The calm wrapped around me like a blanket that Christmas morning over forty years ago. Our hundred-year-old home, decorated in holly and white twinkling lights, held a freshness it didn’t have before. Mom lit a candle on the coffee table—face glowing with her new radiance. You can’t fake that. It’s deep and contagious. This would be a slimer Christmas, Mom and Mel-Dad had warned us kids. We were each handed a stocking, and five presents circled beneath the Douglas fir. But what I wanted, what I had asked God for all year, sat right here on the couch and floor of our golden, shag-carpeted living room. What a journey it had been!
Our family had been ripped apart when I was two-and-a-half; my mom and dad had divorced. Mom had remarried, and we considered Mel our Daddy. But after five happy-ish years all hell had broken loose, and in May Mel-Dad did not come home. Mom started taking us to church, and Audrey, her new-found grandma friend from the local nutrition store, met with Mom regularly for prayer and encouragement. Many summer evenings we met so they could pray.
As school resumed and the cool weather came, we traveled one Friday night with Mom to Audrey’s house. Before they split up, Mom would have joined Mel-Dad on the weekends at the country club to watch him play guitar and sing. She was struggling with the months of separation. I kind of think she thought God would have fixed this by now, but He clearly hadn’t.
My older brother Danny and I played in one corner of the small apartment while the adults chatted, baby Rusty asleep next to Mom in another corner. Something had taken place because we were called over to join the two women. Mom’s face glowed with a gentle smile. Whoever this God was they had been talking to changed Mom for good that night. That’s when I started paying closer attention to this God talk.
Mom’s happy stayed even through the lean times. I remember groceries showing up on our doorstep. Things we did not eat in our home, like white bread and Jiffy peanut butter, became available. I had not noticed the shelves being bare until we put the newly delivered items away. None of us knew where they came from, but we would have been hungry without them. We laughed and felt so cared for—by God and whichever messenger He used to bring us this yummy food.
Danny and I visited our real Dad every other weekend but only saw Mel-Dad on rare occasions. I remember one Sunday night Danny stayed home, sick. After our visit, Dad dropped me off at a gig where Mel-Dad was playing. They lived in the same town, never talked really, but I guess it was convenient to leave me there.
I waited and watched, then I traveled home in Mel-Dad’s little red pickup truck. Some gal I didn’t know traveled with us. She smelled of powder and perfume. This was too much for my nine-year-old brain to comprehend. Who was this woman? And was she the reason we hadn’t seen him? And how would I explain what I’d seen to Mom? Mel-Dad was the man who’d created so much laughter and music in our home. Gone was the man who had read the entire Little House on the Prairie series to us while I combed his black wavy hair into dozens of ponytails, tied up in my hair ribbons. Really gone!
But God heard the prayers from our family’s broken hearts. The powdery lady was a passing event. God used music to woo his heart. The fear of God and love of God got ahold of him. And he returned home to us. Mel-Dad spoke of waking to angels singing around his bed. I remember the crisp October night he knocked on the door of our house. We were just getting ready for Sunday evening church, and he asked to go with us. We jumped up and down with joy. How long we waited for this moment.
Not only did he go with us that night, but from the back row his head with its 80’s fro-styled hairdo lifted to receive the pastor’s invitation, “Does anyone here want to give their life to Jesus? Maybe you are tired of running and you are ready to fall into the arms of your Creator God?”
His eyes lit. His heart changed. Within days he called the members of his band and told them he would not be playing in the nightclubs and doing gigs anymore. They wanted to meet for a beer.
“No,” I heard him answer on the kitchen phone, “the only beer I’ll be drinking from now on is root beer—and that’ll be with my kids.”
It really was the beginning of a new life. Mel-Dad stayed home every Friday and Saturday night instead of playing in the night club. Mom and Mel-Dad sat daily sipping coffee together on the couch when he returned from work. “Finances would be tight,” I overheard Mel-Dad say as I placed a puzzle together on the floor. Mom took his hand and declared, “But we have you again.” They smiled together.
Mom and Dad renewed their vows one late November evening at church. I remember the church decorated in cedar bows, silver bells, and red bows and Mom and Dad’s shiny faces and cherubic smiles. Home became a hub of happiness. A destination spot. Not just a place for Mel-Dad to prepare for the stage. We felt it. We ate dinner together and lingered in conversation around the table, laughing and hearing about one another’s day. We celebrated with family game nights. There was less fighting and more music. This time—Jesus music. Mom wrote songs and poems. My heart felt warm and full.
So, when that Christmas morning arrived, even though we all knew it would be slim, somehow it did not matter. Everything I wanted sat gathered in our little living room. My brothers and I opened our stockings on the floor. All the thoughtful treats mom loved to give us were in there. We each opened our one gift. Mel-Dad got a Bible with his name on it. He ran his fingers over the leather, eyes brimming with tears. Then, as if to shake the emotion, he shouted, “Hallelujah!” with the robust guttural tones only he could make.
Then my mom handed me a package, neatly wrapped in red with a golden bow. It felt heavy. I unwrapped it to see a similar but slightly smaller Bible like Mel-Dad held. My face broke into a wide grin. We owned matching Bibles. The inside cover held my name. God had restored what was so broken. Lights twinkled, and the fir tree released its earthy, green scent. Mom’s orange-cinnamon tea was warming the room, but something deeper and truer than Christmas glitter grabbed our hearts. It was there to stay.
There was not a bike or sled or a big, impressive gift that morning near the tree, but my family was pieced back together. My Bible became the most life-changing gift I ever received. I will not pretend life became easy from that point, but I had the book of books to guide me through every trial, temptation, and challenge that crossed my path and a Christ-focused family with which to walk through whatever life threw at us.
A family reunited. A life kindled before our eyes, much like the candle’s dancing flame on the coffee table. We had a glow, warm and strong, and nothing could put it out.
How wonderful to hear your own Christmas miracle story! You are so right, the best gift is knowing Jesus and a family reunited.