The Beverwyck Review

Stories and Poems from the Writers' Critique Group of First Reformed Church, Schenectady, New York

Category: Christmas (Page 1 of 2)

Deck the Halls

December 22, 2023 / / 2 Comments

By Kathy Petersen.

“Let’s get this tree decorated, girls” Jenna commanded. In the family room, Carl was finishing the lights. Syrupy Christmas music oozed from the TV.

Jenna selected an ornament and hung it. Carl’s eyes met hers through a screen of boughs. Oh, God, she thought, I love this man so much. She held out her arms. Carl came into them, and they began a slow dance among the boxes.

Chrissie collapsed beside the dog and started to twiddle his ears. Sandy reclaimed the book she’d been reading. Rachel sighed theatrically and stomped into the kitchen for a soda.

Their parents danced.

Comparative Career Studies

December 22, 2023 / / 1 Comment

By Rudy Petersen.

Without meaning to eavesdrop, I overheard an interesting conversation at lunch today in Gershon’s Deli. One woman asked another woman, “So, how are your daughters doing in college?”

The second woman enthused, “Oh, they are both home for Christmas and comparing notes. Susie said she enjoys her Early Childhood Development classes at SUNY Albany, and Claire said she learns ever so much in her Wildlife Management classes at Paul Smith College.”

The first woman commented, “I can see how the practices they are studying could be applied very well in either career!”

The second woman, after a beat, said, “Indeed.”

A Little Sister

December 21, 2023 / / 5 Comments

By Kathy Petersen.

Hailey stood in line waiting to see Santa Claus at the mall. She privately doubted that seeing Santa was going to work. Still, when her turn came, she stood beside his knee while the elf took a picture and told Santa that her name was Hailey, and she was five years old.

“And what would you like for Christmas, Hailey?” the man in red asked.

“A little sister,” Hailey said. “And can you really do it this time? I asked last year, and I didn’t get one.”

Santa’s lips formed a round O while he thought. “I can try,” he said. “But a little sister isn’t always easy. Is there something else you might like, just in case?”

“Maybe a doll,” Hailey said unwillingly. “But it wouldn’t be the same.”

Santa patted her head, wished her a MERRR-RY Christmas, and sent her back to her mother, reminding her to get a lollipop from the elf’s basket.

Riding home, Hailey observed her mother closely. Her friend Audrey in kindergarten got a little brother for her birthday — not a little sister, but close. Audrey’s mother had been very fat for a while, and then there was the little brother. The two events seemed somehow connected. Hailey was watching her mother to get fat, but it wasn’t happening. She had no idea how long these things took, but it was getting very close to Christmas. In Hailey’s opinion the chances didn’t look good. She was preparing for another year of disappointment.

In fact, none of the usual Christmas things were happening. Shopping, baking, putting up the fragrant fresh-cut tree — none of that was going on.

“Are we even going to have Christmas?” she asked her mother.

“We’re doing something different this year,” her mother promised. “We’re taking a vacation. It’ll be nice, you’ll see.” This sounded sort of interesting, but Hailey wondered, how can anything be nicer than Christmas?

School vacation started. Hailey’s mother started packing suitcases. On a snowy morning, just days before Christmas, Hailey’s father drove them to the airport, and they all got onto a plane. This was completely unexpected, and Hailey was fascinated until she fell asleep.

They arrived at a different airport, where a huge banner hung in the concourse. Hailey’s father read it to her: Welcome to Seoul. “We’re in a different country,” he explained. “The people speak a different language, but they still have Christmas.”

To Hailey, the Christmas lights on their cab ride to the hotel spoke all the language she needed. Bouncing in her seat she pointed out marvels to her parents—tall buildings covered with lights, trees wrapped in lights, a church decorated with a huge cross ablaze in red neon. A little snow on the ground reminded Hailey of home. She didn’t feel a bit homesick, not the way she felt when she sometimes stayed with her grandparents; her parents were with her for this adventure. All she needed was a little sister. Even though they passed store after beautifully decorated store, something told her that they couldn’t just go shopping for a sister. This year, the lights would have to be enough.

The hotel was sponsoring a doll show; the lobby was full of dolls. I wonder if I’ll get to pick one out? Hailey dreamed. Santa thought a doll would be nice.  Maybe he was right. To her disappointment she wasn’t invited to select a doll. Instead, the family had supper in their room and then went straight to bed. Hailey felt a little grumpy. If her mother wasn’t going to get fat and give her a little sister, she should at least get to choose a doll.

After breakfast they all piled into another cab. Their luggage stayed at the hotel, but her father inexplicably carried a briefcase like the one he took to the office. “Daddy, are you going to work?” she asked.

“No, sweetheart. We just have to bring some papers with us,” he said.

The cab let them off at another colorfully lighted building. It seemed to be full of little children, reminding Hailey of the day care center she used to attend. Her family stopped at a counter, and a lot of papers went back and forth. Then they were shown into a big echoing room with a Christmas tree in one corner. A woman wearing a pink dress that reached right down to her shoes came from a doorway, leading a tiny girl, black-haired and almond-eyed, dressed in blue. She brought her directly to Hailey’s parents, let go of the child’s hand, said a few words, and stepped back.

They all stood silently for a few seconds. Then Hailey’s mother started to cry, and even her father’s eyes became suspiciously moist. The tiny child looked from one to the other, seemed to absorb the atmosphere, and clouded up.

Instantly Hailey took charge. She reached out to hug the little girl, the frightened toddler who understood nothing and didn’t even speak their language. She felt warm little arms wrap around her neck and felt the trembling little body pressed against hers. Suddenly her parents were on their knees, her father enclosing all of them in his arms, and everyone was laughing and crying at once.

“This is your sister,” her mother said. “Her name is Lin.”

Hailey stepped back, utterly confused. “How . . . ?” she asked. “You didn’t even get fat.”

“She’s a gift,” her mother said. “Lin had no family, no one to take care of her, so the people here are giving her to us.”

“Does that mean we can keep her?”

“Forever,” her mother said.

Hailey heard music playing. It sounded strange, twangy, and tuneless, but she knew what music was for. She caught Lin’s hands, and they danced, danced until they fell and lay giggling helplessly. Then her father lifted them up, took Lin on his shoulder and Hailey by the hand, and they all went out into the falling snow.

Arise, Shine, For Your Light Has Come

December 18, 2023 / / 4 Comments

By James Gonda.

The baby’s cry filled the sanctuary, a reminder of birth, life, and devotion.

Joseph and Mary, following Jewish customs, brought the infant to the temple in Jerusalem to present him to the Lord. The temple’s air hung heavy with the scent of burning incense. Intricate carvings and inscriptions adorned the walls. Its altar was a threshold between the mundane and the sacred.

Meanwhile, the Holy Spirit had guided Simeon, a pillar of faith within the community. From a young age, he had dedicated himself to a life of piety and prayer. He was a respected figure in the temple; his deep spirituality drew the attention of those around him. Simeon had also received a divine pledge that he would not die before seeing the Messiah. When he saw the baby that day, he cradled it in his arms and blessed God, praising Him for fulfilling the promise of sending the Savior.

Anna, a prophetess, was also in the temple. She approached Joseph and Mary and gave thanks to God. She was a woman of wisdom and insight. She had maintained a connection to the spiritual realm throughout her life. Widowed at an early age, she devoted herself to fasting, prayer, and service in the temple. Also known for her visionary gifts, she became a fountain of hope for those seeking comfort and guidance. Her presence in the temple that day was intentional—it came from a life of listening to the whispers of the divine. When she approached Joseph and Mary, her words affirmed the child was the long-awaited Messiah.

                                                                ***

A decade later, Simeon and Anna found solace in a quiet corner of the city. The air in Jerusalem was cool and crisp under the starry sky. The street murmurs had subsided, leaving room for the distant echo of night creatures. The pair had settled on a weathered stone bench; the temple loomed in the distance.

Simeon turned to Anna and spoke in a gentle rumble. “Do you remember when we first met the infant Jesus?”

She smiled. “I shall never forget. A presence beyond words charged the air, as if the cosmos itself bowed to the child.”

Simeon’s eyes sparkled with memories of the meeting. “The divine promise, in the arms of a couple from Nazareth. He leaned forward, his demeanor fraught with apprehension. “Anna, in my dreams, I see the child growing, his path marked by shadows and light.”

It was a full moon that night. A silvery glow illuminated the lines on their faces and the furrows of their brows.

“I, too, have dreamt of the child,” Anna said. “In my visions, I see threads connecting him to the hearts of many—a plethora of lives touched by divinity.”  

Simeon pondered her words for a short time. Then: “What is the child’s destiny, Anna?” His question lingered in the air; the word ‘destiny’ pregnant with possibilities.

Anna’s eyes held a distant gaze, as if peering into the beyond. “His destiny is to awaken the dormant light within every soul. To be a beacon that guides humanity from darkness into love.”  

Simeon kicked up a few pieces of gravel. “What if humanity’s darkness overwhelms the light? What if his beacon becomes a flicker?”

Anna looked at him. “Dear friend, I believe we are trustees of a truth that transcends time.”

The stars above, scattered like celestial witnesses, bore witness to their pact.

Simeon said, “Then we’re trustees of a fragile flame threatened by encroaching gloom. What if, despite his best efforts, evil prevails? What if the dark forces prove too formidable?”                                                                     

Anna placed her hand on his shoulder. “Simeon, faith is the anchor that steadies our hearts amid fear and doubt. The child, now a boy, carries within him a resilience beyond our understanding. The shadows may twist and bend, but they cannot extinguish his flame.”

“Hmm.” Simeon remained incredulous.

As they continued their back and forth under the moon and stars, a soft breeze rustled through the passageways of Jerusalem.

Then without preamble, a brilliance enveloped them. The night sky transformed into a canvas of silver and gold, casting an ethereal glow over their nook. For a few seconds Simeon and Anna found themselves blinded by the display. Then they rose from the bench, startled.

They fixated on the sight unfolding above. Simeon’s countenance gave way to a childlike wonder. He reached for Anna’s hand, seeking reassurance during this spectacle from another world. Caught off guard, Anna felt her heart racing. Her eyes shimmered with enchantment.

The weight of the moment pressed upon them. They exchanged glances that acknowledged the extraordinary encounter they were witnessing. In that sacred space, time seemed to lose its grip. The boundary between the normal and the paranormal blurred as Simeon and Anna permitted the glow to encase them.

From the midst of the radiance emerged an angelic being. Its outstretched wings cast a luminous aura. Simeon and Anna fell to their knees. Its voice was gentle yet powerful. “Simeon, Anna, your faith has been steadfast and your hearts true. You indeed met the Messiah in the temple. Please know his destiny is woven into the fabric of the universe, beyond the reach of mortals. Fear not, for the light he carries will outshine the boundaries of time. The shadows may attempt to obscure, but his flame is eternal.”

With those words, the display reached a crescendo. It bathed Simeon and Anna in a shower of radiant stardust. Then as quickly as the brilliance had appeared, it receded, leaving the night sky in a serene, starlit beauty.

Simeon and Anna stayed on their knees for a moment, absorbing the celestial encounter.

A profound peace settled within their hearts.

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer Deconstructed

December 16, 2023 / / 2 Comments

By Rudy Petersen.

Sure, you’ve heard the song dozens—if not hundreds—of times.

Let’s revisit the lyrics once more and then address some ethical questions.

You know Dasher and Dancer
And Prancer and Vixen,
Comet and Cupid
And Donner and Blitzen.
But do you recall
The most famous reindeer of all?

Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer
Had a very shiny nose
And if you ever saw it
You would even say it glows.

All of the other reindeer
Used to laugh and call him names
They never let poor Rudolph
Join in any reindeer games.

Then one foggy Christmas Eve
Santa came to say
Rudolph with your nose so bright
Won’t you guide my sleigh tonight?
Then all the reindeer loved him
And they shouted out with glee
“Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer
You’ll go down in history.”

OK, there it is, the whole tacky story in 113 simple English words. You, perhaps, may have seen the movie, which seeks to offer a back-story to the song. Now I must ask: have you ever really considered what is going on here—socially, ethically—regarding common decency toward other individuals? If not, then I suggest the key questions before us are these:

Item: Are the other reindeer immature and/or naive?                                   Hint: instead of getting ready for work on Christmas Eve, they’re playing games.

Item: Are the other reindeer a gang of bullies?
Hint: They habitually have been laughing at Rudolph and calling him names. 

Item: Are the other reindeer hypocrites?
Hint: When Rudolph’s “nose so bright” leads the way, thereby saving the jobs of the entire team, then they all “loved” him. Hmm.

Item: What is the nature of love in this song?                                                   Hint: Does the love seem superficial, tied only to a hope of sharing the glory—in effect, sucking up to Rudolph to get to Santa himself?

Item: What is Santa’s proper role in this situation?
Hint: He’s the boss, the head honcho, the leader. Does he not have a responsibility to use this episode as a teaching moment?

Item: Have the other reindeer reached an epiphany, or will they revert to their former behavior?
Hint: We hear the song, and probably see the movie every Christmas season, and yet the story never changes. Why not?

I have considered traveling to the North Pole and confronting the reindeer gang to press them on these points, but I suspect they would give me little or no satisfaction. I might interview Santa, and possibly Mrs. Claus, but I anticipate getting nothing but jolly elf-twaddle about it all being in “fun”—you know, the sweetness and light approach—always a good dodge.

So, I’ll leave this matter to you to ponder. Why do so many citizens greet the annual holiday with fond recollection of this most suspect of popular tunes? Is it tradition? Is it raw sentimentality? Bah humbug! I say.

I realize that these are not issues that you, or even us working together, can resolve. But I thank you for staying with me on this important cultural issue. I feel so much better now.

In Search of Santa’s List

December 15, 2023 / / 7 Comments

By James Gonda.

It was the week before Christmas and the North Pole was a blizzard of activity. Santa’s workshop was a cacophony of clanking and clattering, buzzing, beeping, humming, and hissing. Santa and Mrs. Claus were making their final preparations for the big night: checking the weather, planning Santa’s route, and sorting stocking stuffers with their army of elves.   

During the cheerful chaos, Mrs. Claus found herself in a crisis—she had misplaced Santa’s naughty and nice list. As she searched the nooks and crannies of their home and office, panic set in. She could not find the list anywhere. Mrs. Claus, known for her meticulous organization, felt distressed. She had kept the list safe for centuries; now in those crucial days before Christmas, it had vanished.

Santa, always jovial, reassured his missus they would find the list together. They began their quest by retracing Mrs. Claus’ steps. The workshop, the kitchen, the factory—all the usual places. Yet, the list remained unfound. As they pondered their next move, an elf suggested seeking guidance from Frosty the Snowman—he had a reputation for curating information about the North Pole.

Trudging through the snow, Santa and Mrs. Claus stumbled upon the pudgy snowman with a top hat and carrot nose. With great interest Frosty listened to their plight of the missing list. His coal eyes gleamed with concern. “I haven’t seen your list but heard rumors of a mischievous penguin who might know something.” He motioned toward the Iceberg Isle.

With renewed hope, Santa and Mrs. Claus set off for the island’s icy shores. There, they encountered Pip, a penguin with a penchant for pranks. Pip confessed he had seen the list but claimed the wind had “carried it away.”

Santa and Mrs. Claus decided to enlist the little bird’s help. Together, they embarked on a journey, pursuing the list through a snowy landscape, across a frozen lake, and into a candy cane forest where trees sparkled with red and white delights.

Their first stop unfolded in a clearing with fairy lights. Jingles, a reindeer, pranced into view, his fur aglow with a shimmer. With a flourish, he executed flips and spins. The air crackled with energy as he landed with grace. “Santa! Mrs. Claus! And Pip! What a surprise! Welcome to my Winter Circus!” His hooves tapped out a festive rhythm. “Word travels fast in these parts—I heard about your elusive list.” Santa chuckled. “Oh yes, thank you, Jingles! We’ve always admired your hoof work. Any help is much appreciated.”

Jingles winked and, with a twirl, uncovered a secret hollow under the snow. It revealed an array of glittering snowflakes, each etched with the names of children around the world. This information might help Santa remember who was naughty and who was nice. Meanwhile, Pip, unable to forego a little fun, flopped onto the ground and created a snow angel. Laughter echoed through the clearing. “Jingles, you’ve given us some relief. Thank you,” Mrs. Claus said.

As they continued their search, the trio reached the edge of a frozen lake. Bumble, a polar bear, awaited them. His fur glistened like ice. “Well, well, if it isn’t the Claus crew! What brings you to my chilly domain?”

Mrs. Claus explained their quest. The giant white bear rubbed his paws together, contemplating. “A missing list, you say? Well, Bumble’s got connections with squalls and gales. Sometimes they share their secrets.” With a grand gesture, he summoned the winds; they swirled around with snippets of conversations. The air teased Santa’s beard and played with the edges of Mrs. Claus’ shawl.

“The list, my friends, is on an adventure of its own,” the bear revealed. “Follow the whispers, and you’ll find it.”

They thanked Bumble and ventured forth. The scent of warm gingerbread teased their noses. It led them to a village of gingerbread people. The aroma of baked cookies filled the air; the town square was a sweet display of icing-adorned houses. Mr. Gingersnap, a plump gingerbread man, welcomed them with a broad smile. “Santa, Mrs. Claus, and little Pip! You look like you could use a break. How ‘bout some hot cocoa and gingerbread cookies?”

The warmth of hospitality enveloped them as they sat around a cozy fire. They sipped hot chocolate and nibbled on cookies shaped like Christmas trees. As the night unfolded, a gust of wind delivered a brass key. Mr. Gingersnap snatched the key and handed it to Santa. “This key opens the door to the heart of the forest. Your list awaits there.”

The three ventured deeper into the woods. Snow crunched beneath their boots. The forest grew denser; trees towered overhead like sentinels guarding a secret. Following the whispers of the wind—per Bumble’s instructions—they came upon a clearing bathed in a soft glow. In the center stood an ancient, ornate door, adorned with intricate patterns. Santa inserted the golden key. The door creaked open and revealed a room resplendent with thousands of twinkling stars. In the center was the missing list, suspended in mid-air, surrounded by an aura. A sense of celebration radiated from the space, as if the list itself delighted in being found.

Mrs. Claus approached the list, her eyes filled with wonder. The names of children glittered like constellations. But before they could rejoice, a figure emerged from the shadows—a being arrayed in an iridescent cloak, resembling the hues of peacock feathers. The being smiled. “Congratulations, dear Claus family, and Pip. You’ve passed the final test.”

Mrs. Claus looked at her husband, puzzled. “Who is this, Papa?”

Santa chuckled. “This is the Guardian of Christmas Magic.”

“You know this . . . individual?”

“We go back to the beginning.” 

The being spoke: “You’ve undertaken a journey, met characters, faced challenges—”

“The list was missing! We were worried!” Mrs. Claus inserted.

The Guardian nodded. “Indeed, such events reveal the essence of Christmas. The joy, the laughter, the warmth, and the spirit of giving were all present in your hearts, even when the list seemed lost.” And with those words, the being eased into an adjacent room. The list floated down into Mrs. Claus’ hands.

And so, on Christmas Eve, as Santa soared through the sky, the Northern Lights shimmered even brighter, personifying the holiday bliss the Clauses—and Pip—had rediscovered on their search.   

Silent Night

December 24, 2022 / / 4 Comments

By Kathy Petersen.

“You’re up!” Leslie’s manager Marlene called through the dressing room door.

Leslie smoothed the front of her shimmering white gown, took up the single red rose she always used for a prop, and approached the wings. She had already warmed up her voice, despite being bothered by a strange feeling that something was wrong. It wasn’t stage fright; she was a pro and had sung the aria from “La Bohème” countless times. She decided to ignore it.

Applause rolled up from the audience as she swept onstage. She greeted the conductor, who raised his baton to begin the orchestral introduction. Leslie drew a deep breath. She couldn’t produce a sound. Then her knees buckled, and she fell to the floor.

                                                             *    *    *

She awoke in a hospital bed with Marlene sitting beside her. In a panic she plucked at the hospital gown and cried, “My dresh! The conshert!”

Marlene took Leslie’s hand. “It’s Sunday morning,” she said. “The program went on without you. The doctors say you had a small stroke, a blood clot in your brain. They broke it up with drugs, and we’ve all been waiting for you to wake up. Your speech doesn’t sound quite right, but maybe you’re just groggy. I’ll call the nurse.” She pressed the call button.

Horror overcame Leslie. How could she sing if her voice was gone?  What if she ended up paralyzed? The neurologist who eventually came in encouraged her to consider therapy and a good voice coach. She might well regain most of her abilities. However, she could expect a long recovery period.

The doctor’s prediction was correct. Despite treatment, her legs remained weak, and she had to leave the hospital with a walker. That alone could end her stage career. Her voice needed more work, a lot of it. Although she tried hard, she couldn’t help thinking that the effort was useless. Whenever she sang, she imagined her blood pressure rising, and worried that the tension might bring on another stroke. What was the point, anyway, if her diction didn’t improve?

Marlene and the voice coach kept insisting that she was making progress. “You really sound better with every session,” Marlene claimed. “We should start thinking about recording. You can do that without being on your feet.”

“I just don’t know,” Leslie objected. “I’m afraid to sing at full volume. I don’t have any stamina, and I hate going out in public with a walker. My confidence is shot.”

“The physical things will get better,” Marlene said. “I think that confidence is the real issue. We’ll have to find a way to overcome that. Get you back in the saddle, like someone who falls off a horse. Let me look around for a gig that you could handle.”

That was in May.

At Thanksgiving Marlene announced that she had arranged a performance. Leslie had doubts; it was too soon, her voice wasn’t up to it, she couldn’t disappoint another audience. Marlene said that wouldn’t happen. Then she told Leslie what the gig was.

                                                               *    *    *

So it happened that on a night in December Leslie and Marlene entered a grand building and rode the elevator to a remote floor. A nurse met them at a locked door and helped them into sterile gowns. With Leslie clinging tightly to her walker, they entered the neonatal intensive care unit.

Leslie got her bearings for what might be her most important performance ever. She adjusted her vocal register to match the hum of machinery and the sighing of ventilators. Drawing a deep breath, she began:

                    “Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright . . .”

The brightness of this night was from high-powered ceiling fixtures that Leslie suspected were never turned off. The calm might have been only for the moment; the infants were quiet in their incubators, and the nurses moved in unhurried silence. In fact, no one moved, transfixed as they were with the familiar carol. Only a candy striper cuddling a swaddled baby in a rocking chair kept up a slow rhythm.

                                     “Holy infant, so tender and mild . . .”

These babies were no less tender, burdened as they were with tubes and hose connections, vulnerable, their chances of life so uncertain. Some of them must be in distress. With all her heart Leslie wanted to soothe and comfort them.

                                      “Shepherds quake at the sight . . .”

In a far corner, parents sat by an incubator, their hands clasped, their faces rapt with love and terror, as their impossibly tiny newborn struggled for every breath.

                                       “Heavenly hosts sing Alleluia!”

Their song was the life-sustaining murmur of equipment, the peeping of monitors, a faint wail, a reassuring voice, the creaking of the rocking chair.

                                        “Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth . . .”

Leslie saw that every infant here was a miracle, a center of the universe to frightened, adoring parents.

                                       “With the dawn of redeeming grace . . .”

Leslie’s hands left the walker and she stood straighter, balancing with care. Her voice gathered strength. I can do this, she marveled. I can sing!  She felt as if her life had started over.

                                        “Christ the Savior is born!”

Leslie finished singing and stood shaking in a rush of relief. The nurses, who saw miracles every day, smiled with perfect understanding, expressed their thanks, and went back to their tasks. The parents’ faces were alight with gratitude; they patted their hands together, trying to applaud without startling the newborns. Marlene was there beaming, offering a hug and a red rose.

“Congratulations,” she whispered. “You did beautifully.”

As a nurse came to escort them out. Leslie asked, “Can I come back next year?”

“We wish you would,” she said.

Orders From a Higher Authority

December 23, 2022 / / 3 Comments

By Rudy Petersen.

This memoir is not from my personal experience, but the event described made me think of it as a classic in the annals of child-rearing. So, I dedicate this to all parents who have ever dealt with a strong-willed and rebellious child. Is there any other kind of parent? Is there any other kind of child?

Ron, a friend of mine, told me what happened just before Christmas some years ago. Ron is one of the gentlest and kindest people I know. He always sees the good in a person and makes allowances for someone who might be having a bad day. This episode tested even him.

At the time of this story, Ron and his wife had a four-year old son named Patrick, and they usually did things together as a family. On this day, Ron’s wife was busy with other pre-Christmas activities, and he volunteered to take Patrick to visit Santa Claus at the shopping mall. Patrick became excited to see Santa and tell him all about what he wanted for Christmas. After the elf-assistant took the traditional photo, Patrick climbed down from Santa’s lap and he and Ron, happy son and proud father headed hand-in-hand toward the mall exit.

On an impulse, thinking that he might gain a few last-minute shopping clues, Ron decided to stop in the toy store and let Patrick look around for a few minutes. He recognized his error when Patrick decided this was Santa’s workshop and he could pick out stuff directly, thus eliminating the lengthy wait until Christmas. At least, that was what Ron gathered Patrick was talking about. Ron explained that this was not accurate, that they were just looking, and now they had to go home and have supper with Mommy.

Patrick rejected this notion and continued to wander around the store, aisle by aisle by aisle. Ron, being a modern parent, explained it all over again, gently took Patrick by the hand and started for the store exit. Patrick flopped down and began yelling with great vigor. Ron stood him up on his feet and started off again. Patrick twisted his hand free, threw himself flat onto the floor, and yelled some more. Saying nothing, Ron smiled at the clerks and the other shoppers, picked his son up, cradled him in his arms, and strode out into the hallway, again heading for the exit.

Just inside the doors, he put Patrick down and started helping him put on his coat. Patrick was yelling about going back to the store, but Ron was adamant about going home. Patrick threw himself down on the floor again, lying on his back, twisting, and rolling and making his arms stiff and straight so they couldn’t be shoved into the coat sleeves. Ron, embarrassed, but also growing angry about this behavior, knelt, straddled Patrick’s body, and ordered him to lie still and accept his coat. Ron saw and heard other mall customers walking by. Some were muttering critical comments about such rough handling of that poor little boy. Ron realized that although Patrick’s mouth was still open for screaming, no sound was coming out. His eyes were wide open. He was lying still and staring in horror past Ron’s shoulder. Ron thought, Oh, my God, I’ve hurt him! I’m a terrible parent!

Then a deep, commanding voice from behind Ron ordered: “Patrick! Stop that! Get up! Put on your coat! Go home with your Daddy. Right now!”  Patrick squirmed out from under Ron. He stood up and tried to put on his coat. He got it upside down. He got it backward. He got one sleeve pulled inside out. He was frantic to put on his coat.

Ron, standing up and watching the spectacle of his son in a panic trying to comply with these direct orders from a higher authority, murmured under his breath, “Thank you, Santa!”

Santa whispered, “You’re welcome.” He turned and walked all the way back down the long hall to his red velvet throne, chatting with amused parents and patting the heads of startled children all along his path. Ron told me that Patrick was quiet on the way home and reported nothing to Mommy about his visit to Santa.

On Christmas Eve

December 22, 2022 / / 3 Comments

By Kathy Petersen.

Six-year-old Davey woke up at midnight, feeling confused. The bedroom was bright as day with the moonlight reflecting off new snow and flooding into the window. He was in an unfamiliar place, on a cot in his sister’s room. His grandparents had come for a Christmas visit and he had been made to give up his room for them. I wonder if Santa Claus came yet. Davey climbed out of bed to peek into the kitchen. He and his sister had set out a glass of milk and a plate of cookies on the kitchen table at bedtime, using the special plate with the Christmas tree painted on it that was reserved for Santa.

The moonlight showed his grandfather standing at the table, just putting down the empty glass! No red suit, no black boots, only the familiar plaid bathrobe and old leather slippers. Feeling brave in his Batman pajamas, Davey marched right up to him and said, “Grandpa, you’re cheating. That stuff was for Santa! You’re eating off his special plate!”

Grandpa sat down so that he could look Davey in the eye, and said with a smile, “Actually, I am Santa. I just didn’t want anyone to be worried about a stranger in the house, so I’m wearing a disguise. Did I get it right?”

For a moment Davey was speechless. He got up onto Grandpa’s lap and took the old man’s face in his hands. All he felt was the usual stubble that was there when Grandpa hadn’t shaved. He looked at the top of Grandpa’s head and saw the usual bald spot with the usual few strands of hair that lay across it.

“You’ve got Grandpa’s bald spot,” Davey said. “I think you’re really Grandpa.”

“Pretty good disguise, isn’t it? Would you like that last cookie?”

“It’s on Santa’s special plate,” Davey objected. “Only Santa gets to use that plate.” He hated to disappoint Santa and not even leave the last cookie for him.

“Well, I’m Santa, and I want you to have the cookie. Go ahead and enjoy it.”

Davey’s confusion was worse. What to do? Permission from Grandpa didn’t seem to make eating from the special plate completely OK. On the other hand, permission from Santa, if the person in the room with him really was Santa . . . and the cookie was calling to him . . .

Davey grabbed the cookie and started munching. Grandpa set him down on the floor and carried the glass and the empty plate to the sink to rinse them and place them on the counter. He turned to Davey. “We’d better get you back to bed,” he said. “I have work to do. It’s magic, so you shouldn’t watch. We don’t want to spoil any surprises.”

He took Davey’s hand and led him back to his sister’s bedroom. He helped Davey get under the blankets, tucked him in, and leaned down to kiss his forehead. “Sweet dreams,” he said, and walked out, quietly closing the door as he left.

I should follow him. If he goes back to my room, I’ll know he’s really Grandpa. He was too sleepy to do it, though. Within seconds he had drifted off. 

Grandpa went into the living room. He didn’t turn on any lights, even though that side of the house was in shadow. He opened the big sack that was standing by the fireplace and began pulling out presents to put under the tree. He filled up each stocking with a tangerine, a handful of foil-wrapped Christmas candies, and a few little gifts. He even remembered the squeaky mouse for the dog and the box of catnip for the cat. The animals were sharing a basket by the end of the sofa, sleeping through the whole thing. 

His work done Grandpa shrank to a size that would let him rise up the chimney. He had a feeling that eating the last cookie himself would made the task a little too hard, and he still had a lot of houses and a lot of cookies ahead of him. He hoped that a lot of small children would discover him and help him out. He stepped out onto the roof and gave a reassuring pat to his lead reindeer. He settled into the sleigh, gathered up the reins and gave them a shake. The team rose into the air.   

 “Next stop!” Grandpa shouted.

The Best Gift

December 21, 2022 / / 1 Comment

By James Gonda.

Everyone in our village saw the bright light in the night sky, including Caspar and me. We were not surprised. In fact, we were expecting it. We had been watching the planet Jupiter move from near the sun to conjoin with the planet Venus. At the same time, Jupiter aligned with the star Regulus, one of the most radiant stars in the sky. So, this “triple conjunction” produced the most vivid of lights.

This illumination shone over the sands of Judea. Caspar, also a scholar of Hebrew culture, suspected something else was going on. He went straight to his ancient texts. He soon reported that in Hebrew, Jupiter goes by the name Sedeq, meaning righteousness. He explained the Hebrews for centuries have been waiting for their Messiah. Sedeq was a word used in anticipation of his arrival. I rolled my eyes. “We have no time for Jewish fairy tales,” I told him.

Caspar continued, undeterred. He said that Jupiter and the birth of monarchs went hand-in-hand. Regulas was the King star for its brilliance. Venus and women and motherhood have been a trio for eons. I looked at him, dumbfounded. He took pity on me and turned his analysis into a simple equation. Jupiter + Regulas + Venus = the birth of a king. In time, this person will deliver his people from themselves. The long-awaited Messiah. Caspar fell silent as I considered his proof. Finally, I said, “Is any of this necessary?”   

Caspar wondered what King Herod knew of these astro-histories. Herod was the current ruler of the Hebrews. My friend refused to take any chances. He insisted we travel to Jerusalem and bring Herod up-to-speed. And we should pay homage to the baby sovereign. “This is monumental!” he exclaimed, waving his arms. “We must follow the star to the new king.” I reminded my cohort that this king was not our king, and we were not his people. From my chair, we should record this megastar in the scroll and call it a night. Besides, we were too old and lived too far for such a long trip. “We must bring gifts,” he added. “Gifts fit for a king, a divine king.” I sighed. “I’m thinking a few sheep and goats?” Casper glared at me. Then he thought for a moment, running his fingers through his beard. “Listen,” he said. “Do you remember King Callinicus? The Syrian? When he paid homage to the god Apollo, he brought gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. The gold for Apollo’s kingship. The frankincense to perfume his deity. The myrrh to anoint his body in death, to show his mortality. We would be wise to do the same.” I snorted and said that was a fine idea, but we were fresh out of those items. “That is true,” he said. “But Herod must have a grand supply. When we meet him, we will explain everything. Prepare the camels for a journey, Balthazar, our mission begins now!” His boisterous laugh rattled the roof. So, Caspar conscripted me, and his presumptuousness rubbed me the wrong way. This was a trip I did not want to make. Herod was a king I did not want to meet. The baby was someone I did not want to see. To his credit, Caspar always did well to get his way.

When we arrived at Herod’s temple, to my astonishment he welcomed us with open arms. He seemed intrigued by a pair of astronomer-priests from Mesopotamia. He asked many questions. Then with passion and authority, Caspar made his case. He explained about the megastar. The divine king. The need to pay homage. The precedent of gold, frankincense, and myrrh as gifts. I figured the great King Herod would laugh until he cried. Why would he entrust two strangers with such valuable things? Again, to my amazement, he gave us everything we asked for. He even replenished our supplies. He had one request in return: please report back to him when we find the infant so he may worship him.

Outside of Herod’s temple, Caspar turned to me and said, “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” He insisted that we celebrate our little victory, which we did, well into the night. We swilled wine and consumed exotic foods.

The next morning, Caspar did not awaken and for good reason: my chum and colleague had passed away. The arduous journey. The unusual foods. The excessive drinking. With his advanced age it was all too much. So, I gave him the best burial I could in a foreign land and planned to head for home. But at nightfall, that star beckoned me. No, it nagged at me, until I relented and restarted the venture. This decision was not for Herod. Or the baby messiah. Or even for me. It was to finish what my dear friend had started.  

The star led me eastward to a hamlet called Bethlehem. On the outskirts of town, I encountered a few shepherds, breathless and excited. They claimed an angel had spoken to them. This messenger announced the birth of the new king, nearby, in a manger.

We found the infant resting in a feeding trough. I could not believe my eyes. Caspar, oh Caspar, you were right! The baby’s parents were there: a young maiden and her older husband. She looked tired and happy; he stood by as guardian and protector. In the muted starlight, I peered at the tiny bundle and beheld the face of a mighty God. I gasped. I dropped to my knees, afraid, confused, bewildered, unsure of what to do next. Then I remembered the gifts, I must deliver the gifts. I fetched the gold, frankincense, and myrrh and presented them. I returned to my knees and bowed my head. Were these offerings proper and enough? The father put his hand on my shoulder. “You have done well in the sight of our Lord,” he assured me.

I told Herod nothing of this new king. I knew he would kill the baby, his parents, and me. For safety, I traveled home through Egypt, a roundabout way for sure. This all came to me in a dream.  

Now when I plot the heavens, I no longer gaze only with logic. I remember the divine baby king in the cowshed, and smile, and cherish His mysterious gift of faith.

« Older posts

© 2024 The Beverwyck Review

Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑