My town’s bustling Main Street was home to many five-and-dime stores when I was a child—

stores such as Grants, Woolworths, Kresge, Newberry’s, the upscale Williams Brothers—and my all-time favorite, the Carl Company.

Never mind that the Carl Company always had a peculiar, putrid smell. As kids, my brother, three sisters, and I would dash in, squeal out “P.U.!,” plug our noses and race to the back of the store. There, before our bulging eyes, would be the most delicious, unbelievable sight! Tiny toys, gadgets and figurines, all spread out on long tables.

“You may each pick out one thing,” instructed both Mom and Dad.

“Just one,” reiterated Dad. “I’m not made of money, ya know. There’s no Rockefeller in our family tree.”

“But Dad,” we all cried, “those are only the four-cent tables!”

“Hey, kiddos, you do the adding. Five kids, getting one thing a piece at four cents each, is what?”

“20 cents?” spoke up little Michael.

“Make that a whopping 20 cents, Mike. In our house, on Daddy’s budget, that’s big bucks, son.”

Looking back, I can remember one Christmas season in particular, one magical night that mirrored a Norman Rockwell painting. It had to have been a Friday—Dad’s payday—when he and Mom loaded us five kids onto our big sled and pulled us all the way into town. Many years later neither of them had the strength to pull out the cotton in an aspirin bottle, but back then, oh, how young and vibrant they were!

It was snowing and everything was still and quiet until we hit Main Street. Crowds of shoppers were

darting in and out of the stores, but many lingered outside to listen to the Christmas music being piped out onto the street. And there, on the corner of Market and Main, was the most magnificent sight ever: the real Santa Claus, waving to passersby.

In spite of his aching back (you could hear him say, “Ouch, ouch,” as he stooped over) he lifted us up, one by one, from our sled.

“And what do you want Santa to bring you, little girl?” he asked me. The overwhelming thrill of Santa

patting my head and talking to me made the words stick to my tonsils like the snowflakes had clung to my eyelashes. But my brazen sister Mary Paula had no trouble speaking up.

“Santa,” she said, “I want every single four-cent thing on those back tables in that Carl Company!”

Just when it looked like she was going to be reprimanded by our parents, she quickly added (even though I knew she was totally lying), “So I can give them to the other less fortunate children. Or,” (and this is where she was telling the absolute truth), “I can resell them for five cents a piece.”

Then our sweet little Beth, a mere baby at 3 years old, spoke up. From underneath the blanket that had swaddled us from the cold, she held out a once-hot hard-boiled egg in her chubby little hand. It was one of five that Mom had given each one of us to keep our hands warm.

“Here, Santa, for you,” she said.

It was a loving, selfless gesture that seemed to warm Santa’s heart more than his hands, and it came from a baby. A baby is what the world received on Christmas Day. It’s our Heavenly Father’s gift to us, so shouldn’t every day feel like Christmas?