Our Twelve Days of Christmas by Marion Stewart

Christmas was coming and I knew I needed to find a way to get into the Christmas spirit. But how could I when we had just buried our little baby boy? We learned his fate from an ultrasound taken a week before Thanksgiving. His brain had not fully developed and -he could not live very long. I held out for my miracle, but on December 4th he was born and died four hours later. We buried him on December 8th.

So, life was just supposed to go back to normal? At a time when the rest of the world was beginning to celebrate a very significant birth, our hearts were broken. Our other children knew that the baby didn’t come home from the hospital. They knew Ken and I were very sad. We talked about death a little bit. They knew their brother went to live with his Father in Heaven. For their young years, they seemed to take that in stride much easier than their grieving parents. I knew we needed to move forward, but I didn’t really know how. For me, Christmas, traditionally the happiest time of year, was very difficult to face.

Ken and I talked and talked. That’s what got us through each day. As the month progressed, he pointed out that we owed it to our other children to bring a little Christmas spirit into the home. The best we could do was to bring the large boxes labeled “Christmas” down from the rafters of the garage. For a few days those boxes just sat in the corner of the living room unopened. With all the funeral expenses, there would be no money for a “real” tree, so the old water-stained, duct-taped box containing the artificial tree lay next to the other unopened boxes. I nearly tripped over them several times going through the living room, but never stopped to peek inside. Normally, Christmas was my favorite holiday. But I just wasn’t ready.

On December 14th, a strange thing happened. We were eating dinner and there was a knock at the front door. Our oldest son, Benjy, almost six years old, jumped up to see who was there with Ken at his heels. As the door was opened Benjy announced, “Nobody’s there” and started to close the door when his father stopped him. On the front door step was a green and gold bell with a note attached to it. Benjy responded with glee, picked up the bell, started ringing it and handed his dad the note which read, “On the first day of Christmas a friend gave to you a Christmas bell”. That was kind of odd, but fun for the kids. We put the bell on the piano and went back to dinner, not really thinking too much about it. Following dinner the children remembered the bell and took turns ringing it and then started looking at the boxes and begged to open them up and find their own Christmas decorations. At their insistence, we began the process. Within only a couple of hours, the tree and trimmings were all over the living room. The old Santa Clause was hanging on the front door. The stockings were taped to the window sill (there being no fireplace in the house) and twinkling lights were put in the living room window. The children were very happy. We were trying to be happy, too. Somehow the decorations helped.

The next day in the late afternoon there was a light knock on the front door. The children were busy watching Sesame Street on TV and not wanting to be interrupted, one of them yelled, “Mom, someone’s at the door”. I went to the door with my folded laundry in hand and found nobody there. But on the ground were two pencils and a note saying, “On the second day of Christmas a friend brought you two pencils”. I set the pencils in the painted Santa boot on the piano where eventually candy canes would go once we had purchased some. Only then did it occur to me that maybe the bell and the pencils were related. Was this going to be an every day event? No, it probably was just someone playing a joke. After all, what did pencils and bells have to do with each other?

It wasn’t until the “third day of Christmas”, December 16th, though, that the children figured out there was a pattern and that the number of gifts would be increasing with each day. On Day #3 four-year-old Ray shouted for his turn to go to the door to find three colorful marking pens on the porch with a note. Ken and I began making guesses as to who might be doing this. It was certainly a kind gesture at a time when we needed it. The gifts seemed somewhat random and the paper the words were written on was different each day, ranging from plain notebook paper to fancy, decorated stationery.

Ken thought there might be several different people taking turns to cheer us up in our time of need. We thought about family members and wondered if they were responsible. We had many friends in the neighborhood and at church and in our school community. We were involved in the children’s school. We wondered if one of the children’s school teachers had instigated this. The school had been very kind and even donated money towards our baby’s funeral. Our minds reached back to almost anyone from our past and we began to think of all the friends we had and all the caring people in our little world.

As the days went on, we considered carefully all of our friends and family and even minimal acquaintances with new eyes, wondering just who was this secret friend or friends. No smile went unnoticed. Kind words from neighbors or mail carriers had more meaning as if clues were being left.

On December 19th, Day #6 (six Hershey kisses), Ken hired a babysitter and insisted he and I get out and do some Christmas shopping. It was really what I needed, but also a little difficult to do. I was still quite weak from a difficult birth and emotionally very fragile. But he had taken care of that. He arranged for a wheelchair and we hit the malls and discount stores together. I actually found myself singing to one of the Christmas carols in the mall. Life goes on and it was good to be reminded of that. The world outside was decorated and happy and hopeful. I needed this more than I had realized. We hurried home to wrap the little gifts we had purchased which added color and festivity to our home. The pathetic tree looked a little livelier with some presents underneath.

On Day #8 (eight ounces of hand cream) I found myself rummaging through family recipes, looking for that famous Christmas fudge that Ken and the children loved. Somehow I even allowed for the children to help make Christmas cut out cookies, mess and all! There was flour and sugar and sprinkles everywhere and most especially, the delightful glees of happy children and sweet smells in the home. We even made some extras to take to a few neighbors.

Christmas was coming fast, and although our hearts still ached at the loss of one child, we were enjoying the lights in the eyes of our other children. Every day new items arrived with their little notes. Each day our family carried on with more of our own Christmas traditions. One night everything for dinner was either red or green (I had to explain to the three-year-old that the meat had been red before we cooked it). One evening we even went Christmas caroling to the grandparents’ houses and a few of the grandparents’ neighbors, too.

On Day #10 (a pack of 10 crayons) our two oldest children joined forces to try and catch the Christmas delivery person in the act! They hid behind the drapes looking out the window nearly all day long. However, to their dismay around 4:00 p.m. a heavy, heavy fog rolled in, as was sometimes the custom for the damp southern California coastal area. The fog was so thick that watching out the window was pointless. While they both stayed very close to the front door, once the knock came, even as fast as they tried to be, the heavy fog hid their delivery host, although they thought they could hear steps in the distance, so they yelled out together, “Thank you!”.

Christmas morning was filled with the joy of new toys and children’s voices and the smells of cinnamon rolls and Christmas candies. Santa had been generous—with the help of some church friends. Stockings were filled with treats. Wrapping paper littered the living room and the sound of children’s laughter was interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. It took a while to get to the door with all the new toys and books and ribbons to step over. As usual, there was no one there, but there was a paper plate with 12 pieces of homemade fudge and another note. To our surprise, the note revealed the identity of our secret visitor. It was neither the rich lady down the street nor the generous school teacher or even a family member. This Christmas offering had been the sole idea of a young teenage boy who lived around the corner. He was 15 years old and he had done it all by himself. His mother later explained to me that he had purchased each of the items entirely on his own and had carried out this whole 12-day process all by himself. We were speechless. How could such a quiet almost shy young man figure out what our hearts had needed in order to heal? Where did he get such wisdom in his youth? He would never know what a difference he had made in the lives of our family.