Decembers in Heidelberg, Germany, are bleak. The ridgelines of the Odenwald are often shrouded in a misty fog. And it was going to be an even bleaker Christmas for the newly arrived Army captain and his six-month pregnant wife. They had arrived in town at mid-month and were living out of suitcases in the cramped BOQ. They had no household goods or transportation as these had not yet arrived from the states.

Two days before Christmas they had secured housing in Kirchheim, a small township adjacent to Heidelberg. The landlord loaned them a bed, a kitchen table and chairs to make do.

The first order of business was to find and decorate a tree, which was no problem as Kirchheim was full of shops typically found in larger cities. But the tree pickings were slim and they settled for what surely must have been the prototype for Charlie Brown's tree. Nevertheless, it was beautiful.

The next order of business was to run to the Bakerel, Metzgerel and Lebensmittel for some food. But the newly arrived strangers were unaware that the shops, ALL the shops, closed at noon on Christmas Eve and would not reopen until the 27th.

Desperate for something to eat, the newly arrived strangers wandered into the Wasserturm gasthaus where they were met with suspicious but not unkind stares by the regular patrons. The waitress approached and took their drink orders but informed them the kitchen was closed. Now what?

After an hour some of the locals began to chat with them and learned of their plight. Soon, the waitress returned with her husband, the chef, in tow to let their new neighbors know the kitchen was open and to please order anything they would like. After eating their meals, the newcomers formally met their benefactors, Helmut and Ellen Frontzek, the Wasserturm's proprietors.

Several hours of getting to know you conversation followed, and when it was time to go Helmut and Ellen presented their new friends with enough food and drink to tide them over until the stores reopened three days later. Walking the several blocks to their lovely but bare garden apartment, they both agreed this was the best Christmas present they had ever received.

Over the next three years the Frontzeks and Americans were inseparable. Countless meals and fellowship in the gasthaus. Sightseeing and shopping trips. Concerts and festivals. They had grown so close the Frontzeks became the godparents of the captain and his wife's daughters. Even after returning to America, they remained friends, and the Frontzeks were able to enjoy an extended visit to America.

When you think about it, Christmas is what you make it. Parties, presents, revelry and mistletoe are certainly a part of it. But when you open your heart and home to those when there's no room in the inn, that is the very essence of Christmas and its spirit.

The Wasserturn is gone now. Helmut and Ellen have retired to their birthplace in Danzig. And my wife and I will always love them and recall the most beautiful Christmas of our lives.