Christmas: Heaven is Here
I remember a Christmas—I had to have been about eleven—when
my single mother took me a side one day and said, “Ash”—she probably really
called me by my nickname SMASH—“I have to ask you a favor.” She then proceeded
to tell me that this year her Christmas budget was close to nothing. She said,
“I need your help, the only thing I was able to purchase for you was a nail
polish, and this year I need you to be ok with that.”
I was long past the years of asking Santa for presents, but
I had never imagined a Christmas when there was going to be close to nothing
under our tree. Being the brave young woman I was, I looked my mother in the
eye and said, “Do not buy me another thing, if you have any money left get
something for the little girls.” My little sisters were 5 and 7 years younger
than me, and I was pretty sure they still had faith in the little jolly man
with the red suit.
Christmas morning came, and just as she had promised all I
opened was my nail polish. I sat quietly as the others opened their meager
gifts.
It was hard to breathe as I chocked back tears. I wasn’t sad
about the presents, but it killed me to watch my mother go around trying to
smile—I could see it all over her face . . . she felt like she had failed us.
Soon there was a knock. We all scampered to the door of our
little duplex and as it swung open we were surprised to see what looked like a
little miniature tree standing boldly on our porch. Instead of leaves, this
little tree proudly sported little wrapped up dollar bills—tiny ribbons held
them tightly to each branch.
Tears filled my eyes as we picked up the little magic plant
and carried it into our tiny kitchen. I looked up to see my mother’s face—it
was wet from tears—as she watched us count what felt like a million dollars. We
felt rich that Christmas—rich in blessings, rich in dollars, and rich in love.
Someone loved us enough to know that year . . . we just needed a tiny sprout of
hope, not in a little jolly man in a red suit . . . but in Christ. They were
His hands that day. Angels that dropped off a tiny reminder in that tiny
duplex: we were not forgotten.
Fast forward about five or six years. It is Christmas time again.
My mother has remarried a very generous kind man who announced, “Kids”—there
were twelve of us between the two of them, probably six of us living at
home—“This year we want to do Christmas a little differently, we want to give
our presents to a family who needs it. We will give you a budget and assign you
partners to shop for each of their children and we will drop everything off at
their house on Christmas Eve. Our goal is to make sure they have no idea where
it came from. It will be really fun . . . the only catch is: we won’t be buying
anything for any of you.”
My mind quickly took me back to the nail polish and the
money tree, and the look in my mother’s eye. I shouted with excitement, “Yes!”
I took it to another level—as I often tend to do—and knocked
on their door with a fake “research questionnaire for school”. I had to meet
the people we were going to be shopping for. These total strangers let me in
their house. I surveyed the room. They had no TV, and I didn’t see any sign of
a scrap of food. They had four little
kids. They talked very kindly to their children as they filled out my fake
questionnaire. As I drove home that night tears fell down my cheeks as I
thought about all the fun things I was going to purchase for their family.
Christmas Eve came. The boxes were all lined in our front
room, decorated beautifully. We loaded them into our cars. We drove in silence
and when we approached their tiny apartment my step dad turned and said,
“Ashlee, you are the fastest kid I know. Once we get all the presents loaded on
the porch, why don’t you be the one to ring the doorbell and run around the
corner.”
The porch was loaded and everyone had piled into the cars. I
rang the doorbell and ran as fast as my legs could carry me. I slammed myself into the car and we sped
away. I noticed over the fence from their apartment was a Kmart. I suggested we
go over to the parking lot and look over the huge cinderblock fence to see if
we could see the family. (Like I said, always trying to take it to the next
level.)
My stepbrother hoisted me up so I could barely peek my eyes
over the wall. And there on the porch were all the presents . . . along with a
mother, weeping so hard she couldn’t even bend over to pick up one box. I could
hear her sobs, I could feel of the gratitude she felt, but I also could
remember a moment when my own mother had cried those same tears—and I felt joy.
This time we got to be
His hands—someone else had the opportunity to remember His love . . . and
we got to be apart of it.
I will never forget either of these Christmas’ and the
lessons I learned feeling the earthly angels . . . and how powerful it feels to
be one.
Heaven is close, there are angels all around us—some we can
see, and others we can only feel. This Christmas let us always remember the
miracles—we even have the power to create some. Three wise men followed a star to bring their
love to a little baby far away. Most of the time we don’t have to look or travel
too far to find someone who needs to be reminded that they are loved—a little
glimmer of light can help us remember we are not forgotten.
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