My long road to Christmas

This morning, I woke up and looked out the window. The leaves of my garden plants were all covered with mildew. The first thing that came into my mind was, “I hope none of my garden plants are frozen”.

Tis the season to shiver. I do not want to sound like a scrooge but chilly winter weather does not fall under my list of things that I adore. Everyone this season seemed to be well bundled up while braving the outdoors.

This is the 44th Christmas season of my life and I can’t help but look back to the previous Christmas seasons that lined up my past. Majority of them are full of joy and life but there were two of them that were not so merry.

The first one was the Christmas season of 1985. I was then in Manila and was struggling to establish my own career. Manila can be a cruel and unforgiving city to the new comers who carries big dreams but have shallow pockets.

The second was when I made the painful decision of sending my wife and children to the Philippines so that I could work long hours to save money to buy our house. Christmas and New Year’s eve found me working overtime at the office. Though I was very busy at work, my mind constantly wondered away with thoughts of my children. The hardest part of my day was going home to an empty and silent apartment.

What was my happiest Christmas? I can’t seem to pin which particular Christmas was my merriest because each Christmas that I had celebrated was unique to the previous ones. I always discover something different and special on each Christmas season. Christmases are like opening a box of chocolates—You never know what you’re going to get.

Yesterday, I was sorting through my old Franklin organizer folder and I found an old newspaper clipping that I cut off from a local newspaper back in December 25, 1999. It contained an old Christmas story and I felt the need to share it with you guys.


Soldier’s Christmas kindness

A few days before Christmas 1945, a little girl in cardboard shoes stood amid the rubble of a ruined German village, her sobs drifting in frosty plumes on crystal air. She was headed for school but her makeshift shoes had suddenly come apart. Her mother had wrapped the child’s feet in salvaged cardboard, securing it with twine. But when the twine unraveled, Christa Geuer stumbled. She stood there immobile, wondering what to do.

The war was over, but the sighted of American troops was common that Christmas season in occupied Zweibrucken, near the French border. As Christa—named for the Christ child—stood staring at her threadbare socks, a convoy of army trucks wheeled around a corner. One of them stopped. A big soldier “with a soft voice and soft hands” jumped out, and in broken German said, “Child, I know how it is.” Then he tied up her knots and sent her on her way. Christa was amazed at this soldier’s kindness and face because, in her Aryan world, he was the first black person she had ever seen.

She encountered her soldier again a few days later, when he provided her a Christmas memory that would endure more than half a century.

Christa was a child of war. She never knew her father, who died for her. Serving in the German army when Christa’s mother was due to deliver her, Franz Geuer, 25, secured a one-day pass to be with his wife. But Christa was late, so her father decided to stay an extra day, hoping for the birth. That decision proved deadly: The German army of early World War II made examples of AWOL soldiers. Geuer was shipped to a detention camp in Finland. Later, a survivor told the family that Franz Geuer had died there in his chains.

So the new baby had no Christmases with her father. At war’s end, she, her mother and her older sister, bombed out of their home, were living in a temporary barracks and sleeping in the same bed. Christa, demure with her curly blonde locks, knocked on doors, begging food for her family. And she scavenged—hence the cardboard for shoes.

At night while her daughters slept, Maria knitted, making garments from whatever threads she could glean. Christa’s coat, underwear and socks were rainbows of random colors and texture. Each day at first light, Maria joined other women to scour the fields and to pray for their version of a miracle: To find an overlooked turnip or potato.

It is the custom in that part of the world to be visited on Christmas Eve not by Santa Claus, but by the Christ Child. The gifts He would leave delighted His little namesake: An apple, some nuts, “and if you were really lucky, a hand-made toy.”

But the highlight of that Christmas was the party that American soldiers gave local children at the convent of Heilig Kreuc, the Holy Cross.

Christa got a CARE package from a family in Ohio containing a surprise that exulted her: a toothbrush and toothpaste. From then on, she says, “I believe only angels lived in Ohio, and I slept with the box next to me because it made me feel safe.” But the crowning moment came when suddenly before her was the very soldier who so recently had knelt to tie her cardboard shoes.

Now he knelt again—but this time he untied the twine. From a big box, he removed real leather shoes. One pair after another, he slipped them on Christa until finally, a sturdy, angle high pair did the trick. As he laced them up, he commented discreetly on Christa’s socks, kaleidoscopes of improvised yarns.
They were a pretty, he said, as Joseph’s coat of many colors.

Today, after emigrating to Rhode Island in 1968, she is Christa Casey of Jamestown, herself the mother of three grown children

Daughter’s Christmas conversation

A few days ago, my daughter Camille approached me with a string of questions. Below is how our conversation went:

Camille: “Daddy, do you believe in Santa Claus?”

Ivan: Puzzled by her question, I then asked my daughter, “Sweetie, why are you asking me that question?”

Camille: “Well, my friends at school believe that they are going to receive gifts from Santa”

Ivan: I paused for a second to compose my response and then said, “Well dear, I believe in God and He is the one who gives us gifts and blessings”

Camille: “So, there is no Santa Claus?”

Ivan: Trying to avoid answering the question directly, I replied, “Long time ago, I heard a story about a man named Saint Nicolas and when he was still alive, he brought gifts to the people. Santa Claus is a copy of the character of Saint Nicolas.”

Camille: “Are you saying that Santa Claus is not real?”

Ivan: I wisely answered,“Santa Claus is fictional but God is not”.

Camille: After thinking for a moment, she asked,“Then who is going to give us gifts now?”

Ivan: “God is going to give you gifts through your loving father (me)”.

Camille: “Sooooo, you have my Christmas gift?! What did you get me? Daddy, can I have my Christmas gift now? Please, please, pretty pleeeeease?!”

Ivan: “Nice try, dear. Your gift is still with God. He will deliver it on Christmas day”.

Camille: “But we don’t have any chimney!”

Ivan: “God can go through walls”

Camille: “My gift can go through walls too?!”

Ivan: “I think I just heard your mother calling me……..”


Some believe that Christmas is for the pure hearted children and also adults who still possess a heart of a child. Others look at Christmas as a spirit who sprinkles joy and happiness to mankind. To the working class, Christmas brings the much awaited annual bonus. To the party people, Christmas is the biggest bash in the world. To the culinary crowd, it is the time to brew their secret recipes. To the sport minded, it is an opportunity to break the sound barrier while skiing down a snowy slope. But to a few, Christmas marks another year of waiting…….waiting for the return of the Messiah. Their diligence will be rewarded and their reward is in heaven.

What does Christmas mean to you? If you found the true meaning of Christmas, how would you respond? Would you also wait for the return of the Messiah? Check where your heart is this Christmas. I pray that it is not anchored on earthly possessions that putrefies.

Reflecting the real meaning of Christmas.

The Novice

A moment in Philippine history

Simbang Gabi or the evening Mass first celebrated by the Tagalogs is actually two centuries old. According to historical accounts, the first Christmas Mass in the Philippines predates the arrival of the Spaniards. During the early 14th century, an Italian friar, Odoric de Perderone, celebrated Christmas Mass while passing through the country—200 years before the arrival of Magellan. It was only in 1565—after Miguel Lopez de Legazpi’s arrival in the Philippines—that the Spaniards managed to celebrate the first Mass of the Feast of the Nativity in the country. After the arrival and conquest of the Spaniards, a Spanish friar planned early morning Masses at cock’s crow during harvest time to encourage Filipino farmers to attend Christmas Mass. Because of this, the Masses were called Misa de Gallo or the Mass of the Rooster. These Masses usually start around Dec. 16 and is held nine consecutive mornings as a novena.