Christmas Joy

Sometimes the best gifts don’t come wrapped in ribbon.

Sometimes the best gifts aren’t wrapped up nice and neat with pretty ribbon. Sometimes they’re a little messy—no, let’s be honest—a lot messy, and not at all what you expected.

My mother Grace always had a heart of gold and a soft spot for the underdog. I mean always. No matter who you were, what color your skin was, or what predicament you’d landed in—if you needed help or a little kindness, she was coming to your rescue.

Now let’s talk about one particular Christmas.

Once upon a time, in a magical little home we’ll call Graceville, she took in a young woman who was about seven months pregnant. The girl’s parents had tried to convince her to have an abortion. She refused, saying she’d give the baby up for adoption instead—and they promptly kicked her out of their home.

I never did know all the details, but I know my mama knew a young couple looking to adopt. Somehow, she ended up taking the girl in —doing what she did best: trying to make it right.

Her name was Joy. She was seventeen, blonde, and looked like she might pop any minute. I was twelve, and while most kids would’ve thought that setup was strange, not me. Not with my mama. There was always something going on that other people might find odd—even slightly concerning—but that was just life in Graceville.

Joy was, well… a joy. She and my mom bonded instantly, and I thought she was wonderful too. Plans were made, she met the adopting couple, and it all seemed to be rolling along nicely. We even had Thanksgiving together—the mother-to-be, the couple waiting to adopt, and our little family. It was awkward, sure, but not outside the norm for us.

What none of us realized was that mama was quietly working her own plan. She was trying, in her subtle, determined way, to talk Joy out of giving that baby up. She’d tell her stories—about all the miscarriages she’d had between my sister and me (thirteen long years apart), and about how her doctor told her she’d never carry me to full term. Guess what? He was wrong — I was stubborn even in the womb.

December rolled around, and Joy looked like yeast rolls that had risen well past their time. The doctor said her due date was right after the New Year.

So we did what we always did—got the tree, strung it up with blue lights, and made the house sparkle. Joy was in heaven helping decorate, laughing, and loving every minute of it.

A little background on those blue lights—after my daddy died (right before Christmas when I was six), Mama decided everything had to be blue. Every single year. Blue lights, blue ornaments, and Elvis’s “Blue Christmas” on repeat. Ugh. It was enough to make a kid dread December.

But that year felt different. Joy was glowing—singing to her baby, giving it silly names, and laughing at my suggestions. She never complained about the kicks or the cramps; she just smiled through it all.

What none of us knew—not even me, and I usually knew everything she was up to—was that Mama had started calling Joy’s parents. She’d even gone to visit them.

Grace had this gift—she could see right through people, straight to their good parts. She always knew what the right thing was, even if she didn’t always apply that wisdom to her own life. Anyway, somehow, she managed what I can only describe as a Christmas miracle.

She talked to Joy’s parents. One phone call led to another, and finally a meeting—at our house. When they walked in, it was like something holy had settled in the room. There were hugs, tears, and a lot of I’m so sorrys. They admitted they’d been wrong. You could see it on their faces—the shame, the relief, the love.

Five days before Christmas, right there in our living room, the decision was made: Joy was keeping her baby. And her parents were keeping Joy—and their grandchild.

Joy didn’t leave that night, but they picked her up the next day. I missed her the minute she left. Mama was happy, but I could see she was also a little wistful. She’d lost her company but gained a well-earned sense of satisfaction. It was the right thing for everyone.

That Christmas, my sister didn’t come home—other plans, I guess—so it was just me and Mama. We sat by our blue-lit tree, but for the first time since Daddy died, she didn’t play “Blue Christmas.” Not once.

What Joy brought into our house was more than herself and more than a story. It was something bigger. Something healing.

The next year, even the blue lights didn’t make an appearance.
And all I could say to that was—Hallelujah.

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The Condition — where real life meets real grace.
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