Wishing for a Different Gift
Christmas when I was six-years-old was a memorable one. Not because of the gifts I received, but because of the hard lesson I learned. We spent every Christmas at my grandparents’ home in wintery Logan, Utah. I can’t recall a Christmas in my youth that wasn’t a picture Norman Rockwell wouldn’t have loved to paint. One of my grandparents’ Christmas trees was placed at one end of their front living room. Frocked, with gold ornaments and white Christmas lights,…