Remembering Christmas Eve
1965
EDITOR’S NOTE: Former Texarkana, Arkansas Mayor Ruth Penney-Bell penned this Christmas memory from 1965. She recounts an unusual event that happened in Ben Lomond, Arkansas, which is about 32 miles north of Texarkana.
Covered in wax paper and wrapped in bleached-white feed sacks, chocolate, spiced and freshly ground coconut cakes lined the buffet. They were flanked by Depression glass jars of divinity and chocolate fudge.
Almost everything was planned and ready for tomorrow’s Christmas dinner at the Penney house. Mama was busy chopping and preparing for those last few dishes that would be assembled Christmas morning. We could almost taste all that expectedly good food.
For the first time, Mama would miss our yearly Christmas Eve caroling. Only my brother, his wife, my younger sister and I, along with our boyfriends, would continue this tradition. Mama’s strong alto voice and her memory of every word to every carol would be missed and would dent our choral performance.
Ben Lomond had more than its share of older adults whose children had moved away shortly after graduation, returning only for funerals and infrequent visits.
Throughout the year, each of us had gathered small gifts; handkerchiefs, socks, bath powder, boxes of chocolate-covered cherries and homemade cookies and candies. Each gift was wrapped with its own personalized tag.
The night was cold. There was no moon, but the night was clear and light, so bright that no one needed a flashlight. As we made our way down the ridge, stopping, singing and handing out small gifts, we were greeted with hugs, tears, thanks and offerings of cake and coffee. We felt warmed by their love and appreciation.
Our last stop was the one about which we weren’t really sure.
A few years earlier, an old preacher, his wife and one daughter had come home after years of traveling from town to town, extolling the good news of the Gospel. Having no home and little money, Brother Davis sought to move into the two-story building that stood in the middle of town, reminding us of years and
peoples many decades past.
This leaning building once served as the Masonic Hall for five Arkansas counties, but we only knew it as a scary, boarded-up eyesore that had housed bales of hay and rodents. The few rooms at the rear of this building were retrofitted for a dwelling. This was where Brother Davis had come to die.
Tired but happy, we stepped onto the small tin-covered porch and began to sing.
The door opened and two women, dressed in long, dark homemade dresses, black stockings and heavy sweaters, began to praise God. Arms lifted and smiles beaming,
Mrs. Nellie, the mother, began to dance and shout, still praising our Savior and His sacrifice. A tingle of joy ran up this Presbyterian’s spine. At that moment sleet began to pellet the little tin roof. The sound was so deafening that it nearly drowned out our singing.
We gave our meager gifts (all that were left) to those Godly women who gave thanks and praises where they belonged
— to the God who sent His Son to redeem us.
As we stepped off the little porch, Joe Edd, my brother, held out his hands, palms up, and said, “There’s no sleet, not even a mist!”
We found no sleet anywhere, none on our cars or on the ground surrounding the porch.
Back at the Penney house, we told Mama and Daddy about the sleet which obviously had only fallen onto the top of the little tin roof. Mama smiled and said, “Don’t you know what that was? It was the Holy Spirit.”
The next day we gave thanks and praises not only for family and food, but also for the Christ whose birthday we celebrated and for that Christmas Eve experience that would remain etched in each of our memories.