The Magic of Christmas
When I was three, and my sister six, we asked my father how the angel got way up to the top of the tree each Christmas.
This was back in the days when my parents brought the tree home Christmas eve. The branches were bare when we went to bed, but when we woke Christmas morning it was a delight of decorations, lights, and presents.
My father, always one for a bit of whimsy, told us she flew up to the top at the stroke of midnight. Even at that tender age, my sister and I were skeptical, but my father insisted.
“It’s the magic of Christmas!” he said. “Anything can happen.”
That night, we hung up our stockings, put out the milk and cookies, and were tucked in our beds, where we quickly fell asleep.
This was back in the days when my parents brought the tree home Christmas eve. The branches were bare when we went to bed, but when we woke Christmas morning it was a delight of decorations, lights, and presents.
My father, always one for a bit of whimsy, told us she flew up to the top at the stroke of midnight. Even at that tender age, my sister and I were skeptical, but my father insisted.
“It’s the magic of Christmas!” he said. “Anything can happen.”
That night, we hung up our stockings, put out the milk and cookies, and were tucked in our beds, where we quickly fell asleep.
In my dreams I heard my father calling our names. I woke to find that it wasn’t a dream. My father was in our darkened bedroom calling us to get up quickly because it was almost midnight.
He guided us to the kitchen door of our railroad apartment and pointed us towards the Livingroom.
“Watch” he whispered.
We stood in the pitch dark in our pajamas and bare feet, straining our eyes, when all at once the Christmas tree lights came on in all their glory.
And our beautiful angel flew through the air to the top of the tree!
Pandemonium broke out as my father casually assured us that it happened that way every year.
I don’t envy my parents trying to settle us back into bed that night. My sister and I were so caught up in the magic we witnessed, and were so full of questions, all of which my father answered patiently, that it was quite some time before calm was restored and we were settled back into bed.
He guided us to the kitchen door of our railroad apartment and pointed us towards the Livingroom.
“Watch” he whispered.
We stood in the pitch dark in our pajamas and bare feet, straining our eyes, when all at once the Christmas tree lights came on in all their glory.
And our beautiful angel flew through the air to the top of the tree!
Pandemonium broke out as my father casually assured us that it happened that way every year.
I don’t envy my parents trying to settle us back into bed that night. My sister and I were so caught up in the magic we witnessed, and were so full of questions, all of which my father answered patiently, that it was quite some time before calm was restored and we were settled back into bed.
It wasn’t until years later that I truly appreciated the gift my father gave us that Christmas Eve.
Even though he was exhausted from work, decorating the tree, and putting toys together, he took the time to rig up an elaborate pully system through the apartment to make our angel fly.
All for the simple reason of bringing joy to his two little girls.
That angel has presided over every Christmas, either at my parent’s house or mine, for more than 60 years, and every time we set her in her place of honor, I am that little girl again, alive with the memory of that magical night, and love for a father who took the time to introduce his girls to the real magic of Christmas.
Thank you, Pop.
