December 22, 2020
It was about 7: 30 p.m. on Christmas Eve, 1951, in the Bronx. At nine years of age, I was the eldest of the four children in our family and allowed to stay up on this magical evening. My three younger sisters had already fallen asleep, dreaming of the excitement of the next day.
In the last half-hour, relatives had been stopping by with all manner of gifts, passing them through our first-floor window. They were placed under and around our Christmas tree. With my modest counting skills, I counted more than fifty dolls on the sofa alone.
My mother was pacing the room. I heard her say, “Where is HE?!”
The “HE” was my father. The fullness of her question came out in bursts: “Where is he?! … he left here at 8 o’clock this morning with over $400 to buy presents for his children. He and Murphy left together … where are they?!”
Just then, I could hear the scratching of a key trying to find the lock on the door. I knew what that meant. Dad was coming home, very looped.
My mother open the door and, yep, there he was almost horizontal. Somehow he got to his favorite chair just across from the tree. As much as the lights glowed, he was brighter.
My mother stood over him saying, “Bernard, how could you?! $400! Presents for your children! Oh, Bernard, how could you?!”
Somehow, my mother got my father to stand. She turned out his pockets, went through his favorite chair, and came up with a handful of change.
Turning to me, she said, “Bernard, here’s some money. Go, buy your sisters some coloring books and some crayons, too.” Off I went into the night to the corner store and returned quickly.
As I came into the apartment, I heard my mother continuing, “Oh, Bernard, how could you?!” I dropped the books and crayons by the tree and ran to my room and bed.
Christmas morning came with great glee. My sisters were ecstatic. I was happy. And, my parents, after the previous evening, seemed subdued and peaceful. It was a very merry Christmas, after all!
Over time, I forgot that Christmas Eve.
Then came the end of June, 1971. I was a young priest based in Minnesota who had a few days earlier home had flown home to bury my father.
After the funeral, my mother asked me to collect my father’s clothes and take them down to the Paulists to distribute to the poor.
“And,” she added, “go through the suits to see if there are any papers or (possibly) money in the pockets.” I did just that and found a letter. Just one.
The envelope showed it to be from the St. Charles Home for Children in Brooklyn and the Sisters of Mercy. I took a letter out of the envelope, dated December 26, 1951.
“Dear Mr. Campbell,” the letter began, “All the sisters and the children were thrilled by your and Mr. Murphy’s wonderful presence with us on Christmas Eve. Mr. Murphy, dressed as Santa, and you as an Irish leprechaun entertained us thoroughly. And the gifts for each of the children were so great a blessing. The sisters and I hope you and Santa found the bottle of scotch we left in your car to warm both of you.”
I folded the letter, put it in my pocket, and laughed and cried for some time.
In the years that have followed, I have never forgotten Christmas Eve, 1951. No wonder he was glowing!
Paulist Fr. Bernard Campbell lives at the Paulist Fathers’ motherhouse in New York City.