The Christmas Miracle

“A parent’s job isn’t just to teach, but sometimes to protect their child’s innocence a little while longer.”

When I was about five or six years old, I had a pet hamster named Willie. At the time, our family didn’t have any other pets, so Willie was my constant companion. I absolutely adored that little guy and played with him every day after school. At night, I’d listen to him running endlessly on his treadmill, the steady rhythm of his tiny feet becoming a comforting sound.

One evening, I asked my dad a question that had been on my mind: “Dad, how far do you think Willie runs every night?”

Now, my dad knew everything. At least, that’s how it seemed to me. I had never once asked him a question he couldn’t answer—until that moment. He paused, then said, “I don’t know, but we can find out.”

“How?” I asked, intrigued.

My dad was a draftsman by trade, but he had the mind of an engineer. He worked at Boeing on the UH-1N Huey helicopters, and problem-solving was second nature to him.

“Well,” he said, “we can hook up a counter to the treadmill. If we measure the length of the wheel, we can calculate how many miles he runs each night.”

“Cool!” I said. “Let’s do it!”

And so we did. It turned out that little Willie was quite the athlete—he ran an astonishing five miles every night. I was so proud of him, my tiny marathoner.

For two or three years, Willie was a happy and energetic little guy. But then, one winter, just before Christmas, I noticed he was losing weight and had stopped eating. I was heartbroken. My dad, always the problem solver, had an idea.

“Let’s put Willie outside in the trash can bin for a few nights,” he suggested. We had this bin my father build that stored the trash cans behind our house.

“Won’t he die in the cold?” I asked, alarmed.

“No,” he reassured me. “Hamsters have fur coats. They can survive in the cold, and in fact, it might even help him get better.”

At five years old, I believed everything my dad told me. If he said the cold would make Willie better, then I trusted him completely. So, we put Willie’s cage out in the bin and waited.

Three nights later, my dad walked into the house carrying Willie’s cage, a big smile on his face.

“Look at this, Richard!” he announced. (That’s what they called me when I was little.) “Willie is all better! He’s eating again and looks healthy!”

I was overjoyed. My Christmas miracle. Willie went on to live for another two or three years—an unusually long time for a hamster. I was convinced he had set some kind of record.

It wasn’t until I was in junior high that I finally figured it out: Willie #1 hadn’t recovered at all. He had passed away in that cold shed, and my dad, in his endless love for me, had quietly replaced him with Willie #2.

I never held that little trick against him. He had only been trying to protect me from the heartbreak of losing my beloved pet, especially during Christmas. That was my dad—always looking out for me, always making sure my childhood was filled with wonder and joy.

So, to all the parents out there—make these kinds of memories with your kids. They’ll never forget them. I know I never will.

My father’s personality