Several years ago, when my girls were still young, my bride announced that the upcoming Christmas Eve would feature a family talent show the afternoon before candlelight service. I called it ye olde English Christmas, a reference to all those Jane Austen and Masterpiece Classic shows where families gather in the sitting room after dinner and talk, sing, play cards, and so forth. Back when people used to interact, before the invention of the telly and the smartphone. Now it should be known that my wife and daughters put the extra in extrovert, natural born performers all, whereas I, alas, have limited gifts with which to enthrall an audience. My contribution was to put pen to paper and chronicle the story below. This was an oft told story in our family, of an adventure traveling with small children at Christmas time. I recorded it for posterity that Christmas Eve, and offer it here for your consideration this Advent season. May it bring you some small joy, and a gentle reminder that this is a season of patient waiting, and expectation for the arrival of our savior. Blessings – PAT
Joy to the Girls
If you’re lucky enough to have grown up in a place like Syracuse, New York – the snowiest major city in the continental U.S. – then you were raised with the understanding that snow is just an everyday occurrence. Well, maybe not every day. There are a few months in the summer when it doesn’t snow, but from October to April, it’s pretty likely. A gift from our good neighbors in Canada, it blows down from the Great White North, across the icy waters of Lake Ontario, and deposits itself in Central New York. You’re welcome, eh.
It may be just a dusting, it may be a few inches or a few feet, but most of the time, it’s just another day in a wintry paradise, and life goes on. When I was a kid, my mother taught in the same district where I attended school. In those pre-cable TV, pre-internet, pre-cell phone days – you know, the days where I rode a stegosaurus to school – she would receive an early morning telephone call advising her when school was closed due to snow. I would lie in my basement bedroom, waiting for the phone to ring so I could roll over and go back to sleep. It almost never rang.
Many years later, I relocated to the Baltimore, Maryland, area, where things were decidedly different. Schools were closed on a forecast of snow, before a single flake had fallen. A proclamation of impending weather from the local meteorologist was sufficient to send crowds flocking to the local grocery store to stock up on milk, bread and toilet paper. The entire region would routinely be brought to a standstill from a winter storm.
One Christmas season years ago, we decided to make an early December trek from Baltimore to Albuquerque, to visit family before Christmas. Early December storms were rare, but the night before we were to leave, the weather man brought us the good news of an impending storm. True to form, plans to close down the city began in earnest, local dairies stepped up deliveries, and grocers across the region threw open their doors to the crowds.
We had an early morning flight, so we promptly called the airport – Baltimore Washington International – to ask if flights were going to be cancelled. “No,” was the cheery response. “Everything is fine, come on down!”
The next morning, we awoke to a winter wonderland that would make any resident of the northeast proud. Snow was already thick on the ground, and more was falling. Schools, Government offices, and many businesses were already closed. Surely, there was no way we were going to fly in this kind of weather, but we called the airport to be certain flights weren’t canceled. “No,” was the cheery response. “Everything is fine, come on down!”
I quickly brushed off the car, warmed it up, and loaded our belongings. This was our first time traveling with our two young daughters – our oldest two-and-a-half-year-old, and our youngest who was not quite one yet – and as overly cautious parents are wont to do, we were traveling with plenty of gear.
Once loaded, we made a last call to the airport, just to make sure. Surely flights are cancelled? “No,” was the cheery response. “Everything is fine, come on down!”
We quickly embarked on the first leg of our journey, which under normal circumstances would have been a 45-minute drive from our house to BWI. The snowplows and sanders were out in full force, but we still passed many cars that had slid off the road into the ditch. Conditions were treacherous, to say the least, and we finally reached the airport almost two-and-a-half hours after we’d left.
By the time we pulled up to the departure drop-off, we’d used up any time margin we’d had, and were dangerously close to being late for our scheduled flight. Still not believing that flights would be departing on time, my wife jumped out of the car and ran inside to inquire at the ticket counter. As bad as things were, surely flights would not be leaving on time? “No,” was the cheery response. “Everything is fine, come on in!”
Running out of time, we quickly unloaded the car, and I left my bride by the ticket counter with our two toddlers and a mountain of luggage. There was no time to get to long term parking and back again, so I headed to the nearby parking garage. $30 a day, for our ten-day trip. You do the math. I was not amused.
I ran back to the terminal, we got in line to check our bags, and promptly began to… wait. And wait. I was never quite sure how the snow outside was able to slow down things inside the terminal, but after what seemed like hours we finally made it to the counter. Slightly exasperated at this point, I inquired again as to the feasibility of flights actually leaving on time. “Yes,” was the less than cheery response. “Everything is fine, and you’d better hurry to your gate or you’ll miss your flight!”
We quickly dashed through the airport terminal towards the departure gate. Well, dashed may be an exaggeration. We went as quickly as possible, with two kids, our carry-ons, and a stroller. But alas, we soon realized that any dashing was for naught. We rounded the corner heading into the corridor that led to our gate, and got our first glimpse of every travelers worst nightmare – the line to get through security.
Evidently there were other hardy souls who had braved the inclement weather in the hopes of an on-time departure. We waited patiently in line. And then we waited not so patiently. I glanced at my watch as the minutes ticked by. We’d left our house more than three hours ago, but were still dangerously close to missing our flight.
Finally, our turn arrived. We placed our bags and the stroller on the conveyer, and I stepped up to the x-ray machine with my eldest daughter. I looked up at the TSA agent for permission to walk through. And then looked up a little further. Now, I’m an even 6 feet tall, but this gentlemen towered over me. I wondered if the regular TSA agents weren’t able to make it in because of the weather, so they recruited the defensive line from the Ravens to stand-in as security.
He gave me the nod, and I started to step through the x-ray with my daughter. “No,” I heard in a deep voice that was vaguely reminiscent of Optimus Prime. “One at a time.”
I looked down at my two-year-old, who suddenly seemed much tinier than usual, then back at the giant TSA agent. “I think it would be better if she went with me,” I said. “No,” was the firm response.
“Really,” I said, “it’s better for everyone if we go together.” “No,” was the firmer second response.
“OK, buddy, it’s your funeral,” I said (on the inside). I stepped through the gate first, and then turned to face my daughter to encourage her to come through on her own. But she only had eyes for the ginormous figure in front of her.
He leaned down slightly towards her. “Come through,” Optimus urged. She shook her head ever so slightly side to side. “Uh-uh.”
He leaned in further. “Come through.” I was certain that any Transformers in our midst were starting to quiver in fear. She shook her head more vigorously. “Uh-uh.”
He leaned in further still, slightly exasperated at this puny earthling refusing his commands. “Come. Through.” She stopped shaking her head, took a deep breath, and proceeded to notify everyone within a 200 meter radius that she was not pleased. Windows vibrated to the point of cracking, adults within earshot winced, and I saw a small dog in a carry-on kennel cower and cover his ears with his paws.
I stepped back through the x-ray machine, managed to calm her down, and nudged her through the machine. As we walked through I overhead Optimus Gigantor mutter to a co-worker, “Must be a Daddy’s girl.” “Dude, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” I said. On the inside.
Lesson learned, they allowed my wife and the baby to circumvent the x-ray machine, and pulled them to the side for inspection with a handheld magnetometer. A much more diminutive female TSA agent did the honors. She slowly waved the wand over my wife, then over the baby my bride had cradled in her arms.
As the wand passed over the baby’s bottom a distinctive beep-beep was heard. “Ah-hah,” exclaimed the TSA agent. “Ah-hah?” I said. “Ah-hah what?”
The agent passed the wand over the baby’s little behind again, much slower this time, and again the wand emitted a sharp beep-beep. “Ah-hah,” she exclaimed, slightly louder this time, and with a hint of glee. “Again with the ah-hah,” I said, “what is there to ah-hah about?”
She pointed triumphantly at the baby’s diaper and exclaimed, “There’s something in there!”
Now, after more than three hours, I’m fairly certain there was indeed something in that diaper, and I’m equally certain that it was nothing to ah-hah about.
“You need to take the diaper off so we can search it,” said the TSA agent. Seriously? “Well, you’re on your own with that,” I thought. Fortunately, before I could speak my mind, and potentially land us in jail, my wife’s cooler head prevailed, and she pointed out the metal snaps on the baby’s onesie. Mystery solved, we were left to collect our belongings, get dressed, and scramble for the gate.
As we approached the gate, I could see that the boarding area was already empty. Not a good sign. A harried looking gate agent stood behind the counter. “Is the flight on time?” we inquired. “Yes,” was the definitely not cheery response, uttered through clenched teeth. “Everything is fine, but you’re late. We’ve been waiting for you, get on the plane!”
Not one to turn down such a delightful invitation, we headed down the ramp and onto the plane. Directly into the baleful glares of the other passengers, who were apparently none too pleased at having had to wait for us. As quickly as possible, we stowed our belongings below the seats, buckled the girls in, and then got ourselves situated.
A few moments later the flight attendants completed their pre-flight activities, and we pulled away from the gate. I checked my watch. Miraculously, we were leaving on time. I relaxed for the first time in several hours, sat back and watched as the plane slowly pulled away from the jetway. I could see the jetway opening from my seat, and it slowly receded; a few inches, 5 feet, 10 feet, 12 feet… And then it stopped fading.
I sat for a few minutes, not really cluing in to what was happening. Or rather, what wasn’t happening. Realization slowly started to dawn on me, and the little voice inside my head said, “Oh, crap.” Only it didn’t say crap. Then the voice was interrupted by the voice of the captain, coming over the loudspeaker, to inform us that the flight was going to be delayed due to weather. “Sit back and remain calm,” he intoned, “it might take a while for them to clear the runway and de-ice the plane.” “Really?” my inner voice said, “who would have ever guessed that this might happen?”
A low grumble started to grow around me as my fellow passengers began to realize that they were trapped on a plane, sitting on the tarmac, in the middle of a snowstorm. I just sat and stared longingly at the open jetway, sitting a scant 12 feet away. I bet there was food inside there. And hot coffee. Freedom. I measured the distance from the jetway to the door of the plane with my eye. I bet I could make it if I could get a running start.
When all was said and done, we sat on that runway for more than five hours. It was hot, then it was cold, then it was hot again, and so on. People quickly grew angry, and more than a few decided to vent their frustrations on the hapless flight attendants, who were doing their best to keep everyone as comfortable as possible. It was not a pretty sight.
We did the best we could, and were grateful we’d decided to bring along snacks, extra diapers, stuffed animals, and activities for the trip. My wife and our eldest were seated directly in front of me and the baby, and we did our best with a bad situation. Although I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t slightly grumpy. Okay, maybe more than slightly.
About mid-way through our five hour ordeal, I was playing with the baby, when I noticed out of the corner of my eye that our two-and-a-half year-old was standing up in her seat. She was facing backwards, the headrest of her seat gripped in her chubby little hands, surveying the passengers behind her. I turned to watch her, and saw her take a deep breath.
Now, every parent has been in this situation at one time or another. You’re in public, you see your darling child take that big gulp of air, and you just know something is going to come out. Chances are, it’s not going to be pretty, and all you can do is say, “Oh no.”
So I sat helpless, watched my daughter fill her lungs, throw back her shoulders, and unleash the most rousing rendition of Jingle Bells that the free world has ever heard. She nailed it, like she was singing the National Anthem at the Super Bowl. Her younger sister, not quite able to join in on the chorus, nevertheless pulled herself up in her seat and began the bouncy baby dance, fist in the air. “Go sister, go,” she cried. On the inside.
As she finished her public singing debut, the plane fell completely silent. For a split second, not a grumble or a complaint or a criticism or a negative thought could be heard. And then, the entire plane erupted in applause. My girls just stood and beamed, their smiles melting the grinchiest grinches on that aircraft.
After that moment, there was a palpable change in attitude on that plane. You could feel the tension lift, and actual laughter could be heard. People began chatting with one another, and the flight attendants began to smile again. More than a few people came by to thank the girls for the entertainment.
The lesson learned from that moment, is that Joy is contagious. Two little girls, in their joyful exuberance, infected an entire planeload of crabby people, and showed them that even when things aren’t going our way, there’s still cause for Joy.
This is a lesson especially appropriate at this time of year, when stress, frustration, and dashed expectations all too often get the best of us, and make us forget about the gift that was given to each and every one of us, two thousand years ago. Nothing can ever dim the Joy that the King has come, He came for us, and He will come again.
We never did make it to Albuquerque that day. We missed our connection in Houston, and ended up spending the night in a hotel at the airport. None of that mattered, though. We’d learned our lesson well, and were grateful for being together, for the kind people around us, and for the Joy of knowing a Savior who always forgives, never forsakes, and whose love endures forever.
Merry Christmas.
P.A. Tennant – Christmas Eve, 2014
Soli Deo Gloria
Photo: P.A. Tennant
Copyright 2025 Paul A. Tennant
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P.A. Tennant 