I remember the Christmas I was three years old. The vivid accounting could not possibly be true--or could it?
As a lively three-year-old, I often woke during the night for a drink of orange juice. My parents soon learned to keep a small glass in the refrigerator for those times when I was thirsty.
It was Christmas Eve, and I woke to make the trek to the refrigerator for my OJ. The light from the fridge lit a pathway across the kitchen floor making the darkness not so ominous. Remembering this was Christmas Eve, I quickly drank my juice and set the empty glass back inside the fridge.
On the way to my snug and warm bed, I passed by the Christmas tree and paused for just a moment in front of a large window to gaze up at the starlit sky. To my amazement, Santa in his red and gold sleigh led by eight reindeer flew high above me.
My little heart pounded, and I raced back to bed for fear Santa would stop at my house and find me awake. The next morning, I scrambled from my bed to make sure he’d brought my toys. To my joy, there were the toys I’d wanted.
A child’s imagination for a future writer? Or a magical happening to a wee child?