Christmas I remember best: A wish is altered by love

I was not yet born when my favorite Christmas occurred, but I like to think I hold some of the original memory in my heart, just the same.

Perhaps I watched as my own dear mother, then just a child, dreamed her secret dreams while peering through a window at her Christmas wish.

Just beyond the Christmas tree display, with its big, brightly colored electric bulbs, was the dream. She was perfect down to the tiniest detail. She was glorious, robed in her little red cloak with a row of miniature pearl buttons all the way down to her petite, real leather, fashionably high-heeled boots. Her glossy black curls were framed by a fluff of white, feather-soft fur. Her delicate, rosy pink china hands held a small fuzzy muff to match. She was beautiful, she was heart's desire, and she was out of the question. Her daddy's eyes had told her that, although his face always found a smile.

She felt his hand on her head, and the Christmas dreams released their captive for awhile. Her father had finished the errands that had brought them into town from the farm. He had come to fetch his small daughter, not doubting for a moment as to her whereabouts. The sight of her slim figure bobbing about at this particular window had become familiar. The farm furnished most of what they needed, and his trade as the town smithy filled in most of the gaps. Still, with sole care of his six children, there was just not enough for costly extras.

His little Joy (for that was her name as well as what she was to him) took his big, hard-callused smithy hand into her own small chilled ones. She smiled up at him, not quite meeting his gaze. She was filled with hope and Christmas magic, her child's spirit not ready to relinquish the dream of rosy tinted china, red velvet and fur.

Seated beside her father on the wagon, Joy sent a quiet prayer to her angel mother in the direction of the shimmery stars. Joy had been just a toddler when her mother had gone to heaven. She found comfort in believing that each glimmer and flicker of the first evening stars were kisses from her mama. On a night like this, one had to believe that miracles could be made to order.

On Christmas morning, the warmth of the quilts, usually such a comfort against the prickly cold mornings, didn't feel at all tempting. With dark braid flying behind her, she was up and halfway to the tree when her daddy's arms halted her. "Slow down there little sis," he said, chuckling.

"Hadn't we better let the house warm up a little before you go flying about in your nightie? Come here close to the stove, and I'll make us some toast. It sounds like your sisters and the boys are awake. We'll wait for them. The tree will still be there in 10 minutes time!"