As promised, I have another of my favorite Christmas memories to share with you this week.  It is not laugh-out-loud funny, but it has a happy ending.

I can’t think of much that is more sad than for a child to be sick at Christmas, but it happens.  For me it happened at age six.  I had contracted a very bad case of double mumps which turned into pancreatitis.  I missed lots of school.  I missed the Christmas pageant at church in which I was to sing solo on “Away in a Manger.”  I missed all the fun outings of the season.  I was so sick the doctor came out to our house on Christmas Eve to check on me. 

When Christmas morning arrived, I was too weak to ride piggyback  on my sister to the Christmas tree like usual.  My father had to wrap me in a blanket and carry me.  I sat on his lap while my mom and sister handed me gifts which I couldn’t even open without help.

The up side of the story is the tenderness and compassion I remember from so many wonderful people during my illness.  As I lay in bed drifting in and out of sleep, I recall that every time I awoke, someone from my family would be at my bedside.  Many times it was my eleven-year-old sister making me a picture to hang on my wall.  (I had quite a gallery by the time I recovered.)

Most of the time it was my sweet mother who was camped out by my side.  “Mommy, are you praying for me?”  I would ask over and over.

“Yes, I am,” she would answer softy, stroking my face.  Then she would kneel on the hard, tile floor and pray aloud so I could hear.

My father had to carry me from place to place.  And when he did, I felt safe and secure in his strong arms.  But one time his voice cracked just slightly when he was telling me I would be all right.

Once when I woke up, there was a beautiful book of children’s Christmas stories lying next to me on the bed.  It had been brought to the house by a young man from church.  Other people brought things too, but that book was my favorite.  My parents and sister took turns reading the stories to me again and again.  I still have that book to this day, although it is quite worn and held together with tape.  I used to read it to my children, and I will read it to my grandchildren.  It is truly a treasure.

Obviously, I made a full recovery.  Several years passed before I was told how seriously ill I had been that Christmas of 1966.  Thinking about it still makes me pause and thank God for His healing.  It also draws me to the book shelf to find that special treasure and crack its cover open once again.  This year I think I will read to my granddaughters the story of  “The Little Star.”  I’ve always liked it best.  Perhaps they will come to love it as much as I have.

Next week, I promise you a  laugh-out-loud funny memory.

Thanks for giving me a moment of your time.