Sioux City Christmas

Introductory note

Our Dad, unlike his two brothers-in-law, was not a story-teller. And yet, one of my most vivid memories about him is how at some moment during the weeks just before Christmas—year after year after year—he would turn to us and say, “Boys, did I ever tell you about that Christmas in Sioux City?”

We’d laugh, and as Mother smiled and looked at us, one of us would say, “Dad, you tell that same story every Christmas.”

Over the years, the story became interactive. Since we knew the story so well, if he omitted a detail while telling it, we’d interject a comment here and there to supplement Dad’s methodical cadence. Later, as the four of us grew older, married, and began to have families of our own, Dad would turn to the grandchildren each Advent and ask if they’d ever heard “our Christmas story?”

Knowing my loquacious nature, on some occasions Dad would say, “Tom, go ahead, you tell it better than me!” And so, notwithstanding that Todd and I were born almost 7 years after the event, I’d launch into our parents’ story. Thirty years ago, I wrote it down in my journal. Three years ago, with only a few embellishments, it appeared in my book, Questions of Faith. Some of you, therefore, have heard/read it before. I hope you’ll indulge me just a bit. Recognize that for my brothers and me, this story speaks on multiple levels.

Sioux City Christmas

Reprinted from Questions of Faith: Encountering Christ at the Point of Doubt and Confusion, by Thomas A. Robinson (Mazarin Press, Raleigh, NC 2018).

It was December 1944. Unlike the mild southern winters to which the young couple had been accustomed, the Sioux City Winter had come early and with a vengeance. Cold, dreary mornings gave way to windy afternoons and bone-chilling evenings. Even on those days in which the sun marched unaccompanied by clouds across the sky, there was no respite from the cold. Married for a bit more than a year, both having been raised in rural North Carolina, the couple was not used to this bitter chill, the endless drifts of snow, nor to the feelings of loneliness and isolation in a strange world torn apart by war and desperation. Their loneliness was magnified by their knowledge that it was to be their first Christmas away from their families.

He served the war effort as one of many Army Air Corps supply corporals—cataloging, shelving, and retrieving an endless array of aircraft parts, fuel lines, ball bearings, small electric bulbs, and oil canisters. She spent her days as a clerk of a different type—surrounded by the benign inventory of one of the local five and dimes. Separately, each evening, they trudged through several blocks of snow to catch the bus to their small, off-base apartment and its meager furnishings.

It was not as if the couple lacked friends. In nearby apartments were the Kazenocecs from the plains of Indiana, the Snyders from suburban Washington, D.C., and the Morgans from Salt Lake City. Each husband an enlisted man, each wife a clerk or office worker on or near the base, the couples—friends for the better part of a year — had formed a firm bond.

The wives called the husbands the Four Musketeers and joked about how inseparable they were. In reality, they all knew they were quite separable, that with the heavy losses in the bombing raids over Europe, there was always the chance one or all of the husbands would be transferred to England to replace an American crewman shot down by a Messerschmidt or killed by German flak.

And so, notwithstanding the bond the couple felt with their newfound friends, notwithstanding the empathy shared among the small enclave, there was still a painful loneliness for the families back home. Each missed the wisdom of Mother, the silent strength of Grandmother Crawford, the warmth and charm of Granny Grier.

Sensing the couple’s isolation, relatives had begun to send Christmas gifts by parcel post as early as Thanksgiving. Every few days a package would arrive and immediately the young couple would eagerly open it. The first gifts eased somewhat the feeling of separation: sweaters knitted by Aunt Ruth, some tobacco from Uncle Fouts, canned peaches from sister Aline, a five-dollar bill from sister Edith. Some later boxes contained double treats, insulated underwear—the kind that was so hard to find—wrapped in their hometown newspaper, the pages filled with news from home.

As Christmas approached, their sense of loneliness deepened as two by two, the others on the base began to travel home on furlough. The previous Christmas most of the group had been forced to stay on as the soldiers of the American theater did their part to send planes and parts to England for the planned invasion of France. The couple had been lucky, however. They had managed a Christmas pass only because the young man had performed a sort of magic, finding some scarce B-17 parts just when it seemed there were none. They had been the envy of the group last year, but this Christmas the young husband knew there was no rabbit to pull from his hat. He knew this year he’d mind his warehouse all alone. She knew she’d work at Woolworth’s until 6:00 p.m. on Christmas Eve. But a box of goodies came every few days from home and the couple blocked out their sadness by tearing through the wrappings to get to the treasures lying within.

As the winter days grew shorter and shorter, the parade of presents began to subside. After the second December weekend, the postman delivered a fair sampling of holiday cards, but only a few trinkets from home. With the shortening of the days came a shortening of their tempers. The smallest thing seemed to produce a fuss. They argued over who had eaten the last of the scuppernong preserves. Who had thrown away the important part of The Gazette? Slamming the door one morning, the husband yelled that he couldn’t understand why she’d claimed the single pair of wool socks sent by her brother Jack. “They really don’t fit her,” he said to himself. Inwardly he was angry that she seemed to long more for her brothers than for him.

At long last, it was Christmas Eve, but they were depressed. Nothing had been delivered for more than three days. The air base and city seemed deserted as all who could leave did so, seeking more exciting locales. It was Christmas Eve, and the sense of anticipation seemed all gone—all the Christmas cookies had been eaten, the homemade pound cake, the apple jam, the home-canned vegetables gone as well. It was Christmas Eve and with their spirits fell a new and heavy layer of snow.

As they arrived home that evening, they tried to busy themselves with the few chores required to keep up the tiny apartment. He carried the half-bag of garbage to the back alley, standing in the snow for a few minutes to gaze pensively at her silhouette on the kitchen shade. She prepared a simple supper from the few ingredients they had on hand. Neither spoke more than a few words while they ate. As they washed and dried the dishes, she suddenly excused herself so that he wouldn’t see her cry. But within a few minutes, she regained her composure and suggested they listen to some music. They heard Bing Crosby dream of a White Christmas, but each silently dreamed instead of the foothills of Carolina, with its church pageants and high school football, its rolling hills and seas of yellow pine. Each longed not for sleigh bells but for the drone of the old ‘32 Ford pickup in which they had courted, and talked, and planned. They gazed across their living room at the small, scraggly little tree they had decorated and realized that there was not a single present under its limbs.

As if to move their thoughts from their own abject surroundings, they commented about the Christmas preparations that were no doubt already underway back home. By now the turkey was surely roasting. By now the cornbread dressing was soaking up rich broth. Granny was surely mixing the damson pudding and stirring the luscious fillings for her pies. Brothers Jack and Harold were no doubt excited about the prospects of a visit from St. Nick. Brother Boot was no doubt roasting pecans. The sounds and aroma seemed to reach out to the isolated couple over the thousand or so miles separating them from their families. The excited laughter of their furloughed friends seemed to dance over the distances as well and all this left the couple with a deep sense of longing and a deep sense of guilt and dread, since they knew their naked tree was their own doing, that the love had been sent to them from home, but that it had been consumed.

Yes, it was Christmas Eve and they were lonely. All the gifts and symbols of home and family were gone and there was nothing familiar on the Iowa landscape to ease their separation. It was Christmas Eve and the dark and empty apartments of their friends matched the feeling within their hearts. It was Christmas Eve, but for the couple, there was nothing left to celebrate. And so, with a feeling of helplessness and disappointment, they turned out the lights and went to bed, tears dampening both their pillows.

+ + + +

It must have been 7:30 or 8:00 the next morning when the pounding began—the loud pounding on the downstairs door. The young man ran down the steps to see what the problem was and there in the snow stood an unfamiliar man with an enormous box. The man nonchalantly said, “Special Delivery.”

It took them both to carry the box upstairs and after they placed it on the floor, they eagerly pulled it open. Inside was a country ham, two of Mason’s smoked hens, biscuits and rolls made by Mother, jelly and jam sent by Eunice, one of Janie’s famous pound cakes, and all kinds of other delights. And there was a Star of David with a note attached. She could tell from the carefully formed letters that it was from her father. It said, “I know how you two are and I figured by now there’d be nothing left of the earlier packages. I’ve given instructions for this to be delivered Christmas morning, no matter what the expense or trouble. Know that we love you—Dad.”

Another chance, another chance. They’d been given another chance. A chance to feel the warmth and love shared by family. A chance to know that they were not alone in the world, that no matter what the distance, there was a closeness that could not be broken apart.

And isn’t that really what Advent is all about? Humanity has squandered the love of God, has eagerly taken what God has given, taking God and God’s gifts for granted. Time after time, the heavenly Father has sent us God’s love and time after time humanity has consumed it. And yet, the Christmas story prophesied in Isaiah, as told in Matthew and Luke, is a message from our Heavenly Father saying, “I know how you are and I know that there is nothing left from my earlier gifts to you, and in spite of all that, I’ve given special instructions that a glorious gift be delivered to you. The gift is in the form of a baby, a humble child born to a humble family. That child will show you what true power is—it’s the power of love.”

No expense has been spared in getting this message and gift to us. It has cost the life of a Son, God’s only Son. We are special people, for in the gift of Jesus Christ, we have been given another chance.