We were just pulling up in front of our house, finishing up what had become a Christmas Eve tradition for our, at that time, little family of 5. I was 9 years old, my older sister 12, and my 2 year old brother packed in the back seat. Every year mom would make a big pot of hot chocolate and pour it into a red plaid Thermos and we would climb into the back of my dad’s purple Dodge Challenger, aimlessly driving up and down streets in search of Christmas lights. It was a picturesque evening, fluffy snowflakes falling, white piles of snow lining the roads, and no shortage of houses decorated for the season. My sister and brother and I had a homemade fleece quilt draped over our laps, and knitted hats and mittens on our head and hands. We thought then that it was all part of the experience, but I suspect now it was because the heater in the car didn’t work.

My dad worked as a flagger for the city and my mom stayed home with us kids. We lived in a very modest home but my mother always kept it so clean and charming we were kept pretty sheltered from the reality that money was pretty tight. So here we were, kids, eyes wide with excitement about the possibilities of the coming Christmas. We finished our cocoa and my brother had dozed off in my lap as we made the turn onto our street and heard my father pronounce “What is on our porch?” Eager to see what was there, we sat up straight and peered out the fogged up windows. My face winced as I saw a large black Hefty bag tied up next to the door. Mom asked, to no one, why someone would dump their trash on our porch, knowing there was no good answer to that question. My mom came around the side of the car and picked up my brother, as we all piled out of the car. Dad briskly walked to the door first and jiggled the sack around a bit. He could tell it was filled with boxes and said that out loud. As he picked it up to, I assume, take it around back to the trash can, I noticed a card under the bag. “Look!” I pronounced, “There’s a note!” Inside of a beautiful winter’s scene, with white & silver glitter, in perfect cursive handwriting, was written “To the Jackson Family. We wish you a Merry Christmas”.

That was it. No name written, no credit wanted, just a warm holiday greeting. Tears started down my mother’s face and I could hear the crack in my dad’s voice as he talked to my mom. What was said I do not remember, but what I felt, I will never forget.
We took the big black bag into our home and my parent’s untied the top to reveal wrapped presents for us all, name tags, red bows and all. We placed them under the tree with the very modest amount that was already there, said our nightly family prayer and all went to bed. The next morning my sister and I woke with the sun, as only excited kids at Christmas can. We raced downstairs to wake our parents and found my mom preparing breakfast in the kitchen. We all sat around the tree to open the gifts. We each opened 1 or 2 small presents, my sister and I eyeing the boxes we knew were from the bag. My mother handed me the large rectangular gift with a big gold bow around it “To Sarah” it read. I audibly squealed with delight as I tore in to reveal a beautiful doll. She was 2 feet tall and had a gold shimmering dress and black leather shoes over white tights. The top of her head spun to change hair color and I had never seen anything like it! Each one of us opened something from that bag that had the most wonderful gift just for us inside. To this day I can still smell the newness of the rubber doll and can still feel the excitement I had opening it.

We never did find out who left the “trash bag” of gifts on our porch. We never got to give them a proper thank you, and looking back, I am certain that that is exactly how they wanted it to be. That doll was my very favorite doll, and through the years it showed in how well loved she was. Somewhere through my childhood, she was lost, or given away, or maybe even discarded, but in my mind I can still see her sparkling blue eyes, and I tear up at the thought of what she meant to me that Christmas. What it meant to all of us. Wherever those people are, that helped out a young struggling family have such a wonderful Christmas, I hope they know the spirit of the holidays that they helped shape in me. I hope they know how much of an impression they had on a young girl excited about Christmas. I hope they know the tears that filled my strong father’s eyes that day. I hope they know we talk about it every year. And that we still find ourselves welling up with that familiar lump in our throats about it.

I just hope they know.