Miracles Happen

Today is Christmas and I have stolen away from my family for a few quiet minutes to write.  This last week, I have enjoyed reading other blogger's entries that share precious memories of their Christmas pasts and peeks into their current Christmas celebrations.

I am the youngest of six children, and my mother came from a large family herself.  I had 24 first cousins on my mother's side, and some of those older cousins were having babies of their own by the time I came along.  My grandparents lived on a farm in an old log house about 40 minutes from our house.  Christmas Day meant gathering at Ma and Pa's home with all the other families.  I can't even recall how my parents were able to transport all of us six, toboggans plus food in the station wagon that was towing a trailer with the snowmobile!


Ma loved Christmas.  Every little person would receive a pair of hand knit woolen mittens.  They would have to be unique, red with a white stripe, green with a red stripe, etc, so that the kids wouldn't be arguing over whose was whose.  I don't know what else the boys got, but I know that the girls always got a pair of new underwear that 'you'd grow into' (in other words, they reached up to your armpits!).  More information than you need to know, right!?


During the day, the cousins would toboggan outside and take turns getting towed around the field behind the snowmobile.  Sometimes we would go into the barn to find the kittens or watch my young uncle milk the cows.  I remember one Christmas, I was about 6, getting very angry because Uncle Grant had turned the cow teat towards me and squirted fresh milk all over my new red woolen Christmas dress.


I have great colour photos of my cousin's shiny faces happily looking up as Ma placed the 3 tier decorated fruitcake onto the table.  I have no idea how we all fit into that house at once.  Happy memories.

About a month ago, I was walking through the mall amid the throng of Christmas shoppers.  Overheated in my winter boots and big 50 lb. faux fur coat, surrounded by the trappings of commercialism in its best retail month, I was misery defined.  Something weighed heavily on my mind this fall and I really couldn't imagine getting excited for Christmas.

Then I saw a sign in a decor store at the mall that said ‘Miracles Happen’.  I was drawn to it and it's message struck deep inside me.  Could I believe?  I felt like someone had handed me a rope.  Christmas is the time for hope and the time for miracles.  I have chosen to believe.

I thought about this a lot over the last few weeks.  Then, I started recognizing other's need for hope this season.

A couple I know have watched their son struggle with treatments in the hospital for the last 18 months.  Their wish is that he will be well enough to be able to spend a few hours out of the hospital today.

A good friend will spend the holidays waiting anxiously for her medical test results.

Happily, my friend's daughter returned from her tour in Afghanistan just before Christmas and my neighbours have our road decorated with yellow ribbons to announce the return of their own son.  However, there are many military families that are bravely holding onto hope this Christmas as their loved ones are still away.

I hope that Christmas brings you the miracle you are hoping for. 

Believe.