Merry belated Christmas to you if you celebrate. If you don’t, happy everything day! I was about six-years-old when I experienced my first “Christmas Miracle” and even being that young, I knew we didn’t have money. I didn’t think too much about it. My clothes were sometimes hand-me-downs but mostly hand-made by my mother with fabric donated by the local church. I was a happy kid. Quiet. Artistic and I loved to draw and paint. I was also very aware. I knew when people were sad or angry and I often kept to myself in my own little world where I could safely observe everything around me. At Christmastime, our favorite thing to do was enjoying a cup of hot cocoa and looking at the multi-colored lights on our second-hand silver aluminum tree while my mom read our favorite book, “‘Twas the Night Before Christmas.” The delightfully awkward tree stood about three-feet-tall but my mom cleverly put it on top of a table so it appeared taller and we could gaze at the lights reflecting all over the room. It was Christmas Eve. I didn’t notice any presents under the tree. What I do remember was the subtle angst. My mom is excellent at figuring things out and pulling things off out of thin air to provide birthdays and holidays. I knew something was wrong but wasn’t sure why and wasn’t sure how I could fix it. (It was years later that I learned she would often stay up all night sewing dolls and clothing for the kids after we had gone to sleep to make sure we had...
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