Article December 20, 2004 Issue

A London celebration with a difference

By Madora Kibbe

There are two different ways to tell this story. One way is to say I once spent Christmas alone with my mother, 3,000 miles away from my brother and father, with no presents, no tree, no decorations, no friends. That sounds very sad indeed, doesn't it? But it couldn't be further from the truth—the sad bit, that is. The other more honest way is to say I had one of the best Christmases ever, in spite of the fact that my family was separated—my dad and my brother in sunny California, my mother and I in chilly England.

I believe we can always choose how we view our circumstances. The Christmas I spent in London when I was 17 is still one of my most treasured holidays, because that was the year I learned a holiday can truly be a holy day.

I had spent two wonderful years in London with my family, and having returned to the States, I had saved my money so that I could purchase a plane ticket back and spend my Christmas break seeing old friends. My mom wisely decided to tag along, saying she wanted to pack up a few last items that were stored at a cousin's house. My dad was working, so he couldn't come; and my older brother was in college, and broke, plus he wanted to stay home with our dad. Since the four of us were always together, one Christmas apart didn't seem like such a terrible thing.

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