Spring 2005 High School Edition
A Christmas Miracle
Dany Owens
Essay (11th-12th)
Second Place
Pine View High School
Teacher: Renee Hazen
In 1997, Thomas S. Monson told the story of the Jeppson family in a Christmas Devotional and later published it in a Christmas Booklet in 1998. He learned this story from a sweet old lady named Marian Jeppson Walker, a daughter of the Mary Jeppson in the story.
I smiled to myself as I watched my dad enter the room. Although this had probably happened a thousand times, I never got tired of it. He sat at the edge of my bed and began the almost sacred ritual: the bedtime story. Tonight seemed different, however. He wasn’t in his usual good humor, and the story wasn’t its normal, whimsical self.
“Tonight being the night before Christmas Eve, I thought it should be a bit different,” he began, almost solemnly. I nodded and waited for him to explain himself, as I knew he would.
“I looked at our tree and was struck by how many presents there were already. When I was a kid, that many gifts would have been quite a haul.” I rolled my eyes; when he was a kid, there were still dinosaurs.
“So what does this have to with the story being different? Get to the point!” I said irreverently, knowing he would realize I was making fun of him.
“If you would hush up for half a second, I might be able to tell you.” I looked over at him, and almost caught the teasing grin. “All right, are you ready, you hoodlum? You remember your Great-Grandmother Dottie, right? Well, have I ever told you about the time, when she was just a little older than you, that she got to help send a family their Christmas?
“Way back in 1927, she got a letter from her mother’s sister, Mary Jeppson. That poor family probably had five or six kids plus both parents. They had all moved to Canada the year before in hopes of finding better farmland, but all they found was trouble. The winter had come early, the crops had all failed, and their only cow had died of starvation. They were in bad, bad shape.
“Mary Jeppson, in desperation, sent a letter to Dottie’s mama, Martha T., asking for anything they could spare. Her children were hungry, cold and neither she nor her husband, Leland, could do anything about it.
“So the letter gets to the people in Malad, Idaho and even though it’s already the middle of November, together they decide that it just isn’t right for that family not to have a single thing for Christmas. So do you know what they did?”
“Nope,” I replied, only half truthfully. I had heard bits and pieces of this story before, but I knew if I told my father, it would hurt his feelings to not have an opportunity to tell me a story. So, assuming the role of a dutiful daughter, I played along. “What did they do, Dad?”
“Those loving people all got together to see what could be done. Gramma Dottie later told me that there were many, many hours put into the ten crates that were to be sent to Hilspring, Alberta Canada. There wasn’t a single person in the Malad Valley that wasn’t helping. People donated shirts, pants, socks, shoes and dresses. Some of the women raised money for coats and sewed bunches of warm quilts. Of course some food had to be sent along with it, because those Jeppsons were on the brink of starvation, so there was beef, ham and bacon that came along with everything else,” Dad continued.
By this time, I must admit, I was going to sleep. Sure, it was nice that these people had sent presents to some relatives that had died before I was born, but how was I supposed to pay attention to this story? However, the next part of the story caught my attention and removed any notion of sleep from my mind.
“Have I mentioned the oldest daughter, Ellen? She was probably around your age.” My father’s question rang through my fuzzy mind. Maybe it was her name, which, coincidentally, was my middle name that caught my ear, but all the same, I was sure listening now.
“Ellen and Dottie were the best of friends before the Jeppsons left for Canada, and it was really hard for your Great-Grandma to see her go.”
My father continued, “Ellen was probably hit hardest by the family’s tough times. On Christmas Eve, despite her mama’s pleading, she wouldn’t hang her stocking because, of course, she knew that there would be nothing in there the following morning.”
All of a sudden, my dad laughed. I knew he had caught a glimpse of my face, which was probably a sight because of how involved in the story I had rapidly become. All the same, I didn’t appreciate being laughed at. “Don’t laugh at me,” I pouted.
“I wasn’t laughing at you, honey, I laughed because the magic in the story is coming up, and I still am amazed that it all worked out just as it did.
“Those huge crates were packed right up to their brims, and sent off on the railroad with high hopes of reaching their mark by Christmas Eve. All that the people of Malad could do now was wait and hope for the best. The best part of this story is that your Great-Grandma Dottie Lewis was the one who sent the most magical thing of all.
“In the letter, the one specific thing that Mary Jeppson asked for was an old, outgrown dress for her forlorn daughter Ellen. When Dottie heard about that, she knew there was only one thing she could do for her friend. Dottie sent a dress that her mother, Martha T., had made just for her. It was supposed to be a Christmas present for Dottie and she probably wouldn’t get another dress until next Christmas. But she didn’t hesitate, she knew what she had to do, and she did it. ”
At this point, I began to reflect on of my closet full of clothes and guilt began to flood my thoughts. My great-grandmother gave up the dress that was supposed to last her an entire year? Why couldn’t I be that selfless? I wouldn’t even let my little sister wear my old clothes. I began to inwardly berate myself for my insensitivity and greed. Thankfully, my dad’s voice interrupted my thoughts.
“Each and every day leading up to that Christmas, Ellen’s father Leland, had made the three hour trip to the train station to check for something…anything. No one knew if anything was coming, but it made him feel better to check.
“On Christmas Eve, he went once more, hoping that somehow there would be something there, almost wishing for a miracle. But as before, the answer from the station was ‘No, there’s nothing here. Sorry, sir,’ and he was again heading home empty-handed.
“That very night, a late train arrived with the promised packages. Of course, Leland had long since gone, and the railroad station employees had families of their own to go home to. After all, it was Christmas Eve. It was decided by the postmaster that the huge parcels would have to wait until tomorrow to be delivered.
“One of the staff members, a man named George Schow, knew how much this would mean to the Jeppson family, and he could imagine how hard the people of Malad had worked to come up with this much of a Christmas for a struggling family, so he did something extraordinary. On Christmas Eve, in a severe snowstorm, he borrowed a team of horses from a neighbor, and set out with his fifteen year-old son to the little cabin the Jeppsons called home. Eight cold, snowy, miserable hours later, the crates were delivered.”
“Eight hours? How in the world could this man give up his Christmas Eve at home with his family? Was he crazy?” I sputtered.
“Of course he wasn’t crazy. He just knew how much it would mean to those little kids. and he was essentially their last hope. It’s called compassion, kid, you should try it sometime,” my dad teased.
“Finish the story, Dad! What else was in the big boxes? Did Ellen like her dress?” I suddenly found myself aching to know about the Jeppsons and their miraculous Christmas.
“Hang on, kiddo, we’re getting there. At any rate, Mary was sure thankful to get those crates. I’m sure she spent a good share of that night praying that her children wouldn’t be too let down when there was nothing awaiting them on Christmas morning. Imagine her surprise when a frozen, tired pair of snowmen showed up at her home in the wee hours of the morning, with crates addressed to her loaded onto their sleigh.
“After doing all she could to warm the men up, they went on their way, leaving Mary to unpack the packages before her children awoke. She soon had a breakfast cooking, their first in a long time that didn’t include porridge, and she had distributed among her sleeping children a blanket or two and some rag dolls.
“After a few hours, Mary’s children woke up to see completely different surroundings than the ones they were used to. Literally everything had changed for them; their beds were adequately covered, there were clothes to put on, toys to play with, and good food to eat. Mary later said they were wild with delight, because of their joy at having a real Christmas.
“Poor little Ellen was the last one to get out of her bed. Because she had no reason to hope for anything, Christmas held no promise or shine. She was therefore, astonished to see the most beautiful red dress, trimmed with satin ribbon hanging from her bedpost. Tears rushed to her eyes as she recalled the night before, a night filled with empty promises on the part of her parents, tears and sorrow from all. All around her was laughter, happiness and love. Dottie told me later that Ellen never, ever forgot this Christmas, and later, when she had a daughter of her own, Ellen taught her the story and passed on the dress.”
“Wait, wait,” I interrupted my dad. I knew what was coming, and I was one step ahead of him. He was about to begin the moral of the story, and while I enjoy a good story, a tacky moral can be the one thing that ruins any story. “I know what you’re going to tell me. ‘We should all be unselfish and learn to give before we receive,’” I recited.
“But what is the point of stories if we can’t learn from them? I’m trying to help you become a better person, because, after all, if I don’t, who will?”
“You know, you’re right, Dad. Thanks for telling me about Gramma Dottie’s friend. Just don’t suppose that you can use that ‘better person’ excuse to make me do things,” I said with a warning in my voice.
Dad didn’t do anything but laugh as he got up, kissed my forehead, and walked out of my room.
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