the arrangements, all on the sly. My sad story of yearning and Christmas disappointment had moved him to action.

I stood wrapped in Ron’s arms, watching Sky become acquainted with her new home. I turned and looked into Ron’s eyes. My question was simple: “Why?”

“Because you wanted her from the beginning. I wanted to be the one who made your dreams come true.”

Somewhere, in the deep, dark recesses of my memory, I felt the curtain drop down on an old yearning and a new kind of contentment fill every bit of those years of wanting and waiting. Then, I felt another curtain rise above a thousand new dreams as I settled my head against Ron’s chest and looked into the eyes of my new paint dream.

Ron and I smiled, laughed, cried tears of joy and talked well past midnight about our new dreams and how we might make them come true for each other.

It was Christmas morning 1986. Thinking back to the day before, I recalled how everything had come together. It had been a pretty bad year, and Christmas promised to be more of the same. A fabulous holiday for the children was a luxury we couldn’t afford. I had all but given up hope that we would be able to celebrate even in a small way. And then, my husband, a truck tire service technician, received an unanticipated service call. The driver was stranded and trying desperately to make it home in time to be with his own children on Christmas morning. He was short of money, but he had merchandise that he was willing to trade for services, enabling us to give the older girls, eleven and thirteen, exactly what they’d wanted: a VCR.

Two days before, we had driven sixty-five miles to pick up the one thing that our youngest had asked for (a Disney Fievel plush toy) before closing time. The drive and the toy had taken everything we had saved. I scoured pockets and the truck seat on the morning of Christmas Eve and found just over three dollars in change. Feeling optimistic, I headed for the nearest flea market, arriving just as the vendors were packing up.

I had tried repeatedly to get the kids to understand that there simply wasn’t enough room for a tree in the dilapidated pickup camper that the five of us had been calling home for months now. But, I thought, maybe a string of lights and little candy canes would make the surroundings more festive. The camper was small, so luckily one string would do. As I was paying the vendor, something caught my eye, a glimpse of a very small, white artificial tree top being tossed from row to row by the breeze. Hastily wishing the old gentleman a merry Christmas, I waved goodbye and rushed after the treasure. My heart absolutely swelled with appreciation. Now I could grant their special wish, if only in a small way.

That evening, after we’d watched Frosty the Snowman and enjoyed popcorn and hot chocolate, I tucked the children in and listened to their prayers. They were simple: “Please help us find a home soon.” I couldn’t help thinking how Joseph and Mary must have been feeling the night of Jesus’s birth; they too were homeless. At least we had shelter.

Once the girls’ breathing was soft and measured, I retrieved the lights and the tree from inside the truck cab, and after quietly weaving the lights around the small branches, I asked my husband to place the tree in the corner above our youngest child’s bed. After he managed to safely tuck it in, he ran the string down the length of the overhead cabinets and to the electrical outlet. “Well, here goes nothing,” he mouthed, plugging the cord into the socket. We held our breath and waited. They came on, and they twinkled, with the smallest blue lights, their reflection glinting off the rusted chrome trim of the tiny “kitchen.”

The night had been cold, the steady wind magnifying the plummeting temperatures. Assorted leaves and debris still blew through the campground, and our large dog was crying to get inside. I was drained, mentally and emotionally. Crawling into our bunk, I pulled the curtain closed behind me; the gentle blue glow of the lights dancing on the ceiling lulled me into satisfied slumber.

Waking to hushed whispers, I heard Arianna’s voice, quiet in the early light of dawn: “Santa brought us a tree! Look, Sissy, it’s so pretty, and it’s ours.” Peaking through the curtains, I saw that our min pin dog was still nestled asleep in her arms, his breathing rhythmic. Her eyes were fixated on the little tree that had appeared while she slept.

I lowered myself from the overhead bunk onto the burnt orange cushion of the seat below. “Oh, Mommy, it’s so beautiful,” she whispered in amazement. “I didn’t even hear him,” she continued with the wide-eyed wonder that only four-year-olds possess. Santa had brought both of the things she had wanted so much. The little white tree top was absolutely resplendent, and her toy was a treasure that she still has thirty-some years later.

It would be several years before our Christmases became more like the ones the older girls remembered. Yet, when we speak of childhood memories, the magic of this special morning is among our favorites.

This story shows up every holiday season in e-mail inboxes around the world, frequently attributed to Anonymous. But it is not from an anonymous writer; it is a real-life experience from my friend Candy Chand. I had the privilege of publishing Candy’s first story ever in my book The Magic of Christmas Miracles, and she hasn’t stopped writing since. You will be as touched as the millions who have read this.

—Jennifer Basye Sander

Each December, I vowed to make Christmas a calm and peaceful experience. But once again, despite my plans, chaos prevailed. I had cut back on nonessential obligations: extensive card writing, endless baking, decorating and, yes, even the all-American pastime, overspending. Yet, still, I found myself exhausted, unable to appreciate the precious family moments and, of course, the true meaning of Christmas.

My son, Nicholas, was in kindergarten that year. It was an exciting season for a six-year-old filled with hopes, dreams and laughter. For weeks, he’d been memorizing songs for his school’s winter pageant. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d be working the night of the production.

Unwilling to miss his shining moment, I spoke with his teacher. She assured me that there’d be a dress rehearsal the morning of the presentation. All parents unable to attend that evening were welcome to come to the dress rehearsal. Fortunately, Nicholas seemed happy with the compromise.

So, just as I promised, on the morning of the dress rehearsal, I filed in ten minutes early, found a spot on the cafeteria floor and sat down. Around the room, I saw several other parents quietly scampering to their seats. As I waited, the students were led into the room. Each class, accompanied by their teacher, sat cross-legged on the floor. Then, each group, one by one, rose to perform their song.