Each December 24th as a child, I recall my brother and I climbing into the back of our Oldsmobile to head to Christmas Eve services. Just as my father was about to shift into drive, my mom would say in her thick German accent, “Oh, I forgot something inside.”
She’d shuffle in her Sunday shoes back up the icy walkway and disappear inside the house. Minutes later, she got back in the car and we’d head to our small country church.
When we returned home, we couldn’t believe our eyes. While we were busy singing Silent Night and hearing about shepherds and wisemen, presents wrapped in colorful paper and satin ribbons had magically appeared beneath the tree in our living room!
The wonder of Christmas had come again.
It took a few years to realize my mother, who was never forgetful on any other night of the year, had gone back inside to remove those presents from their hiding place and crawled under the sprawling boughs of that double needle balsam adorned with homemade ornaments and tinsel to place them underneath.
We didn’t have a lot growing up on the farm. But my mom always found a way to make Christmas special. To make it bigger than life. That’s because she was bigger than life. She brought joy to the world. She turned our silent night into a night of gleeful squeals of delight.
Despite her haunting past of having grown up in Nazi Germany and enduring the loss and unspeakable horrors of war, she chose to embrace joy. And love. And to live out the spirit of Christmas every day of the year.
As we tore into our gifts that night, she sat back in her chair and watched, never saying a word to reveal she was the giver of those gifts.
Now, those presents are gone and long forgotten. And as I imagine her climbing beneath the tree every Christmas Eve, I’m more aware than ever that she herself was the magic. The gift. One I’ll never, ever forget.
The first chapter of the book I wrote about my mother’s life as a German girl during World War II begins on another Christmas Eve more than 80 years ago, a Christmas in 1937 before the war took the light from her eyes, where something (and someone) extraordinary also showed up beneath the tree. I sometimes wonder if that’s why she wanted to make Christmas so special for us kids, too.
As you approach Christmas this year, I want to be bold and ask you to place my mom beneath your tree, too — well, her story — and to give the gift of Waltraud to others this year. The book I wrote about her extraordinary true story reminds everyone how precious this life is and that when faced with unimaginable circumstances, we can be stronger than we ever thought possible.
Thank you.
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