True Christmas Stories Submitted to S-E by readers

by P. E. Adotey Addo

It was the night before Christmas and I was very sad because my family life had been severely disrupted and I was sure that Christmas would never come. 

There was none of the usual joy and anticipation that I always felt during the Christmas season. I was eight years old but in the past few months I had grown a great deal. Before this year, I thought Christmas in my village came with many things. Christmas had always been for me one of the joyous religious festivals.

It was the time for beautiful Christmas music on the streets, on radio, television, and every where. Christmas had always been a religious celebration and the church started preparing way back in November. We really felt that we were preparing for the birth of the baby Jesus. Christmas was the time when relatives and friends visited each other so there were always people traveling and visiting with great joy from all the different tribes. I always thought that was all Christmas was. Oh, how I wished I had some of the traditional food consumed at the Christmas Eve dinner and the Christmas Day dinner, I knew I could not taste the rice, chicken, goat, lamb, and fruits of various kinds. 

The houses were always decorated with beautiful paper ornaments. The children and all the young people loved to make and decorate their homes and schools with colorful crepe paper. All of us looked forward to the Christmas Eve Service at our church. 

After the service there would be a joyous possession through the streets. Everyone would be in a gala mood with local musicians in a Mardi Gras mood. Then on Christmas Day we all went back to church to read the scriptures and sing carols to remind us of the meaning of the blessed birth of the baby Jesus. We always thought that these were the things that meant Christmas. After the Christmas service young people received gifts of special chocolate, special cookies, and special crackers. 

Young people were told that the gifts come from Father Christmas, and this always meant Christmas for us. They also received new clothes and perhaps new pairs of shoes. Meanwhile throughout the celebration, everyone was greeted with the special greeting word, "Afishapa" meaning Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. Oh how I wish that those memories were real tonight in order to bring us Christmas. However, this Christmas Eve things were different and I knew Christmas would never come. Every one was sad and desperate because of what happened last April when the so-called Army of Liberation attacked our village and took all the young boys and girls away.

Families were separated and some were murdered. We were forced to march and work for many miles without food. We were often hungry and we were given very little food.. There was very little food. The soldiers burned everything in our village and during our forced march we lost all sense of time and place.

Miraculously we were able to get away from the soldiers during one rainy night.  After several weeks in the tropical forest we made our way back to our burned out village. Most of us were sick, exhausted, and depressed. Most of the members of our families were no where to be found. We had no idea what day or time it was. This was the situation until my sick grandmother noticed the reddish and yellow flower we call, "Fire on the Mountain," blooming in the middle of the  marketplace where the tree had stood for generations and had bloomed for generations at Christmas time. For some reason it had survived the fire that had engulfed the marketplace. I remembered how the nectar from this beautiful flower had always attracted insects making them drowsy enough to fall to the ground to become food for crows and lizards. 

We were surprised that the fire the soldiers started to burn the marketplace and the village did not destroy the "Fire on the Mountain" tree. What a miracle it was. Grandmother told us that it was almost Christmas because the flower was blooming. As far as she could remember this only occurred at Christmas time. 

My spirits were lifted perhaps for a few minutes as I saw the flower. Soon I became sad again. How could Christmas come without my parents and my village? 

How could this be Christmas time when we celebrate the birth of the Prince of Peace, because since April we have not known any peace, only war and suffering. How could we celebrate as grandmother instructed us to do before she died. Those were the last words she spoke before she died last night. As I continued to think about past joyous Christmases and the present suffering, we heard the horn of a car and not just one horn but several cars approaching our village. 

At  first we thought they were cars full of men with machine guns so we hid in the forest. To our surprise they were not and they did not have guns. They were just ordinary travelers. It seemed the bridge over the river near our village had been destroyed last April as the soldiers left our village. Since it was almost dusk and there were rumors that there were land mines on the roads, they did not want to take any chances. Their detour had led them straight to our village. When they saw us they were shocked and horrified at the suffering and the devastation all around us. Many of these travelers began to cry. 

They confirmed that tonight was really Christmas Eve. All of them were on their way to their villages to celebrate Christmas with family and friends. Now circumstances had brought them to our village at this time on this night before Christmas. They shared the little food they had with us. They even helped us to build a fire in the center of the marketplace to keep us warm. In the middle of all this, my sister became ill and could not stand up. A short time after we returned to our village my grandmother told me that my oldest sister was expecting a baby. My sister had been in a state of shock and speechless since we all escaped from the soldiers.

I was so afraid for my sister because we did not have any medical supplies and we were not near a hospital. Some of the travelers and the villagers removed their shirts and clothes to make a bed for my sister to lie near the fire we had made. On that fateful night my sister gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. This called for a celebration, war or no war, Africans have to dance and we celebrated until the rooster crowed at 6 a.m. We sang Christmas songs. Every one sang in his or her own language. For the first time all the pain and agony of the past few months escaped. When morning finally came my sister was asked, "What are you going to name the baby"? Would you believe for the first time since our village was burned and all the young girls and boys were taken away, she spoke. She said, "His name is Gye Nyame, which means except God I fear none." 

And so we celebrated Christmas that night. Christmas really did come to our village that night, but it did not come in the cars or with the travelers. It came in the birth of my nephew in the midst of our suffering. We saw hope in what this little child could do. This birth turned out to be the universal story of how bad things turned into universal hope, the hope we found in the Baby Jesus. 

A miracle occurred that night before Christmas and all of a sudden I knew we were not alone any more. Now I knew there was hope and I had learned that Christmas comes in spite of all circumstances. Christmas is always within us all. Christmas came even to our village that night.

I would like to submit my story to your website.  This is a Christmas story; a childhood memory of mine.  The story gives me inspiration; I hope inspiration is what it gives to others. I am pasting it into this email.    

JULIE MILLER  

by julie ann miller

My childhood memories of kindergarten consist of several things: cold concrete walls, little coats and boots, pencils which didn't fit in the hand, lined paper, desks, a blackboard and the alphabet in black and white.

Recess only meant that I had to be outside, dressed in coat and hat. Aimlessly, I circled the school grounds while children around me played.

Years later, my mother told me that she went to my teacher with the question, "Tell me what is going on at school? My daughter was a happy kid, until I sent her to school. She's depressed and I don't know why."

The teacher was as dumbfounded as my mother. She said that I seemed well enough at school. Perhaps the child is tired? Does she eat well? Does she sleep?

Maybe the truth lay somewhere in between. My bedroom always seemed chilled and silent until mother stepped through the door. The warmth of her smile lit into my heart. She would sit on my bed and kiss me goodnight. Long after her goodnight kiss, I would lie awake, staring at the ceiling as I hugged my doll. If only the morning would come and I could be somewhere other than school! What had I said to mother, so many times, when she'd asked me? "They don't like me." It was all I knew. It was all I could understand.

The winter turned colder as Christmas approached. A week of school still remained before the holiday break. I awoke one morning to my mother's voice. Through blurry eyes I looked up at her. She was telling me to get dressed. Pulling my clothes on, I looked out the window. How could it be time to go to school? The sky was still dark. I stared down at the fresh layers of snow covering our lawn.

"You don't have to go to school today," mother announced as she tied the hat strings under my chin. "You're going to see Santa today." My heart leaped with joy at her words! This day belonged to my mother and me!

We took the morning train to Detroit. I stood at the window of the train, drinking in every sight. Christmas lights, brightly decorated wreaths swaying in the wind and street lamps glittered under the half light of the morning sky. Mother sat beside me, her hand against my back, as the train chugged down the track.

Whenever I hear the expression, "seeing Christmas through the eyes of a child," I remember that day. As mother led me into the J.L. Hudson store, the world transformed to my size; like magic seeds which sprouted and grew a dream into a reality, a place of make-believe suddenly was there before my eyes. I could touch my hand to anything I could see. It was all there, within my reach: every decoration, every toy and every colorful, delicious looking piece of candy. Christmas songs filled the air and many of the movable toys seemed to bounce in time with the music. Children rushed past me in all directions. Some ran to the toy trains, some to the Christmas trees from which dangled candy canes, while others rushed to the red playhouse. Outside of that house, sat Santa Claus. "Ho! Ho! Ho!" he called out. With a white gloved hand, he beckoned me. The delightful sound of sleigh bells was in the air, accompanied by Santa's hearty laugh. He called out to his reindeer, proudly lined up and there waiting at his side. With my heart at the bursting point, I turned to look at my mother. She stood outside of the room, looking in. I wanted her to share this experience. I wanted her to get a look at me as I wandered joyfully through this children's wonderland.

As summer arrived, the school year drew to a close. Books were packed up and desks emptied out. As the silence closed in around the schoolyard, my mother, once again, came to see my teacher. The teacher sat before my mother sobbing; words were difficult, but she tried to explain. "I didn't want to work. I never wanted to teach. I was forced into it. I singled your daughter out and took the frustration out on her."

When I grew up, I came to understand that the human heart has its limits when it comes to harsh disappointment. As adults, we don't always respond in the way we might hope.

What I took from that year though was not the misfortune of an unsettling beginning, but the gift of a single beautiful day.