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On this Christmas Day, Sandra Brown --- New York Times bestselling author of over seventy novels, including SMASH CUT, RICOCHET, and the newly released RAINWATER --- shares a deeply personal story that eloquently describes the beauty of the human spirit; one that will surely offer even the biggest skeptic something to believe in.


It’s difficult to write anything about Christmas without slipping into cliché. Discovering an unexpected gift beneath the tree. Welcoming carolers at the door. Sipping a toddy while toasting toes in front of the fireplace where stockings are hung. Feasting on holiday food. These are the scenes depicted on greeting cards and camera commercials. All are clichés.

That doesn’t bother me in the least. I would go so far as to shamelessly declare that I’m partial to clichés. I thrive on traditions, and the cornier the better. I want my Christmases redolent with banalities. I like observing the rites year after year. Traditions are what make it Christmas.

But if I were to open my Christmas memory box and peer inside, two would stand out from the rest. One would be the Christmas of my sixth year. Perhaps this is the first Christmas of memory and that’s why it distinguishes itself in my recollections. The other would be a Christmas much more recent. Only one of these Christmases was happy, as the dictionary defines the word. But in the other, I found a unique joy.

These two holidays were celebrated in different locations, with different family members. One was observed through the eyes of a child, while the other was experienced from the perspective of an adult. These Christmases were separated by decades. They actually had nothing in common except the date on the calendar and, for me, the debatable existence of Santa Claus.

I have a large family. I’m the oldest of five sisters. My mother came from a family of five children; my father was the youngest of eight children, so there was never a shortage of aunts, uncles, and cousins with whom to spend holidays.

But Christmas was no ordinary holiday. In our family it was an “event.” It was anticipated throughout the rest of the year. The celebration stretched over the entire month of December. It was the reference point for scheduling anything else in the fourth quarter of the year. Something as mundane as a dental appointment or as significant as a wedding was either “before Christmas” or “after Christmas” or “sometime during Christmas.”

This heightened anticipation originated with my mother. Year-round she maintained a holiday outlook on life which crested at Christmastime. She was a romantic for whom rose-colored glasses were invented. She liked laughter and gaiety, sparkle and glitter, fanfare and festivity. She loved people and sought excuses to host parties and get-togethers. Not surprisingly, she was in her element during the Christmas season. It was her thing.

That distinctive Christmas of my childhood was celebrated at the home of my maternal grandparents in the small town of Fayetteville, Texas. At that time, there were only four grandchildren in the family --- me, my next oldest sister, Melanie, my cousin, Gloria,