The Leanest Christmas

by Donna Poole

Elbows on the chipped counter, chin propped in her hands, Sarah stared out of the kitchen window at the gray sky, the rain streaking down the glass, and the muddy mess on the barn hill. She didn’t really care that it didn’t look like Christmas.

Sam ran down the old, wooden stairs and into the small kitchen. “Mmm, I smelled your bread baking up in the study. Makes it hard to concentrate.”

Sarah sighed and turned to face him. “We have to make it last until after Christmas, so I can’t give you a piece to eat while it’s still warm. I only have enough flour left to make a small batch of Christmas sugar cookies. And there aren’t any sprinkles.”

“I might have enough money for flour and sprinkles.” He pulled the change from his pocket. Twenty-seven cents. “Nope, sorry, Babe. But your cookies will taste as good without sprinkles.”

One tear escaped and ran down her cheek, and she brushed it aside before it turned into a torrent. “The kids will want sprinkles.”

Sam hugged her. “Hey, what’s up? My Pollyanna girl fall out of her optimism tree?”

“I think I broke every bone when I hit the ground.”

“Let’s have a cup of coffee and talk about this.”

“We can’t; we’re out of coffee.”

The phone rang, and he answered it. “Pastor Sam!”

How can he sound so cheerful? Christmas is less than a week away. The kids won’t expect much, but I know they’ll hope for more than that crude barn Sam slapped together for the boys and the doll blanket I made April. Jim and Davey have been eyeing those Tonka trunks at the hardware store for weeks, and I’d love to get April a new doll to go with the blanket. A decent meal would be nice too! They love my home canned spaghetti sauce, but we’ve been eating pasta three times a week, and it’s all I have to fix for Christmas. I know the first Christmas was simple, and it’s okay that ours is too, but just for once I’d love to make the day really special. I don’t have anything for Sam; I never do. I know he doesn’t have a gift for me either, and I don’t care, but the kids… Lord, do you suppose you could send some wise men to the house with gold, frankincense, and myrrh?

Sarah heard Sam say, “I can be at the hospital in twenty minutes.”

“Oh, Sam, you promised to help me put together craft boxes for the kids today. And do we even have enough gas in old Betsy for you to get to town and back?”

He kissed the top of her head. “I’m sorry, Sarah, but I have to go. Bill fell milking and broke his hip. And I think we have just enough gas for me to get to town, pick up the kids at school on the way home, and get back to church on Sunday. I’ll get paid then.”

Paid yes, but not even enough to cover the LP gas bill and the electric bill, both overdue.

But Sarah didn’t say that. She hugged Sam, prayed with him that he’d be able to encourage Bill, and waited to cry until he left.

Then she wiped her tears, gathered three Christmas gift boxes she’d saved since last year, and taped the ripped corners. Inside she put buttons, chenille stems, colored pencils (not new but freshly sharpened), and pieces of cloth, yarn, and paper. Each child got a new bottle of glue and a roll of tape. Her creative kids would have hours of fun with these craft boxes, and it would give her something to put under the tree. She wrapped each box with a brown paper grocery bag turned inside out and tied it with string. At least the string was festive, red and white striped.

Sarah placed the boxes under the cedar tree in the living room. It was more brown than green this year, but it smelled wonderful, and it looked festive decorated with homemade ornaments and strings of paper chains. She knew the children’s eyes would widen with excitement when they came home from school and saw three packages under the tree.

How many gifts do you need to give to make it a happy Christmas?

The thought startled her. Giving gifts was wonderful, but that wasn’t what made Christmas. She’d been so stressed and exhausted lately, she’d forgotten that. They didn’t usually plug in the tree lights until dark so they didn’t waste electricity, but she thought it wouldn’t hurt, just this once. Coffee was gone, but there was tea. Sarah made herself a cup. sat in the old rocking chair next to the kerosene heater and warmed her cold hands. She turned to Luke chapter two in the Bible and read once again her favorite and truest of all Christmas stories, how for love Jesus gave up all the riches of heaven and came to be born in the poorest of places, a borrowed manger in a stranger’s barn. And why? To grow up poor and persecuted, and to die a horrible death on a cross to pay for the sins of the entire world. Such beautiful love was beyond comprehension and worth celebrating any way she could. Perhaps her meager craft boxes for her three precious children said love as much as the wise men’s valuable gifts.

Still, she wished she had something to give Sam, her young pastor husband who cheerfully spent his life loving her, their children, and their church family with very little earthly thanks.

Sarah felt a tiny flutter in her abdomen. What in the world? Wait! When was my last….?

The fall had passed in a blur of harvest and canning. How could I not have noticed I’d missed that many times?

She counted back. Four months? No wonder I’ve been tired and emotional! Sam’s going to be so happy! He’s wanted another baby for six years! I know just how I’ll tell him.

Soon there were four boxes wrapped in brown paper and tied with string under the tree. Three were for children, ages ten, eight, and six. One was for Sam.

Sarah flung a red tablecloth over the old wooden table, sliced the bread into the thinnest possible slices, and warmed up her delicious spaghetti sauce. She lit every candle she could find and put the pasta water over to boil.

Sam and the kids came in laughing and covered with snow. Sarah hadn’t even noticed the rain had switched to beautiful large flakes. Sam was carrying a bag of flour, a jar of coffee, and a tiny bottle of red and green sprinkles.

“How?”

He kissed her. “Bill insisted on giving me twenty bucks and said Merry Christmas.”

“Did you put any gas in old Betsy?”

He laughed. “You look like you climbed back up your Pollyanna tree.”

“God gave me a boost up.”

“Mommy, look what we got in the mail!”

April waved a check for one-hundred dollars under her nose.

“My parents,” Sam explained.

“Do you think. . .?”

She didn’t have to finish the sentence. He knew what she wanted and put his coat back on.”

“Does Daddy have to go back to the hospital again?” Jim asked.

Davey hollered, “Hey, guys, come look! There are four presents under the tree!”

Sarah gave Sam a quick kiss. “Hurry,” she whispered. “I’ll keep everything warm, and we’ll wait for you.”

If the hardware store still had them, there would soon be three more gifts under the tree, two tonka trucks and a new doll.

But those store gifts wouldn’t be the best gifts. And the tiny bottle of cologne hidden in Sam’s pocket wouldn’t be the best gift. The note in the one box wrapped in brown paper that said, “A new baby is coming late May, Sam. I love you so much,” wouldn’t be the best gift either.

The best gift would be when Sam sat in the old rocker, opened the Bible, and read Luke 2:11, “For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.”

This Christmas wouldn’t be so lean after all. None of them would be. How could they be with such a heavenly gift as Jesus Christ the Lord?

The end

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These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter