Jennifer Sander - A Miracle Under the Christmas Tree

Because the public school system had long stopped referring to the holiday as Christmas, I didn’t expect anything other than fun, commercial entertainment: songs of reindeer, Santa Claus, snowflakes and good cheer. The melodies were fun, cute and lighthearted, but nowhere to be found was even the hint of an innocent babe, a manger or Christ’s sacred gift of hope and joy. So, when my son’s class rose to sing “Christmas Love,” I was slightly taken aback by its bold title.

Nicholas was aglow, as were all of his classmates, who were adorned in fuzzy mittens, red sweaters and bright wool snow-caps. Those in the front row—center stage—held up large letters, one by one, to spell out the title of the song. As the class sang, “C is for Christmas,” a child held up the letter C. Then, “H is for happy,” and on and on, until they had presented the complete message, “Christmas Love.”

The performance was going smoothly, until suddenly, we noticed her: a small, quiet girl in the front row who was holding the letter M upside down. She was entirely unaware that reversed, her letter M appeared to be a W. Fidgeting from side to side, she soon moved entirely away from her mark, adding a gap in the children’s tidy lineup.

The audience of first through sixth graders snickered at the little one’s mistake.

But in her innocence, she had no idea that they were laughing at her as she stood tall, proudly holding her “W.”

One can only imagine the difficulty in calming an audience of young, giggling students. Although many teachers tried to shush the children, the laughter continued until the last letter was raised, and we all saw it together. A hush came over the audience, and eyes began to widen.

In that instant, we understood—the reason we were there, why we celebrated the holiday in the first place, why even in the chaos there was a purpose for our festivities. For when the last letter was held high, the message read loud and clear:

And I believe He still is.

“I need to find the perfect gift. I need to find the perfect gift.” The words circulated through my mind like the woodpecker that tapped on our chimney. Christmas was coming, and I needed it to be perfect this year.

Years had passed since my entire family had celebrated together around one Christmas tree. Those things that had kept us apart, including time and distance, were being put aside. It was time to heal old wounds. Forgiveness and healing were on my Christmas list this year.

The search began for the perfect gift for my mother. What does a perfect gift look like anyway? My mom’s favorite treats are Brown & Haley’s Mountain bars, so I quickly scribbled those onto the list. Hmmm, what else? The blank page stared back at me. Candy, even her favorite candy, was not going to be sufficient.

“What can we get for my mom?” I asked my husband, Bill. He shrugged his shoulders. Clearly, this assignment would require some soul-searching. Sometimes even husbands don’t have all the answers.

As I went about my daily tasks, I thought and prayed and thought some more. Suddenly, in my mind, I could see the perfect present in wonderful detail. I knew exactly what would surprise and delight my mother, but the question was, Where was it? Living in a one-bedroom apartment, my filing system isn’t what you would call perfect. It is adequate for those things that are filed, but as for the unfiled items stored in miscellaneous bins, well, it would be like finding a needle in a haystack.

Somewhere in the apartment was a gray envelope sent by my brother and sister-in-law about a year earlier. Inside were several photos and a note from my mom. I walked from room to room, eyeing stacks and piles. Which one had I put it in? After some digging, I found it. The first piece of the puzzle was in my hand. As I opened the envelope, I found the photos and note just as I remembered.

My great-grandmother Janke liked to knit. As a family tradition, she’d made baby bootees for her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. The photos showed an unfinished bootee with knitting needles still stuck in it, as if she’d put it aside for a few moments to go make a cup of tea.

My mom’s request was that I write a short poem to go with this photo. I was touched and flattered that she’d asked, of course, but then reality set in. I didn’t have a clue how to put words to this piece of my history. How can you honor someone who died when you were only two years old? I never really knew her, not like my mom knew her grandmother.

Memories of my own grandma and the many hours I spent with her over a cup of tea or laughing, baking and praying came easily to mind. Grandma is long gone. She was my mother’s mother—she is a part of me.

I had the photo, now I needed some inspiration. Maybe if I knew more about the actual woman, I could give her the tribute she deserved. Hmmm, I looked around my apartment again, checking all the logical places for the family history book. Ah, yes, here were the facts. Janke Heeringa was born on January 22, 1874, in Holland. In May 1891, seventeen-year-old Janke came to America by herself, joining her brother and sister who lived in Iowa. Immediately, she began doing household work in the area for American people even though she knew no English. She was married two years later in 1893 to my great-grandfather.

In October 1900, twenty-eight Hollanders from Iowa rented a train car and hired a porter to help them travel to Washington to start a new life. When Janke began the journey from Iowa, she was seven months pregnant and had three young children, all boys—two, four and six years old—to care for as well. Her fourth child was born in December 1900 after arriving in the Pacific Northwest.

Janke was described as a woman of determination. Yes, you would have to be to survive that cross-country trip while pregnant, I thought. My mother and grandmother and even I could be described that way. Must be a family trait.

When Janke died in 1961 at the age of eighty-seven, she left behind twenty-five grandchildren, fifty-six great-grandchildren and one great-great-granddaughter. Great to have so many solid facts, but I was still without a shred of poetry.

The clock ticked on. This present didn’t need to be finished until we arrived to visit family just after Christmas, but time was still short. The days flew by as I struggled to find the right words. How could a poem and picture convey the message of healing and forgiveness that I sought? Only God knew. I still didn’t get it.

My husband and I talked again. “It’s something that I need to do. The time is right, but I just don’t know what to say.”

“I know you can do it. I have faith in you.”

“Thanks, sweetheart. It’s more than faith I need. I need divine inspiration.”

Finally, I was at peace. My struggle for understanding was over. Mentally and emotionally, I stood in her shoes, this woman who was part of me, whose blood ran through my veins. The answer was etched in my DNA. I just needed to write what was in my heart.

The frame was small, so the poem needed to be Goldilocks size—not too long and not too short, just right.

I needed to understand the subject matter, my great-grandmother, but also the audience, my mother. Mom had a special relationship with her grandmother. I understood that kind of grandmother–granddaughter relationship. For inspiration, I drew on the stories Mom shared of visiting Janke on Saturday afternoons after catechism and again on Sundays after church, sitting on her grandma’s lap and slurping tea from the saucer. And if she was really good, dried apples were a special treat.

How could I bring these generations of women together? My great-grandmother and grandmother had passed on to their heavenly reward, leaving my mom navigating through life’s changes, and me, who hoped to unite these generations with words and give them the honor they deserved.