Positioned in a valley beneath the Cascade Mountains in Western Oregon, my 40-acre childhood home playground included a river bordering the south of the property, meadows, and a forested area. My parents were devout members of a conservative denomination—a giving, loving, and serving community of believers. Considered impoverished by the world’s standards, Dad and Mom lived off the land in addition to menial income from my father’s laborious job at a veneer mill. My parents generously planted diverse crops in the river-enriched, fertile soil so they had a surplus of harvest to share the land’s gifts with others. Even though we were considered somewhat different due to our modest lifestyle and appearance, people honored us
I cherished the fall and winter months as we got a break from mundane, routine daily chores such as weeding, harvesting crops, and stacking wood. I eagerly anticipated Christmas week and Christmas Eve in particular! The backdrop seldom varied behind the stage set for Christmas Eve. The ambiance for the night was well-defined. Safe sleeping shelters protected farm animals from predators during a clear winter’s night. The sky glowed with dancing lights twinkling in celestial gaiety. As nocturnal dormancy sprang to life, an occasional screech or hiss from a coon that had encroached on the space surrounding the doghouse invited an ear-piercing vocal response from the dog. There was also a sense of danger as the wise old owl atop the barn roof hooted in preparation for the descent to capture his evening meal. A gentle wind breathing within the valley walls puffed freshness as it whispered throughout the forest.
Inside our drafty, poorly constructed house, the smell of burning wood raging and crackling in the wood stove, mingled with the whiff of pies and holiday treats flowing from the kitchen, inspired an atmosphere of warmth and security. Hunger pangs had dissipated following the traditional Christmas Eve meal of toasted cheese sandwiches, popcorn, and hot chocolate, So the family, too, was settled in that special night. The fruits of labor from my family’s hands during the summer and fall were packed inside boxes stacked in the kitchen, ready to be delivered to needy families down our community gravel road on Christmas morning. The kids had cracked, sorted, and bagged walnuts that had generously fallen to the ground from resident walnut trees. There were jars of jam and soup Mom canned for winter consumption, coupled with handmade, freshly baked and decorated Christmas cookies, fudge, and caramel popcorn balls. Also tucked inside each box was a Christmas card and, most assuredly, a Christmas poem authored by Mom that included an invitation for the recipients to know Jesus.
Our house was bursting at the seams with six occupants. It had two small bedrooms and attic space for my sister and me to sleep. There was no bathroom or warm running water. But there was a warm, loving atmosphere that penetrated the heart. Mom purposefully placed two presents for each child under the brightly adorned Christmas tree early in the week to dispel any thoughts that they had come from Saint Nicholas. The useful gift would be the proverbial flannel PJs sewn by Mom. The other would be for fun, most often handmade doll clothes for the girls or pull toys for my brothers. Nestled beside the warm stove, Dad read the Christmas story and entertained discussion. Mom played either the old pump organ or her accordion to augment the singing of Christmas carols heralding the Savior’s birth. We opened our gifts and strolled off to bed, but only after encountering a blast of cold air as we headed outside to the outhouse and back before settling down. I remember, at that point, gazing up into the heavens. As I focused on the Milky Way constellation, I pretended that I was a shepherd on my way to visit baby Jesus, having just witnessed the glory of the Lord lighting up the sky over Bethlehem.
But wait, what about the other part of Christmas? The stockings were hung by the chimney with care in hopes that Saint Nicholas soon would be there. The intentional absence of Santa during the holidays was not a dilemma for my father, but it certainly was for me as a child. Santa never received an invitation (e.g., no letters to Santa) to visit our house, nor was any Christmas item that personified him welcome. That is why we opened all our presents on Christmas Eve! But somewhere in my imaginative sphere, I knew there had to be a Santa. And from ages 4 to 8, there was never a Christmas morning I woke up that I didn’t check to make sure Santa might have been brave enough to enter our house. Of course, he didn’t visit; without an invitation, he had no idea where we lived!
For us, instead, very early Christmas morning, before the family traveled to gather with Dad’s family of ten brothers and sisters and many cousins for Christmas dinner, Dad loaded the car with the gift boxes to deliver several miles down the country road. His target was a cluster of houses on a small parcel of property known as Minnieville, named after a longtime resident who mothered the circle of families through rough times. The residents were the poorest of the poor in the community. Alcoholism, joblessness, and abusive patterns shackled hopes and dreams. Among the shack-like dwellings sporting roofs patched with tarpaper to ensure dryness and boards nailed over broken windows for warmth, Dad would not knock on the doors; he just left the boxes. Later, as the households began to stir, I wish I could have seen the emotions that emanated over the goodies, love, and message of hope packed inside. Dad needed no accolades; his joy was in the giving and the ensuing blessing. However, I’m guessing there was a recurrent question circulating through the households, “Who was that Secret Santa?”
“Saint Nicolas in Blue” Colored Pencil by Raisa Estrada
In history class during high school, I learned of the life of Saint Nicolas, born in 270. He and his parents were devout Christians. Nicholas inherited a great fortune at a young age. He used his entire inheritance to help the poor, sick, and needy children. He gave in secret, expecting nothing in return. An aha moment overcame me, and I smiled as I realized Dad was mirroring the tradition of the original Saint Nick without even knowing his legacy. Through their generous gift-giving, Dad and Saint Nicholas were embodying God’s gift to all that first Christmas day: the love of the Father radiating through the gift of His son, King Jesus, who came to earth in humility and became poor for us so we might become rich in Him. Not so vast, the chasm between King and Saint. Jesus came to earth as a man to serve, not to be served. And through that same servant heart, Saint Nicholas, from great wealth and status, and my parents, from humble means, served as extensions of Jesus’ hands and feet. So, Christmas is not so much about a title; it’s about the message–Jesus.
Use Me
Out of self and into Thee, Holy Spirit use me.
Cause when I’m focused inwardly, I fail to share God’s love so free.
As I reach out to plant the seeds, please flow through me lovingly.
Then I’m trusting you to do your part, mending lives, healing broken hearts.
Seeds I sow will burst with bloom, nurtured by you to maturity.
Partnered with you, how blest I’ll be, impacting lives for eternity.
Out of self and into Thee, Holy Spirit use me.
Cause when I’m focused inwardly, I fail to share God’s love so free.
(Joyce Olsen)
Joyce majored in Child Psychology and Elementary Education at Biola University and Fresno State University in California. However, her natural bent seemed to better match business and administration. In those fields, she worked in corporate administration, church administration, and also as an Information Security Analyst in the medical field. The focus of her writing is to inspire and provoke thought. How can a sense of complacency be sparked into pursuing a more fulfilling life, or how can something with negative connotations spring into vibrant hope?
Pot bellied stove hi-res stock photography and images – Alamy
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