Where Are My Christmas Cards?

By Dana Martin

We make a living by what we get but we make a life by what we give.
~Winston Churchill

Who doesn't like getting cards in the mail? Real cards — not e-cards or virtual cards that say, "I was thinking of you, just not enough to spend money on a stamp." Christmas is the one time of year to catch up with friends and family we don't see often enough, receive a card, sometimes a handwritten note and hopefully some pictures of their growing children, their dogs, or even their vacations.

The anticipation of finding a Christmas card in the mailbox is comparable only to finding a new present under the tree every day during the month of December. In a tiny metal box, that typically receives monthly greetings only from the electric company or Publishers Clearing House, news arrives of babies, new jobs, college graduations, and photos of smiling faces. The month of December delivers the promise of holiday messages, of tradition.

Every year I mail dozens of Christmas cards, mostly to people with whom I've been exchanging yearly greetings for as long as I've been married. When I separate them for the post office each year, the stack going to people out of state is as big as the stack staying in town.

I send them to relatives I haven't seen in ten years, to friends who've moved away, to a soldier overseas, to friends of my aging parents — these all make sense. It stops making sense when I send one to my mother (who I see almost every day) and to my next-door neighbors. Nonetheless, I send them, because I hope that the recipients get as much joy as I do finding Christmas cards in the mailbox.

One year was different. My holiday joy took a nosedive the year it seemed like everyone had decided to boycott the Christmas card tradition. I'll always remember it as the year that cards trickled in slowly and painfully, like receiving a million dollars in the mail one dollar at a time; I was grateful for each one, but just one a day seemed like a cruel joke.

I waited. My kids noticed.

"Mom, didn't you send out Christmas cards this year?" asked my sixteen-year-old daughter as she looked through a stack of mail.

"Yes, of course I did. Why do you ask?"

She pointed to an empty red and green wicker basket on the counter. "Where are all our Christmas cards?"

That was the big question, wasn't it? It was already the second week of December and the only cards I'd received were from our insurance agent and tax preparer. It was starting to become a twisted and backward version of "The Twelve Days of Christmas," except that in this version, my True Love gave me bills on the eighth day and junk mail on the ninth.

I thought the weekend of the 15th would be productive for the people who hadn't yet sent their cards, so on the following Wednesday I expected my mailbox to be full. Wednesday came and went; I received two cards.

"Unbelievable!" I complained as I walked inside from getting the mail.

On Thursday, I was excited to see three cards in the mailbox — until I realized one of them was my own, returned to sender for an outdated address.

Where were my Christmas cards? I love getting the ones that include pictures, and the cards that include a yearly "This is what we've been doing" letter are a beloved bonus. I tape any pictures to my refrigerator so we can enjoy them until New Year's Day, but this particular year my fridge was nearly bare.


I don't know what changed from all the years past. One friend sent out a Facebook message to let people know that, while she was enjoying everyone else's Christmas cards tremendously, she wouldn't be sending out cards this year because she was too busy.

Too busy. Maybe that's the culprit. Too busy to bake, too busy to write cards. Maybe this is a sign of how overextended we are with our jobs, kids' activities, and social commitments. We all complain about how busy we are this time of year, especially my husband, who doesn't buy my gift until the weekend before Christmas because he can't believe "how fast Christmas came this year." December does have a way of using eleven months to surprise us.

Perhaps it is the economy. If you buy the boxed cards the day after Christmas, you can get two boxes for the price of one, but stamps get into people's wallets. Even though mailing a letter through the post office is still the most cost-efficient method to get something across the world, when you're mailing sixty-plus of those "somethings," the cost may become an issue.

"Why do you keep mailing them if it makes you so upset?" asked my husband one night as he listened to me list everyone who hadn't sent a Christmas card that year.

"I've asked myself that same question!" I said. "And I've decided that I'm finished with the whole tradition. People just don't send Christmas cards anymore, I guess."

Christmas came and went. A few cards arrived after December 25th. Such blatant lack of Christmas spirit disillusioned me. What was next? Too busy to decorate a tree? I allowed the shortage of Christmas cards to damper the last vestiges of my holiday spirit.

Then, not long after Christmas, a special card arrived in the mail that caused my shrunken grinchy heart to grow three sizes that day.

"Loved ones," it read, "I can't tell you how much we look forward to receiving your Christmas card every year. The kids are growing too fast, and we are getting old, so your yearly holiday greeting is better than any monetary gift. We read your letter at least three times and find pleasure in every detail you take the time to write. We love you and hope that you know that our love travels the miles to reach you, just as your card has traveled miles to reach us. Much love."

My grandparents are both gone now, but I still have that card. It is the first card I put in the wicker basket each year to remind me that the true spirit of Christmas is giving, not receiving. And every year, I continue to mail Christmas cards to everyone on my list.

And it's okay if they don't mail one back. The holiday tradition continues.

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Climbing Nevis Peak

By Jennifer Leckstrom

Self-conquest is the greatest of victories.
~Plato

My trips to the Caribbean usually include nothing but sun, sand, and umbrella drinks. But on a recent getaway to the West Indies my husband, Tom, and I ventured out of our comfort zones and climbed to the top of Nevis Peak, a dormant volcano in the center of Nevis, a small island nation located about 220 miles southeast of Puerto Rico.

We had spent our honeymoon in Nevis and had admired the beauty of the Peak but gave no thought to visiting the summit. In the weeks leading up to our return — to celebrate our fifth anniversary — we discussed climbing the mountain, though neither of us had ever attempted such a feat.

On our first full day in Nevis, we arranged a guide through the concierge at the Four Seasons. Early the next morning we met our guide, Sheldon, and traveled together by taxi to the staging point for the climb.

The hike started out pretty much as we'd imagined — a moderately uphill nature walk. We passed old, delightfully rundown sugar mills, breadfruit and banana trees, and mischievous green vervet monkeys that made us laugh.

"No need for dat, mon," said Sheldon, as I slathered my arm with sunscreen. "We'll be out of da sun in a few." Wearing Dickies and a green logo T-shirt, his style screamed urban hipster, not mountain guide, and his thick Caribbean accent made his words dance.

He was right. Minutes later the forest began to close in on us and the sun was gone. We were dwarfed by the colossal roots and towering trees as we made our way through the dark, dense, and muddy jungle. The incline continued to increase until it seemed impossible to walk without falling off the earth. That's when we encountered the first knotted rope, needed to aid our ascent, followed by dozens more. Hours passed; my heart raced and drops of sweat made my eyes sting. As I continuously climbed over rocks, maneuvered under fallen trees and used the rope to pull myself up nearly vertical slopes, it dawned on me — I had the strength to do so, because for most of my life, I wouldn't have been able to.

Thanks to my general lethargy, combined with my love for ice cream and almost daily dates with jumbo bags of Doritos, I hit my all-time high of 216 pounds during my sophomore year of college. All the nacho cheese flavor and Cherry Garcia in the world couldn't mask the shame I felt for letting my body pass the 200-pound mark. It took a nasty fall in which I severely sprained my ankle to change my ways. The fall forced me into six weeks of physical therapy to help strengthen my ankle. Ultimately, the fall and subsequent stint of PT were blessings in disguise. I discovered my body related really well to exercise and, much to my dismay, I relished working up a sweat.

And now, here I was, 65 pounds thinner and climbing a mountain; making my body work harder than any other time in my life. Even after my significant weight loss and ability to kick it out in a spinning class, I still didn't think of myself as fit. But after reaching the cloud-covered summit and making our trek back down the mountain, I changed the way I thought about my body — physically powerful and beautiful.

As we approached the edge of the jungle, it began to rain. The light drizzle turned to torrential downpour and I felt an overwhelming sense of cleanliness. The mud that by now covered every inch of my body washed away, as did the negative feelings about myself that I'd harbored for years.

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A Loving Heart

By Camille Hill

One man's trash is another man's treasure.
~Kevin Smith

I remember the day my heart fully opened to love. It was a sunny fall morning and as I walked home along the country road after finishing my morning run, I saw his silhouette framed by the red, glowing beauty of the rising sun. His tail was wagging, his head was high, and he had waited for me. My heart opened to receive the love of Max, a Border Collie.

Our journey together had started a month earlier. I had just moved from the urban sprawl to the country, and while visiting my new neighbor I noticed Max at his farm. Max was emaciated, matted, and paced endlessly. His exhaustion was evident. His eyes were bleak and unfocused, his tongue hung out, his breathing was labored — and yet he kept pacing. My query about Max provided me with his sad tale. He'd been purchased as a puppy, but quickly, his disobedience and high energy caused the farmer and his wife to give up on him. The farmer couldn't destroy him so he fed him and ignored him. For almost two and a half years Max was a nonentity. He wasn't touched, wasn't acknowledged in any way but negatively, wasn't spoken to, but simply fed. When I asked the farmer if I could work with Max he said, "Do whatever you want. You can take him. I don't want him."

The next day I began working with Max. Not in any forceful manner — I wasn't trying to modify his behavior by training him. I simply wanted to give him attention and love. As an animal intuitive and communicator I knew that Max would die that winter unless something was changed in his life. I walked and ran every day along the country road. That day I took raw chicken necks with me and at the end of my property, adjoining the road, raised my voice and called for Max.

He came. His head almost touched the ground, his knees were bent, his tail wagged cautiously, but he came. I offered him a chicken neck. He almost took my hand with it as he gulped. His eyes lit up and he grinned. I talked to him and told him what a magnificent fellow he was. He moved closer for pats and a hug. I then moved out a few feet, called him to me and when he timidly came forward, rewarded him yet again with another chicken neck. Thus we moved, ever so slowly down the country road, until he stopped. No amount of coaching or bribing would move him further. We had come to his boundary and there he stayed. Although he wagged his tail at me and looked cooperative, he did not move another step forward. Reluctantly, I turned away to continue my run and he left for his home.

This became our routine. Every day he traveled a little further on the road and then stopped, refusing to move forward. Although my calls in the morning soon turned to a whistle and an immediate response from Max, we could not seem to move past his invisible barrier. I would eventually and inevitably continue on alone and return to my home by myself. I began to talk to him constantly. I asked him to wait for me if he didn't want to go further. I told him that I would have a treat for him if he waited for me. His response became more and more open. He held his tail and head higher, his grin was broader, and his response to my whistle was instant. We both looked forward to our daily interactions.

As the fall deepened, it was clear to me that our daily encounters and half dozen chicken necks were not going to keep him alive. Further, it seemed that Max didn't care if he lived or died. His self-esteem was minimal. I began creating a raw food diet for him and incorporated cooked oats to help put weight on him. I began intuitively treating him with herbs in his food and fed him each evening. I did not want to infringe on his bond with his home and the farmer — yes he'd bonded with the farmer, a testament to the love he had to give — so I took the food there.

I took a dish of food to Max every night. This was not without incident. The first time, the other dog at the farm attacked Max and tried to run him off the food. It was then that I heard from the farmer that the other dog, the Alpha dog, wasn't letting Max eat anything. I upped my food delivery to twice a day, and I even brought the other dog chicken necks so that Max could eat in peace. Meanwhile Max and I continued our daily walk with the invisible barrier remaining as a border.

Then the day came when I returned from my run to see that Max had waited for me. I rewarded him with a chicken neck. We grinned at each other, both inordinately pleased. My heart felt so full of love I couldn't contain it. I knelt down beside him, placed my left hand on my heart, my right hand on his heart, and sent him the love. It was in the color pink and it was ever so warm, my hands vibrating with the heat. Max stood there and accepted my love, leaning into my body. We stayed like that for several minutes and then parted. That was the first time as an adult that I fully experienced an open, loving heart, a heart without defensive barriers.

This became our new routine. Max would stop at his boundary, which was getting further and further along the road, and would wait patiently for my return. Then he would bound along beside me until we reached my driveway, where we would hug, share our love, and move on to whatever daily activities we had.

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A Gift from Above

By Mary Amelia

A baby is God's opinion that the world should go on.
~Carl Sandburg

On the day my daughter told me that she was pregnant, she also informed me, in the same breath, that she would not be keeping the child. Severe health issues forced her to face the fact that she could barely take care of herself, much less take on the challenge of caring for a demanding newborn. My heart sank as she debated her options — adoption and the other one that was too horrible to even consider.

My husband and I had been married for five years and thoroughly enjoyed our carefree lifestyle. Having already raised our own kids, we scoffed at friends with babysitting issues who cancelled plans at the last minute. We empathized with parents of teens who had become prisoners in their own home, unable to leave for fear that their home would be the next party venue. "Been there, done that, and happy to be done with that," was our mantra. At forty-three, I was in the process of selling a lucrative insurance business that I had built over eighteen years and was anxiously anticipating a life of writing, traveling and sipping margaritas from every cruise ship deck and Caribbean beach that we could find.

But the universe had other plans.

I convinced my daughter to hold off on making a final decision at least long enough for me to figure out what to do. I needed time to think. For days, I walked around like a zombie, unaware of where I'd been or whom I'd seen. Nights were no better. I would stay awake until dawn, cradled in my husband's arms. I would listen to his quiet breathing, the sounds of crickets, a train whistle in the distance, all while waiting and praying for answers that just wouldn't come. When sleep would finally overtake me, there was still no escape, for even in my dreams I was visited by a little girl who would hold her arms up to me, pleading, "Grandma, help me!" Mornings, I did my crying in the shower, reasoning that red swollen eyes could easily be blamed on irritating shower gels and shampoos.

Nevertheless, after a couple of days, my husband grew wary of my abnormal behavior and asked me what was wrong. The previous month, my doctor had found a grapefruit-sized tumor in my uterus that had to be removed, so I skirted the baby issue and tried my best to convince him that the upcoming surgery was to blame for my tangled nerves. But he just shook his head, put his arms around me, sat me down and told me to give him my troubles so he could fix them. He knew me so well that he could detect every mood change and nuance long before I knew myself there was anything wrong. His strength was one of the things that had attracted me to him. I knew he was someone I could lean on without him tipping over.

After I'd blubbered out the whole story, he simply said, "Get her on the phone." I quickly dialed my daughter's number. When she answered, I nervously handed the phone to my husband and waited for his response. He listened for a while, and then he told her to eat healthy. When the baby was born, we would take it and raise it. She must have agreed because when he hung up the phone, he asked, "Anything else?"

I dissolved into tears, this time without any reservations. I let it all come out, all the pain, all the angst, the fear and the guilt. Although I had been thinking of taking the baby myself, I just hadn't been able to ask the same of him. I couldn't believe that a man who was not my daughter's father would actually sacrifice his own future to raise someone else's child. He was definitely a keeper!

A few months later, we were holding a little bundle of joy in our arms. She was a colicky baby, but we soon found out that as long as she was lying on Papa's belly, she would stop fussing and crying, and immediately go to sleep. I had the hysterectomy two weeks after she was born, so I could only hold her with a stack of pillows on my lap and her on top. My mom was also a huge help, taking care of the baby and me while my husband worked.

As our new daughter grew and started school, we decided that I would homeschool her since her amazing thirst for knowledge was more than most teachers could handle. We found that she not only enjoyed studying French, Spanish, anthropology, geography, and religion from the texts that my professor husband brought home from the university, but she preferred them over the curriculum offered to children her age.

My daughter and the baby's father have stayed together and maintained contact with her. Even though our child calls us Mom and Papa, she has grown up knowing her biological parents as well. When she started walking and talking, however, she began to ask questions, so I would tell her the story of how she came to be.

"Papa and I," I would begin, "wanted a baby more than anything else in the world, so we asked God for a beautiful little girl. God then asked us, 'Will you love her and feed her and clothe her and educate her and make sure she gets a good HMO or a quality health plan?'

"'Oh, yes, yes, yes, and of course!' we answered.

"'Alright then,' God said, 'I have a smart, beautiful, and talented little girl you can have. I'll send her down to you right away so she can start growing in your belly. In nine months, you can give birth to her.'

"'But Lord,' I explained, 'I can't have babies anymore.'

"'Well, then, Nana will have to have the baby,' he said."

At this point, our little one would laugh hysterically at the thought of my seventy-seven-year-old mother having a baby, commenting on the fact that Nana couldn't possibly have babies.

"That's exactly what we said," I'd tell her. "So God thought about it for awhile and then said, 'Hey, why don't I place the baby in your daughter's belly? She's young and perfectly able to have children. Then after she's born, you can raise her.'

"What a great idea!" we'd all say, with her chiming in.

"And that's how I came to be!" she would say, ending the story with a big, contented smile on her face.

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Don't Sweat the Small Stuff

By Pamela Rose Hawken

There are always flowers for those who want to see them.
~Henri Matisse

While I was living in the south of France, I drove all the way to Barcelona to purchase a very special guitar. Once I was back in the States with my treasured, finely finished wooden instrument, my father asked if he could play it. He loved flamenco guitar music and decided to show off his skills. Before I knew it, between strums, he was tapping on the smooth cedar top of my classical guitar with his fingernails! This technique, called "golpe," is commonly used while playing the colorful rhythmic flamenco music of Spain.

Guitars meant for playing such music had tap plates on their soundboards to protect the finish from fingernail damage. My father did not realize that my classical guitar did not have a tap plate. I was horrified, but I politely said, "Here, let me show you what I can play" as I took back my guitar.

I hate to admit this, but for years, whenever I played my guitar, I couldn't help noticing the marks in its fine cedar finish. I felt bad about feeling annoyed because my father was so nice to me and I really loved everything about him.

After having my third child, I didn't have as much time to practice, so the guitar stayed safely in its case for years. During that time, my father passed away tragically. Although I was very much at peace with our relationship, which helped me during the grieving process, I was of course extremely sad for a long time. Then one day, I was in the mood to start playing my guitar again and I opened the case for the first time in a long while. I gathered up my favorite pieces of music, set up my music stand, and got out my tuning fork. As I started to tighten the strings, I noticed the fingernail marks on my guitar.

It was a moment that took my breath away. Those marks — my father had made them — yes, my father had made them. He was there — a part of him was there on the polished cedar top of my guitar. How wonderful! I was so happy to see those little scratches made by the tapping of his fingers and all of a sudden my guitar was even more special than ever before. My father was a very wise man and I learned so much from him when he was alive — and now he was still teaching me. My perspective on what was important changed. What had once seemed like defects on my guitar were beautiful little souvenirs of time spent with my father.

I vowed from that day on to always appreciate life's little moments with the people I loved. And whenever I find myself about to "sweat the small stuff," I think of my father. And I think about my beautiful guitar with its lovely tap marks.

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Taking Bert Home

By Shirley Nordeck Short

While we are sleeping, angels have conversations with our souls.
~Author Unknown

The metal springs squeaked as I rolled into bed at ten o'clock that Sunday night. Despite the sagging mattress, I sighed with contentment. I was tired in a good way. I'd gotten up early that morning, bathed and dressed my three-month-old daughter for church, and driven across town to pick up my uncle Bert. I was so glad he could come to service with us. Bert was a World War II veteran who had suffered several illnesses and operations lately. What a blessing that he was well enough to call and ask to come along to Sunday School.

My uncle Bert, Daddy's younger brother, had never married. He had lived on the farm with our family. He was like a second father to me, especially since my dad had died seven years before. Bert was all fun and no discipline. He let my sister and I dress him up in aprons and stockings and Mother's old black pumps. He took us berry picking and sliced off bits of carrots from the garden with his pocketknife. Bert was my best friend and my hero.

After Daddy died, I left the farm and got married. After several years my mother remarried. Bert remained on the farm until his health began to fail, and he came to live with my husband and me. When my daughter came along, the tiny four-room house was too small and Bert went to live across town with my mother and stepfather. I saw him often, talked to him on the phone daily, and was so happy my infant daughter had a chance to meet her great (really great) uncle.

On that Sunday night, I tossed restlessly and kept glancing at the clock. Ten-thirty came and went, and the clock hands approached eleven. I worried about the alarm going off at six. I doubled up my pillow and looked toward the window. Maybe if I ignored the clock, sleep would come. My eyes closed, I began to relax and neared dozing. Suddenly in the distance I could see two objects traveling toward me. When they got closer, I saw they were angels. They were so bright I hadn't noticed a third entity between them. Now I could see that it was Bert. When they reached my side, I was lifted from my bed and joined them in flight. Bert said not a word, but I could feel him telling me he loved me.

We traveled for a short time through the blackest night I had ever seen. Then, in the distance, I saw a glimmer of light. As we grew nearer, I saw a mountain with a bright light streaming from behind. Along a beach in front stood several people. I recognized my grandparents who were dressed in white robes tied loosely with a sash at the waist. Then I saw my dad. He was peering in our direction as if expecting to see something. He looked neither aged nor ravaged by illness. He appeared as he had in pictures when he was a younger, healthier man.

I was so happy to see Daddy that I could hardly contain myself. I felt an overpowering joy. I tried to wave and call out to him, but I could not get him to notice me. And as suddenly as I had been lifted into the air, I was returned to my bed. The vision was gone. The dim streetlight shined through the curtains, and I knew I was far away from where I had been just a moment ago.

Even though I knew my beloved Bert was gone, I felt complete peace and fell into an immediate and deep sleep. My daughter never awoke for a feeding that night and I did not wake until the phone rang just before six. My mother called to tell me Bert had passed away. "He died sometime this morning," she said. She had called the doctor when she found him unresponsive in his bed.

The death certificate listed his date of death as November 6, 1973. But that was wrong. After I had gone with Bert on his final journey and returned to my bed, I had opened my eyes and looked at the clock. It read 11:58. Still November 5th. And that is the date I commemorate every year — the date my beloved uncle Bert went to heaven and God, in his infinite love and mercy, allowed me to accompany him home.

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A Home for Christmas

By Tina Marie

Each day of our lives we make deposits in the memory banks of our children.
~Charles R. Swindoll, The Strong Family

In the summer of 1957, my mother made the most loving and courageous decision any mother can make: She gave me up for adoption. The decision to give up an hours-old infant is agonizing enough, but I was not a newborn baby; I was seven years old.

This is much too complex a story to tell in its entirety here, of course, so I'll condense it to this: My parents divorced soon after I was born and my mother had custody of me until I was three years old, at which time she was forced for financial reasons to give me up to my father. I lived with him and my grandmother until I was five, when he remarried and moved us from our home in Boston to live in Oregon with his new wife.

My life for the next year became hell on earth; the new wife was a bitter, violent alcoholic whose jealous rages against me escalated until my father, in fear for my life, finally sent me back to my mother.

My mother by this time had remarried and had given birth to two more children. She was completely unprepared to deal with an emotionally wounded and distraught six-year-old child, especially one who didn't want to be there. And in truth, she had not spent more than a few days with me since I was three — we were mother and child, but strangers. Her husband was a merchant marine who was gone most of the time and the stress of being, for the most part, a single mother, was overwhelming to her. I couldn't have come at a worse time. She begged my father to take me back. He, of course, couldn't. Both of my parents were at an impasse.

But something amazing happened during that traumatic year. In circumstances that could only be described as miraculous, my father learned of a couple in Portland who were heart-hungry for a child and because they were an older couple, wanted a child of three years or more. He met with them and immediately recognized the love, comfort and financial stability these tender-hearted people had to offer his little girl.

After seeing only a small, black and white photograph of me, and hearing my story, they agreed to take me as their own. My father called my mother, told her about them and asked her to sign the adoption papers that would be coming in the mail.

The decision to give me up was a hellish one for my mother. To relinquish her child to complete strangers was inconceivable; she struggled with guilt and self-condemnation. But she also knew that her own emotional state at the time was not best for my welfare. Finally, after weeks of agonizing, she agreed, and one day in early June, she put me on a plane and sent me across the United States to my new family.

My adoptive parents were the most patient, caring people any little girl could wish for. Bringing an emotionally scarred child into your home is heartbreaking much of the time and frustrating most of the time. I was angry, and scared and lonely; I did not fall in love with them overnight. But as the months went by, their patience and love healed my wounded spirit; I looked forward more and backward less. I was becoming their little girl.

As December approached, my new parents began to talk with excitement about Christmas. I didn't share their exuberance; the last Christmas that stood out in my mind was the dark and miserable one I had spent with my stepmother. Christmas had been just another day to survive.

But my new mother and father's enthusiasm finally became irresistible; there was an excursion to visit Santa, a drive through Candy Cane Lane to see the beautiful Christmas lights, caroling with my new friends and neighbors, a visit to the mall to see the Cinnamon Bear and of course, shopping for presents for my new parents with the allowance they gave me. My mother filled the house with scents of baking holiday cookies and whipped soap flakes into a fragrant, fluffy snow to cover cedar boughs for the fireplace mantle. And the tree! There may have been a tree that last Christmas I didn't like to think about, but I didn't remember it, so this one was glorious to behold; its sparkling lights and heady pine scent were a healing balm.

Christmas Eve brought new family members: aunts, uncles and cousins for a luscious dinner that outshone even Thanksgiving. An air of affection and joy in the gathering filled me with a sense of belonging that was both new and wonderful. It wasn't easy to fall asleep that night… Santa was on his way! The cookies and milk were on a table by the hearth and I had no doubts anymore that he would come. I finally nodded off, wrapped in a cocoon of my new family's love.

"Wake up, sweetheart. It's Christmas!" My new mother's grin made her look younger than I'd ever seen her. My new father waited, smiling, in the doorway.

When I walked out into the living room and looked around, I was awestruck. The entire corner of the room was filled with presents! It looked like Disneyland!

There were gifts of every size and shape and color, most of them with tags reading, TO TINA FROM SANTA. As I walked closer, I saw more gifts, these tagged for me from Mom and Dad, with little hearts next to the signatures.

"Are these all for me?" I breathed.

My father scooped me up in his arms, stood up to his full 6'4" height and hugged me. "You betcha," he said. "Looks like Santa thinks you've been a real good girl." He set me back down and my mother nudged me forward. "Go ahead and open them, honey."

I was speechless. It took me over an hour to open every gift. My new parents weren't rich by any means, but they had bought every present I had mentioned wanting over the previous months. There were toys, Barbie dolls and baby dolls, new clothes, Nancy Drew mystery books, coloring books, stuffed animals and candies. They had wrapped every little thing separately so that there would be more packages for me to open. It was a labor of time and money that even now I'm overcome with love thinking about.

That first Christmas, something had melted in my child's soul; something that had been walled off for protection came into the light; something that had been empty, had been filled. I had been heart-homeless for a long time. But thanks to the tender care of my wonderful new parents and to the courage and sacrifice of my birth mother, in spite of the guilt she lived with for most of her life, I finally had a home.

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