A Christmas to Remember

Yesterday, Christmas arrived quietly in Athens, WV.

The children were in school, where they belonged, wrapped in ordinary moments and innocence. Their parents came instead, choosing to carry Christmas home so their children would never have to feel the weight of asking for help. Most parents chose invisibility so their children could keep believing.

Watching that quiet courage, I knew where it all began.

Long before my father, Christmas began with another little boy, laid in a manger, whose coming taught the world that love often arrives quietly and without abundance.

My dad was born in 1945, into a childhood shaped by hunger and hardship. When he was seven or eight, Christmas brought him one gift. Just one. Not a toy. A bottle of Hadacol syrup he had asked for to make him physically stronger. In a poor home, health was the greatest hope. I have often wondered if my grandparents knew it contained 12 percent alcohol or if my dad even consumed it.

Christmas eve that year, he thought he heard Santa downstairs. Believing Santa had come just for him, he climbed over to look in the unfinished portion of the upstairs. The ceiling gave way, and he fell through straight into the Christmas tree.

That fall was not clumsiness. It was longing. A child reaching for magic in a life that offered very little.

Because of that Christmas, it became his favorite holiday for the rest of his life. I do not know exactly why. Maybe it was the miracle of being remembered at all. Maybe it was the way hope showed up, small and imperfect, but present. Or maybe a child who almost had nothing learned that night how fiercely he wanted to believe.

Even as an adult, he carried that wonder with him. As December approached, he grew lighter somehow, unusually joyful, happy all month long, as if he never forgot what it felt like to hope so fiercely.

He rarely told this story and he never told it looking for sympathy. Men of his generation rarely did. In Appalachia, you carried hardship quietly, worked hard, and hoped your children would have more than you did.

And he did exactly that.

Everything we did yesterday began with that one little boy going without. Every toy given. Every stocking filled. Every book and every gift chosen with care. Every smile that found its way back. Every embrace that lingered a moment longer. What he once lacked became the love we offered. Faith showed up quietly, and community carried it home. This is Christmas.

That boy grew into a man who understood that Christmas was not about abundance, but dignity. About being remembered. About making sure your children never felt the weight you carried.

In Appalachia, we believe God wastes nothing. Not hunger. Not hardship. Not a childhood marked by lack.

One Appalachian boy went without, and God did not waste it. He turned that lack into provision for his children, multiplied it into abundance for his grandchildren, and overflowed it into blessing for hundreds of children across our surrounding communities.

Yesterday, parents did what his parents could not do. They protected their children’s innocence. They came to collect toys while their kids were in school so small hearts would not have to carry adult worries.

And this is my father’s legacy.

That little boy is no longer here to witness the impact of his life. But I am. And his grandchildren are.

And today, because of what his childhood set in motion and because of the generosity of many donors and the help of several volunteers , Christmas went home to 748 children.

This is my legacy too.

This is why Helpful Harvest exists.

Because we live in a country bountiful enough for everyone. There is enough food, enough toys, enough clothing, enough care, enough love. No child should ever have to measure Christmas by a single gift or learn hunger before hope, especially in a country overflowing with resources.

If his suffering eased the burden of even one child, then none of it was in vain.

And perhaps this is how God still moves in the world,

His hand found, again and again, at the end of our own arms.