Gifts and traditions

A typical 12-year-old kid, I knew what I would get for Christmas that year. It would be the same as the last: ugly, knitted, elf-like slippers, and a set of flannel pajamas.  

Grandma was predictable.  

Her tree was a small imitation with one string of colored lights and a dozen metallic red balls. It sat atop her black and white console TV with a homemade tree skirt covering its metal legs.  She rarely wrapped presents in boxes, for most were handcrafted quilts or clothes that could be folded and wrapped with newspaper cartoons. I used to squeeze my pajamas, half-heartedly wondering what color they would be.

Practically every Christmas Eve, my family would drive six hours to see her, arriving just in time for a quick hug and cup of eggnog before church. She lived alone in a small house filled with old-fashioned furniture, Afghan quilts, and lace draperies. The Lutheran church, where my father had been confirmed, stood next door. I remember the seven of us crunching over the snow-crusted sidewalk, listening to my mom hum with the prelude of Christmas carols booming from the church organ.

The church was small and warm with a spindled banister half-circling the altar. Next to the banister stood a huge evergreen decorated with gold and white religious emblems made of Styrofoam. Its lights twinkled like tiny stars between the green pine needles. An usher seated us two rows from the front, and I recall some seat shuffling so Grandma could sit next to the aisle. I sat beside her and noticed, between us, her Bible. Its pages were edged in gold foil, and its black leather cover was dog-eared with age.

Her gnarly hands held the hymnal as we sang, “O Come, O Come Emmanuel,” and the quivering vibrato in her voice belied the happiness in her eyes, glinting behind wire-rimmed glasses. When it was time for the Gospel, I prepared myself for a short daydream about the presents we would open back at her house, but to my surprise, Grandma stood up, took center stage before the entire congregation, and opened her Bible to read.

“In the sixth month, the angel Gabriel was sent from God into a city of Galilee, called Nazareth, to a virgin espoused to a man whose name was Joseph ….” And for the first time in my life, I heard the Christmas story in its entirety and was captivated by her lyrical retelling of Mary’s surprise, Joseph’s commitment, the shepherds’ fear and the angels’ praise, the baby’s calm, and the kings’ awe.

“He was named…Jesus,” Grandma concluded, “a name the angel had given him before he was conceived.” The congregation was so quiet; it seemed the world had stopped to listen.

She closed her Bible and walked back to our pew, and I eagerly slid over so she could sit beside me again. Her gnarled fingers squeezed my hand, and I held onto hers for the rest of the service, thinking only of how beautiful the story had been, and how I loved hearing her read it. Later that evening, I buttoned up my pink, flannel pajamas and tucked my toes into green slippers, and I was surprised they kept my feet so warm.

Three years later, my grandmother suffered a stroke which paralyzed her right side. She couldn’t sew anymore, and she had to re-learn how to write and speak. She never read the Christmas story aloud to me or anyone ever again, yet every year when I hear it read, I see my grandmother holding the Bible before her, sharing the story of the greatest gift given.

It is one of the best presents I have ever received.