So tonight I will share with you the very last Christmas
Story that Claudia ever shared with me. It’s called, “Waiting…Waiting for
Christmas” by Elizabeth English.
Herman and I finally locked our store and dragged ourselves
home to South Caldwell Street in Charlotte, North Carolina. It was 11:00 p.m.,
Christmas Eve of 1949. We were dog tired.
Ours was one of those big, old general appliance stores that
sold everything from refrigerators and toasters and record players to bicycles
and doll houses and games. We’d sold almost all our toys, and all the layaways,
except one package, had been picked up.
Usually, Herman and I kept the store open until everything
had been picked up. We knew we wouldn’t have awakened very happy on Christmas
morning knowing that some little child’s gift was back on the layaway shelf.
But the person who had put a dollar down on that package never appeared.
Early Christmas morning our 12-year-old son, Tom, and Herman
and I were out by the tree opening up gifts. But I’ll tell you there was
something very humdrum about this Christmas. Tom was growing up: he hadn’t
wanted any toys – just clothes and games. I missed his childish exuberance of
past years.
As soon as breakfast was over, Tom left to visit his friend
next door. And Herman disappeared into the bedroom mumbling, “I’m going back to
sleep. There’s nothing left to stay up for anyway.”
So there I was, alone, doing the dishes and feeling very
letdown. It was nearly 9:00, and sleet mixed with snow cut the air outside. The
wind rattled out windows, and I felt very grateful for the warmth of the
apartment. Sure glad I don’t have to go out on a day like today, I thought to
myself, picking up the wrappings and ribbons strewn about the living room.
And then it began. Something I’d never experienced before. A
strange, persistent urge. “Go to the store,” it seemed to say.
I looked at the icy sidewalk outside. That’s crazy, I said
to myself. I tried dismissing the thought, but it wouldn’t leave me alone. Go
to the store.
Well, I wasn’t going to go. I’d never gone to the store on
Christmas Day in the 10 years we’d owned it. No one opened shop on that day.
There wasn’t any reason to go, and I wasn’t going to go.
For an hour I fought the strange feeling. Finally, I
couldn’t stand it any longer, and I got dressed.
“Herman,” I said, feeling silly, “I think I’ll walk down to
the store.”
Herman woke up with a start. “Whatever for? What are you
going to do there?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I replied lamely. “There’s not much to
do here. I just think I’ll wander down.”
He argued against it a little bit, but I told him that I’d
be back soon. “Well, go on,” he grumped, “but I don’t see any reason for it.”
I put on my gray wool coat and a gray tam on my head, then
my galoshes and my red scarf and gloves. Once outside, none of these garments
seemed to help. The wind cut right through me, and the sleet stung my cheeks. I
groped my way along the mile down to 117 East Park Avenue, slipping and sliding
all the way.
I shivered, and tucked my hands inside the pockets of my
coat to keep them from freezing. I felt ridiculous. I had no business being out
in that bitter chill.
There was the store just ahead. The sign announced Radio
Electronics Sales and Service, and the big glass windows jutted out onto the
sidewalk. But – what in the world? In front of the store stood two little boys,
huddled together, one about nine, and the other six.
“Here she comes!” yelled the older one. He had his arm
around the younger. “See? I told you she would come!” he said jubilantly.
The two little children were half frozen. The younger one’s
face was wet with tears, but when he saw me, his eyes opened wide and his
sobbing stopped.
“What are you two children doing out here in this freezing
rain?” I scolded, hurrying them into the store and turning up the heat. “You
should be at home on a day like this!” They were poorly dressed. They had no
hats or gloves, and their shoes barely held together. I rubbed their small, icy
hands and got them up close to the heater.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” replied the older. They had
been standing outside since 9:00, the time I normally open the store.
“Why were you waiting for me?” I asked, astonished.
“My little brother, Jimmy, didn’t get any Christmas.”
He touched Jimmy’s shoulder. “We want to buy some skates.
That what he wants. We have three dollars. See, Miss Lady?” he said, pulling
the money from his pocket.
I looked at the dollars in his hand. I looked at their
expectant faces. And then I looked around the store. “I’m sorry,” I said, “but
we’ve sold almost everything. We have no skates” – then my eye caught sight of
the layaway shelf with its one lone package. I tried to remember what was in
it.
“Wait a minute,” I told the boys. I walked over, picked up
the package, unwrapped it, and miracle of miracles, there was a pair of skates!
Jimmy reached for them. Lord, I said, let them be his size.
And miracle added upon miracle, they were his size.
When the older boy finished tying the laces on Jimmy’s right
foot and saw that the skate fit perfectly, he stood up and presented the
dollars to me.
“No, I’m not going to take your money,” I told him. I
couldn’t take his money. “I want you to have these skates, and I want you to
use your money to get some gloves for your hands.”
What I saw in Jimmy’s eyes was like a blessing. It was pure
joy, and it was beautiful. My low spirits rose.
After the children warmed up, I turned down the heater, and
we walked out together. As I locked the door, I turned to the older brother and
said, “How lucky that I happened to come along when I did. If you’d stood there
much longer, you’d have frozen. But how did you boys know I would come?”
I wasn’t prepared for his reply. His gaze was steady, and he
answered me softly, “I knew you would come,” he said. “I asked Jesus to send
you.”
The tingles in my spine weren’t from the cold. God had
planned this. As we waved goodbye, I turned home to a brighter Christmas than I
had left. Tom brought his friend over to our house. Herman got out of bed, and
his father, “Papa” English, and sister, Ella, came by. We had a wonderful
dinner and a wonderful time.
But the one thing that made that Christmas really wonderful
was the one thing that makes every Christmas wonderful: Jesus was there.
Christmas Skates from Charlie Brown Christmas
My Mom's Favorite Holiday Cartoon
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