I Hated Christmas

By Patricia R. Roper

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    Based on a true experience

    “I hate Santa Claus,” I exclaimed, glaring at a painting of the jolly old elf on a window at the mall.

    Mom looked at me with raised eyebrows. “You certainly have the Christmas spirit,” she said.

    I hurried with her to the car, trying to find the words to explain how I felt. “It’s just that I’m sick of Santa, the tinsel, and all the rest of the Christmas frenzy,” I said, as I put my shopping bags in the trunk. “I mean, aren’t we supposed to be celebrating the birth of the Savior?”

    “I agree. Christmas is getting too commercialized,” Mom said.

    We drove past the town hall and saw a poster requesting people to bring in their Christmas donations for the needy. “And that’s another thing,” I blurted. “I hate the way people feel a tug of guilt on their heartstrings at Christmastime and donate all their old stuff to charity. Why can’t people be generous all year long? As if they’re fooling anyone.”

    Mom smiled. “Christmas is a good time to start.”

    But I didn’t care what she had to say. Before long I was mad at everyone, and by the time we pulled into our driveway I had made up my mind that I wasn’t going to act any different just because it was Christmas. I wasn’t going to be hypocritical like the rest of the world. And as for the Savior’s birth, I’d just celebrate that in April.

    After dinner we cleared the table and sat down to do homework. “Hey, help me with this algebra problem,” my brother Tom said.

    “I’ve got homework to do,” I snapped.

    “Come on, it’s Christmas,” he pleaded. Boy, was that the wrong thing to say! I told him I didn’t care if it was Christmas. “Ask someone who has time,” I said.

    “How about someone who needs blessings because she’s acting weird,” said Tom.

    “All right,” Mom’s stern voice cut in. “That’s enough. I’ll help you, Tom. Your sister’s carrying a grudge against Christmas this year.”

    It was hard to concentrate on my homework because the ugliness inside me was growing. I couldn’t understand why I was feeling worse instead of better. After all, I wasn’t being a Christmas hypocrite, pretending to be jolly when people the world over were starving and suffering.

    Just then the doorbell rang. Mom looked at me, then quietly walked to the door. Her surprised gasp brought the rest of the family to her side, including me.

    There stood our home teachers dressed as shepherds. They waited until everyone had gathered around. “We’re on our way to Bethlehem,” one of the shepherds said, “and we thought we’d stop by and tell you what has happened. You see, we were watching over our flocks when suddenly an angel appeared to us. At first we were terribly afraid, but the angel said, ‘Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.

    “For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord’” (Luke 2:10–11).

    There was something about the simplicity and sincerity of their message that touched me deeply. My lip started quivering, and I quickly bit it to keep it under control. I didn’t hear any more. I was too busy remembering how awful I’d been, all because I didn’t want to be a hypocrite. I had been griping about how horrible everyone is, when I wasn’t willing to change myself for the better. At least the people I complained about were generous and kind part of the year. I certainly hadn’t been.

    “We’re going to see this miracle which has come to pass,” the other shepherd said. With that, they disappeared into the night, leaving us in silence, meditating on their wonderful message.

    Then it hit me. They were going to share this marvelous event with others, to help them feel the true spirit of Christmas.

    I wiped my eyes and cleared my throat. “I’ve got some Christmas messages of my own to deliver,” I said. Turning to Mom, I gave her the biggest hug I could manage. “I’m sorry for all I put you through.”

    Mom smiled. “I guess that’s part of being a mother.”

    I looked at Tom, who was grinning triumphantly.

    “Probably the hardest thing I have to do is apologize to you, Tom,” I began. “But if I didn’t, you wouldn’t believe me when I tell you that my heart has changed tonight.” He shrugged his shoulders and brushed past me. I noticed the reddening of his ears, a sure sign he was embarrassed.

    I followed him to the kitchen table and sat down. “Tom,” I asked, “can I help you with your algebra?”

    Illustrated by Roger Motzkus