Child of Gratitude: A Christmas Story

Nina draped the dish towel on the edge of the sink. Thanksgiving was now officially over: all the dishes done, all the leftovers distributed and refrigerated. She turned off the kitchen lights and headed for her favorite wing chair near the fireplace in the living room.

Usually, inspired by her family on this day of gratitude, she would retreat at the end of the day to her study, where she would begin her annual holiday story. For forty years she had been known as the “Christmas Storyteller,” writing stories for a local magazine about people struggling to find the meaning in the holidays after having experienced loss or tragedy.

Not this year. Although aware of her all-too evident humanity, she had not anticipated that this year she would be the one suffering loss.

For all those years, she would write the first draft of her story, go downstairs from her home office and crawl into the antique oak bed, snuggling up to her beloved husband, Michael. Tonight, she would be sleeping on the couch alone, still too sad to sleep in the bed that no longer contained the love of her life.

She wasn’t sure she was up to writing a story this year, let alone celebrating Christmas, the season that had defined her for over fifty years. In fact, the idea of decorating for the holidays, which she normally did on Black Friday, was overwhelming. Michael had been the king of Christmas, eagerly going out to find the largest Douglas fir he could find.

When her daughter Jennifer was born several weeks before Christmas, it was as if he had been infused with the Christmas spirit, always managing to choose or custom make the perfect gifts for their loved ones. That long-ago gift of their Christmas baby, red-haired and green eyed, was the start of all the joyous Christmases they had shared. As their family expanded, so did the traditions they shared. For years, Michael and her daughter would go together to choose the perfect tree.

Her contribution to the holiday had been homemade hearts for the tree. The theme of their tree was always about love. She gifted each of her four children with a new ornament each year to pass on to them when they eventually moved away. Nina thought she might skip the tree this year. It all seemed too overwhelming.

She walked through the quiet house, turning off the lights, and lightly touching the photos of Michael that were scattered around the room. Here was one of their trip to Paris a few years back, and on the bookcase, one of them when they renewed their wedding vows. Tears fell, and she felt as if someone had drained every bit of joy from her. She knew she wouldn’t sleep much, so she took the novel she was reading off the bedside table. Her escape was any of Louise Penny’s detective Gamache series. She took comfort in the mythical village of Three Pines, where even amid tragedy and challenges, the characters supported one another.

She was grateful for the people in her life that were traveling this sorrowful journey with her. Her children were amazing, cheering her up with texts, rearranging furniture so that she would have a new perspective, bringing her little gifts to cheer her up.

Her friends went beyond the usual definition of friendship, providing help as she navigated the new world of being alone, and sharing meals and laughter on Friday nights as they streamed shows designed to inspire and entertain.

She had a strong spiritual community, who were always there for her and supported her through the devastation of Michael’s illness. But right now, she was mad at God. A friend of hers had once asked her if she had gone outside and shook her fist at God. She hadn’t physically done it, but those thoughts were ever present.

The next morning, she had planned to sleep in, but was awakened by a knock on the door. Who would be coming here so early? Hastily throwing on a robe, she went to the door to find her daughter and her fiancé, standing in the cold.

“Come in, come in. What brings you here so early? I thought you would be out shopping for bargains.”

Jennifer smiled. “We were, but there was something important we had to accomplish.”

Frank, Jen’s charming fiancé, carried in a large box.

“I know you aren’t feeling the Christmas spirit, Mom, but I know Dad wouldn’t want you to skip the holiday that was so special to him.”

The box contained a magnificent artificial tree, adorned with lights.

“You taught me that traditions are important, and although Dad and I always went in search of the perfect tree, this is the start of a new tradition.”

Jen and Frank proceeded to put the tree together, while Nina made coffee and made a quick batch of scones. By the time they came out of the oven, the tree was sitting in the corner, sparkling with white lights and ready to decorate.

Nina’s eyes filled with tears, as a memory video ran in her head. Michael and Jennifer brushing off snow from their jackets, as they set the tree on the front porch to settle before bringing it in. Jennifer’s cheeks rosy from being outdoors. Michael smiled as he directed Nina to make hot cocoa.

Frank put his arms around her daughter. Jennifer had a deep understanding of the importance of traditions, even when things were darkest. “Ok, Mom. Where’s the lamb?”

Since she was a small child, Nina’s tradition was to put two special ornaments at the top of the tree first. One was a small ornament made in kindergarten from the top of a milk bottle from a bygone age. The other, a small, stuffed Steiff lamb that had been a favorite Christmas gift.

Nina knew exactly where those special mementos were. Although she was not attached to “things,” there were certain sentimental objects that she valued. She kept them in a special box under her bed.

Once they were safely sitting on the top branches of the tree, they sat down to enjoy scones and coffee, before the couple set off in search of Christmas gifts.

Although Nina still was unable to capture the Christmas spirit, she forced herself to get dressed. Needing to pick up a prescription, she headed for the drugstore. Some people had trouble containing their spending in department stores. For Nina, it was the drugstore. She could never leave without a cartful of bibs and bobs, most of which were not necessities. This trip was no different. She started unloading things on the counter. There were cards only for her nearest and dearest. She was not up to sending cards to her usual list. She had also picked up a few stocking stuffers for her grandchildren. Her sadness was not going to stop her from spoiling them. She had also picked up a small wooden sign that said, “Joy,” hoping that it would remind her to aspire to find some small bit of joy in this dark time.

The cashier, an older woman with a quiet manner, picked up the small Joy sign. “Looks like someone is going to have a joyous Christmas this year.”

Nina wasn’t sure why she then shared so intimately with this stranger. “Actually, no. I lost my husband recently, and I don’t know how I will get through the holidays.”

The cashier smiled. “If you don’t mind me asking, how long were you married?”

Nina felt the tears building. “Fifty years. We were about to celebrate our fifty-first when he passed.”

The cashier looked deeply into Nina’s eyes. “How blessed you were to have so much time together. My husband, the love of my life, died when he was twenty-nine. We never got to have the memories you and your beloved shared. How many wonderful Christmases you must have had.”

Nina inhaled deeply. In her mind’s eye, she saw a reel filled with kisses under the mistletoe, staying up late wrapping gifts, the birth of their Christmas baby, snow falling as they came out of Christmas Eve Mass.

Nina smiled. “I’m so sorry you lost the love of your life. But you gave me a gift today -the gift of gratitude. I have been so busy thinking of what I lost, when I should be looking at all I have had.”

She hurried home, eager to make a cup of tea, and to sit in front of her laptop to begin her story.

As the days led up to Christmas Eve, Nina found herself capturing small moments of joy. She was able to find peace in small moments with friends and family. She even tackled her usual Christmas baking, occasionally even singing a few traditional songs.

On Christmas Eve on the way to the afternoon church service, she decided to take a tin of cookies to the cashier in the drugstore to thank her for turning her thoughts toward gratitude. Walking around the store, she didn’t see her “angel”, but tracked down the manager to ask for her.

The manager looked puzzled. “We don’t have anyone named Lenore working here. What did you say she looked like?”

Nina described the woman and told the manager when she had been in the store.

“Sorry. Can’t help you.”

Nina left the store, confused with her thoughts spinning. Did she imagine the encounter? Was it possible this was some sort of angelic intervention?

Sitting through the early children’s service, she remembered all the Christmas Eves she had spent with Michael, and the moment each year when they would sing “Joy to the World.” Her son would always smile broadly, as he knew it meant that the service was almost over.

But it was the sermon that anchored the beginning of her healing. Father Jerry ended with this thought. “Some say that joy is the child of gratitude. As we leave here tonight, let us be grateful for all the love we have in our lives, and may we share the joy that gives birth to our gratitude with others.”

As Nina left the church to head to her daughter’s house for dinner, it began to snow lightly. She didn’t feel cold, warmed by the memories of Michael’s love, and grateful for the angel in the pharmacy who helped her to see that we carry the joy of all our Christmases inside our hearts.

MG
2023

Thank you, Lord, for fifty years of Christmas joy.
For Bob, who made Christmas happen for so many of us.
To the real “pharmacy angel” who helped me birth the joy.

Each year for many years now, lifelong Verona resident Mary Garland has written a holiday story where the main character is struggling with celebrating Christmas. In each of the stories, there is a search for “The Christ Child,” a challenge for the protagonist to find the true meaning of the holiday.

Some years, the stories are inspired by those around her who are experiencing this challenge. This year, she found herself the one challenged, but believes that there are always small signs of God’s grace that bring light.

This story is reprinted from her blog “Take Joy!” with her permission. The photo is Mary, “the real Santa”–who, she says, she was privileged to know–and her beloved husband, “who truly was the King of Christmas.”