The Christmas Miracle

Written by Victor Moody as told to Wilma Moody

Winter came early to the mountains of Arkansas the year I was 11, and our family was not prepared. My five siblings and I needed almost everything, but because of the Depression, there was no extra money. My dad had hoped to use proceeds from the annual sale of our hogs for the purchase of winter clothing and shoes. Unfortunately, the porkers barely brought enough to buy some food supplies. We needed a miracle, and it came in a most unexpected way.

My father once owned a thriving general store. He lost the store because he gave credit to his neighbors when he knew they would not be able to pay. Now we needed help, but everyone in our area was poor.

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I could tell my parents were worried as they sat down to read The Kansas City Star, a week-old newspaper my dad had brought home.

Suddenly my mother said, “Listen to this.” She began to read an advertisement in the paper. “If your family needs clothing, shoes, and other necessities, please write to our organization. If we determine there is indeed a need, supplies will be shipped to the nearest railway depot in your area.” An address in Portland, Oregon, was given.

“I’m going to write them,” my mother said.

“That’s too good to be true,” my dad replied. “Besides, they will be getting thousands of letters requesting help, and Arkansas is a long way from Oregon. Why would they respond to our needs?”

“We’ve been praying for a miracle,” my mother countered. “Maybe this is it. I’m going to write a letter to them right now.”

Mom wrote to the organization and told about our family. She even gave our clothing sizes. She told about my little sister having pneumonia. She also mentioned the poverty of our community.

My dad mailed the letter that day, and we began a waiting game. I thought of that letter often as I shivered in the cold. I was the only tall gangly one in my family, and I had outgrown all my clothes. My trousers were almost halfway to my knees, and my coat sleeves were short. I longed for a warm coat.

The winter weather worsened as snow and ice came down. How will we get a package if it comes, I wondered. It was getting closer to Christmas, and I knew an answer to that letter was our only hope.

Suddenly the weather broke. The sun came out and melted the snow. Then the impossible happened. We got word a huge box was waiting for our family at a nearby town.

Early the next morning, my dad and I started out in the wagon. I couldn’t keep from talking about what might be in the box. In a package that big, surely there would be something to fit me.

We found the railway depot, and the huge parcel was loaded on our wagon. It filled almost the entire bed of the wagon. I wanted to open it just enough to look, but my dad said we would all examine its contents together.

We arrived home very late, but my dad got everyone up as he opened the big box and brought the items into the house. The box was filled with plenty of winter clothing and shoes, school supplies for us boys and my older sister, and a doll for my little sister. She had never had a doll, and she was speechless. A large bag of candy also had been included.

After we had claimed several outfits apiece along with socks, caps, gloves, and shoes, my dad said, “Our children have everything they need. Let’s give the rest of the things to our neighbors.”

That was typical of my dad. He was always helping someone and often sent us boys to help neighbors cut wood or do chores.

“They could have written a letter just as we did,” I reasoned.

“Yes, but they didn’t,” my dad said. “Many desperately need warm clothing. Besides, Christmas is all about giving.”

So for the next few days all our neighbors and many in surrounding communities came by and tried on clothing and shoes. As we helped our friends find items to fit, we found it was almost as much fun as getting something ourselves. By Christmas everything had been claimed.

As our family sat around the fireplace on Christmas Day, we all agreed it was the best Christmas ever. We could not quit talking about the joy and hope that package had brought to our family and community.

I do not recall the name of the organization that responded to my mother’s plea, but I will never forget the Christmas miracle supplied by strangers who lived thousands of miles away.

Wilma Moody is a retired, executive legal secretary in Aurora, Missouri. Her hobby is antique collecting, and she enjoys hosting tea parties. This article is courtesy of Mature Living. 

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