A Christmas Story

By Rian B. Anderson

Pa never had much compassion for the lazy or those who squandered their means and then never had enough for the necessities. But for those who were genuinely in need, his heart was as big as all outdoors. It was from him that I learned the greatest joy in life comes from giving, not from receiving.

It was Christmas Eve 1881. I was 15 years old and feeling like the world had caved in on me because there just hadn't been enough money to buy me the rifle that I'd wanted so bad that year for Christmas. We did the chores early that night for some reason. I just figured Pa wanted a little extra time so we could read the Bible. So after supper was over, I took off my boots and stretched out in front of the fireplace and waited for Pa to get down the old Bible. I still was feeling sorry for myself and, to be honest, wasn't in much of a mood to read scriptures. Pa, however, didn't get the Bible. Instead, he bundled up and went outside. I couldn't figure it out because we already had done all the chores. I didn't worry about it long, though; I was too busy wallowing in self-pity.

Soon Pa came back in. It was a cold, clear night out, and there was ice in his beard. "Come on, Matt," he said. "Bundle up good; it's cold out tonight."

I really was upset then. Not only wasn't I getting the rifle for Christmas, but Pa was dragging me out in the cold, and for no earthly reason that I could see. We'd already done all the chores, and I couldn't think of anything else that needed doing, especially not on a night like this. But I knew Pa wasn't very patient about one dragging one's feet when he'd told them to do something, so I got up, put my boots back on, and got my cap, coat and mittens. Ma gave me a mysterious smile as I opened the door to leave the house. Something was up, but I didn't know what.

Outside, I became even more dismayed. There, in front of the house, was the work team, already hitched to the big sled. Whatever it was we were going to do wasn't going to be a short, quick, little job. I could tell. We never hitched up the big sled unless we were going to haul a big load. Pa already was up on the seat, reins in hand. I reluctantly climbed up beside him. The cold already was biting at me. I wasn't happy. When I was on, Pa pulled the sled around the house and stopped in front of the woodshed. He got off, and I followed.

"I think we'll put on the high sideboards," he said. "Here help me."

The high sideboards! It really was a bigger job than I wanted anything to do with. When we had exchanged the sideboards, Pa went into the woodshed and came out with an armload of wood--the wood I'd spent all summer hauling down from the mountain and then all fall sawing into blocks and splitting. What was he doing?

Finally, I said something. "Pa," I asked, "what are you doing?"

"You been by the widow Jensen's lately?" he asked. The widow Jensen lived about two miles down the road. Her husband had died a year or so before and left her with three children, the oldest being 8.

Sure, I'd been by, but so what? "Yeah," I said, "why?"

"I rode by just today," Pa said. "Little Jakey was out digging around in the woodpile, trying to find a few chips. They're out of wood, Matt."

That was all he said before turning and going back into the woodshed for another armload of wood. I followed him. We loaded the sled so high that I began to wonder if the horses would be able to pull it. Finally, Pa called a halt to our loading, then we went to the smoke house, and Pa took down a big ham and a side of bacon. He handed them to me and told me to put them in the sled and wait. When he returned, he was carrying a sack of flour over his right shoulder and a smaller sack of something in his left hand.

"What's in the little sack?" I asked.

"Shoes. They're out of shoes. Little Jakey just had gunny sacks wrapped around his feet when he was out in the woodpile this morning. I got the children a little candy, too. It just wouldn't be Christmas without a little candy."

We rode the two miles to widow Jensen's pretty much in silence. I tried to think through what Pa was doing. We didn't have much by worldly standards. Of course, we did have a big woodpile, though most of what was left now still was in the form of logs that I would have to saw into blocks and split before we could use it. We also had meat and flour, so we could spare that, but I knew we didn't have any money, so why was Pa buying them shoes and candy? Really, why was he doing any of this? Widow Jensen had closer neighbors than us. It shouldn't have been our concern.

We came in from the blind side of the Jensen house and unloaded the wood as quietly as possible, then we took the meat, flour and shoes to the door. We knocked. The door opened a crack and a timid voice said, "Who is it?"

"Lucas Miles, ma'am, and my son, Matt. Could we come in for a bit?"

Widow Jensen opened the door and let us in. She had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The children were wrapped in another and were sitting in front of the fireplace by a very small fire that hardly gave off any heat at all. Widow Jensen fumbled with a match and finally lit the lamp.

"We brought you a few things, ma'am," Pa said and set down the sack of flour. I put the meat on the table. Then Pa handed her the sack that had the shoes in it. She opened it hesitantly and took the shoes out one pair at a time. There was a pair for her and one for each of the children--sturdy shoes, the best, shoes that would last. I watched her carefully. She bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling, and then tears filled her eyes and started running down her cheeks. She looked up at Pa like she wanted to say something, but it wouldn't come out.

"We brought a load of wood, too, ma'am," Pa said. Then he turned to me and said, "Matt, go bring enough to last for a while. Let's get that fire up to size and heat this place up."

I wasn't the same person when I went back out to bring in the wood. I had a big lump in my throat, and much as I hate to admit it, there were tears in my eyes, too. In my mind, I kept seeing those three kids huddled around the fireplace and their mother standing there with tears running down her cheeks and so much gratitude in her heart that she couldn't speak. My heart swelled within me, and a joy filled my soul that I'd never known before. I had given at Christmas many times before, but never when it had made so much difference. I could see we were literally saving the lives of these people.

When we recall Christmas past, we usually find that the simplest things give off the greatest glow of happiness. -  Bob Hope