A Miracle Under the Christmas Tree. Jennifer Sander Basye

wheels, not four hooves—the iron horse.

      The rest of the drive home, we remained silent, arriving home just after dark. Exhausted and disappointed, I climbed into a hot shower and then managed to read a few chapters of a book. I fell asleep imagining my beautiful new filly cantering across the field to greet me. She offered me her soft, pink muzzle, and I wrapped my arms around her glistening neck and buried my face in her mane, breathing in her heady smell. I felt the level of contentment I’d been searching for, but it was only a dream.

      “Are you going Christmas shopping with me on Saturday?” I asked Ron. It was December 18, and we had yet to do any big shopping for family and friends. With our work schedules, the coming Saturday was looking like our one and only hope of accomplishing any shopping together.

      “Oh, um, well…” Ron stammered. “We can’t go anywhere Saturday.”

      “What do you mean we can’t go anywhere? We’ve got tons of shopping to do!”

      “Well, I’m expecting a delivery, and we have to be here when it comes. You know how FedEx can be,” he said.

      I was furious with him for having waited until the last minute to buy my Christmas gift. Fine. I left him to his FedEx worries and did the shopping myself during the week. I was not at all gracious about this scenario.

      I barely spoke to him that week, and when I did speak, it was only in short, clipped answers to something he said first. My Christmas spirit was obviously going to be absent in the Stahl home this year. I made sure this fact was not lost on Ron.

      Saturday morning, I was in the den wrapping presents. I had a perfect view of the driveway via the picture window. I would certainly see the FedEx truck when it arrived.

      My anger with Ron collided full force with my eagerness to catch a glimpse of the delivery. Eagerness was winning out. Where could he have been shopping? Did he go on his lunch break from work? That would limit the possibilities. Would the shipping box offer any clues? Would I know what it is from the box that it’s in? Damn!

      I wasn’t paying attention and cut the wrapping paper too short. As I reached for a new roll of paper, Ron’s thundering feet on the stairs made me jump. What startled me even more, though, was his voice. “He’s here!” Ron shrieked, hitting a pitch I hadn’t heard from him in all our twenty years together. I had no idea that Ron loved the FedEx guy this much.

      “Come here, come here, come here!” Ron chattered. “You’ve gotta come here…” and he pulled me by the hand to stand in the doorway facing the driveway.

      “Look!”

      And then I did, but what I saw didn’t register. White SUV. SUV? Pulling something. A horse trailer. A horse trailer? A horse trailer with “Sealite Paint Horses” written on the side!

      I staggered backward, into Ron’s arms, and he kissed me on the head as he draped a coat over my shoulders. “Let’s go,” he whispered in my ear, gently pushing me out the door.

      As my brain spun circles trying to wrap itself around this image, the driver’s window of the SUV rolled down, and the vehicle rolled to a stop. “Merry Christmas, Dee!” I heard the driver yell—wait, that’s Chris!

      I remember Chris getting out of the vehicle and giving me a hug. I remember holding my breath as he dropped down the window of the trailer. And I remember thinking, She’s home, as her familiar white face popped out from behind the window. She looked at me, and her soft brown eyes reflected, “I remember you.”

      As I stroked her beautiful white face, I said something brilliant to Chris like, “You were supposed to be the FedEx guy!”

      So how did Ron do it? How did he make my dream come true?

      Apparently, the night we returned from Sealite, he called Kim and Chris and made the arrangements, all on the sly. My sad story of yearning and Christmas disappointment had moved him to action.

      I stood wrapped in Ron’s arms, watching Sky become acquainted with her new home. I turned and looked into Ron’s eyes. My question was simple: “Why?”

      “Because you wanted her from the beginning. I wanted to be the one who made your dreams come true.”

      Somewhere, in the deep, dark recesses of my memory, I felt the curtain drop down on an old yearning and a new kind of contentment fill every bit of those years of wanting and waiting. Then, I felt another curtain rise above a thousand new dreams as I settled my head against Ron’s chest and looked into the eyes of my new paint dream.

      Ron and I smiled, laughed, cried tears of joy and talked well past midnight about our new dreams and how we might make them come true for each other.

      CALIFORNIA CAMPER CHRISTMAS

      CHERYL RIVENESS

      It was Christmas morning 1986. Thinking back to the day before, I recalled how everything had come together. It had been a pretty bad year, and Christmas promised to be more of the same. A fabulous holiday for the children was a luxury we couldn’t afford. I had all but given up hope that we would be able to celebrate even in a small way. And then, my husband, a truck tire service technician, received an unanticipated service call. The driver was stranded and trying desperately to make it home in time to be with his own children on Christmas morning. He was short of money, but he had merchandise that he was willing to trade for services, enabling us to give the older girls, eleven and thirteen, exactly what they’d wanted: a VCR.

      Two days before, we had driven sixty-five miles to pick up the one thing that our youngest had asked for (a Disney Fievel plush toy) before closing time. The drive and the toy had taken everything we had saved. I scoured pockets and the truck seat on the morning of Christmas Eve and found just over three dollars in change. Feeling optimistic, I headed for the nearest flea market, arriving just as the vendors were packing up.

      I had tried repeatedly to get the kids to understand that there simply wasn’t enough room for a tree in the dilapidated pickup camper that the five of us had been calling home for months now. But, I thought, maybe a string of lights and little candy canes would make the surroundings more festive. The camper was small, so luckily one string would do. As I was paying the vendor, something caught my eye, a glimpse of a very small, white artificial tree top being tossed from row to row by the breeze. Hastily wishing the old gentleman a merry Christmas, I waved goodbye and rushed after the treasure. My heart absolutely swelled with appreciation. Now I could grant their special wish, if only in a small way.

      That evening, after we’d watched Frosty the Snowman and enjoyed popcorn and hot chocolate, I tucked the children in and listened to their prayers. They were simple: “Please help us find a home soon.” I couldn’t help thinking how Joseph and Mary must have been feeling the night of Jesus’s birth; they too were homeless. At least we had shelter.

      Once the girls’ breathing was soft and measured, I retrieved the lights and the tree from inside the truck cab, and after quietly weaving the lights around the small branches, I asked my husband to place the tree in the corner above our youngest child’s bed. After he managed to safely tuck it in, he ran the string down the length of the overhead cabinets and to the electrical outlet. “Well, here goes nothing,” he mouthed, plugging the cord into the socket. We held our breath and waited. They came on, and they twinkled, with the smallest blue lights, their reflection glinting off the rusted chrome trim of the tiny “kitchen.”

      The night had been cold, the steady wind magnifying the plummeting temperatures. Assorted leaves and debris still blew through the campground, and our large dog was crying to get inside. I was drained, mentally and emotionally. Crawling into our bunk, I pulled the curtain closed behind me; the gentle blue glow of the lights dancing on the ceiling lulled me into satisfied slumber.

      Waking to hushed whispers, I heard Arianna’s voice, quiet in the early light of dawn: “Santa brought us a tree! Look, Sissy, it’s so pretty, and it’s ours.” Peaking through the curtains, I saw that our min pin dog was still nestled asleep in her arms, his breathing rhythmic. Her eyes were