Whispers of Tissue and Chiffon by Brenda Leyland

 

Me and Little Sis in our velvet and chiffon dresses

The whir of Mom's Singer sewing machine was a familiar sound growing up in the little farmhouse we called home. A young wife and mom, Mom often had some sewing project under construction—garments for her growing family, draperies, craft projects, bridesmaids dresses, quilts, etc. Of all the things she sewed, my favourites were the Christmas dresses she made for me and my sisters.

With the approach of December a sense of anticipation would begin to fill the air. Mom would study the Eaton's and Sears catalogues looking for ideas of what to make. Then came the time for Mom to visit the fabric store. Sometimes we tagged along with her; I always loved that starchy smell that greeted us when we walked into the store. Amazed at the bolts upon bolts of fabric in every colour and weight in tidy rows from floor to ceiling. Not to mention the dazzling array of buttons, ribbons, and laces. The cabinets were bursting with patterns... the possibilities seemed endless. There was so much to look at—but please don't touch—that we were rarely bored while Mom sat studying patterns, musing over  fabrics and colours, feeling this cloth and then that one. Should it be floral or plain? Satin, jacquard, or velvet? This shade of evergreen or that holly red?

Back at home, the big day arrived. The kitchen table was cleared. Amid scissors, tape measure, and stick pins, sheets of ecru tissue rustled as each pattern piece was carefully laid out on the fabric. Putting it this way and that way to find the best fit before pinning it down. There'd be that moment of slight tension—just before Mom made that first scissor snip through tissue and fabric. Before long, threads and fabric bits littered the floor, and there'd be the hot whoosh as the iron pressed damp cloth against newly sewn seams.

Trying on the dresses while some seams were still held together with stickpins created a balancing act. Arms held over our heads, Mom gently slipped the emerging garment over our shoulders. My little sisters and I would try not to wiggle, turning s-l-o-w-l-y like a stiff mannequin atop a chair, while Mom adjusted seams and checked hems for length. Finally all the pins were gone and we stood in our finished dresses. One last twirl. The wonder as we stared in the mirror. It was such a proud moment to stand in our newest finery on Christmas Eve with our Sunday school class, reciting mostly memorized verses and warbling partly familiar carols.

Many holiday outfits passed beneath the pressure foot of that old sewing machine. The holly red velvet dress trimmed with lace, the swirly skirted green taffeta with three-quarter sleeves, a jacquard textured royal blue shift offset by a white pleated organdy collar (a bit reminiscent of those Queen Elizabeth I fancy collars in her 16th century portraits—not that I knew anything about her in those days). And of all the dresses made through the years, it was the pretty peacock blue velvet with a skirt of whispering chiffon that ended up being my forever favourite outfit of my early childhood.

No matter how many Christmases come and go, recollections of pretty handmade dresses and annual concerts in the old country church are as carefully bundled in filmy memories as any treasured holiday ornament. The wonder of it all is that these gifts of love were wrapped in the celebration of the One who came to express the love of a generous God to our world. Who would have thought that the whisper of tissue paper on velvet would echo that great love to three little girls?

Photo above from the family archives

Growing up Brenda could never decide whether it was her birthday or Christmas Eve that was her most favourite day of the year. Some things never change, she still can't decide. She enjoys writing on her blog It's A Beautiful Life and here on InScribe. She can also be found on Facebook and Instagram.

 

The COVID Grinch Who Tried to Steal Christmas by Sandi Somers

In 2020, COVID-19 turned our lives upside down. As Christmas approached, there were no live concerts or special events to attend. Shopping was curtailed. Without the usual pre-Christmas activities, I walked around the neighbourhood in the early evenings to enjoy bright Christmas lights. All white at one house, multicoloured at another, red and green at still another.

By mid-December, with COVID cases rising in Alberta, our premier limited Christmas dinners to only one or two persons outside the household. This meant that our extended family dinner of up to 22 people would be cancelled. I stayed home alone.

I had been thinking about doing something special for my neighbours in our cul-de-sac. The COVID lockdown in the spring had brought us together out on the street, chatting and getting to know each other better. So as Christmas neared, I thought of extending good-will by baking cookies for each family. My first reaction was – would people be afraid of home cooked food carrying COVID germs? But the more I turned it over in my mind, the more I received prompts which I know came from the Lord—a message at church, online lists of unique Christmas gifts, and even a suggestion in a magazine.

The Sunday before Christmas, our cul-de-sac was torn by grief. We received news that my next-door neighbour Darrell had died in a freak accident. He had been kite surfing at the family cottage when a gust of wind blew him up, and then when the wind died, he fell. Hard. On his stomach. He was airlifted to an Edmonton hospital but passed away. It was a dark time for his wife, Stacey, and her three children, and by extension, all of us in our cul-de-sac. We showered the family with love and food, letting them know we cared.

Could this be the way the Grinch of COVID Christmas would steal meaning to our darkest time of the year?

A day later, snow began falling just before dusk. And falling. And falling. Early next morning while it was still dark, I went out to clear off my driveway. Oh! My! Goodness! The snow was heavy and deep. Several neighbours across the street banded together to shovel and push a car that was parked along the street—someone would be late for work! People brought out their shovels and snow blowers and began clearing their driveways. The owners surrounding the widest circle of the cul-de-sac piled the snow into one huge snowbank in the middle—a perfect playground for the children.

I kept watching the activity as I shovelled, throwing the snow up to the ever-increasing ridges beside my driveway. I tired out when I was only half finished, so I came inside for breakfast. When I returned, my next-door neighbour Don volunteered to finish with his snowblower.

It was a delightful morning. Neighbours helping neighbours.

Meanwhile, I had been baking Christmas cookies. Then the day before Christmas, I gift-wrapped them and wrote Christmas notes, especially thanking each household that had decorated their houses and yards with lights. I was surprised as so many thanked me. Before I was finished, Liana across the street texted that her children were already eating and loving the cookies. No fear of COVID germs there! The Italian family wished me a "Buon Natale." Janice said that I made her day.

On Christmas Eve, Karen next door brought over a Ukrainian dinner—her husband Don has Ukrainian heritage--cabbage soup, buns, pierogies, cabbage rolls, haddock, Kucha, wheat dessert, turtle brownies and two peanut butter cups. What a sweetheart! While eating, I watched online the replay of my usual Christmas Eve service—but this time attended by only a few people.

On Christmas day, our cul-de-sac was unusually quiet, with almost no traffic and smaller than usual dinners. Kids and neighbours dropped off thank you gifts, saying how much they appreciated my hospitality.

The next evening, Karen brought over a traditional Christmas dinner—lovely turkey and ham with all the accoutrements—enough for two meals. I did have a moment of emotion to know I wouldn't be with family this year, even though I had arranged a Zoom meeting with everyone the next day, our usual 26th family dinner.

For the rest of the evening, I listened to The Messiah and other Christmas CDs and knew that Christmas was not cancelled, just delightfully different.

What the Grinch of COVID didn’t understand was that our isolated world needed love, kindness, and neighbourliness. He did not understand that God was still with us. Nor did he understand that the darker the time, the brighter the light shines.

He could not steal our Christmas.

Sandi Somers writes personal essays and inspirational articles on how God reveals Himself to us in both small and strategic events. When winter approaches, she enjoys writing Christmas-related stories to send to her loved ones. Sandi writes from her home in Calgary, Alberta.

Christmas Gone Awry by Brenda J Wood

His slippers hung upon the floor. The bed was surly made.
Everything she should have done that day was stuck inside her head.
Today, she left the floor unswept while all the veggies burned.
Made soggy soup, left crumbs around, while the carton of milk just turned.

Santa would be missing her. She knew she failed the test
Of naughty versus nice and good. No getting gifts for mess.
She would never get another present. Her life was over. Done!
If cleanliness be next to Godliness, she failed both God and Son!

No hope now for the fixes. Her time to change—undone.
For truly the next morning brought Christmas A.M. sun!
She collapsed in corner, sad, awaiting her own fate
When Santa came back home and plunked down for dinner plate.

But he, as men are wont to do, boomed brightly through the door.
Exclaiming Merry Christmas, while tromping messes on the floor.
I'm here! It's me! The job is done and here's your present, dear!
Your darling hubby, Santa, is home with you for another year!

She sighed. Rejoiced in safety, but secretly repined
And wished for Christmas stocking with diamonds as her find.
But no, it was just like last year's. No special gift for her.
Santa was too tuckered out. Oh yes, indeed, for sure.


(Top) Image by Dorota Korgul-Gawlikowska from Pixabay

Brenda J Wood has authored more than fifty books. She is a seasoned motivational speaker, who declares the Word of God with wisdom, humour, and common sense.

The Night the Sky Sang by Lorrie Orr

 

December is a month filled with story, the story of God reaching down in love. This month’s prompt asks you to share a story about Christmas. It can be funny, poignant, sad, or inspirational.

The Night the Sky Sang

I know what people think about shepherds. Crude, smelly, and not very intellectual. Our lives are ordinary, even tedious. It's hot in the daytime and cold at night. Sheep are stupid animals - they get themselves into a lot of trouble if there's no one watching them. You can't be a shepherd and be lazy. It might not take much education, but it does take skill and perseverance. We shepherds usually work as a team and keep an eye out for each other's sheep. It's more efficient. 

I like the nights best of all. We find a bit of shelter from the wind, perhaps against a big rock, and build a fire. There's conversation. Mixed in with the chitchat some serious debate goes on. Philosophy, you might call it. Life, love, and politics. On such a night my life changed. 

The fire was dying down. I lay on my back, wrapped in my cloak, watching the stars. How far away they looked, and how beautiful. Conversation dwindled to silence. My eyelids sagged, weighted by sleep. Then, blinding light. I awoke with a start. From out of nowhere appeared this glowing being. I know it was an angel, but to this day I can't completely describe it. I jumped to my feet along with the other shepherds. Then I cowered in fear. I was certain I would be struck dead. Instead, I heard a voice say, 

"Don't be afraid. Listen to me. I have good news for you."

The angel went on to tell us about the birth of a baby, a Saviour, the Saviour we had been waiting for. He said it was news of great joy for the whole world. Before I had time to really think about his words, the sky filled with more angels, and music. It was as if the stars and angels whirled and danced together in a vast chorus of light and sound.

The sight tore at my heart and caused such an ache of longing deep inside that I clutched my hands to my chest. The song was perfect, the most perfect thing I'd ever heard. It made me long to join them, to raise my cracked warble in the same harmony of praise to Almighty God. Tears ran down my skin, and I knew the message of the angels was for me. God was sending his son into my stinky, dirty world.

Then just as suddenly as they came, the angels left. The stars had hardly changed position. The small fire still burned low. Everything was the same, and everything was different. We stood there, our hearts thumping wildly. 

"Did you see...?"

"Could it be?"

"Let's go!"

The angel had told us where to find the baby, and we stumbled over rocks and tufts of grass in our eagerness to get there. We stood outside the stable, hesitant for a moment. A man appeared, tired, with a puzzled look on his face. None of us knew what to say to him. Then Jethro stepped forward.

"Please," he said, "we want to see the Saviour, the baby."

And then we all spoke at once, blurting out words about angels and music. The man smiled slightly, then beckoned us to enter.

My eyes were drawn to the baby, so helpless, lying in a manger. His mother watched us carefully but said nothing as we crowded nearer. I even dared to reach out and touch his soft, tiny head with my rough fingers. 

We left soon after, seeing the fatigue on the young mother's face. I knew that I couldn't keep this news to myself. It was too wonderful, too amazing. I told everyone I met about the baby. And then, I went back to the sheep, to the hillside and the night fires, but I wasn't the same person inside.

God, who lived beyond the stars, was suddenly close. That night I caught a glimpse of him. Now when I go to the Temple and hear the priests' monotone reading of the glory of God, I think back and even now, my breath catches in my throat. 

            

           Lorrie Orr loves Christmas and is so glad for the gift of Immanuel, God with us. She writes from Victoria, BC, where she always hopes for a bit snow in winter, but celebrates whatever the weather. More of her writing can be found at her blog, Fabric Paper Thread, and on Substack, where she is posting excerpts from her memoir, Life is Short but Wide.