We grew up poor. Our Christmases were never about the presents, there was no giant windfall of brightly wrapped gifts under our scruffy little tree.

But it's lights, though few, shone with angelic brilliance, and what little fruit it did bear, meager as it was, seemed to be the bounty of kings.

This was because of my Mother, a woman who knew how to keep Christmas, and how to keep it well. All of Santa's gifts to me were hand made. Some were just for fun, but most were practical, and just what I needed at the time. He always knew when I needed more warm socks and gloves. And he seemed to manifest a muffler just as my old one wore out.

Now as I look back I realize just how poor my parents were. My heart goes out to them for the sacrifices they made to give me a good life, and to make me feel loved, and to show and tell me that I was special.

Mother was a magician. She could turn a few hard earned dollars into a royal feast, trade some time and sweat in for presents for her sons and husband. She loved to give, but she knew the real gifts of Christmas didn't come in boxes, however brightly adorned. She knew how to bestow those gifts on a little boy in the country, how to give them so that he unwrapped the truth in them.

Each year, just before my bedtime on Christmas Eve, she would put on her coat, and bid me to put on mine. And we would step out our front door, and she would give me the first gift of the Season, and, in so doing, pass on to me a tradition I carry on to this very day, some forty odd years later.

Outside, in Michigan's bitter nighttime, she would stand, leaning slightly forward, eyes cast upward at the sky. I would speak, and a kind, yet work worn, hand would lift a single finger to her lips: "Shhh". Then I, too, would take her stance of listening. That first night I must have looked at her like she was crazy, standing in her snow bound front yard in the middle of the night, listening to something I could not hear. She looked back at me and said "Can't you hear it?"

I strained harder. We stood there shivering and listening, and hearing nothing in the physical sense. But I heard it. At first it was faint, as subtle as the beating of my own heart. It was silence. It was profound silence. It was the silence of Christmas Eve. No cars were traveling the streets and roads, there was no reason then, no stores open, no crazed search for the last minute gift. It was silence screaming in my ear the sure and sound knowledge that all was well. "What do you hear?" She asked. There were no words for a little boy to use to explain just what it was. I heard no birds singing, I heard no engines running, I heard no trains, or planes, or the drone of the nearby factories. Yet I knew she expected an answer: "Magic" I replied.

No clumsy words of mine can tell you what you hear on that Silent Night each year. But every Christmas Eve, just before I go to bed, I step outside, and shivering and shuddering I look Heavenward, and lean out just a bit, and strain my ear to hear the nothingness.

It takes longer to hear it now. I am further from childhood each year, and everyone knows magic can be heard easiest by children. Also there are always cars roaring, trucks rumbling, people talking. The twenty four hour gas station on the corner sends out waves of light and noise. Christmas Eve isn't enough reason to close any more, and it's just enough of a reason to venture out for the last minute gift.

But it's there, the stillness of this night. Just beyond the human ear, just beyond our noise and light, is the Silent Night. Finally I hear the silence, the magic that only this night brings. And, I remember the woman who bore me, gave me life, and passed on her quiet wisdom to me, (and a joy in Christmas that can't be bought or sold).

I stand alone to listen now, as I have for the last twenty years. At least no one looking could see anyone beside me. I don't feel alone. Not at all. And as I remember why I'm out there, shivering in my front yard, I smile through my tears.

I think I have tears in my eyes. This was great.

Ryan... thank you for sharing the magic. I'm pretty sure I've heard it before, too.

It's the only part of Christmas that I don't get sick of. Except for those quiet moments when I understand the joy, Christmas is so stressing. Makes me feel fortunate that at least a small part of my family and childhood were'nt too messed up.

If we'd only listen more and speak less, think how much better the world would be.

New Hope I completely agree. There have been so many times that I would have been so much better off putting my foot in my mouth. It pays to listen instead of complaining about things you can't change.

Girl, I've put my foot in my mouth too many times! Choked on it a few times, too.

I have small feet, Thank God!!! That's the only thing small about me.... Oh yeah , my feet and my height .( My mom says she's not over weight she's just under tall.)

Ryan...Great story...thank you for sharing it with us..

You always capture me with your words

Ryan .... Give me a warning when you have a story like that cause I cant be seen crying at work. I lost my mommy this past March so Christmas was nice but would have been better with her there.

Sweet story, Ryan. Thank you for sharing.

Wow, how very poingnant...."Whippledaddy"..........you have a beautiful soul! Thank you for sharing your "Silent Night"!

You know, I JUST found this. I sat here for about 10 seconds before I could move.

That was BEAUTIFUL!

Ive heard that silence before. Only at certain times or in certain places though.

I NEEDED to read this - tonight!

Especially since the lack of peace Im feeling over this Spiegel fiasco!

Thanks Ryan... even a couple of weeks later, the magic that this story has in it is still happening!

That was an awesome story, I have no doubt I'll think of you and your dear mother every Christmas eve.

That was a very touching story... something i will remember.