Christmas Angels: A Whole MotherLoad Short

This week on The Whole Motherload, I’m opening up a treasured Christmas memory I gained when I was young. It’s the story of how my family became “Christmas Angels” to our widowed neighbor, Mr. Allen, through a simple Twelve Days of Christmas tradition.

This is a story about legacy, connection, and the traditions that anchor us — especially during the holidays. I hope it warms your heart and inspires you to look for someone who needs a little light this season.
From my family to yours, Merry Christmas.

Transcript

This is a little Christmas story I wrote about a childhood experience I had that changed the way that I look at Christmas and others at Christmas forever. I know how valuable traditions can be in families, and this is an example of one that I will never forget. I hope you enjoy Christmas Angels. I couldn't have been more than 10 years old, but I was old enough to remember exactly how I felt that Christmas season when our family established what would become a most cherished tradition. Do you children remember Mrs. Davis's neighbor, Mr. Allen? Our mother asked one Sunday afternoon as we gathered for family council. I didn't know him well. Just the elderly man who lived next to the nice lady who sometimes gave us candy. His house sat just across the street from the middle school playground that was an extension of our backyard. From a second-story window, we could look over our garage and see his house. Sometimes in the summer, we'd see him out doing yard work. I remember that he seemed like a nice old man. Mr. Allen is alone for the first time this Christmas, mother continued, her voice gentle.

What do you mean, Mama? We asked. His wife passed away last month. He misses her very much. And Christmas is a hard time of year to miss someone you love. She paused, glancing at our father. We've talked it over, and we'd like to do something special for him to help him through this season. We've decided to give him the twelve days of Christmas. That got our attention. Curiosity kept us all quiet as we listened to our mom explain. Each night for the twelve days leading up to Christmas, we'll take Mr. Allen a gift. On day one, we'll bring one of something, day two, two of something, and so on until we're bringing twelve things on Christmas Day. She smiled at our excited faces. But here's the important part. We'll deliver them after dark so he won't know who's bringing the gifts. We think that we'll make it more fun for him and us. That sounded like the best adventure. We spent the rest of the meeting planning each gift, trying to be clever and choose things we thought Mr. Would like. Day one arrived quickly. Our first delivery, a loaf of homemade bread. I don't remember why it was chosen from among the seven of us, but I was thrilled.

My brother and I walked to his house in complete silence, taking our mission very seriously. We'd have to be quick, set the gift on the porch, knock and hide. Since our house was in direct view of his front door, we need to duck behind the bushes beside his house instead of running home right away. We did not want to be discovered. As we got closer, we began to tipto. Looking back, I'm not sure why. It's not like he could have heard us approaching, but we were in spy mode, hearts pounding as we crept up to his front door. We set the bread down, gave a good knock, and bolted for the bushes. We heard the door open, then close almost immediately. He hadn't taken the bread. We tiptoed back up the steps, knocked again, and ran. This time, when he opened the door, he saw it. He picked it up, looked around, and then carried it inside. I felt an overwhelming rush of excitement as we waited until we thought the Coast was clear, then sprinted all the way home to give Mother our report. Each night, at the same time, we went in pairs, delivering our homemade treats and crafts.

I loved when it was my turn, the thrill of sneaking up to his door, the race to hide before being discovered. It felt like a happy buzz filling me from head to toe. So once, while we crouched behind the bushes, we heard Mr. Allen say aloud, Thank you. Just those two words spoken into the night air. We knew he was grateful, and that feeling made me love our project even more. Four days before Christmas, shortly after our delivery, the phone rang. Mother answered, Hello, Mr. Allen. How are you? We all grew quiet listening. Good. What can I do for you? Oh, I see. Well, I'm sure I don't know. Oh, really? Well, if I hear anything, I'll be sure to Let me let you know. Okay, you two. Merry Christmas. She hung up the phone and turned to face us, her expression tender. Mr. Allen had called because he'd been receiving mysterious nice gifts and wasn't sure who was behind them. He knew it was children and thought they might be from our way. He was worried, she explained, because he was leaving town in two days and didn't want to disappoint his special visitors.

The next day became a whirlwind of activity as we prepared all the remaining gifts. When evening came, our entire family bundled up and walked together to Mr. Allen's house. As we approached, we noticed something hanging from his door handle, a Christmas card and some treats. The envelope read, To My Little Angels. Our hearts swelled. When he opened the door, we were already singing. I can't remember what Carol we chose. I just remember struggling to get the words out through my tears. When we finished, he told us he'd suspected it was us all along and expressed how grateful he was. We handed him the remaining gifts, wished him a Merry Christmas, and walked home feeling lighter than air. Years later, a family friend who attended the same church as Mr. Allen told us that every year at their annual Christmas party, Mr. Allen would tell the story of his Christmas Angels. I hope you enjoyed my telling of this story, and I hope that it inspired you to think about your own family traditions as well as seeing others around you and how you can reach out to them during this season. Merry Christmas.