From the Millennial Star, December 1943 –

Leave for Father Christmas

By Edith Russell

It was Christmas Eve, and Michael-John was as excited as could be. There were all kinds of wonderful things just waiting to happen: a Christmas tree laden with toys and snow that glistened; a model Beaufighter; delicious things to eat; mince pies and jellies with cream; holly with wicked-looking red berries; and an adventurous-looking parcel on top of the wardrobe with a saucy bow round its middle and a label on it which said: “Not to be opened until Christmas.”

Michael-John felt like scampering madly up and down and yelling loudly from sheer excitement. He wanted to shout “A Merry Christmas!” from the housetops, to all the world. Christmas Eve was the nicest day in the year — excepting Christmas Day. Tomorrow he would awaken early — just as soon as it was light — and empty his stocking. There would be the Beaufighter, and the game that Mummy had especially asked Father Christmas to bring; toys and sweets, and a thousand things besides. It was all so thrilling he gave a “Whoop!” and danced into the bedroom where his mother was dressing for the afternoon.

She was reading a letter, and she looked up quickly as Michael-John charged in like a runaway horse. He felt himself tremble and a queer prickly feeling run all down his spine he saw that she had been frying. Crying on Christmas Eve! It made him forget to startle her. He stood by the door, frightened, wanting ever so much to cry too.

“Michael-John.” Mummy said at last, smiling at him, just as though she had never cried at all, “Daddy won’t be home for Christmas. But he sends his love.”

“Oh!” Michael-John said in a funny voice which was not a bit like his own. He had a dreadful feeling inside of disappointment. He knew now why Mummy had cried. She couldn’t imagine Christmas without Daddy. Daddy always trimmed the balloons and carved the goose. Daddy always shovelled the chestnuts into the fire and “fielded” them when they popped. Daddy always let Michael-John conduct Christmas morning prayers, saying “Go on, old man, you lead us today. I guess that’s how if should be.” And Michael-John did lead them, and felt so proud that, he almost burst.

But not this year— Daddy wasn’t coming home, and Mummy had cried, secretly, in the bedroom.

Suddenly a terrible thought struck Michael-John. Suppose Father Christmas could not get leave either! Suppose his colonel had said he must stay at the war until after Christmas was over. There would be no Beaufighter, no gun, no presents at all. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? Michael-John felt himself grow cold all over. It would be dreadful without Daddy — what would it be like without Father Christmas? It wouldn’t be Christmas at all.

All afternoon he moped about the house feeling exactly how a balloon must feel when someone has pricked it. Father Christmas may not be able to get leave. Daddy couldn’t, and he had things on his shoulders and men called him “sir”. Father Christmas may be only a “private”so he wouldn’t have a chance.

There were hot muffins for tea, but he couldn’t eat more than three — a thing unheard of in the history of Michael-John. His Mummy shook her head and said something about too much excitement. She had not realised the awful fact that this year Father Christmas may not be able to come.

At seven o’clock Michael-John went upstairs to bed. He hung up his stocking. Mummy must not suspect how he was feeling. He had no hopes at all. He was very silent and thoughtful as he undressed. He climbed into bed and Mummy said, “Michael-John, haven’t you forgotten something?”

Of course, he had. He had forgotten to kneel and say his prayers. Very sadly, Michael-John knelt down beside his bed and began to pray, and this is what he said:

“Dear God, it’s me — Michael-John. Maybe you’ve forgotten it’s Christmas, but it is tomorrow. Would you do something real special tonight? Would you speak to Father Christmas’s colonel for him and get him off for Christmas? You see, God, if he can’t come it won’t be like Christmas at all. Oh — and if you could get Daddy off too, I’d be most awful grateful. Amen.”

When Mummy had left him, and the, room was dark, Michael-John lay awake, thinking. If God hadn’t heard his prayer it wouldn’t be Christmas tomorrow. It was hours before he fell asleep. . . .

What was that? A very faint click, then a soft circle of light very close to his bed awakened him. Michael-John opened his eyes, then shut them again quickly and lay very still. His heart was doing strange things in his chest. It was Father Christmas — he was positive.

He stood beside Michael-John’s bed and was filling the stocking. The torch he was holding shone downwards on the floor. Michael-John stole another peep. Father Christmas was in uniform — he could just see the khaki trousers and the stout boots. His colonel had let him off after all.

Michael-John had meant to stay awake until Father Christmas was gone and then look at all that he had brought, but being a very sleepy little boy he fell asleep and did not waken up until it was morning. Christmas morning. The Beaufighter was there — so was the game and the gun, and a book — and . . . When Mummy called him to breakfast, whom do you think was sitting beside her, waiting to wish Michael-John a Merry Christmas? It was Daddy himself. Michael-John was so happy he could hardly breathe. God had heard his prayer and got Father Christmas and Daddy off too, making his Christmas perfect.

Later, Michael-John led them in prayer. His Daddy and Mummy smiled at each other when he said . . . and thank you, God, for seeing the colonel.”