My phone buzzed with a notification. Instagram analytics showing my follower count had climbed to 532,891 overnight.
You're here to help with Christmas Wishes. Not to obsess over numbers.
Checking my reflection in the rearview mirror, I took inventory. Minimal makeup today—just mascara and lip gloss. Hair in a simple ponytail. Practical clothes: jeans, boots, a thick sweater under my parka. I'd dressed for actual work, not content creation.
At exactly 9 AM, I grabbed my laptop bag and walked up to the front door.
Bart answered on the first knock, and my stomach did that annoying flutter thing. Worn jeans hugged his legs, and a dark gray henley clung to his shoulders in a way that made my mouthgo dry. His silver hair was slightly damp like he'd just showered, the color darker when wet but still striking.
"Morning," he said, those steel-blue eyes studying me with an intensity that made my pulse skip. "You're on time."
"I keep my promises."
Something shifted in his expression—not quite a smile, but close. "Come on. I'll show you what we're working with."
He led me around the side of the house. I'd been so nervous during my arrival that I hadn't fully taken in the property. The main house was gorgeous—a large mountain lodge with huge windows and a wraparound porch, easily 3,500 square feet. Not something that would qualify a mansion but still impressive. Beyond it sat a detached workshop building with big windows, and further back, a large red barn.
"That's where I make furniture," he said, catching me looking at the workshop. "The barn is where we'll be working on Christmas Wishes."
The path to the barn had been cleared of snow, boots crunching on the packed surface. My breath came out in white puffs. Despite my parka, the cold bit through.
When Bart pulled open the barn doors, I stopped dead in the doorway.
The interior took my breath away.
A huge corkboard dominated one wall, covered with wish lists on different colored paper—dozens of them, each one a family's hope for the holidays. Folding tables lined the space as wrapping stations, stocked with rolls of paper, ribbon, tape, scissors, boxes. Against the far wall, shelves held gifts that had already been purchased—toys, winter coats, boxes that looked like groceries, art supplies.
Space heaters hummed in two corners, making the barn surprisingly warm despite the cold outside. Lights draped alongthe rafters cast a soft glow over everything, and a small speaker in the corner played instrumental carols.
This wasn't some halfhearted charity idea. This was organized. Thoughtful. Beautiful.
"You've already done so much," I breathed, walking slowly into the space. My boots echoed on the wooden floor.
"Started planning in September. Converted the barn last spring." He gestured at the corkboard. "Twenty-seven families so far, but I know there are more who need help. People too proud to ask, or who don't know the program exists yet."
I moved closer to the corkboard, scanning the handwritten requests. My throat tightened as I read:
Dear Christmas Wishes,
My name is Sarah and I have three kids (Emma 8, Noah 6, Lily 4). We're struggling this year after my husband left. The kids need winter coats (sizes 8, 6, and 4T) and maybe some small toys if possible. I just want them to have a real Christmas. Thank you for any help you can give.
- Sarah M.
My vision blurred. I blinked hard, but a tear escaped anyway.
"Hey." Bart's voice gentled. He was suddenly closer, though I hadn't heard him move. "You okay?"
"Yeah." I wiped at my face, embarrassed. "I just—I've been so wrapped up in my own problems. These people need help with basics. Winter coats. Food. It makes everything I've been stressed about feel really small."
He was quiet for a moment, and when I glanced at him, his expression had softened.
"Come here." He guided me to one of the folding tables where a stack of wish lists sat. "Read this one."
I picked up the page, written in shaky elderly handwriting:
I'm 73 and live alone. Haven't had a real Christmas in years. Would love a warm blanket and maybe some groceries. God bless you for doing this.
- Margaret P.
