As the holiday season swings into high gear, I have asked some of the staff of ID-Digest to share tales of their most memorable Christmases with you. In their reflections may you find the warmth and beauty of this holiday season. Each one of us celebrates Christmas in our own way, with our own traditions and family memories.

This Christmas we pray that you and your loved ones be filled with the greatest blessing of all - love. And that you share this love with all those around you, not only on Christmas day, but every day of the coming year. MERRY CHRISTMAS!

My Grandma loved Christmas. She began buying presents for all of her children and grandchildren the day after Christmas every year. She tried to buy each person something special.

Almost every Christmas Eve was spent traveling the sometimes treacherous roads to my grandparents house. The driveway would be loaded with cars. The lights were on all through the house and the Christmas tree was lit with every color of lights imaginable. All the family ornaments were displayed from years gone by. A train ran under the tree every year in memory of the uncle that I never got to meet. I can always remember fighting for position with the other members of the family for a place by the well stoked fire Grandpa always had in the fireplace.

The back room of the house was for us grandchildren to get together and tell stories. The oldest in the group would tell ghost stories and scare the little ones half to death. The grandchildren had a special table set for all of us to eat together and catch up on the years events. Grandpa had a toboggan that the older kids would ride. Those who did not ride the toboggan could ice skate on the pond below the house. The rest of the gang would either be busy with the family meal or be watching out the windows.

Christmas with my Grandparents will remain with me always.

B.W.

One of my favorite Christmas memories stems from my least traditional Christmas, which I was spent in Tanzania in 2007. Reaching the peak of summer in that region, it wasn't quite the white Christmas I had grown accustomed to in Western PA. It was without gifts, holiday songs, old movies and family, yet I think for the first time in my life I was able to see Christmas for the perfection of less-heralded gifts. I'll explain...

That Christmas I broke bread (or the African equivalent, at least!) with people who grew up worlds apart from me. We shared stories, tears, prayers, food and a mutual appreciation for the goodness that obviously could not exist without something better than us to create it.

I spoke with friends and family for AT LEAST 10 seconds each (or a little more if the banana tree was getting better-than-average reception), and I felt inexplicably warm for knowing that I was loved and needed, and I realized that in that fact alone I am one of the more-fortunate people on earth.

And well after midnight I found myself restless with the realization that I will never be given a gift that can compare to the things that we have been given by God...Hope, Faith,  Love... and everything they mean to mankind.

...but I don't want to pretend that it was all personal reflection and gratitude. I had meat, Coca-Cola and electricity for the first time in months - it would have been a Merry Christmas by virtue of those things alone!

M.S.

My favorite memory takes place the second Christmas after my husband (the love of my life) died. I had spent Christmas Eve with my family and now it's Christmas morning and I was feeling sorry for myself. There was a church downtown that served dinner for people who had no family and no where to go..So I decided I would go and help out . They gave me the job greeting the people and helping them get their meals. A women came in and you could tell she had very little in life. I got her a seat and a meal and watched as a man walked in. I knew at once that they knew each other as her eyes lit up as he walked over to her. He greeted her with a hug and then pulled something out of his coat pocket. As I stood by and watched I saw it was a book. It looked like maybe it came from a dumpster it was so dirty and the cover was missing (I thought to myself I don't think I would even want to touch it) but the women smiled and clutched the book as if it were a treasure ... I heard her say to him "Thank you so much for thinking of me." She had tears in her eyes as she smiled at him. I have to say she was not the only one in tears.. That was a Christmas I'll never forget.

C.G.

My fondest memories of The Holidays involve children – some close loved ones, others new friends; some healthy, others sick; some very fortunate, while others truly in need.  They bring back, through the innocence of their awed eyes and curiosity of their minds, the true notion of the Holiday Season rather than the chore so many now regard the time of year.

To see the tradition of the “Reason for the Season” carried forth is inspiring. Whether watching the joyous act of personalizing a stranger’s gift bag, utilizing their innate, unbridled childhood creativity; causing the recipient more appreciative of the kind and thought expressed than often the contents. Perhaps, selecting that perfect present – possibly one they may themselves desire so – for gifting to one less fortunate.  Or, time spent visiting a lonely person.  The difficultly comprehending why these actions are being taken. Followed by, the bringing of a smile to another’s face; hearing “can we do that again?” uttered enthusiastically from a Child’s mouth. The Holidays offer so many ways to enhance our own lives by what we do with or for Children. 

These experiences and memories keep the Holidays a special time of year for me.  Not a chore.

M.M.

It was my junior year in college and Christmas holidays were fast approaching. As usual my two sisters and I were stumped by what to get our mother for the holidays.  She could buy just about anything she wanted and she never wanted anything!  And then we all remembered that she’d been asking for one thing for years, a flexible flyer.  You know, one of those old fashioned wooden sleds with metal runners. We really figured she was too old at all of 55, to truly appreciate this, but then we considered that our mother did have a very keen sense of childlike wonder and enthusiasm. So we did it. We went in together on this one and got her the flexible flyer.

Now in our family we each got to open one present Christmas Eve and this was it for mom.  We had a friend visiting us from Boston that year, her name was Augusta Hornblower, but she went by Gusty. (I swear I’m not making this up, and her family was old school politicians. It does seem apropos doesn’t it?) Gusty had disappeared after dinner and we really weren’t paying attention. The three of us were focused on making the flyer a real surprise. As you might imagine wrapping a sled to conceal its identity is near impossible. The three of us huddled on the slate patio, a light snow lazily drifting down, stars bright in the inky black sky above us with just wisps of clouds.  Mom arrived at the sliding glass door a bundle of fur. She was 5’3” (and ¾” she always reminded) and she had on her rabbit fur knee high boots and her lynx jacket down to her knees.  She stepped out of the door and slid it closed behind her. We were grinning like Cheshire cats.  We pulled out the sled from behind us, wrapped as we could in a festive covering and a big red bow. Mother was so excited! She promptly grabbed the big red bow and plunked it on her head.  (She’d often compared her hair to cat fur, so you get the whole furry picture.) She ripped the paper off gleefully and dragged the sled, which was almost as big as she was, to the edge of the patio. She dropped it over the side, threw herself on and glided down the snow covered hill.

We were beaming with joy.  As mother neared the evergreen at the foot of the hill, who to our wondering eyes should appear but Santa Claus! In full red and white regalia with a sack of toys on his back, he let loose with a “HO! HO! HO!” and started trudging up the hill with mother in tow.  I was beyond ecstatic and despite being 20 years old, completely suspended belief and jumped up and down shouting “Santa Claus, Santa Claus, Santa Claus.”  My sisters were equally delighted and it honestly wasn’t until Santa and mom reached the patio that we realized it was our dear friend Gusty decked out in red and white. We all laughed until we cried. It was the most magical, childlike wonder-filled holiday ever.  To this day, I’ve never forgotten the divine image of my mom so fur covered and like a kid in a candy story with her long awaited and wished for flexible flyer, and the family friend that took our holiday into a long forgotten magical place.

M.G.

Third grade was the first time I ever volunteered to bring Christmas baking to our class party. I had already discovered that my mother's cookies were exceptional and when I raised my hand to be put on the list for peanut butter cookies the "Yes!" that went around the room was not a surprise. Then the teacher announced that we had to help make what we brought and share our stories about making them with our parents.

Okay that I could do! So when I presented the teacher's note to my mom she smiled and just said "Well we better get busy". That night after dinner she took me with her to buy all the ingredients. She showed me how to measure out all the individual portions, mix it all up, scoop and dab the cookie mounds and of course all great peanut butter cookies have a fork squish mark across their face. I remember it took me several tries to master that feat. In the oven they went with the timer set to beep when they were done. My mom went to do laundry and my chore was to call to her when the stove beeped and we would finish off and pack the cookies in one our special Santa tins.

Off went my mom and I went to play. Some time later I realized the stove beep had come and gone and ran to get my mom. Lifting them, they seemed a tad sad and I was obviously close to tears as it was all my fault. But my mom said "We still have two things to do and they will be all ready to pack tomorrow." I was surprised as I could have sworn that she had said we would pack them all up before I went to bed. "Oh ", she said "I have never shown you how to do this and I forgot a couple of things.They have to cool and then they will be fine". I pointed out they didn't look like they usually did and she calmly assured me that "that was because they hadn't finished cooling off and whenever I ever saw them they were in the cookie jar." So to bed I went and the next morning the cookies looked like they always did when my mom made them. In the tin they went and they were a success down to the last crumb.

Years later I ran into my Grade 3 teacher and we had a coffee together. Reminiscing, she told me the real ending to the story of my Christmas cookies. When I had stood in front of my desk and explained how my mom and I had made the cookies and given the story extra emphasis on the transformation they made overnight while they cooled  - she had realized what my mom had done but never mentioned it. She even checked them. Peanut butter cookies are somewhat soft and she could tell that my mom had carefully scraped away the over cooked bits from every individual cookie. When she saw my mom later it was confirmed and she was sworn to secrecy.

I was so proud that day; I can clearly remember my surprise and delight when I opened that tin at school and had found a note from my mom telling me that they had turned out so good she couldn't resist. She had eaten two or three of MY cookies, which is why there would be a few missing. That year over coffee I heard what my mom had really done and that the missing cookies were the unsalvageable ones that had been tossed. To this day I make peanut butter cookies at Christmas and smile with the memory of my mom.

J.A.

I recall that it was one of those Christmases that left you feeling warm and fuzzy all over and somewhat; shall I say... breathless.

It was a cold and bitter winter night. One of those typical Canadian winter nights, where polar bears and penguins fear to tread.  We drove to my in-laws' home as we always do every Christmas... to have dinner, exchange gifts and to watch the children open their presents faster than Houdini could unwrap himself out of a strait-jacket. This is the "fuzzy" part I am referring to. The warm and breathless part came later.

My 70 year old father-in-law Charlie,  has a beautiful paneled family room with a large stone fireplace, that he hadn't used for some time. Charlie's intention was to add warmth to the Christmas spirit by building a beautiful fire. So out he went to the garage and returned with an armful of firewood. He carefully stacked the wood and prepared it meticulously and before you can say "Jack Frost", he had the fire going. The flames were  a' crackling and a' glowing. With a big grin of satisfaction, Charlie sat down in his favorite chair to bathe in the glow of our approving  smiles. This is the "warm" part I was referring to. The "breathless" soon followed.

Because I suffer from asthma, I am more prone to the effects of, shall we say, contaminated air. I was sitting next to the fireplace and noticed that my breathing was becoming more and more laborious. Yes, dear reader, you guessed it, this is the "breathless" part I was referring to earlier in the account. I began to smell smoke. I looked at the fireplace opening but the smoke I detected wasn't coming from the fireplace opening but from behind the wooden panels. Fine wisps of smoke were making their way out from the panel joints.

I thought to myself that this might be a good time to burst forth in song and I can still remember the repetitive  lyrics;  "FIRE !!! FIRE!!! FIRE!!!"

My father-in-law Charlie, who is rather slow in the best of times, sprung out of his  lazy-boy chair like a snow rabbit being chased by Godzilla. He quickly got a container of water and doused the flames. That seamed to have definitely quenched our "warm"; and may I add, "fuzzy" feelings. Although I still had a lingering "breathless" feeling. He ran into the yard without his coat, dug through the snow, found his extension ladder, propped it up against the chimney,  ran up the ladder like a veteran fireman with garden hose in hand and extinguished the chimney fire; and we didn't even have to call 911.

When the smoke finally cleared and the excitement had died away, we all sort of looked at each other and spontaneously burst into laughter. This certainly was not the Christmas warmth we had expected but was soon replaced by the true warmth we received when we began singing our favorite Christmas Carols.

Merry Christmas everyone and God bless. 

C.L.

One of my fondest Christmas memories takes me back to the days of my childhood. I was in second or third grade at the time. Every Christmas our entire family would gather at my grandparent's farm. All of my aunts and uncles and cousins would come together to celebrate the holiday as one big family event. The long lane leading back to the farmhouse was often so drifted with snow that we would park the cars at the end of the lane, and trudge through the snow back to the house. We arrived with rosy cheeks, greeted by the loving arms of grandma and grandpa, welcoming us into their home.

This was the one and only time of the year that we kids were allowed to be in the parlor; it was usually saved for "special" occasions. But on Christmas we would gather around the bay windows and eagerly watch for Santa's arrival. We would all be very quiet, as you could hear his bells before you could actually see Santa himself. But what an eruption of joy and excitement when he arrived.

Grandma would get scraps of silk and taffeta from the local casket company, and would sew each one of the grandchildren a special new outfit. That Christmas, I had asked for a bride doll, which my mother got for me, and grandma used some of the silk to make her beautiful bridal gown and veil.

I will always remember those Christmases at the farm, but especially that one. Merry Christmas to you all and may all your Christmas wishes come true.

C.W.

One of my fondest Christmas memories happened about twenty-five years ago. In the fall of that year, Mom and I had added a new member to our family, a stray dog I named Beau. He was a beautiful mix of border collie and retriever, with an absolutely gorgeous collie-type tail. It was amazing how well he assimilated to our family life. I was convinced that he often understood what we said better than we thought.

Our family tradition was to put the Christmas tree up the week after Thanksgiving. It often took the whole day to get the tree set, centered in front of the living room window. Then came the decorating, with all the usual trimmings, and my favorite, my grandmother's antique ornaments. When the tree was done, it was imperative to place the Christmas village underneath the tree. Each one of the houses, which also came from my grandmother, had their special place in the village, as did the church, the mirror lake and the assortment of trees. After Santa and his sleigh were placed just so on the mounds of cotton "snow", was the final touch added... the fence that went completely around the village.

Now we hadn't had a dog for quite a few years. And as Mom and I were assembling this decorative spectacular, I became increasingly wary about the safety not only of Grandmother's ornaments, but also for the village under the tree. How would Beau react to and behave around this large and intriguing temptation? As I mentioned this to Mom, she quietly and resolutely assured me that everything would be just fine. As I inquired how she could be so sure, she looked up at me, smiled, and said, "Because you're going to explain to him that I don't allow him near the tree."

I have always had great respect for my Mom, but at that moment I seriously began to question her sanity. But, as a dutiful daughter, I decided to do as she said. So I sat down in the middle of the living room floor and called Beau over to me. He had spent most of the day laying in the kitchen, watching our every move. As he came to me, I patted the rug beside me and he laid down, staring up at the Christmas tree. "Beau, this is our Christmas tree. See all the pretty lights and balls on it. Mawmaw and I worked very hard to make it look pretty. So it's very important that you stay away from the tree, and especially that you keep your tail away from the branches. Do you understand?"

Now I know that at this point, most people think I'm a little off my rocker. But as I gazed into those big brown eyes, I could swear that he nodded his head and smiled at me. We had Beau for 17 years. And for 17 Christmases I never had to worry about his tail and the tree. He never got into the village under the tree, even when I would put his wrapped boxes of treats there, just to see what he would do.  He never seemed too interested in the tree during the day, but when evening came, and we turned on the lights, he would lay in the middle of the living room floor, and watch the tree. It was as if he understood how special it was.

Now as I light my Christmas tree, I look at the lights and think of Beau...and wonder just how much did he understand? Do animals know what Christmas is? I have to believe they do. Merry Christmas to all and to all a goodnight.

C.M.