a tale of tents and miracles

(story from my childhood)

I share this story every year around Christmas time and seeing how Christmas is **NEXT WEEK!**, I figured it was about that time. This is still my favorite Christmas of all time and my favorite story to tell.

hope you enjoy!

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The Christmas after I turned 11 was supposed to be a meager one.

That summer, my dad had been forced to resign the church he’d been pastoring for years. That story would take too long to tell, but it was traumatic and upsetting and completely unexpected. It was an awful situation that completely altered the course of our lives. From that day on, we referred to our lives in pieces : “Before East Brunswick” and “After East Brunswick.” We were deeply connected to the community. Friends had become family. And then suddenly, overnight, it was gone. My older brother and I were too young to fully grasp what was going on, but old enough to be affected by the sudden loss of friends, routine, and stability.

We stayed in town for a few months afterwards, in the house the church we were no longer a part of owned, while my parents tried to figure out what was next. My mom had her fifth baby the same night the church decided to oust them so, as you can imagine, things were a little stressful. At some point, my dad said, “OK that’s it. we’re going to New Mexico.” And so we put all of our things in storage in New Jersey and we took off across the country.

We had zero connections there. Dad had just always wanted to go, so we went. When we first arrived, we set up camp somewhere in the Gila mountains. My parents slept in a tent with my three younger siblings and my older brother and I slept in the back of our red Aerostar mini van. My dad had taken out the seats and set them around the campfire : the campfire that we ate over just about every night, until the boys made a functional stove out of rocks. We bathed in the river, fished, learned how to play poker, and ate a lot of s’mores and ham sandwiches. It was just a big adventure to us kids. We didn’t know how sad my parents were. They were broken, but we never knew.

A few weeks after living in the mountains, a local church took us in. They cared for us like we’d always been a part of their community. They housed us, fed us, clothed us. We made friends and I don’t remember ever feeling like anyone felt sorry for us or that we were a charity case of any kind. I just felt loved. We stayed with the pastor’s family for a little while, then in an RV in someone’s driveway, until eventually, Dad found work in Albuquerque so we drove across the mountains and moved into a house with no furniture. The neighborhood was full of kids and we became friends quickly. We’d walk to the bus stop together every morning and play until dinner every afternoon. It was what every childhood dream is made of. Dirt, bikes, first crushes, mud pie fights, hide and seek, and making friends before any of you cared where someone came from or what their personality was or if you “clicked”. You were just friends because you were kids and kids are friends because they’re friends and that’s it.

We slept in sleeping bags on the floors of our rooms but we had a roof over our heads, dad had a job, school was great, our friends were awesome, and things seemed to be settling down by the time Christmas rolled around.

We knew Christmas was going to be slim. My brother, with all the wisdom of his 12 years, had pulled us all aside and said, “Listen guys. We’re probably not going to have a lot of presents this year but whatever we have you need to be excited and happy about it. Don’t make mom and dad feel bad.”

So with all the courage and thankfulness that kids could have, we woke up on Christmas morning, excited, but not expectant. There were a few gifts under the tree and as soon as Dad was done reading the Christmas story, we started shredding wrapping paper all over the living room. Mom kept making some remarks about the little stockings that were hanging on the tree and we were like, “yea yea those are nice.” but totally ignored them for the gifts that were wrapped up. Eventually she said, “Guys, I really think you should look inside those stockings.” So we humored her cause we were good children, but then realized the humor was in how oblivious we had been because those stockings were FILLED with cash. About $100 each, which you know, is a fortune at any age, but especially for a kid.

We screamed, danced around the living room, hugged our parents, and wondered who had won the lottery to be able to give us so much money! Years later, we’d find out that friends and family had been sending my parents “heard you’re going through a hard time” money, and every time they cashed a check, they tucked a little aside for each of us.

That was the first miracle, but this story isn’t over yet.

After the Christmas chaos was over, Dad told us that our big Christmas gift was that we were going to take the sky tram up to the very top of the mountain we could see from our living room and that there would be snow there. For a bunch of New Jersey kids spending their first Christmas without snow, that was enough to send us into an absolute frenzy. We ran to our rooms to layer up with as many warm clothes as we could find and just as we were about to head out the door, the doorbell rang.

I was sitting on the floor by the door with my mom and baby sister, putting the last pieces of her toy kitchen together. From door bell to opening the door, maybe 5 seconds passed. It wasn’t much time at all.

When we opened the door, sitting on the front porch was a giant box. It was almost as tall as me which I guess wasn’t very tall, but to me it was gigantic! No one was with the box. There was no note. No car parked outside. No car driving down the street. It was Christmas Day in 1997. Christmas Day delivery wasn’t a thing. But here was this box. Clearly labeled “The Green Family”. Shipped via the postal service. No return address.

We ripped that bad boy open before the door was even shut and it was filled to the top with gifts for us. Coats, gloves, hats, walk-man (portable tape players, for the young ones reading. lol.) cassette tapes, dolls, games, toys. It was the most beautiful, blissful, chaos. We were all laughing, throwing gifts out of the box, “this must be for you!” “ooh I want this one!” “look, Jonathan, army men!!”. It was mess and fun and joy and blessing and it didn’t make sense and that was the best part of it.

Obviously, as an old and bitter woman (jk), I know that there’s a reasonable explanation for all of it. I’m pretty sure I know where the box came from now, but I still don’t know how it got to our door on Christmas morning. I don’t know who rang the doorbell. I don’t know if I even want to know. It was magic. It was a big hug and a reminder that were were seen and loved and cared for, even when we were far away from everyone we knew.

It’s the best Christmas I’ve ever had and not because there were a ton of presents. I think the only reason I remember that Christmas is because we were hurting and God took care of us in such unexpected ways.  Not because people gave us stuff, but because they remembered us and reached out to make sure we were ok during a time when we felt lost and rejected and alone. I remember it because my parents were suffering, the extent of which I didn’t understand at the time, but now I can wrap my mind around it, and they put our needs above their own. They made sure we didn't feel one fraction of the pain that they did. That Christmas means more to me every year because the longer I live, the more I understand their sacrificial love and how relentlessly Jesus loves us.

We were hurting, he comforted. We were broken, he healed. We were in need, he provided. For no other reason except ... he loves us. He was truly God with us. In our suffering, of course. But also in those moments of relief and elated joy. In the giggles of a bunch of kids who didn’t understand how little they had because their parents loved them so well. In the relief of a hurting couple who were wounded in the place that should have taken care of them. In the smiles of a family on top of a mountain on Christmas Day, sipping hot chocolate, and thinking that they were the luckiest people on earth. Not because of what they had, but because of how they were loved.

That Christmas was when I learned that God isn’t just a mystical Being in the sky that cares for us in spiritual ways, but that he is with us, and also loves us in ways that we can see and hold in our hands. He came to us, in the same way we come to earth, as a baby, and walked with us, talked with us, became familiar with our joys and our suffering, and he hasn’t forgotten. He is still human. Still with us. He chose to be with us then, and he chooses to still be with us, even now. Our hope. Our Immanuel. Our Savior.

God with us.