The star of a holiday story
My three children were young, still true believers in the North Pole.
Their lists had long been made and Santa had quietly slimmed them down to fit the budget. All year I had put money into a Christmas Club account in an effort to make holiday shopping less stressful.
Santa was happy about that.
That year, we were traveling for the holidays, something we typically didn’t do. My sister and her husband were stationed on an Air Force base in Wichita, so we were going to make the most of their closeness.
Since I refused to travel with three kids in a station wagon full of presents, my last task before we left was to withdraw my Christmas Club money and some travel cash which I immediately stuffed into an envelope and, then, into the bottom of my purse.
The next morning, my husband left early, ready to get his half day of work done. When the children woke, they were wild with anticipation. To distract them, I took the three to the local hardware store to buy batteries for the toys I’d buy later. At the counter, I pulled out my wallet and then, puzzled, I peered inside my purse.
The envelope wasn’t there!
I was frantic as I dragged the kids to the car, so I could dump everything on the seat and rifle through it.
The money was gone.
The impact of that hit me like a fist to my stomach. Somehow, I’d lost our travel money, our Santa money.
I’d lost our Christmas.
The kids and I searched everywhere: the car, the house, the yard. Their faces told me they understood we were in trouble.
“Do we still get go?” my young daughter asked, her face telling the answer.
“Maybe the money fell out in the store?” my son offered, hope alive in his eyes.
Back at Ritchie’s Hardware Store, we combed every aisle for what we didn’t have. Myrtle Ritchie, one of the owners, quickly appeared, sensing something was wrong. Both our parents were long-time patrons of Ritchie’s, and my husband and I were too. When things fell apart — the dryer broke or a bike tire went flat — we went up to Ritchie’s.
Myrt fixed everything.
Fighting back tears, I told her of our Christmas plans and the money I had lost. My children surrounded me in a silent circle. One held my hand, another patted my back and another looked up at Myrt, certain she would make it right.
Just like she always did.
We drove home with deflated hearts, the excitement of Christmas lost along with an envelope of cash. Now I would have to tell my husband and explain to my children what they already knew.
Christmas was cancelled.
I was still searching the house, hoping for a miracle when there was a knock on the door. It was Myrt Ritchie, wondering if I’d found what I’d been looking for.
My sigh said it all.
“My husband and I want to give you money for your trip and … other expenses,” Myrt said, glancing at the little ones behind me. “It would be our gift.”
Myrt went on to say that her three children were young once, just like mine, and she knew how hard the holidays can hit young families.
She’d been there before.
I was too humble to take the gift that Myrt offered and, when my husband arrived home, I confessed just before Randy pulled an envelope from his coat pocket, the one he slipped out of my purse that morning to gas up the car. I threw my arms around my husband, too happy to be mad.
The children believed Myrt made it happen.
That year, three wide-eyed children felt the empty ache of want that quickly changed into a profound lesson of giving. Each year, it is this lost-and-found Christmas story my family remembers, the year a hardware hero stepped up to be a Christmas angel.
Star of this holiday story.
You can reach Lorry at lorrysstorys@gmail.com.
This article originally appeared on Columbia Daily Tribune: The star of a holiday story
