Caroling under glittering stars

By Randy Koch

When I was a kid in Minnesota, by mid-December snow sometimes lay packed in the tracks of the gravel road past our farm and on the shoulders of the county road leading to Lamberton, and when it did, we went caroling. A couple of nights before Christmas, Dad harnessed the Belgians -- two huge draft horses with thick brown coats and fair manes and tails -- and hitched them to the bobsled. He hung brass sleigh bells from the hames and threw four or five straw bales and heavy blankets in the sled. Everyone -- Dad, Mom, my brothers and me; our neighbors Rich and Edie Coulter and their two kids Dan and Becky; Walt and Nory Bruns, who lived a mile west of our farm; and sometimes Pete and Ann Stanley -- bundled up for the cold, three-mile ride into town. Everyone wore several pounds of clothing, usually some combination of long johns, undershirt, flannel shirt, jeans, heavy socks, insulated vest with a heavy coat, stocking cap, leather mitts with knit liners, and another two to three pounds worth of warm winter boots.

When we were ready and the team hitched and standing under the yardlight in front of our house, we climbed in the back of the sled. Mom, Ann, and Becky sat on the straw bales and pulled the blankets over their laps while Nory and Edie, an elementary teacher, stood in the back with the older kids. At the front Walt and Rich stood on either side of Dad, their large gloved hands on the top edge of the wooden sleigh box, and passed a bottle of peppermint schnapps -- antifreeze, they called it -- between the three of them. Then, Dad called to the horses, slapped the lines against their broad backs, and said, “Get up!” The sled jerked forward, down the short driveway, and out of the yard.

The night was dark and still, but the moon reflected off the white fields and brightened the snow-packed gravel road and then the paved county road that led into town. The stars -- Orion and his two dogs pursuing the hare -- glittered overheard, and as the horses trotted through the night, the sleigh bells rang just the way I imagined they did when Santa arrived with his reindeer. When we reached the highway, the team pulled us south, up a small rise where Shorty Skelton's place set on the right, and then down into the Cottonwood River valley. Once we crossed the bridge -- the river frozen over and winding west through the trees -- and started the long climb up the other side, some of us got out and walked or trotted alongside the sled, both to warm up and to make the horses' job of pulling us up the long hill easier. Snow crunched underfoot in the biting cold, and small sparks jumped from the runners when they hit bare pavement.

Once we arrived in town, Edie, the always-well-prepared teacher, pulled out dittos of Christmas carols and passed them around the sled so no one had an excuse not to sing “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,” “Oh, Little Town of Bethlehem,” “Away in a Manger,” every verse of “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” and even “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.” We serenaded the Dammans, the Beermans, the Heimanns, the Kuehls, Pastor Amundson's family, the residents at the Valley View Manor Nursing Home, and the men gathered in the door of the Municipal Liquor Store. We rode and sang all around our small town, the cold stinging my toes, our brittle harmonies filling the winter air, and memories of those nights before Christmas filling my young heart.

(Randy Koch teaches English and directs the Writing Center at Texas A&M International University.)

A Christmas toast

By Amanda Bean

My father died December 24, 1996. That was the day that I finally believed there was no Santa Claus. I was 35 years old. I remember the hospital vaguely. I close my eyes and I can see the huge Christmas tree in the lobby around the corner from my dad's room. It was lit with thousands of lights. I had eventually lost count those crystal-like illuminations on one of my few breaks keeping vigil. I would go back to the small room where my mom and cousin Sandra sat and talked to my father who lay still, breathing heavily, unable to speak. Experts believe that when you are in a coma, you can still hear what's around you. My mother, a nurse, would stroke my father's head as she sat on the bed next to him. She would whisper in his ear that it was okay for him to go, that we would be alright . . . he didn't have to hang on for us. By 11:00 p.m., he must have finally listened to my mom because our lives were the emptiest I could ever remember, even if it was for just a few seconds. I saw him draw his last breath. It was so finite. I sat and waited for his chest to rise again. But it didn't. That was it.

Research says that the body inexplicably loses 21 grams of weight at the time of death. There doesn't seem to be any scientific account for it, so why that happens is left up to speculation. I believe it is the spirit of everything good and wonderful, loving and giving, the best part of our selves, rising and going to wherever goodness lives after it has no body to be in anymore. If I am right, then I may have unlocked the key to Christmas.

For instance, the story says that the wise men followed the brightest star to find the babe who lay in a manger, that peace fell upon the earth at that moment, the holiest of nights, the most silent of nights. What if the composite of all those 21 grams came together during that one evening to light up the night and lead with love all of the hearts of the world. I know that my father was called to do something that grand, something that special and purposeful. I know with all certainty that he is part of the Milky Way, part of the moon, the stars, the earth, and all the other galaxies. I know he is the universe, the truth, he is happiness, and joy. I know that all others who have transcended human existence are, too, all of these things. They are part of the vastness that is unknown, yet knowable, what is and what is not, the Yin and the Yang, Alpha and Omega, beginning and end.

And if you think about it, Santa Claus and Christmas, Hannukah and the burning oils, life itself, they are all part of the same story. The promise of miracles, the promise of hope and goodness, and the knowing that it all rests on our willingness to believe and to know that our own 21 grams will take us to that place where dreams are reality, and the greatest vision of the grandest self we can be, is.

Christmas is now just me and my mom. We sit together drinking hot chocolate, opening our gifts, excited about spoiling one another. And then we celebrate with the rest of our family. We laugh and remember how the Christmas season was always my father's favorite time of the year. We have decided that is why he left us on that day. We have decided that he wanted us to celebrate. He wanted us to be joyful of a life that continues still to bring us surprises year after year. He wanted us to reflect on the certainty of new beginnings. We do. Every year we make a toast to those twinkling stars.

Interesting things, stars. We see their light long after they are gone. I rest my case.

From my family to yours, we wish you all the best of years to come with the knowing that time is as endless as the dreams we dream, and that Santa Claus is a timeless being. On Christmas night we will say a little toast for you, too. It will go something like this: “May you know each circumstance as a gift, and in each experience find a hidden treasure.” I am sure if you are watching the night sky on Christmas evening you will see an extra twinkle.

(Amanda Bean is a counselor at United High School.)

Christmas, miracles, and all things possible

By Annette Bridges

Do you believe in miracles?

I've read lots of theological definitions of a miracle but I think many of us might simply define a miracle as that which is unlikely, impossible, or unexpected, but yet it happens. Being a country music fan, I was inspired by Joe Nichol's song, “The Impossible.” In fact, I would say it's a song about miracles. And these words from his song sum up my belief in miracles: “I've learned to never underestimate the impossible.”

People everywhere long for something. For better health, for improved self-image, for a happier and more satisfying life, for peace, for purpose, for security, for safety. . . .
What miracle do you seek? Do you believe it's obtainable?

The Bible offers some assurances. Matthew, Mark, and Luke all wrote that “all things are possible with God.” I'm sure this trio saw the apparently impossible proved possible more than a few times.

Jesus told us faith can move mountains. Of course this kind of faith sounds like it requires belief that the impossible is truly possible before we can witness it.

Considering the virgin birth of Jesus itself gives us reason to think that what may seem to be miraculous and unbelievable can happen. Perhaps that's why the Christmas season inspires my childlike enthusiasm that wishes can come true, that dreams can become realities, and that anything is possible.

The Bible is filled with accounts that stagger the imagination. Again and again good conquers evil, the incurable are healed, the impossible is proven possible. Biblical scholar Mary Baker Eddy wrote, “The so-called miracles contained in Holy Writ are neither supernatural nor preternatural; for God is good, and goodness is more natural than evil.”

Christmas fills my heart with hope and my soul with expectation. Believing anything is possible opens us to new ways of seeing -- a change in our point of view. When the premise for our viewpoint has no limits, then strong is our faith, firm is our hope, and great is our expectation.

We can begin by noticing what seem like everyday miracles. Look at the stars on a clear night. What could be more awe-inspiring than the fact that the universe exists -- that you and I exist? That each of us must surely be here for a purpose?

What could be more incredible than the profound statement of hope written by Anne Frank in her diary from her hiding place in Nazi Germany: “In spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart”?

Many times in my life it's been proven to me the impossible can become possible and the unlikely and unexpected can be naturally and assuredly experienced. That I could go to college even though I had no money and was uncertain how the tuition would get paid. That I could meet the man who would become my husband for 24 years and counting. That I could have a baby. That I could be freed of pain when medication didn't work. That I could love and be happy where I live. My list could go on and on. I could write a book telling about all the “miracles” of my life. I bet you could, too.

If we open our eyes and deepen our perception, we will see miracles all around us. Albert Einstein said, “There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.”

Keeping my heart filled with hope and expectation, I will never underestimate the impossible again. Thanks, Joe Nichols, for your song of promise! As the French proverb says, “There are no miracles for those that have no faith in them.” For those that believe, what seems impossible is possible!

(Annette Bridges is a freelance writer and lives in Tioga, Texas. She can be reached at txfsm1@gte.net.)