I handed Curt the camera and signaled for the kids. “Alright guys, let’s get a quick picture before you open your presents.”

All three girls settled down in front of the fireplace. They knew the drill. We’d had this tradition since they were babies. The night before Christmas they could open two presents: a new ornament and a pair of pajamas.

“How about we start with the oldest this year?” Emily sat up straight, balancing her presents on her lap.    

To my surprise, her two younger sisters obliged. Emily opened her ornament and held it up. “New driver,” she read out loud.

Taylor was next. She opened her ornament and gazed at the miniature volleyball player. She flipped over the ornament and smiled as she spotted #24 – her volleyball number – on the back of the jersey.                                                                            
I motioned to Madison. “You’re up!” She grinned and prepared to rip into the paper.

Suddenly my cell phone rang. Then Curt’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Across the room, our home phone joined in.

What in the world? I grabbed my phone and glanced at the screen. “It’s the school.”

I pushed the speaker button and we all leaned in, listening. The voice of our high school principal filled the living room.

“Good evening staff, students and families. It is with deep sadness that I regret to inform you that our high school lost a great student earlier today.”

The recorded message continued as we sat motionless, trying to comprehend the unbelievable news.

A fourteen-year-old boy had tragically passed away. He was a freshman – the grade right between Emily and Taylor. His younger brother is in Maddie’s class. In our small community, everyone pretty much knows everyone.

I hung up the phone. For awhile, we just stared into space in silent disbelief. Finally, I remembered it was Maddie’s turn to open her gift. But opening gifts didn't seem important anymore.

Throughout Christmas day I couldn't get that phone call out of my mind. My heart ached as I thought about the unimaginable pain this family must be feeling. As we opened our gifts, I pictured the unopened gifts under their family’s tree. When we sat down together for dinner, I thought about the empty chair at their table.

My mind drifted back over the past few weeks. December had been crazy busy. There was Christmas shopping and gift wrapping to be done. A Christmas letter to write. Decorations to drag up from the basement. Two trees to decorate. Cookies to bake. A big ‘ol traditional meal to plan and prepare – complete with turkey and stuffing, mashed potatoes and gravy, corn casserole and cranberries, homemade rolls and pie. And in my desire to make the house look "perfect" before family showed up, there was last-minute cleaning to do.

Now I wondered, did any of that stuff even matter?

On Christmas night I grabbed a book from my nightstand and went to bed early. Before long, Madison, all decked out in her new fuzzy jammies, scrambled in beside me. She snuggled close, resting her head against my shoulder. And we sat together, doing absolutely nothing, for a very long time.

It’s hard to describe the emotions I felt as my “baby” cuddled close beside me that night. I'll try to sum it up with six words. 

Completely content. 

Exceedingly grateful. 

Abundantly blessed. 

Madison started to yawn, but then turned away, attempting to stifle it. She looked up at me and exhaled a heavy sigh. “So I guess that means I have to go to bed.”

“Nope,” I said. “You need to stay right here.” 

She raised an eyebrow.   

“And do you know why I want you to stay here?” I didn't give her the chance to answer. “Because there’s nowhere else in this whole wide world I’d rather be than sitting right here, snuggling with you.”                              

“Nowhere?” Her eyes widened. 

“Nowhere,” I said. And I meant it with all my heart.

Will you please join me in praying for the family that experienced this tragedy on Christmas Eve? I would also appreciate prayer for our community. A high school gymnasium should be a place for fun and joyful occasions like pep rallies ... basketball and volleyball games ... graduation ceremonies. But this morning our gym became a place of grief and sorrow, where teachers, classmates, friends, relatives and neighbors gathered together for a young man’s funeral service. Tough weeks are ahead. Thank you for your prayers. 

Christmas always brings back memories for me. I especially love to reminisce about my years with three little girls. I remember festive dresses and patent leather shoes for Christmas programs. Cute and comfy jammies on Christmas Eve. Heartfelt letters to Santa. One year I even wrote my own letter to Santa. 

Since I've been busy this week with Christmas shopping, gift wrapping, cookie baking and a number of other Christmastime activities, I'm going to skip my regular blog post - and instead - share that letter with you. 

So, from December 2001, I give you my Christmas letter to Santa...

Dear Santa,

Do you remember a long time ago,
When I was just six and my eyes were aglow?

I wrote you a letter and asked if just maybe,
There might be a way you could bring me a baby.

All year I’d been good (all week anyway)
And a “Baby Alive” would just make my day.

She could eat, she could drink – she could even go potty.
Please bring her, Dear Santa, and I’ll never be naughty!

I awoke Christmas morning and ran to the tree.
And to my delight she was waiting for me.

But here is the reason I’m sending this letter,
Your dolls were okay, but there’s something much better.

As much as I liked that baby you brought;
I wish you could see the dolls I've now got!

If babies like these could be made by your elves;
There’d be such demand; they’d fly off the shelves.

They're precious and sweet, unlike any other.
I suppose I am biased since I am their mother.

So Santa this year I won’t ask for a lot.
Because the very best gifts I've already got.

And these gifts just keep on giving. 

This Christmas I hope you can take time to reflect on precious memories - and even better - enjoy making new ones!

Have a Merry Christmas,

Sheri

I hurried down the steps, my bare feet on the heels of my brother’s as we raced to the tree. “Santa came!” I squealed, spotting several neatly-wrapped presents tucked under the branches. We plopped to our knees and began inspecting every package.

“This one’s for you.” Steve propelled a red and green present across the carpet toward me. “And this one’s for me.” He smiled, placing it on top of his growing stack of gifts.

I studied Steve’s pile, and marveled at how he always managed to make Santa’s list. He wasn't a horrible brother. Sometimes he was my best friend. But other times, his naughty outweighed his nice. Especially when it came to his little sister. He particularly liked destroying my toys. Like the year Santa gave me a Mrs. Beasley doll.

I remembered Mrs. Beasley’s big blue eyes greeting me as I slid her out of the box. I’d never owned a doll that could talk before, and I was eager to hear her speak. I positioned her onto my lap, straightened the blue, polka-dotted apron around her waist and pulled the string.

“I do think you're the nicest little friend I ever had.” Mrs. Beasley and I did become good friends. We spent hours playing together. Through good times and bad, she always greeted me with a warm smile and pleasant conversation.

Until that tragic day when she stopped talking.

I’m not sure I’ll ever know my brother’s motive for such a heinous crime. Maybe it was curiosity; attempting to see what makes a doll speak. Maybe it was payback for an annoying little sister. Or maybe he was just having a bad day. Whatever the reason, poor Mrs. Beasley endured an awful fate the day Steve ripped out her voice box.  She never spoke another word. 

Looking back I’ll admit I wasn't the perfect sister. Steve probably got tired of me following him around and badgering him to play. I suppose he didn't appreciate me snooping through his room, or tattling to Mom when he beheaded my Barbies. But through all our fights I had a sneaking suspicion. He would never admit it, but I suspected that somewhere, deep down in his heart, Steve had a soft spot for his little sister.

However, my brother wasn't into mushy stuff. Even when he did something nice, he’d shrug it off in his “no big deal” kind of way. Like the time he came home from school with a bag full of Christmas candy.

I took one look at that candy and wished I could go to school. Why did I have to stay home with Mom? I wanted a Christmas party!

“Go ahead. Take it,” he said, tossing me the bag.

I studied his innocent expression. Is he serious? Why would he give it to me?  Maybe he dropped it on the bus floor. I finally decided to trust him.

“Thanks!” I dug my hand deep into the bag.

"Whatever,” he said, making a face. 

It’s hard to believe it's been thirty-five years since my brother and I raced down the stairs on Christmas morning. Eventually, we grew up and forgot our petty sibling rivalries. Today our yearly tradition is to gather at Mom’s (now referred to as “Grandma’s house”) every Christmas Eve. We no longer dig through the presents under Mom’s tree. Only the kids get presents at Grandma’s – except one year when a surprise waited for me.  

“Hey Mom, there’s a present with your name on it.” My oldest daughter held up a shiny red box.

A present for me? “Who’s it from?” I glanced around the room. No one else seemed particularly interested.

“Doesn’t say.” She handed me the gift. My girls gathered beside me.

I ripped back the paper and immediately spotted the words “Collectible Doll” printed across the box.

“How about that,” I said, pulling the doll out of the box. Her warm, familiar smile greeted me, and I propped her onto my lap. “I've got a brand-new Mrs. Beasley doll.” She was perfect. Apron neatly pressed. Miniature glasses centered squarely on her nose. Blonde hair curled in place.

A puzzled look settled across my daughters’ faces as if to say, what’s so special about a blue, polka-dotted doll? But I knew why she was special. Mrs. Beasley confirmed the suspicions I’d had all along. After all these years, my big brother still had a soft spot for his little sis.

Across the room, Steve glanced up from his pie – and shrugged.

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It’s that time of year again. If it hasn't happened yet, it probably will. You'll open your mailbox, pull out the mail, and find a bright red envelope amidst the holiday catalogs and department store flyers. A Christmas card. There might even be a letter inside. 

Yes, I know. People have strong opinions about family Christmas letters. Some think they're nothing more than a way for people to brag about the trips they’ve taken or gush over their little star athlete and honor student.

And then there’s the other kind of Christmas letters. Maybe you've seen them. They're so full of complaints and self-pity, you wonder if you should send a Christmas (or a sympathy) card in return.  

But on the most part, I think Christmas letters get a bum rap. Yes, I confess. I send one of those “dreaded letters” to friends and relatives every year. (Hey, I'm a writer. What did you expect?)

The other day I sat down at my desk, ready to dive into issue #12 of the “Zeck Zone Newsletter.” But I was easily distracted. I soon found myself skimming through old copies of our newsletters from years past. Memories of moments – both significant and trivial – flooded my mind.

There seems to be a fine line between “bragging” and sharing the good stuff God’s been doing. Of course life isn’t perfect. But in a world so full of negativity, what’s wrong with focusing on the good? Isn’t the Christmas season the perfect time to appreciate our blessings? 

Okay, I'll admit it. I've wondered if friends and relatives roll their eyes when they read our letters. I guess I’ll never know. But the truth is, I don't write them for others. I write them for us. 

It forces us to slow down and appreciate the positive things in life. 

It records our family history. 

It’s a keepsake for our kids.

So while I hope our friends and relatives look forward to our letters, it really doesn't matter. I'll keep writing them just the same.

So here we go. Thanksgiving is over and it's full-speed ahead. As you know, there's much to be done before Christmas. Especially for you "younger" moms. You know who you are. You've got little ones who still believe in the big guy in red. You're crazy busy. You're sleep-deprived. And some days you feel like you're being pulled in a hundred different directions. Especially this time of year. 

Now don't get me wrong. Christmas is a blast with little ones. But it's also a lot of work. There's the baking. The shopping. The decorating. And you do it all in the midst of potty-training or breastfeeding or dealing with a temper tantrum in the middle of Target. 

Anyway, I'd like to dedicate this blog post to you. 

The other day I came across this silly little poem. I wrote it several years ago, when my girls were little. I hope you enjoy it. 

And you know what? It's totally true. 

Enjoy your little ones this Christmas season - and try not to sweat the small stuff. Above all, remember the reason for the season!

Until next week ...

Sheri