When I was a little girl, a Christmas Eve tradition included a visit to my Grandpa William and Grandma Laura Malcore’s home. Immigrants from Belgium, my grandparents lived above our family funeral home on the corner of Baird and Willow Street (now University Ave.) in Green Bay, Wisconsin. The Christmas Eve I recall most was the night I saw Santa and his reindeer cross over the moon as I stared out the window of my grandparent’s upstairs home. At the age of six, it was a vivid picture and I was convinced it was true. I couldn’t fathom why my grandparents, much less my parents, did not believe me. My voice wailed with excitement at the sighting. He was here, in Green Bay, and finally I would get my single-blade versus double-blade ice skates. No more baby skates for Mary Kay Malcore. I would be in the big league now.My brother, Mark, and my father, departed soon after the REAL Santa sighting, to go across the street for confession at Sts. Peter and Paul Church. Reconciliation was also a Christmas Eve tradition for Mark and dad and I loved when they left because when they got back from what seemed to be a very long time, we left to go home and that meant SANTA TIME. Christmas Eve at our house was for Santa — Christmas day, for Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior.
The excitement would mount as we drove from the funeral home to our home at 499 Bader Street. My brothers David and Dan and I would crane our necks just hoping to see the plastic candle lit in the window of our living room, for that meant the jolly man had made it to our home. Mark didn't seem to care. In our moment of doubt as we came up the hill Santa came through once again as the orange bulb on top of that plastic candle was lit. We roared with excitement. Our driveway was long and it seemed like we were in slow motion. I wanted to say, “Come on dad, gun it.” I was jumping out of my skin.
As I ripped open my two presents, one a heart charm and the other a short hockey stick, my joy turned to disappointment. Where were my single-blade skates? What good was a hockey stick cut to my size without the skates? I tried to hide my sorrow but my dad, who loved me so much, put his hand on my cheek and said, “What’s wrong?” I told him I was thankful for what Santa brought BUT WHERE WERE MY SKATES? I began to cry when suddenly my dad said, “I wonder if Santa hid them — wait here.”
In an instant, our roles reversed. While he did not believe my Santa across the moon story, I found it somewhat silly to think he actually believed the jolly guy hid my skates. And why upstairs? In a matter of minutes my dad stood before me with a box. “I found this under the bed and it has your name on it,” my dad whispered. “I wonder what it could be?” I hesitated for a second as I didn’t want to be disappointed but then I tore it open as fast as I could.
I will never forget my excitement at seeing Santa cross the moon or the orange glowing light in the window. I will never forget my disappointment when my presents refused to provide me a pair of single-blade skates. I will never forget my dad’s face as he handed me the box. I will never forget the smell of my new single-blade ice skates or the scream I let out when I opened that white cardboard box.
As 50 Christmas Eve nights have since passed, I often reflect back on those ice skates. To me it serves as a story of life. Excitement turned to sorrow — then flipped over once again to excitement and joy. It is a story of love — a story of hope — a story of Christmas. It is my grounding story I often go back to when I need to remind myself to keep the faith. It is a moment in time that tells me in the midst of life’s ups and downs there will always be the presence of God and family. This is my story of a privileged life, for I have been given the most precious gift of deep faith. How blessed I am to know God loves me deeply, very deeply, and will never leave me. He loves me so much that in the faces, the arms that hug, the eyes that cry with me, the voices that laugh loudly, and feet that walk with me, He is ever-present in the gift of family and friends. I thank God, who provided me for every life journey, people like my dad (God rest his soul), who are always ready to share in my joys and pull me out of my sadness or walk with me until my strength returns. It is a story of giving and receiving, which provides me the opportunity time and again to learn how to do both — a very important God lesson. Thank you God and Merry Christmas!
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