The Christmas Voice

He had waited months for Christmas, cutting a notch in the log beside his bed every morning, just to remind himself that he was almost 12 years old. “Twelve is when you become a man,” Pa had told him, and Victor was ready, even though he still had a full month before the big day! His birthday was coming, and then Christmas!

Victor was up every morning before the sun, hustling to do the chores his mother had assigned. “Feed the chickens. Collect the eggs. Feed the dog. Bring in enough wood to keep the fire going.” And more. Much more.

Only a couple hours each day were truly “his.” Those he saved for exploring up in the New Mexico mesas with his dog, Patch.

There were ancient ruins on top of the tallest mesa, the one his Navajo and Zuni friends called El Morro, The Castle. They often used a narrow crack to climb the mesa and explore the crumbling red sandstone walls on its top.

He knew what he wanted for Christmas. Mom had given permission for him to have a genuine Native American bow and arrow set, the one that was hanging on the back wall at Old Tom’s trading post in the small village of Ramah. He had held it once when he had gone to town with Pa.

On his birthday morning he cut the last notch, a deep one with a “12” etched beside it. “Now I am a man,” Victor said, smiling happily.

“Now that you’re a man, you ought to be able to get the chores done even faster,” laughed Ma. Then Pa handed him the envelope he’d been hiding in his coveralls for at least a month.

Inside was a thin sheet of paper. At the top was the name and address of his uncle down in Albuquerque. At the bottom was his uncle’s signature. In the middle was his own name, “Victor,” and the words “Ten Dollars.”

“Is this a check, Pa?”

“Sure enough! Your uncle sent it to me a couple months ago and told me to hold it till your birthday. Said he hoped you might be able to find something worth buying with it.”

Victor slipped the check into the special hiding place he had carved between two logs beside his bed. He took it out often, imagining trading it for his new bow and arrows.

Waiting for Pa’s December 12 trip to Ramah was about the hardest thing Victor had ever done, but that morning Victor raced to hitch the horses to the wagon, snuggle two large blankets onto the seat, and tie 20 canvas gunnysacks to the wagon bed. Ma’s trading post list was long, but all Victor could think about was his Christmas bow and arrows and the “ten dollars” in his pocket.

The road to Ramah was just wide enough for the wagon to bounce between the pine trees. Victor had to jump off often and move a thick branch out of the way. His arms ached, he had splinters in his hands, and he was just plain tired before they camped for the night.

When they arrived at the small village of Ramah, Victor cared for the horses and hurried to join Pa in the trading post.

Pa wasn’t there, and neither was Old Tom. Both men were out back, looking at the sky.

He knew what he wanted for Christmas.

A Storm Is Coming

“Haven’t seen it like that since the big blizzard a couple years back,” said Old Tom. “You better get back home before the wind blows your wagon full of snow.” Old Tom called to his wife, who was just finishing with Ma’s shopping list. “Mabel, come out here and look at the sky! We’ve got a blizzard a-comin’!”

Old Tom was right. The southern sky was slowly being covered by a cloud that promised far more than a good rain, and icy wind was rocking the wagon.

Victor was so busy stacking bulging gunnysacks into the wagon that he forgot to even look for the bow and arrows. Every time he slowed down, either Pa or Old Tom would hand him something else to load into the wagon.

Victor untied the horses while Pa said goodbye to Old Tom, then shouted, slapped leather on the horses, and headed out of town. He didn’t even think of the $10 check until they came to the first row of pines outside of town.

Too late now, he thought. Guess I’ll just have to wait till next year.

“Wish we could wait the storm out in Ramah, son,” Pa said. “But Ma’s alone with your sister, and she’ll be needing the goods in the wagon.”

Victor thought about that a minute, and urged the horses to go faster.

The first snowflakes blew in with the sunset, and before long the wagon was just a white mound bouncing through the trees. Thick, freezing snow blew sideways, hiding the road beneath its icy blanket. Victor called encouragement to the horses and dreamed of Ma’s wood stove.

The horses seemed to know where they were going, so Victor let them lead. But once in a while he pulled them back on course.

Then a flash of lightning showed him a terrible truth. He had pulled the horses in a very large circle. They were just now crossing tracks the wagon had made about an hour ago.

Victor turned to tell Pa they were in trouble, but Pa was asleep, slowly freezing on the wagon seat beside him.

“God,” Victor shouted loudly, “Please wake Pa up!”

Victor knew about blizzards, and he knew about God. His favorite scripture was the twenty-third psalm, and even though it didn’t talk about snow or blizzards or about Pa being asleep, Victor quoted the part about how the Shepherd would be with you as you drove your wagon through the valley of the shadow of death.

In the middle of the psalm, a voice told Victor to stop and build a fire. That will wake up Pa, the voice said.

The horses, now as confused about directions as Victor, were glad to stop.

Remember the Check

One evening Victor’s Navajo and Zuni friends had shown him how to find dry fire branches beneath the limbs of piñon pines. “There will always be dry branches here; just be sure you carry matches,” they had told him.

Victor wrapped another blanket around Pa, and jumped off to look for dry branches under a piñon pine beside the road.

The wind fought with him as he stacked dry branches for a small fire. But when he reached into his pocket for matches, his pocket was empty!

Try Pa’s pockets, the voice said.

Deep in the right-hand pocket of Pa’s coat Victor found three wooden matches. One was broken in half.

OK, Victor thought, I’ve got wood and matches. “Now, where can I find dry paper to start the fire?”

The voice spoke again.

Remember your $10 check?

“No. Not the check!” Victor shouted into the swirling snow. “It’s my Christmas present!”

Is the check dry?

Victor dug his hand into the pocket, thinking he might never get his Christmas bow and arrows. Then he saw Pa had slumped down on the seat.

“Forget bow and arrows,” Victor told the voice. “Help me get the fire started to save Pa.”

He dug far down into the pocket before he felt the dry paper of his Christmas present. Now he could start the fire.

The first match flamed up, and then went out before he could light a corner of the check. The second match was soggy and worn out. The third match was only half-size, so Victor scratched it very carefully on the sole of his boot. It flamed bright orange and quickly began devouring the check. Victor slipped the burning paper into the sticks and shouted to the voice.

“Help me get Pa!”

It was tough work, but soon Pa and Victor were huddled together close beside the hot fire.

“Where are we?” Pa asked sleepily.

“I don’t know.”

“God knows.” Victor could barely hear Pa’s thin voice. “Ask Him.”

“Even when I am walking through the valley of the shadow of death,” Victor paraphrased the verse as loudly as he could, hoping God was near enough to hear, “You are with me.”

Walk into the trees on your right, the voice spoke.

Victor stood, patted Pa’s shoulder, pulled his hat down tight, and walked toward the trees.

At that very moment the storm broke, showing the light of a full moon. The break lasted only a few seconds, just long enough for Victor to see the forked top of an old lightning-scarred ponderosa pine tree. Victor knew that tree. It was just off the corner of their own land! If he could get to that tree and then walk 10 paces toward El Morro, he would run into their own wire fence. From there, home was about a mile away!

“Pa!” Victor shouted as he ran back to the fire. “God has given us the best Christmas gift ever. We’re going home!”