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A couple of years ago we were hosting all of my relatives for Christmas. Shortly before Christmas my wife was in the midst of the to-the-bone cleaning you do for an event like that. She came into my office with tears in her eyes and showed me a sheet of paper she'd found stuffed in the bottom of an old vase. 


It had our son's handwriting on it, and it dated back a few years to when he was on the verge of being deployed with the 

. It had a list of names and e-mail addresses on it, folks he wanted to keep in touch with. On the back was this quote he'd written out: 

"People sleep soundly in their beds because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf."


Now, my son is not a rough man -- he's actually kind of sweet -- but he was preparing himself to be something outside his nature, because that was what was being required of him. He spent his first Christmas away from home in a tent, in Kuwait. 

He came home safely, but every Christmas since then I think about that note he wrote himself.  I also think about all the displaced people in the world, babies lying by the side of a road, without an advocate or someone to stand between them and the darkness. And I think about how much more they have in common with the baby whose birth we're celebrating than I in my Norwegian sweater hoisting a cup of eggnog. It's an image and a contrast I cannot escape.

My dad was in World War II in Europe and had lived with a family in 

in the Netherlands. When visiting the area many years later, I took pictures to show my dad how the area had recovered from the bombing. It was pouring rain, however, so I decided to move on to 

. The sun came out there, and I worked really hard to get a picture of 

 with the bridge over the river in the foreground. 

This turned out to be a good picture, so I framed it to make my dad a Christmas present. When he opened it, he stared in disbelief, and he did not speak for such a long time that I feared there was something offensive to him about the picture. Finally, he stood up and went to his closet. He returned a few minutes later with a copper tooling of the same scene, sent to him after the war by the Dutch couple he lived with. The artist must have stood on the same rock on the river bank to get the same angles. It was really quite amazing!  

For most of my life, I had a combative relationship with my father, and never more so than when I was a teenager. Christmas was the best of times, however, because Dad loved Christmas. 

Money was always tight, but some years he would have a bountiful trapping season and there would be an extra present or so under the tree. After breakfast on Christmas Eve morning in 1965, Dad tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Let's go shopping for Mom, Dup" (my childhood nickname).

Mother had been wearing a new coat for a couple of weeks. She had told Dad, "Now that's my Christmas this year, you hear?" As usual, Dad couldn't let it go at that. There was always one more gift for mother to be purchased on the 24th.

We headed out to the shopping area nearby, and went into the 

. In those days, the Rexall store had a bit of everything. Dad was deciding between cologne and stationery when my eye was caught by the record album display. At the front of the bin was the 

. I hadn't seen it before and was excitedly reading the liner notes when Dad came up behind me. I hastily put the record back. Dad hated rock-n-roll and never passed up a chance to tell me so.

But today he said, "What's that you were looking at?" and I sheepishly showed him the album. "Would you like that?" he asked.

I nodded hopefully and minutes later we were driving home with Mom's cologne and the Beach Boys sitting on the seat beside me. I still play those songs every year, and every year they remind me of one of my favorite memories of Dad.

When I was a young single woman, my parents asked me what I wanted for Christmas. I told them that I really wanted a variable speed drill -- cordless! They gave me a harvest gold blender and said to me, "You really didn't want a drill."

That Christmas my boyfriend gave me a beautiful blue variable speed drill. I married him. Why not marry someone who will give you power tools? He still gives me the very best gifts.

Our house burned to the ground on Dec. 20, 1980, when I was 13. We lost everything, including the Christmas tree and presents. 

We wound up spending the next couple of weeks with friends of the family. I was devastated. In retrospect, as a parent today, I simply cannot imagine what it must have been like for my mother. 

Within 48 hours, all five of us had several changes of clothes. On Christmas morning, my brothers and I had presents under the tree. I remember my brothers, at 7 and 4, being pleased that Santa knew where to deliver the presents. 

All of these were provided by acquaintances of the friends with whom we were staying. These people didn't know us. They never met us -- then or since.

"Feeding and clothing the poor" need not require some monster-sized disaster. I can personally testify that a single toy can provide an awesome result in a small child. It can equally provide an awesome relief to a parent. What seems minor to us can be awe-inspiring to another. 

I still get choked up thinking about the blind generosity of these strangers. This is the true meaning of Christmas: living by the commandment of Jesus to love our neighbors. 

I've never had the opportunity to thank these people -- I don't even know whom to thank. The only thanks I can ever give is to follow their example.

One year my mother-in-law made a Christmas wreath 

 that had three color-coordinated layers. I was not born in Minnesota and only spent my teen years here, so the whole Jell-O thing is strange for me. 

The bottom layer was a crimson cranberry Jell-O with minced carrots in it for "color and crunch." The middle layer was bright green lime Jell-O with chopped celery, also for color and crunch. Sizeable white spheres suspended inside it turned out to be balls of cream cheese. These were meant to be the ornaments. They looked like spider egg sacs to me.

The top layer was white (!) Jell-O. "What flavor is white?" I asked. The answer: Lemon Jell-O with -- are you ready? -- mayonnaise. 

This visual feat was set on a bed of frilly lettuce leaves on a round platter in the middle of the table. I was stunned. My Minnesota-born and -raised husband didn't bat an eye.

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