Key to My Dreams

Can you wrap a dream in gift wrap and give it to someone? Can you tie up hopes in red satin bows and

make them come true? The Christmas of 1961 my parents found gifts that were the key to my dreams and changed my frozen heart to one filled with optimism.

Christmas of 1961 was cold and bitter, but I seldom felt its frigid bite because my heart was enclosed in a casing of ice. It was my senior year of high school, but my life at home had changed drastically.

My older brother had left for a mission for our church which put an economic strain on our family, and my mother’s failing health seemed to spell doom to my dreams of college. As I was the oldest girl in my family, going away to college seemed selfish and impossible. Because of my disappointments and worry about my mother, I became secretive and resentful. Rather than enjoying the season, I made life miserable for everyone.

When Dad offered to take me shopping, I griped that I had too much to do. When Mother asked what I wanted for Christmas, I snapped back, "Why even ask? We can’t afford anything anyway!" My younger brother and sisters quieted in my presence, fearful I’d bite their heads off as sport.

My mother knew that I was unhappy, but I obstinately refused to tell her what had blighted my life.

Perhaps I felt that it would be one more heavy burden for her to carry so I refused to let on how much college meant to me.

My sweet mother with her gentle smile and unselfish heart had quit high school to support her family when her father died during the Great Depression. She was very intelligent, but she had never even been able to finish high school. In some explainable manner, I felt that I needed to get an education both for myself and for her. Now that my college dreams seemed impossible, I buried my hopes beneath a surly attitude and made myself miserable. I knew no one could find the key to unlock my dreams.

That Christmas morning dawned cold and clear. I growled when the younger kids tried to entice me to see what Santa had brought because I knew that what I wanted most could not be found under a Christmas tree. But I was wrong.

Santa hadn’t left a bushel of expensive trinkets for any of us. But my parents, with perception and hope had unlocked my heart with two unique and special gifts—a small bound book of Emily Dickenson’s poetry and a vinyl soundtrack of my favorite musical, Carnival. I looked at my mother and began to cry.

“How did you know I loved Emily Dickenson?” I sobbed.

“I called all your friends until I found out what you’d been talking to them about. You’ve always wanted to be a writer, and Sharon told me that your favorite poet was Emily Dickenson. The book will be useful when you begin your English studies at college next fall. Linda told me that you loved Broadway musicals. I hope you like the one I picked out; maybe it will do until you see one on Broadway someday.”

My dad was mumbling about the gifts he wished he could have given me. He said that when he won the lottery he’d buy me bushels of Janzten sweaters. But I didn’t hear him.

Through my tear-filled eyes, I could see their vision for me. It was a vision that I hadn’t dared dream about—that my mother would not live long enough to see.

Gifts are merely symbols of what we would really like to give others. For how can you wrap love inside silver paper? How can you place a red satin bow around dreams? How can you gift someone with hope and confidence? That Christmas my mother had searched for the key to my dreams. And she had succeeded.