We stared in amazement at what this find may mean for us.

"It's here for the taking," Brother shrugged, "gimme a boost."

He landed in the dumpster with a thud.

I checked the school parking lot: empty due to Christmas break.

He pushed and I pulled. Success!

Ecstatic, we pulled our treasure away. In small puffs, our breath took wing upon the shimmering winter air. Giddy with hope, we hardly felt the cold by then.

We arrived at the door of our

impoverished home, filled with childish certainty: Santa would remember us this year.

This year we had a tree.

Moments after being placed on my chest, my son scrunched his blue-tinged face, whimpered and began to cry in earnest.

Leaning over us, my husband spoke with him as he had spoken to my belly for nine months. He stopped crying and appeared to listen.

"He knows your voice," I whispered, smiling, eyes full.

"By the way," Dr. Blunt said, "your husband and your mom didn't know how to tell you, but your father died two days ago."

And thus was my full heart broken, bleeding sorrow that still seeps out now and again, even as it burst with joy.

Lifelong friends Billy and Mark have traded often with each other.

They began swapping baseball cards as children, and graduated to tools and Legos as young adults. Now in their fifties, they exchange bumper stickers and rare coins.

Unable to contact Billy for a month, Mark went to his friend’s home and found him in a deep depression. Mark tried to cheer him by offering to trade his Lincoln-era nickels.

“No more trades,” Billy said. “My wife died. I don’t want to live.”

Mark sat next to his friend. “How about one more? My hope for your grief?”

Billy cried.

I placed the last box down with a thump.

"Whew." I was feeling good as I walked into the hall, which was filled with tables topped with open boxes of cans, bottles, and packets. Soon a middle-aged woman walked in. I greeted her with a smile only to receive a frown. "Maybe she's having a bad day," I thought, walking her through the hall, my smile steady.

"Only one?" She read, pointing to a stack of bologna.

"Yes, only one." I responded.

She grimaced, said "why should I have to eat this, it's so fake," took three, and walked out.

With an amazing amount of tenacity, I searched for a child I could call mine. Hopes were dashed in Mexico and then Honduras where a baby was mistakenly given to someone else.

Eventually, I made my way to Paraguay, arriving at midnight. No one was at the airport with my child.

Later, on Christmas morning, I brought my newly adopted Maria through a Paraguayan rainstorm to experience the joy of celebrating the birth of Christ.

When hearing the government was about to end allowing children to leave the country, I did the only thing I knew. God answered my prayer!

She gave him her smile. And her youth. And her joy. He feasted on it all, then demanded more. But she was spent. Used up. Exhausted. Still he supped on her life-force, until, with her dying breath, she cast him out. Weakly she stumbled away, her faint heart-beat barely a flutter. But outside his shadow was warmth. And smiles. And youth. And joy. The frost around her heart was hard and cold. But slowly it melted away. Each kind word. Each soft gaze. Each peel of laughter. Until she grew a new smile. Different, sometimes sad, but just as beautiful.

Both girls wore long coats with big buttons that reached to their knees.

Winnie wore a sleek red one with a furry white undercollar. While Sadie's was a dim mustard yellow color.

Currently they huddled within the last stop from a large delivery truck. This one being an old, creaking little shop.

And just ten hours left before the Christmas party the following night.

"I don't like you and you don't like me," Winnie had so eloquently said, "but thinking your parents stole those old decorations-- beautiful as they are-- it's stupid. And your family isn't stupid Sadie."

A truce.

My daughter's birthday is near Easter. Her NICU stay ended around my birthday, which is Prince's birthday. My husband, Halloween. My son, Valentine's Day. Christmas, when my in-laws split (temporarily). Memorial Day, when mine did the same (permanently).

Days created for other reasons. Days for other days. Days of secret celebration. Days for private funerals in the darkness of the hillside.

Today, I've decided, is a special day, a celebration of clarity. Of bliss. A day to sit with everything.

A day that is a gift from God, not to me, but to the Reaper.

I watch their exchange, smiling.

"Holly, come downstairs! The Elmore's are here."

The Elmore's are my mom's friends. My brother David was always their favorite, but he's gone now.

I go down the stairs, not wanting to seem rude, but not in the holiday spirit since losing David.

About halfway down the stairs, I hear his voice. "David?" I whisper.

He turns around and says, "Where have you been Holls?" with a grin on his face as if he hasn't been dead six months.

I'm crying and hugging him while both sets of parents look concerned.

"Why is she calling me David? I'm not David!"

She took a deep breath. Their Facebook account hacked. Any minute her life would come crumbling down as she watched "him" do with a handful of her fellow church members. Their ugly secrets revealed for all the world to see. "New video uploaded!" "Christmas Origins?"

Was she spared or was this another Exposé but on a larger scale? By now the church was in an uproar having watched the documentary about Christmas' hidden origins, dark side, commercialization, and Secret Societies. The church had been convicted as Paul did in the Bible. It was time for renewal. Time for God's grace.