Beloved Readers,

I’d like to tell you a story that I first shared in Plain Wisdom: An Invitation into An Amish Home and the Hearts of Two Women. As most of you know, Plain Wisdom is a nonfiction book written by my closest Old Order Amish friend and me. As an aside, it has recently been added to the United Methodist Women’s reading list for 2013. After you read the following excerpt, I’ll let you know the connection between this true story and Christmas in Apple Ridge.

Year 1983

I stood in the backyard of our one-bedroom home, a toddler on my hip and a baby in my belly. The branches of our pecan trees were bare, and the threat of winter hung in the air.

Our house, like the hundreds around it, had been built before the Depression, and if the walls could’ve talked, they would have told of the many families who’d gone through boom times and hard economic times. My husband and I had lived there less than five years, and we’d experienced both sides of American life—making ends meet and not.

A few years earlier we’d both had good jobs, and we’d managed to put aside a little money. Before we were blessed with the birth of our first child, I left my job at the bank. We’d expected to be able to buy a three- bedroom home before he was born, but two weeks after I gave up my job, my husband was laid off from the steel plant. Three years and endless short-term jobs later, it was evident that this layoff was not temporary. The steel mills in America were struggling, and the United States was in a recession. The union was at an impasse with management. Benefits ran out. Our health insurance was canceled. Steady jobs, even at minimum wage, seemed impossible to find.

We’d slowly succumbed to the economy’s circumstances and were living below the poverty level. The reality of our situation was never sharper than when I stood in the backyard that crisp November day. Bullying questions kept circling inside my head: What about next week’s food, the electric bill, the mortgage payment? And what about Christmas? Will the first Christmas our son is old enough to remember and understand be completely barren of gifts?

We’d never had a credit card or a home-equity credit line, and even if we had been willing to take on the responsibility of getting one to help us make ends meet, we no longer qualified.

I’d become a Christian while expecting our first child, and in the midst of this present misery, praying without ceasing came as easily and naturally as breathing. Trusting what God would do and when wasn’t nearly as effortless.

As the weeks crept toward Christmas, I continued to hone my skills of making a dollar stretch. My husband worked whatever odd jobs he could find.

Christmas Eve came, and we had a roof over our heads, wood in the wood stove, and a well-used artificial tree set up. We clung to hope, believing that times would surely get better. Tommy and I voiced to each other what we had to be thankful for. But after we tucked our son into bed on Christmas Eve, we sat in silence. Not in pools of despair, but in an ocean of hurt.

I went to the cabinet above the refrigerator, pulled out a gift, and placed our son’s only present under the tree—a ten-inch plastic horse I’d bought at a yard sale for twenty-five cents. I was relieved that our son was too young to understand that there should be more for him when he woke on Christmas morn.

As we sat in our living room watching the wealthy celebrate Christmas on television, we heard bells jingle. Someone outside yelled, “Ho, ho, ho. Merry Christmas.” I figured one of the neighbors must be playing Santa Claus, but then there was a loud knock on our front door.

When I opened the door, freezing air whipped into our home. I stepped onto the front porch and looked around, but no one was there. Then I saw several out-of-place things: a handmade wooden rocking horse; a small box of brightly colored, gently used toys; and a brown bag containing groceries, including a canned ham, vegetables, and store-bought rolls.

My heart soared, and my mind crowded with so many thoughts I couldn’t settle on just one. Had someone left these items on the wrong doorstep? Then I noticed that our names were written on the grocery bag.

In that moment strength poured into me, and I understood that poverty could not conquer love, smother hope, or hold us hostage forever. God was behind the scenes, working through the hearts and lives of those who carried love.

That wasn’t our last penniless year. We had another really tough winter the following year. But then my husband received a job opportunity in another state. In the spring we moved to Georgia—our land of new beginnings.

When my husband received his first paycheck from his new job, our grocery money instantly tripled. We hadn’t stepped into utopia. We still had to sell the house in Alabama and make up for every partially paid utility bill. My husband worked fourteen-hour days, but we were still so far behind that I feared we might not be able to give our children all they’d need in life.

Still, I knew we didn’t get out of the last mess on our own. And we weren’t facing the future on our own either. Contentment demanded that we trust in the God who had provided and would continue to take care of us.



Later I learned that “Santa Claus” was a husband-and-wife team. The wife, Catherine, was a wonderful friend who’d shared Christ with me until one day, when I was alone in my home, I knelt in prayer before Him. She didn’t walk away when the hard times hit mere weeks later, nor did she pull away when those hard times continued on for years.The Dawn of Christmas is dedicated to her. We all have times when we need someone who believes in us despite the bleakness of our reality, someone who cheers us on while beseeching God to help.

Cindy