little red wagon, and the four of us headed toward the Laundromat three blocks away.
Inside, we had to wait for washing machines and then for people to vacate the folding tables. The sorting, washing, drying and folding took longer than usual.
Jeanne asked, “Did you bring any raisins or crackers, Mommy?”
“No. We’ll have supper as soon as we get home,” I snapped.
Michael’s nose was pressed against the steamy glass window. “Look, Mommy! It’s snowing! Big flakes!”
Julia added, “The street’s all wet. It’s snowing in the air but not on the ground!”
Their excitement only upset me more. As if the cold wasn’t bad enough, now we had snow and slush to contend with. I hadn’t even unpacked the box with their boots and mittens yet.
At last the clean folded laundry was stacked into the laundry baskets and placed two baskets deep in the little red wagon. It was pitch dark outside. Six-thirty already? No wonder they were hungry! We usually ate at five.
The children and I inched our way into the cold winter evening and slipped along the slushy sidewalk. Our procession of three little people, a crabby mother and four baskets of fresh laundry in an old red wagon moved slowly as the frigid wind bit our faces.
We crossed the busy four-lane street at the crosswalk. When we reached the curb, the front wagon wheels slipped on the ice and tipped the wagon over on its side, spilling all the laundry into a slushy black puddle.
“Oh no!” I wailed. “Grab the baskets, Jeanne! Julia, hold the wagon! Get back up on the sidewalk, Michael!”
I slammed the dirty wet clothes back into the baskets.
“I hate this!” I screamed. Angry tears spilled out of my eyes. I hated being poor with no car and no washer or dryer. I hated the weather. I hated being the only parent who claimed responsibility for my three small children. And without a doubt, I really hated the whole blasted Christmas season.
When we reached our house I unlocked the door, threw my purse across the room and stomped off to my bedroom for a good cry.
I sobbed loudly enough for the children to hear. Selfishly, I wanted them to know how miserable I was. Life couldn’t get any worse. The laundry was still dirty, we were all hungry and tired, there was no supper started, and no outlook for a brighter future.
When the tears finally stopped, I sat up and stared at a wooden plaque of Jesus hanging on the wall at the foot of my bed. I’d had that plaque since I was a small child and had carried it with me to every house I’d ever lived in. It showed Jesus with his arms outstretched over the earth, obviously solving the problems of the world.
I kept looking at his face, expecting a miracle. I looked and waited and finally said aloud, “God, can’t you do something to make my life better?”
I desperately wanted an angel on a cloud to come down and rescue me.
But nobody came... except Julia, who peeked in my bedroom door and told me in her tiniest four-year-old voice that she had set the table for supper.
I could hear six-year-old Jeanne in the living room sorting the laundry into two piles, “really dirty, sorta clean, really dirty, sorta clean.”
Three-year-old Michael popped into my room and gave me a picture of the first snow that he had just colored.
And you know what? At that very moment I did see not one, but three angels before me: three little cherubs eternally optimistic, and once again pulling me from gloom and doom into the world of “things will be better tomorrow, Mommy.”
Christmas that year was magical as we surrounded ourselves with a very special kind of love, based on the joy of doing simple things together. One thing’s for sure: Single parenthood was never again as frightening or as depressing as it was the night the laundry fell out of the little red wagon. Those three Christmas angels have kept my spirits buoyed; and even today, over 20 years later, they continue to fill my heart with the presence of God.
Patricia
Inside, we had to wait for washing machines and then for people to vacate the folding tables. The sorting, washing, drying and folding took longer than usual.
Jeanne asked, “Did you bring any raisins or crackers, Mommy?”
“No. We’ll have supper as soon as we get home,” I snapped.
Michael’s nose was pressed against the steamy glass window. “Look, Mommy! It’s snowing! Big flakes!”
Julia added, “The street’s all wet. It’s snowing in the air but not on the ground!”
Their excitement only upset me more. As if the cold wasn’t bad enough, now we had snow and slush to contend with. I hadn’t even unpacked the box with their boots and mittens yet.
At last the clean folded laundry was stacked into the laundry baskets and placed two baskets deep in the little red wagon. It was pitch dark outside. Six-thirty already? No wonder they were hungry! We usually ate at five.
The children and I inched our way into the cold winter evening and slipped along the slushy sidewalk. Our procession of three little people, a crabby mother and four baskets of fresh laundry in an old red wagon moved slowly as the frigid wind bit our faces.
We crossed the busy four-lane street at the crosswalk. When we reached the curb, the front wagon wheels slipped on the ice and tipped the wagon over on its side, spilling all the laundry into a slushy black puddle.
“Oh no!” I wailed. “Grab the baskets, Jeanne! Julia, hold the wagon! Get back up on the sidewalk, Michael!”
I slammed the dirty wet clothes back into the baskets.
“I hate this!” I screamed. Angry tears spilled out of my eyes. I hated being poor with no car and no washer or dryer. I hated the weather. I hated being the only parent who claimed responsibility for my three small children. And without a doubt, I really hated the whole blasted Christmas season.
When we reached our house I unlocked the door, threw my purse across the room and stomped off to my bedroom for a good cry.
I sobbed loudly enough for the children to hear. Selfishly, I wanted them to know how miserable I was. Life couldn’t get any worse. The laundry was still dirty, we were all hungry and tired, there was no supper started, and no outlook for a brighter future.
When the tears finally stopped, I sat up and stared at a wooden plaque of Jesus hanging on the wall at the foot of my bed. I’d had that plaque since I was a small child and had carried it with me to every house I’d ever lived in. It showed Jesus with his arms outstretched over the earth, obviously solving the problems of the world.
I kept looking at his face, expecting a miracle. I looked and waited and finally said aloud, “God, can’t you do something to make my life better?”
I desperately wanted an angel on a cloud to come down and rescue me.
But nobody came... except Julia, who peeked in my bedroom door and told me in her tiniest four-year-old voice that she had set the table for supper.
I could hear six-year-old Jeanne in the living room sorting the laundry into two piles, “really dirty, sorta clean, really dirty, sorta clean.”
Three-year-old Michael popped into my room and gave me a picture of the first snow that he had just colored.
And you know what? At that very moment I did see not one, but three angels before me: three little cherubs eternally optimistic, and once again pulling me from gloom and doom into the world of “things will be better tomorrow, Mommy.”
Christmas that year was magical as we surrounded ourselves with a very special kind of love, based on the joy of doing simple things together. One thing’s for sure: Single parenthood was never again as frightening or as depressing as it was the night the laundry fell out of the little red wagon. Those three Christmas angels have kept my spirits buoyed; and even today, over 20 years later, they continue to fill my heart with the presence of God.
Patricia
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