Writing Christmas stories is something I’ve enjoyed doing for years. To read more on this, click here. Merry Christmas and God bless!
I hid in my pickup truck in the garage. I didn’t want to fall apart in front of Maddie. It was bad enough my daughter lost her mom so close to Christmas. I didn’t want her to think she was losing her dad to loud sobbing fits. I was supposed to be the strong one, the tough guy. But somehow I felt smaller than my five-year-old who played with baby dolls.
Leslie, my wife, always knew how to talk to Maddie. But since three o’clock in the afternoon two Wednesdays ago, after a horrible accident involving my wife’s minivan and a big rig, I was on my own to raise our daughter.
The truth: I was lost without Leslie. I was lucky I could get myself out of bed every morning and make coffee. And somehow I managed to wash our clothes and boil water for hot dogs. Other than that, I dragged myself through the dark nightmare my life had become. The only thing that brought me any light was when Maddie held my hand when we walked to her ballet class.
I wasn’t much of a praying man, but I found myself bent over the steering wheel and crying as my heart split open and the words spilled out.
Please help me, God. I don’t know how to go on from here.
More tears fell until I finally pulled myself together, blowing my nose on some napkins I found tucked in the glovebox under a church bulletin. I hadn’t been much of a church goer since I was a kid, since accepting Jesus. I’d gone a few times to make my wife happy, but my dad always said, “Men that go to church are weak” and I had my “tough” reputation to uphold.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror. Both of my eyes were swollen like someone had sucker punched me. Oh sure. I’m a tough guy all right. I felt like a big fake.
I got out of my truck, slammed the door, and grabbed a screwdriver from my toolbox; my excuse for coming to the garage. I went into the house and found Maddie sitting in the middle of her bedroom floor with Sylvia, her favorite baby doll, resting in her arms. Maddie’s strawberry-blonde hair was the same as her mom’s, and I wondered if I would ever be able to braid it like my wife had done.
She stopped rocking Sylvia when she saw me. “Want to hold her, Daddy?”
I smiled. “Maybe later. Are you getting hungry?”
“I don’t want a hot dog.”
I chuckled, the sound startling me. “Me neither. Why don’t we go to town and get a pizza?”
Maddie smiled, revealing the tiny window where a front tooth had fallen out last week.
When we got back with a large cheese pizza, the house was completely dark. Quickly I turned on some lights and those on the Christmas tree. I couldn’t stand the darkness; there was enough of that inside of me already.
“Can we watch a Christmas movie, Daddy?”
She was the spitting image of my wife; those hazel eyes pleading to watch Christmas movies. I could hear my wife’s soft response in my ear, and I repeated it to Maddie:
“Only if you put on your PJs.”
She squealed, ran to her bedroom, and moments later, emerged wearing snowman footy PJs with Sylvia wearing the same.
“You have to wear yours, too, Daddy.”
“Maybe later. Why don’t you pick out the movie, and I’ll get us some milk to drink.”
After we finished eating a few slices of pizza and somewhere in the middle of Frosty the Snowman, Maddie fell asleep beside me on the couch; her head rested against my arm. Carefully, I scooped her up and carried her to her bed; it was one of a thousand moments that made my heart ache for my wife who loved tucking Maddie in at bedtime.
I pulled her covers up, turned on the nightlight, and quietly closed the door. I didn’t want to go back to the living room yet, so I went to our bedroom closet where Leslie had stashed some Christmas presents in a large garbage bag, those she’d already wrapped. I liked holding them, knowing her hands had been the last ones to touch whatever was underneath the red and green paper. I was sure there was a flannel shirt for me and an ornament for Maddie.
Every year, Leslie and I would pick out an ornament for Maddie, something she’d done or enjoyed that year. Last Christmas was the year she fell in love with eating ice cream from the cone, so of course we got her an ice cream cone ornament. This year, Leslie and I decided it should have something to do with dancing, although I hadn’t seen the ornament yet.
I returned the garbage bag to the back of the closet and opened my bottom dresser drawer where I hid Leslie’s gift. I bought her a soft, red blanket because she was always cold and wanted nothing more than to cuddle on the couch and watch Christmas movies. It was folded and had a cardboard sleeve around it and snowflakes in all different sizes. Leslie would have loved it. I held it to my chest and lost it again, the blanket holding my tears and muffling my cries.
Christmas Eve, I sat beside Maddie in her velvety green dress and shiny black shoes, her feet dangling above the church floor. She’d begged me to take her, and I was glad I did. I found myself feeling closer to Leslie and when the choir sang “O Holy Night,” I found myself feeling closer to God, too. It had been years since I’d felt that way.
When we got home, Maddie kicked off her shoes and ran to her bedroom.
“I need to get Mommy’s present,” she yelled.
My heart hurt so much I thought I was having a heart attack. I took a few deep breaths and the pain went away. I braced myself for our little family tradition of opening one present each on Christmas Eve; the first tradition of many without my wife.
Maddie returned with two packages she’d wrapped with a little help from the Christmas Store helper at school. She handed me something skinny with a silver ribbon.
“I got this for you, Daddy.”
I knew better than to hesitate. When Maddie handed you a present and stared at you like she was holding her breath, it meant you needed to open it before she busted a lung.
I ripped off the ribbon and the paper. “It’s a tire pressure gauge,” I said. “Thank you.”
She jumped into my arms and kissed my cheek.
“Can I open Mommy’s for her?”
I didn’t know how she was handling it all so well. A lump had lodged in my throat so I nodded. She slid to the floor and shredded the Christmas tree paper.
I cleared my throat. “That’s a really nice candle you got for her.”
“It smells like coffee,” she said, sniffing it and smiling like this was the most natural thing in the world.
“Your mom would have loved…”
She jumped up. “Can I open mine?”
I was glad she interrupted me. The words seemed to stick in my throat like someone squeezed and held them there.
I nodded, went to the bag in the closet, and returned with a small package I was pretty sure was her ornament. Maddie stopped fiddling with my tire pressure gauge and clasped her hands together in front of her mouth like she could hardly contain her excitement; something her mom always did.
The gift barely left my hands before Maddie ripped off the paper.
“Wow,” she whispered.
Maddie held a snow globe ornament in her hands, staring into the tiny world like she could will herself to step into it. A girl wearing a long, silver dress and rosy cheeks stood in a field of snow with her head titled back and arms outstretched as if she were dancing.
Carefully, Maddie tipped it upside down, then right side up, and watched as the little flecks of white floated down, landing on the girl’s face.
Kisses from Heaven.
The thought startled me. I remembered the night I took Leslie to dinner while we were dating, and she stopped right in the middle of a crowd of people on the sidewalk when it started to snow. She stood there, looked up, and smiled. And when I asked her what she was doing, she’d said, “Someone is sending me kisses from Heaven, and I want to take them all in.” Funny, I’d forgotten about that until now.
“Daddy, don’t be sad,” Maddie said, noticing the tears I couldn’t stop. “People in snow globes aren’t stuck forever.”
I wiped my eyes. “What?”
“I used to be sad for the people stuck in snow globes, too. But Mommy said it’s like all of us on the earth. We’re sort of stuck here until Jesus says it’s our turn to go home. And Heaven is our real home. This is just where we have to stay for now.”
“Mommy said the earth can be pretty like a snow globe. But Heaven is going to be really, really pretty.”
It sounded like something my wife would have said.
“Daddy,” Maddie said, picking up Sylvia from the couch, “can Sylvia have some hot chocolate?”
“And watch a Christmas movie?” I asked.
She grinned and squeezed Sylvia.
While Maddie changed into her PJs, I retrieved the red blanket I’d gotten for Leslie. My heart began to ache again, knowing I would have given it to her tonight to cuddle with while we watched a Christmas movie. I decided to give it to Maddie to use, knowing Leslie would have loved the idea.
A Charlie Brown Christmas and two mugs of steaming hot chocolate were ready when Maddie flopped beside me in her PJs. I pulled the cardboard sleeve off the blanket and unfolded it, gasping when I realized there were words I hadn’t seen hidden in the folds.
“What does that say, Daddy?”
“I’ll be home for Christmas.”
Maddie smiled. “Mommy is home for Christmas. It was her turn to go home.”
I stared at my five-year-old. “How did you get to be so smart?”
“God. I talk to Him all the time.”
I smiled because I knew it had to be true.
“And He said you can talk to Him too, Daddy. He said He misses you more than you miss Mommy. He said He will help you not to be sad anymore. And He said you don’t have to be afraid of the dark. He’s going to bring you lots of light.”
I fought the tears, but they came anyway. “Did He say anything else?”
She nodded. “He said you should learn to cook something other than hot dogs.”
I laughed a real, honest-to-goodness laugh and it felt so freeing. And somehow, someway, I felt like my wife was with us, kissing my cheek and laughing too.