Because giving at Christmas is always better than receiving, isn’t it?
He woke suddenly and completely. It was four o’clock, the hour at which his father had always called him to get up and help with the milking. Strange how the habits of his youth clung to him still! Fifty years ago, and his father had been dead for thirty years, and yet he waked at four o’clock in the morning. He had trained himself to turn over and go to sleep, but this morning it was Christmas, he did not try to sleep.
Why did he feel so awake tonight? He slipped back in time, as he did so easily nowadays. He was fifteen years old and still on his father’s farm. He loved his father. He had not known it until one day a few days before Christmas, when he had overheard what his father was saying to his mother.
“Mary, I hate to call Rob in the mornings. He’s growing so fast and he needs his sleep. If you could see how he sleeps when I go in to wake him up! I wish I could manage alone.”
“Well, you can’t, Adam.” His mother’s voice was brisk. “Besides, he isn’t a child anymore. It’s time he took his turn.”
“Yes,” his father said slowly. “But I sure do hate to wake him.”
When he heard these words, something in him spoke: his father loved him! He had never thought of that before, taking for granted the tie of their blood. Neither his father nor his mother talked about loving their children–they had no time for such things. There was always so much to do on the farm.
Now that he knew his father loved him, there would be no loitering in the mornings and having to be called again. He got up after that, stumbling blindly in his sleep, and pulled on his clothes, his eyes shut, but he got up.
And then on the night before Christmas, that year when he was fifteen, he lay for a few minutes thinking about the next day. They were poor, and most of the excitement was in the turkey they had raised themselves and mince pies his mother made. His sisters sewed presents and his mother and father always bought him something he needed, not only a warm jacket, maybe, but something more, such as a book. And he saved and bought them each something, too.
He wished, that Christmas when he was fifteen, he had a better present for his father. As usual he had gone to the ten-cent store and bought a tie. It had seemed nice enough until he lay thinking the night before Christmas. He looked out of his attic window, the stars were bright.
“Dad,” he had once asked when he was a little boy, “What is a stable?”
“It’s just a barn,” his father had replied, “like ours.”
Then Jesus had been born in a barn, and to a barn the shepherds had come…
The thought struck him like a silver dagger. Why should he not give his father a special gift too, out there in the barn? He could get up early, earlier than four o’clock, and he could creep into the barn and get all the milking done. He’d do it alone, milk and clean up, and then when his father went in to start the milking he’d see it all done. And he would know who had done it. He laughed to himself as he gazed at the stars. It was what he would do, and he musn’t sleep too sound.
He must have waked twenty times, scratching a match each time to look at his old watch — midnight, and half past one, and then two o’clock.
At a quarter to three he got up and put on his clothes. He crept downstairs, careful of the creaky boards, and let himself out. The cows looked at him, sleepy and surprised. It was early for them, too.
He had never milked all alone before, but it seemed almost easy. He kept thinking about his father’s surprise. His father would come in and get him, saying that he would get things started while Rob was getting dressed. He’d go to the barn, open the door, and then he’d go get the two big empty milk cans. But they wouldn’t be waiting or empty, they’d be standing in the milk-house, filled.
“What the–,” he could hear his father exclaiming.
He smiled and milked steadily, two strong streams rushing into the pail, frothing and fragrant.
The task went more easily than he had ever known it to go before. Milking for once was not a chore. It was something else, a gift to his father who loved him. He finished, the two milk cans were full, and he covered them and closed the milk-house door carefully, making sure of the latch.
Back in his room he had only a minute to pull off his clothes in the darkness and jump into bed, for he heard his father up. He put the covers over his head to silence his quick breathing. The door opened.
“Rob!” His father called. “We have to get up, son, even if it is Christmas.”
“Aw-right,” he said sleepily.
The door closed and he lay still, laughing to himself. In just a few minutes his father would know. His dancing heart was ready to jump from his body.
The minutes were endless — ten, fifteen, he did not know how many — and he heard his father’s footsteps again. The door opened and he lay still.
“Rob!”
“Yes, Dad–”
His father was laughing, a queer sobbing sort of laugh.
“Thought you’d fool me, did you?” His father was standing by his bed, feeling for him, pulling away the cover.
“It’s for Christmas, Dad!”
He found his father and clutched him in a great hug. He felt his father’s arms go around him. It was dark and they could not see each other’s faces.
“Son, I thank you. Nobody ever did a nicer thing–”
“Oh, Dad, I want you to know — I do want to be good!” The words broke from him of their own will. He did not know what to say. His heart was bursting with love.
He got up and pulled on his clothes again and they went down to the Christmas tree. Oh what a Christmas, and how his heart had nearly burst again with shyness and pride as his father told his mother and made the younger children listen about how he, Rob, had got up all by himself.
“The best Christmas gift I ever had, and I’ll remember it, son every year on Christmas morning, so long as I live.”
They had both remembered it, and now that his father was dead, he remembered it alone: that blessed Christmas dawn when, alone with the cows in the barn, he had made his first gift of true love.
This Christmas he wanted to write a card to his wife and tell her how much he loved her, it had been a long time since he had really told her, although he loved her in a very special way, much more than he ever had when they were young. He had been fortunate that she had loved him. Ah, that was the true joy of life, the ability to love. Love was still alive in him, it still was.
It occurred to him suddenly that it was alive because long ago it had been born in him when he knew his father loved him. That was it: Love alone could awaken love. And he could give the gift again and again.This morning, this blessed Christmas morning, he would give it to his beloved wife. He could write it down in a letter for her to read and keep forever. He went to his desk and began his love letter to his wife: My dearest love…
Such a happy, happy Christmas!
Stella's Place 
Reblogged this on The Last Refuge and commented:
Love is the grift that keeps on giving. Thank you Stella.
LikeLiked by 11 people
Wonderful story. Although I know what you meant, please edit grift and make it gift…..grift is such a nasty word.
LikeLiked by 2 people
Thank you Menagerie and Stella!
I will save this link and send it to my much loved wife – who’s still working, while I’m home retired.
She was originally a farm girl who as a child, milked cows, herded sheep & rode horses, she’d probably appreciate it even more than me.
With appreciation and thanks from here in Australia!
Merry Christmas & have a Happy and Safe New Year.
LikeLiked by 3 people
I got the reblog from The Last Refuge and it is a great gift.
LikeLiked by 5 people
Pingback: Story of the day – Christmas Day In The Morning (Pearl S. Buck) -
OMG I’m sobbing.
What a beautiful story!!
Thank you!
LikeLiked by 5 people
Me too Cliff.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Pingback: Story of the day – Christmas Day In The Morning (Pearl S. Buck) | The Last Refuge
Thank you Stella. I, too, got here from The Last Refuge. May God bless you, and bless us all, each and every one, and may He guide each of us to act on behalf of the well-being of others whenever and wherever our feet tread.
LikeLiked by 6 people
Thanks
I miss my dad
I praise God for all the Coffee i brewed for him while he shaved, and all the snow i shoveled before he could get dressed.
I was 15 and working my first real job. I remember saving my money to buy my dad a good pair of insulated boots for Christmas, a pair he had looked at and admired as he bought his annual pair of golashes.
I showed them to my mom and she said. “He’s gonna love those his feet hurt so when they get cold”,
My father had nearly lost both feet to frostbite in WWII. He and his radioman were stuck in a trench knee deep in icewater in a crossfire for days. By the time allied troops recovered the position his radioman was dead and dad nearly so.
As was typical of that generation they did not share their trauma or their pain. I had heard the story and how his friends had sheltered him on a farm house and saved his feet. (Always the sanatitzed uplifting storys) Never did i realize until that moment the burdens he carried.
15 is an awakening.
LikeLiked by 12 people
Your story is as gorgeous and glorious as that of Ms. Pearl.
God Bless You!
LikeLiked by 2 people
So true.. and interesting that our brave father’s never burdened us with the horrors of the war nor bragged of their bravery. We did not know of our father’s bravery, heroism really, in the Pacific theatre at Pelelui until after his death when we found a locked suitcase of letters from those who swore an oath to one another never to speak of that which they’d seen after the one year mark of the end of the war.
LikeLiked by 1 person
They didn’t. They just said, “I am not a hero, the heroes did not come home”.
LikeLiked by 1 person
The Love that we feel inside our hearts is why atheists are wrong on the most basic question of life.
LikeLiked by 2 people
Just maybe they haven’t been “awakened” yet! The love is there but not yet discovered.All it will take is one epiphany.
LikeLiked by 2 people
Thank you! It’s a beautiful, heart touching story!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you for showing me a new road to take! At 69, this is/was a very special year in many many respects!
LikeLiked by 6 people
Loved this. Thanks for posting. Warmed my heart.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Got me good this one
LikeLiked by 2 people
Amen, Love conquers all. Thanks Stella and all you lovely Treepers too!!
LikeLiked by 2 people
Wow, all I said was Amen and love conquers all and my Post was deleted? Such a loving place Stella….
So much for lessons learned from our own stories….
LikeLiked by 2 people
You were just waiting approval (first comment on my blog). Welcome!
LikeLiked by 3 people
I too was leery Stella, I had thought my age might have triggered a “moderation!”
LikeLiked by 3 people
Wait till WP gets to know you. Pa. Then WP will eat your words and/or send them into the ether, never to be seen again.
LikeLiked by 2 people
Thanks for posting. What a poignant story about what family means to a child and parent and how to be a man. Pearl Buck wrote “The Good Earth” as well. Very fine writer.
LikeLiked by 3 people
An absolutely wonderful story.
Thank you for sharing it with us!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you for this story and all the other stories you’ve put up for Christmas and holiday season, Stella.
They bring good memories of happy times gone by, and that is always a good thing.
LikeLiked by 3 people
Some of these stories were new to me, and some well known. I like them all!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Pearl S. Buck. After reading the story it reminded me that I have not read anything by Pearl S. Buck in a very long time.
Thank you for the story!
Now I have to find a towel to dry my tears.
LikeLiked by 3 people
What a wonderful story! Thank you so much for posting it.
LikeLiked by 1 person
I grew up on an Eastern Oregon ranch Remember the chores and the camaraderie with my Pop. Pop always took the time to show me ho to do things and work by myself (with unseen supervision)
to this day all the things that Pop taught me are still there….
Loved this story….
LikeLiked by 2 people
Thank you, Stella. This story took me straight back to the Kansas farm where I grew up. It also was a true family farm – everyone worked hard. But love lived there, and we were always safe in that knowledge. It is the reason all 7 of us kids remained close after Mom and Dad passed, and we raised our families in that legacy. Thank you again for the reminder of how love and faith keep us strong and endure forever.
LikeLiked by 3 people
Sent this book to my four sets of grandkids several years ago on St Nicholas Day. Illustrations in the copy from Amazon are amazing. So glad to see this online where many can become acquainted with it.
LikeLiked by 2 people
After 45 years of marriage I think I surprised my wife this Christmas.
I bought a small 4 X 6 photo album that holds 24 pictures.
I copied clip art of cartoon characters and wrote what I loved about her below the pictures.
I added some “Roses are red, violets are blue” poetry on some pages.
It’s still on a small, end table where she relaxes. I think she looks at it every day.
What a wonderful Christmas we had this year. In so many past Christmases, I didn’t know what to get her. I never realized the best gift I could give was to share what was in my heart with her in a little picture book.
LikeLiked by 6 people
Nessie, the gift from your heart was a “Love letter.” 💕
LikeLiked by 2 people
Your story is as gorgeous and glorious as that of Ms. Pearl.
God Bless You!
LikeLiked by 3 people
ohhhh that made me cry ! It just goes to show, it’s the thought that counts. Gifts such as yours are truly from the heart and will be saved by the recipient (your wife) for the rest of her life. Priceless !
LikeLiked by 4 people
I grew up on the farm. 3 cows to milk. We were not poor because parents sold cream and eggs so we could buy groceries that we didn’t get from the garden. We had a radio in the barn set on country music station. Every time we eat steak at Texas Roadhouse and hear country reminds me of milking chores. One year dad had no money for Christmas gifts so he took money from selling eggs, bought boxes of greeting cards which we sold door to door in town and made enough to buy presents for us children.
LikeLiked by 5 people
Touched my heart! Thank you. 🙂
LikeLiked by 2 people
This was lovely. Thank you so much.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Sundance!
Stop making me weep!
Oh! How Christmas brings great tidings of joy.
Christ. The Ultimate gift…oh the joy.
LikeLiked by 2 people
Not Sundance! And you are welcome.
LikeLiked by 1 person
What a great writer!
LikeLike
A few years ago, my daughter did the most wonderful thing for me for my birthday. Every day of the month she sent me an email with anecdotes about things she remembered growing up, things that I did that she loved, that influenced her growing up years and strengthened our love for one another. I will cherish them forever.
LikeLiked by 5 people
THAT was very thoughtful of your daughter, Stella. Easy to see where she gets it from! 😉
It’s those gifts which we will always keep and appreciate. Straight from their hearts.
LikeLiked by 4 people
Pingback: Story of the day – Christmas Day In The Morning (Pearl S. Buck) | Centinel2012
A wonderful story.
LikeLike