by Diane Dean White
One year while awaiting to move into our own home, we rented an older house in town. It had bedrooms that our children could share and a nice kitchen, dining area and large spacious living room and enclosed front porch. Our bedroom was at the front of the house and the children's were next to the kitchen near the back.
As many older spacious homes have, this one had a large attic that had been converted into a small studio apartment. The young man who lived there, was always polite but would soon be moving to another area and new job. The children walked to their schools across the street, and the stores and library were close by. The apartment upstairs remained empty for some time.
With the coming of Thanksgiving, I was busy with preparations for the children and the activities they were involved in. Among my daily rounds, I didn't notice the young mother and her little girl until after they had moved in. I immediately placed some cookies on a plate and took our eighth grade daughter up the side stairway to greet our new neighbors. A young girl in her middle twenties stood in the doorway and stepping back, asked us to come in. Her young daughter spotted the cookies and gave us a bright cheerful grin! You could tell they were Mother and daughter each had lovely blond hair and kind smiles.
I introduced myself and my daughter and we talked about the area for a few minutes. Before leaving, Jennifer volunteered to watch the little girl if her Mother was in need of a baby sitter. It turned out that she had her daughter enrolled in daycare while she was at work, but Saturdays she might need to call on her. We assured her that was fine.
A few days before Thanksgiving, I realized how much I missed our own stove and oven, which was packed away while we were renting. I made a mental note to clean the oven before baking my pies the next day. It was a gas stove, and although I liked cooking over gas, I'd always had an electric stove before.
We were planning on grandparents, aunts, uncles and other family members to come and share the day. I also sent a note up to the gal in the apartment and invited her and her daughter to join us. She stopped by later and thanked us but said they would be going home that night to visit her family for the holiday.
That evening after the children were in bed, I remembered the oven and asked my husband if he would spray the oven cleaner inside and lay papers under it. He took care of it while I busied myself with other things; then we went to bed.
A little after midnight we awakened to someone banging at the front the door, and while grabbing our bathrobes, realized there was smoke all over the place. I ran to the children's rooms as my husband went to the door. There stood our new neighbor and her little girl. They had just arrived home, and she smelled smoke and called the fire department. Within minutes they came with the siren on and burst into the house. I had gathered the children onto the front porch, wrapped in blankets, far away from the kitchen area.
Immediately, the firemen realized where the smoke had started and what had happened. In my haste to have a clean oven, I forgot that paper to catch the grease doesn't go under a gas oven, and although it had taken a few hours, it had caught fire and the smoke was spreading around the house. We felt awful. The damage was minimal, but the most important thing to us was our three children who had been sleeping nearby were safe. After airing the house out, with the help of our friendly fire department, we went back to bed, thankful everyone was okay.
Thanksgiving came and we enjoyed pies baked in a clean oven! A turkey, roasted in a clean oven and sweet potato soufflù, cranberry sauce, other vegetables and favorite dressings and trimmings. We were truly grateful for the Lord's protection over us and for a kind neighbor upstairs.
As we looked forward to the Christmas holiday, I watched for our neighbor and her little girl, having made some eggnog and cookies, I wanted to invite them in. I also had a special gift for each of them. But, the truth was, after that evening when she came and knocked on our door, I hadn't seen them. I made a trip up to their door and peaked in through the window, the place was empty, as if nobody had even been there. I tried contacting the landlord, but he didn't know anything about them. It seemed incredible, I wanted to thank them again. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized their short stay had possibly saved us all in an old house that could have gone up in flames so quickly.
A Thanksgiving Day doesn't go by but what I think of the young mother and her entrance and exit in our lives. I will never know why she was coming home at all that night, as she had been going to visit her own family for Thanksgiving. I know God brings many people into our lives for various reasons. An Angel? Perhaps. What I do know for certain, is that each Thanksgiving I remember an old house with young children, and I especially give thanks for the messenger He sent, allowing us to celebrate many more Thanksgiving Days, and that is my special blessing from Him.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
The Little Match Seller
by Hans Christian Andersen
It was terribly cold and nearly dark on the last evening of the old year, and the snow was falling fast. In the cold and the darkness, a poor little girl, with bare head and naked feet, roamed through the streets. It is true she had on a pair of slippers when she left home, but they were not of much use. They were very large, so large, indeed, that they had belonged to her mother, and the poor little creature had lost them in running across the street to avoid two carriages that were rolling along at a terrible rate. One of the slippers she could not find, and a boy seized upon the other and ran away with it, saying that he could use it as a cradle, when he had children of his own. So the little girl went on with her little naked feet, which were quite red and blue with the cold. In an old apron she carried a number of matches, and had a bundle of them in her hands. No one had bought anything of her the whole day, nor had any one given here even a penny. Shivering with cold and hunger, she crept along; poor little child, she looked the picture of misery. The snowflakes fell on her long, fair hair, which hung in curls on her shoulders, but she regarded them not.
Lights were shining from every window, and there was a savory smell of roast goose, for it was New Year's Eve- yes, she remembered that. In a corner, between two houses, one of which projected beyond the other, she sank down and huddled herself together. She had drawn her little feet under her, but she could not keep off the cold; and she dared not go home, for she had sold no matches, and could not take home even a penny of money. Her father would certainly beat her; besides, it was almost as cold at home as here, for they had only the roof to cover them, through which the wind howled, although the largest holes had been stopped up with straw and rags. Her little hands were almost frozen with the cold. Ah! Perhaps a burning match might be some good, if she could draw it from the bundle and strike it against the wall, just to warm her fingers. She drew one out-"scratch!" how it sputtered as it burnt! It gave a warm, bright light, like a little candle, as she held her hand over it. It was really a wonderful light. It seemed to the little girl that she was sitting by a large iron stove, with polished brass feet and a brass ornament. How the fire burned! and seemed so beautifully warm that the child stretched out her feet as if to warm them, when, lo! the flame of the match went out, the stove vanished, and she had only the remains of the half-burnt match in her hand.
She rubbed another match on the wall. It burst into a flame, and where its light fell upon the wall it became as transparent as a veil, and she could see into the room. The table was covered with a snowy white table-cloth, on which stood a splendid dinner service, and a steaming roast goose, stuffed with apples and dried plums. And what was still more wonderful, the goose jumped down from the dish and waddled across the floor, with a knife and fork in its breast, to the little girl. Then the match went out, and there remained nothing but the thick, damp, cold wall before her.
She lighted another match, and then she found herself sitting under a beautiful Christmas-tree. It was larger and more beautifully decorated than the one which she had seen through the glass door at the rich merchant's. Thousands of tapers were burning upon the green branches, and colored pictures, like those she had seen in the show-windows, looked down upon it all. The little one stretched out her hand towards them, and the match went out.
The Christmas lights rose higher and higher, till they looked to her like the stars in the sky. Then she saw a star fall, leaving behind it a bright streak of fire. "Some one is dying," thought the little girl, for her old grandmother, the only one who had ever loved her, and who was now dead, had told her that when a star falls, a soul was going up to God.
She again rubbed a match on the wall, and the light shone round her; in the brightness stood her old grandmother, clear and shining, yet mild and loving in her appearance. "Grandmother," cried the little one, "O take me with you; I know you will go away when the match burns out; you will vanish like the warm stove, the roast goose, and the large, glorious Christmas tree." And she made haste to light the whole bundle of matches, for she wished to keep her grandmother there. And the matches glowed with a light that was brighter than the noonday, and her grandmother had never appeared so large or so beautiful. She took the little girl in her arms, and they both flew upwards in brightness and joy far above the earth, where there was neither cold nor hunger nor pain, for they were with God.
In the dawn of morning there lay the poor little one, with pale cheeks and smiling mouth, leaning against the wall; she had been frozen to death on the last evening of the year; and the New Year's sun rose and shone upon a little corpse! The child still sat, in the stiffness of death, holding the matches in her hand, one bundle of which was burnt. "She tried to warm herself," said some. No one imagined what beautiful things she had seen, nor into what glory she had entered with her grandmother, on New Year's day.
It was terribly cold and nearly dark on the last evening of the old year, and the snow was falling fast. In the cold and the darkness, a poor little girl, with bare head and naked feet, roamed through the streets. It is true she had on a pair of slippers when she left home, but they were not of much use. They were very large, so large, indeed, that they had belonged to her mother, and the poor little creature had lost them in running across the street to avoid two carriages that were rolling along at a terrible rate. One of the slippers she could not find, and a boy seized upon the other and ran away with it, saying that he could use it as a cradle, when he had children of his own. So the little girl went on with her little naked feet, which were quite red and blue with the cold. In an old apron she carried a number of matches, and had a bundle of them in her hands. No one had bought anything of her the whole day, nor had any one given here even a penny. Shivering with cold and hunger, she crept along; poor little child, she looked the picture of misery. The snowflakes fell on her long, fair hair, which hung in curls on her shoulders, but she regarded them not.
Lights were shining from every window, and there was a savory smell of roast goose, for it was New Year's Eve- yes, she remembered that. In a corner, between two houses, one of which projected beyond the other, she sank down and huddled herself together. She had drawn her little feet under her, but she could not keep off the cold; and she dared not go home, for she had sold no matches, and could not take home even a penny of money. Her father would certainly beat her; besides, it was almost as cold at home as here, for they had only the roof to cover them, through which the wind howled, although the largest holes had been stopped up with straw and rags. Her little hands were almost frozen with the cold. Ah! Perhaps a burning match might be some good, if she could draw it from the bundle and strike it against the wall, just to warm her fingers. She drew one out-"scratch!" how it sputtered as it burnt! It gave a warm, bright light, like a little candle, as she held her hand over it. It was really a wonderful light. It seemed to the little girl that she was sitting by a large iron stove, with polished brass feet and a brass ornament. How the fire burned! and seemed so beautifully warm that the child stretched out her feet as if to warm them, when, lo! the flame of the match went out, the stove vanished, and she had only the remains of the half-burnt match in her hand.
She rubbed another match on the wall. It burst into a flame, and where its light fell upon the wall it became as transparent as a veil, and she could see into the room. The table was covered with a snowy white table-cloth, on which stood a splendid dinner service, and a steaming roast goose, stuffed with apples and dried plums. And what was still more wonderful, the goose jumped down from the dish and waddled across the floor, with a knife and fork in its breast, to the little girl. Then the match went out, and there remained nothing but the thick, damp, cold wall before her.
She lighted another match, and then she found herself sitting under a beautiful Christmas-tree. It was larger and more beautifully decorated than the one which she had seen through the glass door at the rich merchant's. Thousands of tapers were burning upon the green branches, and colored pictures, like those she had seen in the show-windows, looked down upon it all. The little one stretched out her hand towards them, and the match went out.
The Christmas lights rose higher and higher, till they looked to her like the stars in the sky. Then she saw a star fall, leaving behind it a bright streak of fire. "Some one is dying," thought the little girl, for her old grandmother, the only one who had ever loved her, and who was now dead, had told her that when a star falls, a soul was going up to God.
She again rubbed a match on the wall, and the light shone round her; in the brightness stood her old grandmother, clear and shining, yet mild and loving in her appearance. "Grandmother," cried the little one, "O take me with you; I know you will go away when the match burns out; you will vanish like the warm stove, the roast goose, and the large, glorious Christmas tree." And she made haste to light the whole bundle of matches, for she wished to keep her grandmother there. And the matches glowed with a light that was brighter than the noonday, and her grandmother had never appeared so large or so beautiful. She took the little girl in her arms, and they both flew upwards in brightness and joy far above the earth, where there was neither cold nor hunger nor pain, for they were with God.
In the dawn of morning there lay the poor little one, with pale cheeks and smiling mouth, leaning against the wall; she had been frozen to death on the last evening of the year; and the New Year's sun rose and shone upon a little corpse! The child still sat, in the stiffness of death, holding the matches in her hand, one bundle of which was burnt. "She tried to warm herself," said some. No one imagined what beautiful things she had seen, nor into what glory she had entered with her grandmother, on New Year's day.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
The Cameron Birch Christmas Jar Story
by Jason F. Wright
I am often asked, "Who received the very first Christmas Jar?" While that’s impossible to know with complete certainty, I have always believed the first jar was received by perhaps the most worthy recipient ever. His name is Cameron Birch, and to commemorate this month’s release of Christmas Jars Reunion, the sequel to Christmas Jars, I thought a gentle reminder of where it began and why it matters four years later would be the perfect way to celebrate the arrival of colored leaves, crisp nights, and mysterious jars of change.
Cameron is a unique young man with a mission as inspiring as any you will ever hear. This is his story.
(As told by his father, Matt Birch, in December of 2005.)
_____
A little more than two years ago I was just a husband and father, enjoying my three amazing sons and beautiful wife. Cameron was four and like his older brothers, Braden and Tyson, had endless energy and personality and couldn't wait for the next big adventure. No one could have predicted the next adventure life had planned for him.
We embarked on that adventure January 9th, 2005 when we took Cameron to the emergency room after an unusually long bout with what we thought was a virus, or another average childhood ailment. Over the course of a month, spanning the Christmas holidays, his appetite left him and he began to lose weight. Every morning brought a severe headache and vomiting. He was actually excited to go to the hospital so the doctors could give him "good medicine to make my headaches go away," he said.
We all felt that way until a serious-looking doctor told us they found the reason Cameron was having headaches. "It's bad, very bad," he quietly whispered to us.
Six hours later we stood watching helplessly as Cameron was wheeled into surgery to have a malignant tumor the size of a golf ball removed from his brain. What was supposed to be nothing more than a quick trip to the hospital turned into a two-week stay. It was the first of many more to come.
My wife and I struggled to understand what was happening. It seemed surreal, as if life were simultaneously going in slow motion and at the speed of light. We worried about how to make a four-year-old understand something we hadn't yet grasped. We didn't have to. He never asked any questions like, "Why me?" He never complained. The closest he ever came to complaining was during a particularly difficult day when he said, "Dad, this cancer stuff stinks."
He suffered through six weeks of radiation and months and months of chemotherapy. The radiation was the hardest part for him. He was fed through a tube and continued to throw up 20 to 30 times a day. He couldn't eat, play with his friends, or do many of the things most of us take for granted. What he did do was smile, laugh, and inspire everyone who met him.
One day, during a discussion with his aunt, he declared, "My mission in life is to beat cancer." He fulfilled that mission with everything he had. His little body may have suffered in the battle, but cancer never stood a chance against his faith, smile, laugh, attitude, and spirit. He totally and completely forgot about himself and worried about other cancer patients.
He would say, "It hurts my heart" to see other cancer patients because he knew they didn't feel well. When he was first diagnosed, he began praying for the other children with cancer. In every prayer, without fail, he would ask, "Please help all the other kids kill their cancer." He rarely prayed for himself. He was more concerned for the other kids.
His efforts went beyond prayer, too. He acted on his mission to beat cancer. In July of 2005 he asked for help setting up a fundraiser for the "other kids." He set up "Cam's Stand For Kids With Cancer," a stand along the parade route of the largest parade in Utah. He sold drinks, ice cream, and candy, raising hundreds of dollars. He took every penny of it and with his brothers personally made "Build-a-Bears" for each of the brain tumor patients at Primary Children's Hospital. Here was a four-year-old boy with hundreds of dollars and not once did he ask if he could have some of it for himself. The only question he asked was, "When can we go give the kids their bears"?
For 11 months everything was going perfectly with his treatments. There was no sign of cancer anywhere. His health was good and he was even able to get out and enjoy his friends. We were starting to plan a neighborhood party to celebrate the end of his treatments, and were looking forward to our family's trip to Disney World through the Make-a-Wish Foundation. We believed he was one of the lucky few.
We never made it to Disney World. November of 2005 brought another discovery that turned our world upside down, again. During a routine MRI, they discovered the cancer had returned. It had come back with a vengeance and now coated his spine with a layer of cancerous cells and spread up into his brain. In a cruel irony, the original tumor location was still completely cancer free. Options for his treatments were very limited at this point. The doctors thought he would make it until Christmas, but they couldn't guarantee anything.
The day after his re-diagnosis, I was home alone with Cameron. Cameron didn't know his cancer had returned yet. I was curious to know how he would take the news. Throughout the treatments we had always talked to him about how it was possible for the cancer to come back, but never dwelt on that possibility. I asked him, "So buddy what would you do if your cancer came back?" Without hesitation he answered, "That would be OK, we would just start over and do it all again." So we started over.
Shortly before Christmas the new treatments began, and Cameron had another idea that he wouldn't let go of. He wanted to give something else to the kids suffering with cancer. He thought about it and talked about it with us. He wanted very much to buy some toys for the cancer patient's playroom in the hospital. He loved to play with the toys and puzzles when he went in for his treatments. The playroom was one of the only places the children could go to escape the pain and worries associated with the rest of the hospital. He talked to the nurses and social workers to find out which toys were needed the most. He was very excited to go and buy them for the kids.
Unfortunately, the cancer got ahead of Cameron's plans. He often spoke of going to the store to buy the toys but his little body had begun to shut down. He struggled to walk, his appetite was gone, and he was suffering from double vision making it difficult for him to watch his favorite movies or play video games. Cancer was slowly robbing him of all of his favorite things and robbing us of our little boy.
Late one night just before Christmas, a knock at the door changed our family forever. The kids rushed from the family room and threw open the door to find nothing but the cold December night. In place of a visitor, there were two large jars sitting on our porch. Each was labeled in bright letters, "Christmas Jar." Attached to one of them was a copy of the book Christmas Jars and a note. The note explained how the anonymous giver had read this book and how it had changed his life. My oldest two sons each brought a jar inside and excitedly unscrewed the lids. One jar was filled with pennies. The other was filled with other change and some paper money.
I had just read the book and so I retold the story as well as I could. We talked about what it means to give unselfishly to others. We tried to figure out what generous person might have left the jars. Cameron was very excited that someone would do that for him and his family. He understood we got the jars because he had cancer. A light that had been dimmed by illness burned a little brighter in Cameron's eyes that night. This simple act of giving stopped - for just one night - the steady march of a terrible disease.
The next morning, Cameron commenced with the counting. He got down on the floor and counted each penny one by one. When all the money had been carefully counted, the total was more than $300. Then Cameron said something that captured his true spirit, "Why do people want to help me so much?" he asked.
"Well, because people love you and they feel badly that you are sick so they want to help," I replied.
"But dad, I can do this all by myself," he calmly answered.
Cameron decided at that moment to take the money from the Christmas Jars and use it to buy the toys for the hospital's playroom.
Cameron was never well enough to go to the store and buy the toys himself. Three weeks after Christmas he suffered a severe seizure that sent him to the hospital for another stay in the ICU, much of it on life support. After two weeks, we were finally able to take him home where he spent his final ten days on this earth surrounded by family and friends. Even as his body lay in his bed losing its battle to cancer, physically unable to speak, he continued his life's mission of beating cancer.
Everyone who visited Cameron left with a new resolve to live life as the gift that it is. Resolved to never take things for granted. Resolved to face each challenge with a smile. Resolved to always remember, no matter what setbacks come in life to say, "That's OK, we can just start over and do it all again."
A month after his death we were finally able to take the money from the Christmas Jars and buy the toys for the hospital. Right now there are children playing with new toys at the hospital because of the spirit of one little five-year-old boy, and an anonymous giver who understands the true meaning of Christmas and giving.
Recently, I was reminded of this when I spoke with the father of a little girl Cameron befriended while they were undergoing chemotherapy. On a recent trip to the hospital she went to the playroom because she wanted to play with a tool bench Cameron donated.
She was very disappointed when it wasn't there. "Where is the tool bench?" she inquired of a nurse. The nurse told her how a little boy who was too sick to leave his room had asked for the tool bench to be brought to his room so he could play with it because it was his favorite toy. I knew that Cameron had a smile on his face as, even in death, he continues to "beat cancer."
This little boy is the reason Cameron did what he did. That is the reason someone gave my family a Christmas Jar. That is the magic of the human spirit and the magic of what one jar can do. My family thinks of Cameron every time we put a coin in this year's Christmas Jar. We can't wait to give it to someone special for Christmas and watch as the miracle spreads even further.
_____
Cameron passed away six weeks after spreading the spirit of the Christmas Jar by using the funds from his own jar to bless the lives of other children. His family continues to fill and give away jars each year.
I am often asked, "Who received the very first Christmas Jar?" While that’s impossible to know with complete certainty, I have always believed the first jar was received by perhaps the most worthy recipient ever. His name is Cameron Birch, and to commemorate this month’s release of Christmas Jars Reunion, the sequel to Christmas Jars, I thought a gentle reminder of where it began and why it matters four years later would be the perfect way to celebrate the arrival of colored leaves, crisp nights, and mysterious jars of change.
Cameron is a unique young man with a mission as inspiring as any you will ever hear. This is his story.
(As told by his father, Matt Birch, in December of 2005.)
_____
A little more than two years ago I was just a husband and father, enjoying my three amazing sons and beautiful wife. Cameron was four and like his older brothers, Braden and Tyson, had endless energy and personality and couldn't wait for the next big adventure. No one could have predicted the next adventure life had planned for him.
We embarked on that adventure January 9th, 2005 when we took Cameron to the emergency room after an unusually long bout with what we thought was a virus, or another average childhood ailment. Over the course of a month, spanning the Christmas holidays, his appetite left him and he began to lose weight. Every morning brought a severe headache and vomiting. He was actually excited to go to the hospital so the doctors could give him "good medicine to make my headaches go away," he said.
We all felt that way until a serious-looking doctor told us they found the reason Cameron was having headaches. "It's bad, very bad," he quietly whispered to us.
Six hours later we stood watching helplessly as Cameron was wheeled into surgery to have a malignant tumor the size of a golf ball removed from his brain. What was supposed to be nothing more than a quick trip to the hospital turned into a two-week stay. It was the first of many more to come.
My wife and I struggled to understand what was happening. It seemed surreal, as if life were simultaneously going in slow motion and at the speed of light. We worried about how to make a four-year-old understand something we hadn't yet grasped. We didn't have to. He never asked any questions like, "Why me?" He never complained. The closest he ever came to complaining was during a particularly difficult day when he said, "Dad, this cancer stuff stinks."
He suffered through six weeks of radiation and months and months of chemotherapy. The radiation was the hardest part for him. He was fed through a tube and continued to throw up 20 to 30 times a day. He couldn't eat, play with his friends, or do many of the things most of us take for granted. What he did do was smile, laugh, and inspire everyone who met him.
One day, during a discussion with his aunt, he declared, "My mission in life is to beat cancer." He fulfilled that mission with everything he had. His little body may have suffered in the battle, but cancer never stood a chance against his faith, smile, laugh, attitude, and spirit. He totally and completely forgot about himself and worried about other cancer patients.
He would say, "It hurts my heart" to see other cancer patients because he knew they didn't feel well. When he was first diagnosed, he began praying for the other children with cancer. In every prayer, without fail, he would ask, "Please help all the other kids kill their cancer." He rarely prayed for himself. He was more concerned for the other kids.
His efforts went beyond prayer, too. He acted on his mission to beat cancer. In July of 2005 he asked for help setting up a fundraiser for the "other kids." He set up "Cam's Stand For Kids With Cancer," a stand along the parade route of the largest parade in Utah. He sold drinks, ice cream, and candy, raising hundreds of dollars. He took every penny of it and with his brothers personally made "Build-a-Bears" for each of the brain tumor patients at Primary Children's Hospital. Here was a four-year-old boy with hundreds of dollars and not once did he ask if he could have some of it for himself. The only question he asked was, "When can we go give the kids their bears"?
For 11 months everything was going perfectly with his treatments. There was no sign of cancer anywhere. His health was good and he was even able to get out and enjoy his friends. We were starting to plan a neighborhood party to celebrate the end of his treatments, and were looking forward to our family's trip to Disney World through the Make-a-Wish Foundation. We believed he was one of the lucky few.
We never made it to Disney World. November of 2005 brought another discovery that turned our world upside down, again. During a routine MRI, they discovered the cancer had returned. It had come back with a vengeance and now coated his spine with a layer of cancerous cells and spread up into his brain. In a cruel irony, the original tumor location was still completely cancer free. Options for his treatments were very limited at this point. The doctors thought he would make it until Christmas, but they couldn't guarantee anything.
The day after his re-diagnosis, I was home alone with Cameron. Cameron didn't know his cancer had returned yet. I was curious to know how he would take the news. Throughout the treatments we had always talked to him about how it was possible for the cancer to come back, but never dwelt on that possibility. I asked him, "So buddy what would you do if your cancer came back?" Without hesitation he answered, "That would be OK, we would just start over and do it all again." So we started over.
Shortly before Christmas the new treatments began, and Cameron had another idea that he wouldn't let go of. He wanted to give something else to the kids suffering with cancer. He thought about it and talked about it with us. He wanted very much to buy some toys for the cancer patient's playroom in the hospital. He loved to play with the toys and puzzles when he went in for his treatments. The playroom was one of the only places the children could go to escape the pain and worries associated with the rest of the hospital. He talked to the nurses and social workers to find out which toys were needed the most. He was very excited to go and buy them for the kids.
Unfortunately, the cancer got ahead of Cameron's plans. He often spoke of going to the store to buy the toys but his little body had begun to shut down. He struggled to walk, his appetite was gone, and he was suffering from double vision making it difficult for him to watch his favorite movies or play video games. Cancer was slowly robbing him of all of his favorite things and robbing us of our little boy.
Late one night just before Christmas, a knock at the door changed our family forever. The kids rushed from the family room and threw open the door to find nothing but the cold December night. In place of a visitor, there were two large jars sitting on our porch. Each was labeled in bright letters, "Christmas Jar." Attached to one of them was a copy of the book Christmas Jars and a note. The note explained how the anonymous giver had read this book and how it had changed his life. My oldest two sons each brought a jar inside and excitedly unscrewed the lids. One jar was filled with pennies. The other was filled with other change and some paper money.
I had just read the book and so I retold the story as well as I could. We talked about what it means to give unselfishly to others. We tried to figure out what generous person might have left the jars. Cameron was very excited that someone would do that for him and his family. He understood we got the jars because he had cancer. A light that had been dimmed by illness burned a little brighter in Cameron's eyes that night. This simple act of giving stopped - for just one night - the steady march of a terrible disease.
The next morning, Cameron commenced with the counting. He got down on the floor and counted each penny one by one. When all the money had been carefully counted, the total was more than $300. Then Cameron said something that captured his true spirit, "Why do people want to help me so much?" he asked.
"Well, because people love you and they feel badly that you are sick so they want to help," I replied.
"But dad, I can do this all by myself," he calmly answered.
Cameron decided at that moment to take the money from the Christmas Jars and use it to buy the toys for the hospital's playroom.
Cameron was never well enough to go to the store and buy the toys himself. Three weeks after Christmas he suffered a severe seizure that sent him to the hospital for another stay in the ICU, much of it on life support. After two weeks, we were finally able to take him home where he spent his final ten days on this earth surrounded by family and friends. Even as his body lay in his bed losing its battle to cancer, physically unable to speak, he continued his life's mission of beating cancer.
Everyone who visited Cameron left with a new resolve to live life as the gift that it is. Resolved to never take things for granted. Resolved to face each challenge with a smile. Resolved to always remember, no matter what setbacks come in life to say, "That's OK, we can just start over and do it all again."
A month after his death we were finally able to take the money from the Christmas Jars and buy the toys for the hospital. Right now there are children playing with new toys at the hospital because of the spirit of one little five-year-old boy, and an anonymous giver who understands the true meaning of Christmas and giving.
Recently, I was reminded of this when I spoke with the father of a little girl Cameron befriended while they were undergoing chemotherapy. On a recent trip to the hospital she went to the playroom because she wanted to play with a tool bench Cameron donated.
She was very disappointed when it wasn't there. "Where is the tool bench?" she inquired of a nurse. The nurse told her how a little boy who was too sick to leave his room had asked for the tool bench to be brought to his room so he could play with it because it was his favorite toy. I knew that Cameron had a smile on his face as, even in death, he continues to "beat cancer."
This little boy is the reason Cameron did what he did. That is the reason someone gave my family a Christmas Jar. That is the magic of the human spirit and the magic of what one jar can do. My family thinks of Cameron every time we put a coin in this year's Christmas Jar. We can't wait to give it to someone special for Christmas and watch as the miracle spreads even further.
_____
Cameron passed away six weeks after spreading the spirit of the Christmas Jar by using the funds from his own jar to bless the lives of other children. His family continues to fill and give away jars each year.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Eyes That See Beyond
Author Unknown
We were the only family with children in the restaurant. I sat Erik in a high chair and noticed everyone was quietly eating and talking. Suddenly, Erik squealed with glee and said, "Hi there!" as he pounded his fat baby hands on the high chair tray. His eyes were crinkled in laughter and excitement and his mouth was bared in a toothless grin, as he wriggled and giggled with merriment.
I looked around and saw the source of his merriment. It was a man whose pants were baggy with a zipper at half-mast and his toes poked out of would-be shoes. His shirt was dirty and his hair was uncombed and unwashed. His whiskers were too short to be called a beard and his nose was so varicose it looked like a road map. We were too far from him to smell, but I was sure he smelled. His hands waved and flapped on loose wrists. "Hi there, baby. Hi there, big boy. I see ya, buster," the man said to Erik. My husband and I exchanged looks, "What do we do?" Erik continued to laugh and answer, "Hi, hi there." Everyone in the restaurant noticed and looked at us and then at the man. The old geezer was creating a nuisance with my beautiful baby.
Our meal came and the man began shouting from across the room; "Do ya patty cake? Do you know peek-a-boo? Hey, look, he knows peek-a-boo." Nobody, especially my husband and I thought the old man was cute. He was obviously a bum and a drunk. My husband and I were embarrassed. We ate in silence, all except for Erik, who was running through his repertoire for the admiring skid row bum, who, in turn, reciprocated with his cute comments.
We finally got through the meal and headed for the door. My husband went to pay the check and told me to meet him in the parking lot. The old man sat poised between me and the door. "Lord, just let me out of here before he speaks to me or Erik," I prayed. As I drew closer to the man, I turned my back trying to sidestep him and avoid any air he might be breathing. As I did, Erik leaned over my arm, reaching with both arms in a baby's "pick-me-up" position. Before I could stop him, Erik had propelled himself from my arms to the man's. In an act of total trust, love, and submission, Erik laid his tiny head upon the man's ragged shoulder. The man's eyes closed, and I saw tears hover beneath his lashes. His aged hands full of grime, pain, and hard labor, cradled my baby's bottom and stroked his back with a gentle love I could not describe, but I felt in my soul. No two beings had forever loved so deeply for so short a time. I stood awestruck.
The old man rocked and cradled Erik in his arms and his eyes opened and set squarely on mine. He said in a firm commanding voice, "You take care of this baby." Somehow I managed, "I will," from a throat that contained a stone. The old man pried Erik from his chest unwillingly, longingly, as though he were in pain, and handed him to me. I received my baby, and the man said, "God bless you, ma'am, you've given me my Christmas gift." I said nothing more than a muttered "thanks."
With Erik in my arms, I ran for the car. My husband was wondering why I was crying and holding Erik so tightly, and why I was saying, "My God, my God, forgive me" over and over. I had just witnessed Christ's love shown through the innocence of a tiny child who saw no sin, who made no judgment; a child who saw a soul, and a mother who saw a suit of clothes. I was a Christian who was blind, holding a child who was not. I felt as if God asked, "Are you willing to share your son for a moment?" And I remembered that He shared His for all eternity. The ragged old man, unwittingly, had reminded me, "To enter the Kingdom of God, we must become as little children."
We were the only family with children in the restaurant. I sat Erik in a high chair and noticed everyone was quietly eating and talking. Suddenly, Erik squealed with glee and said, "Hi there!" as he pounded his fat baby hands on the high chair tray. His eyes were crinkled in laughter and excitement and his mouth was bared in a toothless grin, as he wriggled and giggled with merriment.
I looked around and saw the source of his merriment. It was a man whose pants were baggy with a zipper at half-mast and his toes poked out of would-be shoes. His shirt was dirty and his hair was uncombed and unwashed. His whiskers were too short to be called a beard and his nose was so varicose it looked like a road map. We were too far from him to smell, but I was sure he smelled. His hands waved and flapped on loose wrists. "Hi there, baby. Hi there, big boy. I see ya, buster," the man said to Erik. My husband and I exchanged looks, "What do we do?" Erik continued to laugh and answer, "Hi, hi there." Everyone in the restaurant noticed and looked at us and then at the man. The old geezer was creating a nuisance with my beautiful baby.
Our meal came and the man began shouting from across the room; "Do ya patty cake? Do you know peek-a-boo? Hey, look, he knows peek-a-boo." Nobody, especially my husband and I thought the old man was cute. He was obviously a bum and a drunk. My husband and I were embarrassed. We ate in silence, all except for Erik, who was running through his repertoire for the admiring skid row bum, who, in turn, reciprocated with his cute comments.
We finally got through the meal and headed for the door. My husband went to pay the check and told me to meet him in the parking lot. The old man sat poised between me and the door. "Lord, just let me out of here before he speaks to me or Erik," I prayed. As I drew closer to the man, I turned my back trying to sidestep him and avoid any air he might be breathing. As I did, Erik leaned over my arm, reaching with both arms in a baby's "pick-me-up" position. Before I could stop him, Erik had propelled himself from my arms to the man's. In an act of total trust, love, and submission, Erik laid his tiny head upon the man's ragged shoulder. The man's eyes closed, and I saw tears hover beneath his lashes. His aged hands full of grime, pain, and hard labor, cradled my baby's bottom and stroked his back with a gentle love I could not describe, but I felt in my soul. No two beings had forever loved so deeply for so short a time. I stood awestruck.
The old man rocked and cradled Erik in his arms and his eyes opened and set squarely on mine. He said in a firm commanding voice, "You take care of this baby." Somehow I managed, "I will," from a throat that contained a stone. The old man pried Erik from his chest unwillingly, longingly, as though he were in pain, and handed him to me. I received my baby, and the man said, "God bless you, ma'am, you've given me my Christmas gift." I said nothing more than a muttered "thanks."
With Erik in my arms, I ran for the car. My husband was wondering why I was crying and holding Erik so tightly, and why I was saying, "My God, my God, forgive me" over and over. I had just witnessed Christ's love shown through the innocence of a tiny child who saw no sin, who made no judgment; a child who saw a soul, and a mother who saw a suit of clothes. I was a Christian who was blind, holding a child who was not. I felt as if God asked, "Are you willing to share your son for a moment?" And I remembered that He shared His for all eternity. The ragged old man, unwittingly, had reminded me, "To enter the Kingdom of God, we must become as little children."
The Voice On The Phone
by D.M. Brown
The fragrance of gingerbread always makes me think of Suzie and the year I was going have a perfect Christmas. During the past Christmas seasons, I had always been too busy to create the Christmas traditions I felt would build a lifetime of memories for my family. But that Christmas was going to be different. That year my time was my own, and I meant to make every minute of the holiday season count. I would make hand-painted ornaments, home-sewn gifts, beautiful decorations, artistically wrapped packaged, and baked goods to fill a freezer.
I was baking gingerbread men the day my nine-year-old daughter brought Suzie home from School.
"Mama, this is my new friend, Suzie," Debbie announced, presenting a rather chubby, cheerful-looking little girl. Suzie reminded me of a California poppy, with her red-gold mop of curly hair and a freckled nose that twitched eagerly as she breathed in the spicy fragrance. I took two warm gingerbread men from a pan and gave them to Suzie and Debbie. Soon the two girls were helping my seven-year-old son, Mark, hang gingerbread men on the tree. (Of course, the cookies never stayed long on the tree. The children and their friends ate all of them every few days, and we replenished the supply weekly. As a result, our house smelled gingery from Thanksgiving to New Year's Day.) Later, Suzie's mother telephoned, and in a tired-sounding voice, she asked me to send Suzie home.
The Sunday after Thanksgiving, I was still working on my perfect Christmas. I had decided to mail my Christmas cards early, and so I had spread the dining room table with Christmas cards, address books, stamps, and green and red ink pens with which to address the envelopes. I was all set to start when Mark came in.
"Mama, we talked in Primary today about helping other people," he told me. "Our Primary teacher said a lonely lady in our ward needs help."
"Oh! What's the lady's name?" I asked, wondering if I had met her.
"I can't remember -- something long and hard to say," Mark said, "but Sister Jones wrote in on the blackboard, and I'd remember it if I saw it." He went to the desk drawer and pulled out the ward list. After a moment he gave a shout of triumph. "Here it is!" he cried. He thrust the page under my nose, and I glanced at the name before turning back to address my Christmas cards. The name was difficult to pronounce. Mark borrowed my pen and drew a green circle around the name in the ward list before putting it back in the drawer. "I want to go visit that lonely lady and take something to her. Can we make something for her now?" Mark wanted to know.
"Not today, Mark. It's Sunday, and I don't bake on Sundays. Besides, this lady doesn't even know us. Surely she wouldn't want a visit from strangers," I explained. "Today we are going to start addressing our Christmas cards. For once I'm going to get out cards mailed before December twenty-third. If you want to help someone, you can help me."
In the days that followed, Mark persisted in reminding me about the lonely lady. Twice he asked me to make something for the woman, but both times, I was involved in other projects. One Tuesday afternoon Suzie again came home with Debbie. That day I was putting together my specialty: a gingerbread train. Each car carried tempting cargo such as bread sticks, candy canes, and cinnamon bears. Suzie's eyes sparkled when I gave her a few chocolate-chip wheels to "glue" into place with frosting. She ate one of them.
"I wish my Mom made gingerbread trains." she said. "Last year she made a neat gingerbread house, but this year she said it was too much work."
"It is a lot of work," I agreed, remembering the year I had been too busy with church and community duties to make my gingerbread train. The children had been very disappointed that year, but not this year. This year everything would be perfect. A week later Debbie came home from school just as I was taking a fresh batch of gingerbread men from the oven.
"Too bad Suzie isn't here," she said, biting off one cookie's foot. "Suzie loves our gingerbread men. She wasn't in school today, though." Debbie set down her cookie, suddenly serious. "They said Suzie's mama took too many pills, and she's in the hospital. She might die."
"Oh, Debbie, are you sure?" I asked in dismay. Debbie nodded. "Sally Miller told me Sister Miller was at the hospital with Suzie's mama all night," she said.
Sister Miller was our Relief Society President. "I didn't know Suzie was a member of the Church," I said, surprised. "I've never seen her at meetings."
"Suzie said they used to come all the time before her dad died," Debbie said. "He got killed in a car accident this summer."
"Poor Suzie!" I said. "Her poor mother! And I don't even know her name." I called Sister Miller to see if I could be of any help in caring for Suzie during the crisis. I also asked for Suzie's mother's name. When she told me, it sounded vaguely familiar. I hung up the phone repeating the name when a devastating thought struck me. With a sinking feeling, I took the ward list from the desk drawer and turned some pages. Yes there it was, circled in green ink -- the name of Suzie's mother, the name of Mark's lonely lady whom I had never found time to help.
Suzie was with us the night when we received word that her mother had died. I asked myself over and over: What if we had gone to visit her when Mark first wanted to? Would it have mattered that we were strangers? Would she have been a little less lonely, a little less desperate? I thought of the tired voice on the telephone, asking me to send Suzie home that first day we made gingerbread. When Suzie went away a week later to live with her grandparents, we gave her our gingerbread train. The bright eyes that had sparkled as she helped make the train had lost some of their glow, but Suzie managed a little smile and a thank you. A gingerbread train. A very small gift. Too little, Too late. As Suzie took a halfhearted nibble from a breadstick, I saw more than a saddened little girl holding a cookie train. I saw myself with painful clarity: a woman so involved with the things of Christmas that I had lost touch with the very spirit of Christmas, without which there can never be a "perfect Christmas". I would never again forget. Every holiday season since then, the fragrance of gingerbread reminds me of Suzie ... and I cry.
The fragrance of gingerbread always makes me think of Suzie and the year I was going have a perfect Christmas. During the past Christmas seasons, I had always been too busy to create the Christmas traditions I felt would build a lifetime of memories for my family. But that Christmas was going to be different. That year my time was my own, and I meant to make every minute of the holiday season count. I would make hand-painted ornaments, home-sewn gifts, beautiful decorations, artistically wrapped packaged, and baked goods to fill a freezer.
I was baking gingerbread men the day my nine-year-old daughter brought Suzie home from School.
"Mama, this is my new friend, Suzie," Debbie announced, presenting a rather chubby, cheerful-looking little girl. Suzie reminded me of a California poppy, with her red-gold mop of curly hair and a freckled nose that twitched eagerly as she breathed in the spicy fragrance. I took two warm gingerbread men from a pan and gave them to Suzie and Debbie. Soon the two girls were helping my seven-year-old son, Mark, hang gingerbread men on the tree. (Of course, the cookies never stayed long on the tree. The children and their friends ate all of them every few days, and we replenished the supply weekly. As a result, our house smelled gingery from Thanksgiving to New Year's Day.) Later, Suzie's mother telephoned, and in a tired-sounding voice, she asked me to send Suzie home.
The Sunday after Thanksgiving, I was still working on my perfect Christmas. I had decided to mail my Christmas cards early, and so I had spread the dining room table with Christmas cards, address books, stamps, and green and red ink pens with which to address the envelopes. I was all set to start when Mark came in.
"Mama, we talked in Primary today about helping other people," he told me. "Our Primary teacher said a lonely lady in our ward needs help."
"Oh! What's the lady's name?" I asked, wondering if I had met her.
"I can't remember -- something long and hard to say," Mark said, "but Sister Jones wrote in on the blackboard, and I'd remember it if I saw it." He went to the desk drawer and pulled out the ward list. After a moment he gave a shout of triumph. "Here it is!" he cried. He thrust the page under my nose, and I glanced at the name before turning back to address my Christmas cards. The name was difficult to pronounce. Mark borrowed my pen and drew a green circle around the name in the ward list before putting it back in the drawer. "I want to go visit that lonely lady and take something to her. Can we make something for her now?" Mark wanted to know.
"Not today, Mark. It's Sunday, and I don't bake on Sundays. Besides, this lady doesn't even know us. Surely she wouldn't want a visit from strangers," I explained. "Today we are going to start addressing our Christmas cards. For once I'm going to get out cards mailed before December twenty-third. If you want to help someone, you can help me."
In the days that followed, Mark persisted in reminding me about the lonely lady. Twice he asked me to make something for the woman, but both times, I was involved in other projects. One Tuesday afternoon Suzie again came home with Debbie. That day I was putting together my specialty: a gingerbread train. Each car carried tempting cargo such as bread sticks, candy canes, and cinnamon bears. Suzie's eyes sparkled when I gave her a few chocolate-chip wheels to "glue" into place with frosting. She ate one of them.
"I wish my Mom made gingerbread trains." she said. "Last year she made a neat gingerbread house, but this year she said it was too much work."
"It is a lot of work," I agreed, remembering the year I had been too busy with church and community duties to make my gingerbread train. The children had been very disappointed that year, but not this year. This year everything would be perfect. A week later Debbie came home from school just as I was taking a fresh batch of gingerbread men from the oven.
"Too bad Suzie isn't here," she said, biting off one cookie's foot. "Suzie loves our gingerbread men. She wasn't in school today, though." Debbie set down her cookie, suddenly serious. "They said Suzie's mama took too many pills, and she's in the hospital. She might die."
"Oh, Debbie, are you sure?" I asked in dismay. Debbie nodded. "Sally Miller told me Sister Miller was at the hospital with Suzie's mama all night," she said.
Sister Miller was our Relief Society President. "I didn't know Suzie was a member of the Church," I said, surprised. "I've never seen her at meetings."
"Suzie said they used to come all the time before her dad died," Debbie said. "He got killed in a car accident this summer."
"Poor Suzie!" I said. "Her poor mother! And I don't even know her name." I called Sister Miller to see if I could be of any help in caring for Suzie during the crisis. I also asked for Suzie's mother's name. When she told me, it sounded vaguely familiar. I hung up the phone repeating the name when a devastating thought struck me. With a sinking feeling, I took the ward list from the desk drawer and turned some pages. Yes there it was, circled in green ink -- the name of Suzie's mother, the name of Mark's lonely lady whom I had never found time to help.
Suzie was with us the night when we received word that her mother had died. I asked myself over and over: What if we had gone to visit her when Mark first wanted to? Would it have mattered that we were strangers? Would she have been a little less lonely, a little less desperate? I thought of the tired voice on the telephone, asking me to send Suzie home that first day we made gingerbread. When Suzie went away a week later to live with her grandparents, we gave her our gingerbread train. The bright eyes that had sparkled as she helped make the train had lost some of their glow, but Suzie managed a little smile and a thank you. A gingerbread train. A very small gift. Too little, Too late. As Suzie took a halfhearted nibble from a breadstick, I saw more than a saddened little girl holding a cookie train. I saw myself with painful clarity: a woman so involved with the things of Christmas that I had lost touch with the very spirit of Christmas, without which there can never be a "perfect Christmas". I would never again forget. Every holiday season since then, the fragrance of gingerbread reminds me of Suzie ... and I cry.
Alex's Special Christmas Angel
by Marion Smith
What do you think of when the word "angel" is mentioned? Something ethereal - a celestial being perhaps, wispy and beautiful? A warrior, ready and able to stand guard?
I think of a different type of angel, and this story centers on it. This particular angel was created with white battenburg lace, and will always be special in the life of seven-year-old Alex.
I first heard about Alex and his mom, Diane, from his first grade teacher - my daughter. For many years she has shared prayer requests with me, telling me special needs of her students and allowing me the opportunity to pray for them. This particular petition wrenched my heart as she explained the circumstances. Alex's mom was dying of cancer and wasn't expected to live much longer. She had been hospitalized three or four times from September to December, and in mid-December the doctors admitted her to the hospital for what they expected to be the final time.
A prayer partner of mine planned to visit a friend in the same hospital, and I asked her to just stop by Diane's room and maybe say a prayer. She did this, taking with her a small white angel, which she placed upon Diane's pillow. She asked family members present that day to tell Alex this angel was to remind him that his mother would always be in the presence of angels.
Diane managed to hold onto life by a thread as Alex's seventh birthday rolled around, and then died four days later - two weeks before Christmas. On the night of his mothers passing, his father brought the special angel home to Alex. They placed it on top of the Christmas tree, because Alex said that seemed the proper place for it.
My daughter knew of Diane's death before she spoke with Alex on the phone that night. He told her a most beautiful thing - which his mother was no longer in the hospital, but had gone to heaven. When Alex returned to his first grade classroom, he and his father briefly removed the special angel from the tree for Alex to share with his classmates. He carefully put it in a little box and handled it, oh, so lovingly. His classmates had known of Alex's mother's serious illness, and as he showed them this wondrous angel, he shared where his mother now resided. How wonderful that Alex has this special angel to grasp, the one that will always remind him that his mom is in heaven, surrounded by a host of celestial angels.
Angels are God's messengers, and I saw God use three human angels working for Him in this story. God used my daughter, my prayer partner, and even used me to give Alex the good news message that his mom would eternally be okay. She would be waiting for the day when they would be reunited.
So, I believe God's messengers can be an unseen celestial spirit; a person used by God, or can even be a small white lace angel - perfect in size to be held in the hand of a child.
What do you think of when the word "angel" is mentioned? Something ethereal - a celestial being perhaps, wispy and beautiful? A warrior, ready and able to stand guard?
I think of a different type of angel, and this story centers on it. This particular angel was created with white battenburg lace, and will always be special in the life of seven-year-old Alex.
I first heard about Alex and his mom, Diane, from his first grade teacher - my daughter. For many years she has shared prayer requests with me, telling me special needs of her students and allowing me the opportunity to pray for them. This particular petition wrenched my heart as she explained the circumstances. Alex's mom was dying of cancer and wasn't expected to live much longer. She had been hospitalized three or four times from September to December, and in mid-December the doctors admitted her to the hospital for what they expected to be the final time.
A prayer partner of mine planned to visit a friend in the same hospital, and I asked her to just stop by Diane's room and maybe say a prayer. She did this, taking with her a small white angel, which she placed upon Diane's pillow. She asked family members present that day to tell Alex this angel was to remind him that his mother would always be in the presence of angels.
Diane managed to hold onto life by a thread as Alex's seventh birthday rolled around, and then died four days later - two weeks before Christmas. On the night of his mothers passing, his father brought the special angel home to Alex. They placed it on top of the Christmas tree, because Alex said that seemed the proper place for it.
My daughter knew of Diane's death before she spoke with Alex on the phone that night. He told her a most beautiful thing - which his mother was no longer in the hospital, but had gone to heaven. When Alex returned to his first grade classroom, he and his father briefly removed the special angel from the tree for Alex to share with his classmates. He carefully put it in a little box and handled it, oh, so lovingly. His classmates had known of Alex's mother's serious illness, and as he showed them this wondrous angel, he shared where his mother now resided. How wonderful that Alex has this special angel to grasp, the one that will always remind him that his mom is in heaven, surrounded by a host of celestial angels.
Angels are God's messengers, and I saw God use three human angels working for Him in this story. God used my daughter, my prayer partner, and even used me to give Alex the good news message that his mom would eternally be okay. She would be waiting for the day when they would be reunited.
So, I believe God's messengers can be an unseen celestial spirit; a person used by God, or can even be a small white lace angel - perfect in size to be held in the hand of a child.
Two Dimes and a Nickel
by Richard A. Robb
The son did what he saw his father do.
During my first Christmas as bishop, a single mother with three small children lived in our ward. This young woman had a strong testimony of the gospel and lived it to the best of her ability. She cleaned homes and did sewing to try to make ends meet, but often she could not.
Single-handedly raising three boys under the age of eight was a real challenge. These active, energetic youngsters always seemed to be in some sort of trouble. I remember extricating them from more than one tussle with their classmates.
Several good people helped this struggling family. I’ll never forget the brother who came into my office one Sunday just a couple of weeks before Christmas, asking to speak with me privately. He was concerned about the young mother and her family and wanted to do something for them. Would I accept his contribution and use it in the best way I could to help them? As we spoke, I hardly noticed his small son, who remained in the office with us.
The man explained that he did not know what the woman and her family needed. He just wanted to help and felt that I would be inspired to know what to do. He then entrusted to me quite a remarkable sum of money—not remarkable in the amount, but remarkable relative to his modest means, of which I was well aware. I knew that this gift meant a sacrifice of his own family’s Christmas, at least in the temporal sense. But this wise brother knew where real rewards come from.
Seeing the resolve shining in his eyes, I protested only gently. Then I cleared my tightening throat, thanked him for his unselfish gift, and promised to do my best to make Christmas a little brighter for the young mother and her sons.
I also agreed to honor his request for anonymity.
The story might well end here and still be memorable. But the event that has etched this experience in my mind had yet to occur.
It wasn’t the way I was able to help the family with the contribution—although that turned out to be most gratifying—but rather what took place in my office one week following that brother’s visit. It was just a few days before Christmas, and I was between tithing-settlement interviews when I heard a soft knock on the office door. I opened it to see, standing quite alone, the six-year-old boy who had sat quietly in my office while his dad and I had talked the Sunday before.
He asked politely if he could talk to me for just a minute. After we walked into the office—which I presume is always a bit of a frightening experience for youngsters—I invited him to sit down. He fidgeted with something in his pocket and, after some struggle, pulled out two dimes and a nickel and laid them on my desk. He apologized that the coins were all the money he had, and that they were a little old and dirty, since he had had them quite a while. The money, he explained, was for me to use to help his three friends, like his dad was helping their mother. As my heart swelled and my eyes became moist, he added that he felt I would know best how to divide his treasure among his friends and that he was sorry he did not have three dimes so that each could have one.
What lessons culminated in that moment! A father’s unselfish example, the trust of a small boy in his bishop, and the humble, Christlike act of a child obviously without guile. Only a few weeks before I had pulled this boy from a scuffle involving the soon-to-be recipients of his forgiving love and charity.
I hugged him, partly to camouflage my now obvious tears and mostly to tell him how much I appreciated him and how much I knew his Father in Heaven loved him. I then walked him to the door, shook his hand, and assured him that I would do the best I could to help his friends this Christmas with his generous gift. As I turned to go back into my office, he whispered after me, "And remember, Bishop, don’t ever tell anyone it was me."
Well, I never have told anyone until now, my young friend. I hope relating our special story in this way is all right so that others might feel a bit of the quiet Christmas spirit of love and charity that we felt that day.
The son did what he saw his father do.
During my first Christmas as bishop, a single mother with three small children lived in our ward. This young woman had a strong testimony of the gospel and lived it to the best of her ability. She cleaned homes and did sewing to try to make ends meet, but often she could not.
Single-handedly raising three boys under the age of eight was a real challenge. These active, energetic youngsters always seemed to be in some sort of trouble. I remember extricating them from more than one tussle with their classmates.
Several good people helped this struggling family. I’ll never forget the brother who came into my office one Sunday just a couple of weeks before Christmas, asking to speak with me privately. He was concerned about the young mother and her family and wanted to do something for them. Would I accept his contribution and use it in the best way I could to help them? As we spoke, I hardly noticed his small son, who remained in the office with us.
The man explained that he did not know what the woman and her family needed. He just wanted to help and felt that I would be inspired to know what to do. He then entrusted to me quite a remarkable sum of money—not remarkable in the amount, but remarkable relative to his modest means, of which I was well aware. I knew that this gift meant a sacrifice of his own family’s Christmas, at least in the temporal sense. But this wise brother knew where real rewards come from.
Seeing the resolve shining in his eyes, I protested only gently. Then I cleared my tightening throat, thanked him for his unselfish gift, and promised to do my best to make Christmas a little brighter for the young mother and her sons.
I also agreed to honor his request for anonymity.
The story might well end here and still be memorable. But the event that has etched this experience in my mind had yet to occur.
It wasn’t the way I was able to help the family with the contribution—although that turned out to be most gratifying—but rather what took place in my office one week following that brother’s visit. It was just a few days before Christmas, and I was between tithing-settlement interviews when I heard a soft knock on the office door. I opened it to see, standing quite alone, the six-year-old boy who had sat quietly in my office while his dad and I had talked the Sunday before.
He asked politely if he could talk to me for just a minute. After we walked into the office—which I presume is always a bit of a frightening experience for youngsters—I invited him to sit down. He fidgeted with something in his pocket and, after some struggle, pulled out two dimes and a nickel and laid them on my desk. He apologized that the coins were all the money he had, and that they were a little old and dirty, since he had had them quite a while. The money, he explained, was for me to use to help his three friends, like his dad was helping their mother. As my heart swelled and my eyes became moist, he added that he felt I would know best how to divide his treasure among his friends and that he was sorry he did not have three dimes so that each could have one.
What lessons culminated in that moment! A father’s unselfish example, the trust of a small boy in his bishop, and the humble, Christlike act of a child obviously without guile. Only a few weeks before I had pulled this boy from a scuffle involving the soon-to-be recipients of his forgiving love and charity.
I hugged him, partly to camouflage my now obvious tears and mostly to tell him how much I appreciated him and how much I knew his Father in Heaven loved him. I then walked him to the door, shook his hand, and assured him that I would do the best I could to help his friends this Christmas with his generous gift. As I turned to go back into my office, he whispered after me, "And remember, Bishop, don’t ever tell anyone it was me."
Well, I never have told anyone until now, my young friend. I hope relating our special story in this way is all right so that others might feel a bit of the quiet Christmas spirit of love and charity that we felt that day.
The Filling Station
Author Unknown
The old man sat in his gas station on a cold Christmas Eve. He hadn't been anywhere in years since his wife had passed away. He had no decorations, no tree, no lights. It was just another day to him. He didn't hate Christmas, just couldn't find a reason to celebrate. There were no children in his life. His wife had gone.
He was sitting there looking at the snow that had been falling for the last hour and wondering what it was all about when the door opened and a homeless man stepped through. Instead of throwing the man out, George, Old George as he was known by his customers, told the man to come and sit by the space heater and warm up.
"Thank you, but I don't mean to intrude," said the stranger. "I see you're busy. I'll just go"
"Not without something hot in your belly," George turned and opened a wide mouth Thermos and handed it to the stranger. "It ain't much, but it's hot and tasty. Stew. Made it myself. When you're done there's coffee and it's fresh."
Just at that moment he heard the "ding" of the driveway bell. "Excuse me, be right back," George said.
There in the driveway was an old 53 Chevy. Steam was rolling out of the front. The driver was panicked.
"Mister can you help me!" said the driver with a deep Spanish accent. "My wife is with child and my car is broken."
George opened the hood. It was bad. The block looked cracked from the cold; the car was dead. "You ain't going in this thing," George said as he turned away.
"But mister. Please help..." The door of the office closed behind George as he went in. George went to the office wall and got the keys to his old truck, and went back outside. He walked around the building and opened the garage, started the truck and drove it around to where the couple was waiting.
Here, you can borrow my truck," he said. "She ain't the best thing you ever looked at, but she runs real good."
George helped put the woman in the truck and watched as it sped off into the night. George turned and walked back inside the office.
"Glad I loaned ‘em the truck. Their tires were shot too. That 'ol truck has brand new tires........" George thought he was talking to the stranger, but the man had gone. The thermos was on the desk, empty, with a used coffee cup beside it.
"Well, at least he got something in his belly," George thought. George went back outside to see if the old Chevy would start. It cranked slowly, but it started. He pulled it into the garage where the truck had been. He thought he would tinker with it for something to do. Christmas Eve meant no customers. He discovered the block hadn't cracked. It was just the bottom hose on the radiator.
"Well, I can fix this," he said to himself. So he put a new one on. "Those tires ain't gonna get 'em through the winter either." He took the snow treads off of his wife's old Lincoln. They were like new and he wasn't going to drive the car.
As he was working, he heard a shot being fired. He ran outside and beside a police car an officer lay on the cold ground. Bleeding from the left shoulder, the officer moaned, "Help me." George helped the officer inside as he remembered the training he had received in the Army as a medic. He knew the wound needed attention.
"Pressure to stop the bleeding," he thought. The laundry company had been there that morning and had left clean shop towels. He used those and duct tape to bind the wound.
"Hey, they say duct tape can fix anythin'," he said, trying to make the policeman feel at ease. "Something for pain," George thought. All he had were the pills he used for his back. "These ought to work." He put some water in a cup and gave the policeman the pills.
"You hang in there. I'm going to get you an ambulance." George said, but the phone was dead. "Maybe I can get one of your buddies on that there talk box out in your police car."
He went out only to find that a bullet had gone into the dashboard destroying the two-way radio. He went back in to find the policeman sitting up.
"Thanks," said the officer. "You could have left me there. The guy that shot me is still in the area."
George sat down beside him. "I would never leave an injured man in the Army and I ain't gonna leave you." George pulled back the bandage to check for bleeding. "Looks worse than what it is. Bullet passed right through 'ya. Good thing it missed the important stuff though. I think with time your gonna be right as rain."
George got up and poured a cup of coffee. "How do you take it?" he asked.
"None for me," said the officer.
"Oh, yer gonna drink this. Best in the city." Then George added: "Too bad I ain't got no donuts."
The officer laughed and winced at the same time. The front door of the office flew open. In burst a young man with a gun.
"Give me all your cash! Do it now!" the young man yelled. His hand was shaking and George could tell that he had never done anything like this before.
"That's the guy that shot me!" exclaimed the officer.
"Son, why are you doing this?" asked George. "You need to put the cannon away. Somebody else might get hurt."
The young man was confused. "Shut up old man, or I'll shoot you, too. Now give me the cash!" The cop was reaching for his gun.
"Put that thing away," George said to the cop. "We got one too many in here now."
He turned his attention to the young man. "Son, it's Christmas Eve. If you need the money, well then, here. It ain't much but it's all I got. Now put that pea shooter away."
George pulled $150 out of his pocket and handed it to the young man, reaching for the barrel of the gun at the same time. The young man released his grip on the gun, fell to his knees and began to cry.
"I'm not very good at this, am I? All I wanted was to buy something for my wife and son," he went on. "I've lost my job. My rent is due. My car got repossessed last week..."
George handed the gun to the cop. "Son, we all get in a bit of squeeze now and then. The road gets hard sometimes, but we make it through the best we can."
He got the young man to his feet, and sat him down on a chair across from the cop. "Sometimes we do stupid things." George handed the young man a cup of coffee. "Being stupid is one of the things that makes us human. Comin' in here with a gun ain't the answer. Now sit there and get warm and we'll sort this thing out."
The young man had stopped crying. He looked over to the cop. "Sorry I shot you. It just went off. I'm sorry officer."
"Shut up and drink your coffee." the cop said.
George could hear the sounds of sirens outside. A police car and an ambulance skidded to a halt. Two cops came through the door, guns drawn.
"Chuck! You ok?" one of the cops asked the wounded officer.
"Not bad for a guy who took a bullet. How did you find me?"
"GPS locator in the car. Best thing since sliced bread. Who did this?" the other cop asked as he approached the young man.
Chuck answered him, "I don't know. The guy ran off into the dark. Just dropped his gun and ran."
George and the young man both looked puzzled at each other. "That guy works here," the wounded cop continued.
"Yep," George said. "Just hired him this morning. Boy lost his job."
The paramedics came in and loaded Chuck onto the stretcher. The young man leaned over the wounded cop and whispered, "Why?"
Chuck just said, "Merry Christmas, boy. And you too, George, and thanks for everything."
"Well, looks like you got one doozy of a break there. That ought to solve some of your problems." George went into the back room and came out with a box. He pulled out a ring box.
"Here you go. Something for the little woman. I don't think Martha would mind. She said it would come in handy some day."
The young man looked inside to see the biggest diamond ring he ever saw. "I can't take this," said the young man. "It means something to you."
"And now it means something to you," replied George. "I got my memories. That's all I need."
George reached into the box again. A toy airplane, a racing car and a little metal truck appeared next. They were toys that the oil company had left for him to sell. "Here's something for that little man of yours."
The young man began to cry again as he handed back the $150 that the old man had handed him earlier. "And what are you supposed to buy Christmas dinner with? You keep that, too. Count it as part of your first week's pay." George said. "Now git home to your family."
The young man turned with tears streaming down his face. "I'll be here in the morning for work, if that job offer is still good."
"Nope. I'm closed Christmas day," George said. "See ya the day after."
George turned around to find that the stranger had returned. "Where'd you come from? I thought you left?"
"I have been here. I have always been here," said the stranger. "You say you don't celebrate Christmas. Why?"
"Well, after my wife passed away, I just couldn't see what all the bother was. Puttin' up a tree and all seemed a waste of a good pine tree. Bakin' cookies like I used to with Martha just wasn't the same by myself and besides I was getting a little chubby."
The stranger put his hand on George's shoulder. "But you do celebrate the holiday, George. You gave me food and drink and warmed me when I was cold and hungry. The woman with child will bear a son and he will become a great doctor.
"The policeman you helped will go on to save 19 people from being killed by terrorists. The young man who tried to rob you will become a rich man and share his wealth with many people.
"That is the spirit of the season and you keep it as good as any man."
George was taken aback by all this stranger had said. "And how do you know all this?" asked the old man.
"Trust me, George. I have the inside track on this sort of thing. And when your days are done you will be with Martha again." The stranger moved toward the door.
"If you will excuse me, George, I have to go now. I have to go home where there is a big celebration planned."
George watched as the man's old leather jacket and his torn pants turned into a white robe. A golden light began to fill the room.
"You see, George, it's My birthday. Merry Christmas."
The old man sat in his gas station on a cold Christmas Eve. He hadn't been anywhere in years since his wife had passed away. He had no decorations, no tree, no lights. It was just another day to him. He didn't hate Christmas, just couldn't find a reason to celebrate. There were no children in his life. His wife had gone.
He was sitting there looking at the snow that had been falling for the last hour and wondering what it was all about when the door opened and a homeless man stepped through. Instead of throwing the man out, George, Old George as he was known by his customers, told the man to come and sit by the space heater and warm up.
"Thank you, but I don't mean to intrude," said the stranger. "I see you're busy. I'll just go"
"Not without something hot in your belly," George turned and opened a wide mouth Thermos and handed it to the stranger. "It ain't much, but it's hot and tasty. Stew. Made it myself. When you're done there's coffee and it's fresh."
Just at that moment he heard the "ding" of the driveway bell. "Excuse me, be right back," George said.
There in the driveway was an old 53 Chevy. Steam was rolling out of the front. The driver was panicked.
"Mister can you help me!" said the driver with a deep Spanish accent. "My wife is with child and my car is broken."
George opened the hood. It was bad. The block looked cracked from the cold; the car was dead. "You ain't going in this thing," George said as he turned away.
"But mister. Please help..." The door of the office closed behind George as he went in. George went to the office wall and got the keys to his old truck, and went back outside. He walked around the building and opened the garage, started the truck and drove it around to where the couple was waiting.
Here, you can borrow my truck," he said. "She ain't the best thing you ever looked at, but she runs real good."
George helped put the woman in the truck and watched as it sped off into the night. George turned and walked back inside the office.
"Glad I loaned ‘em the truck. Their tires were shot too. That 'ol truck has brand new tires........" George thought he was talking to the stranger, but the man had gone. The thermos was on the desk, empty, with a used coffee cup beside it.
"Well, at least he got something in his belly," George thought. George went back outside to see if the old Chevy would start. It cranked slowly, but it started. He pulled it into the garage where the truck had been. He thought he would tinker with it for something to do. Christmas Eve meant no customers. He discovered the block hadn't cracked. It was just the bottom hose on the radiator.
"Well, I can fix this," he said to himself. So he put a new one on. "Those tires ain't gonna get 'em through the winter either." He took the snow treads off of his wife's old Lincoln. They were like new and he wasn't going to drive the car.
As he was working, he heard a shot being fired. He ran outside and beside a police car an officer lay on the cold ground. Bleeding from the left shoulder, the officer moaned, "Help me." George helped the officer inside as he remembered the training he had received in the Army as a medic. He knew the wound needed attention.
"Pressure to stop the bleeding," he thought. The laundry company had been there that morning and had left clean shop towels. He used those and duct tape to bind the wound.
"Hey, they say duct tape can fix anythin'," he said, trying to make the policeman feel at ease. "Something for pain," George thought. All he had were the pills he used for his back. "These ought to work." He put some water in a cup and gave the policeman the pills.
"You hang in there. I'm going to get you an ambulance." George said, but the phone was dead. "Maybe I can get one of your buddies on that there talk box out in your police car."
He went out only to find that a bullet had gone into the dashboard destroying the two-way radio. He went back in to find the policeman sitting up.
"Thanks," said the officer. "You could have left me there. The guy that shot me is still in the area."
George sat down beside him. "I would never leave an injured man in the Army and I ain't gonna leave you." George pulled back the bandage to check for bleeding. "Looks worse than what it is. Bullet passed right through 'ya. Good thing it missed the important stuff though. I think with time your gonna be right as rain."
George got up and poured a cup of coffee. "How do you take it?" he asked.
"None for me," said the officer.
"Oh, yer gonna drink this. Best in the city." Then George added: "Too bad I ain't got no donuts."
The officer laughed and winced at the same time. The front door of the office flew open. In burst a young man with a gun.
"Give me all your cash! Do it now!" the young man yelled. His hand was shaking and George could tell that he had never done anything like this before.
"That's the guy that shot me!" exclaimed the officer.
"Son, why are you doing this?" asked George. "You need to put the cannon away. Somebody else might get hurt."
The young man was confused. "Shut up old man, or I'll shoot you, too. Now give me the cash!" The cop was reaching for his gun.
"Put that thing away," George said to the cop. "We got one too many in here now."
He turned his attention to the young man. "Son, it's Christmas Eve. If you need the money, well then, here. It ain't much but it's all I got. Now put that pea shooter away."
George pulled $150 out of his pocket and handed it to the young man, reaching for the barrel of the gun at the same time. The young man released his grip on the gun, fell to his knees and began to cry.
"I'm not very good at this, am I? All I wanted was to buy something for my wife and son," he went on. "I've lost my job. My rent is due. My car got repossessed last week..."
George handed the gun to the cop. "Son, we all get in a bit of squeeze now and then. The road gets hard sometimes, but we make it through the best we can."
He got the young man to his feet, and sat him down on a chair across from the cop. "Sometimes we do stupid things." George handed the young man a cup of coffee. "Being stupid is one of the things that makes us human. Comin' in here with a gun ain't the answer. Now sit there and get warm and we'll sort this thing out."
The young man had stopped crying. He looked over to the cop. "Sorry I shot you. It just went off. I'm sorry officer."
"Shut up and drink your coffee." the cop said.
George could hear the sounds of sirens outside. A police car and an ambulance skidded to a halt. Two cops came through the door, guns drawn.
"Chuck! You ok?" one of the cops asked the wounded officer.
"Not bad for a guy who took a bullet. How did you find me?"
"GPS locator in the car. Best thing since sliced bread. Who did this?" the other cop asked as he approached the young man.
Chuck answered him, "I don't know. The guy ran off into the dark. Just dropped his gun and ran."
George and the young man both looked puzzled at each other. "That guy works here," the wounded cop continued.
"Yep," George said. "Just hired him this morning. Boy lost his job."
The paramedics came in and loaded Chuck onto the stretcher. The young man leaned over the wounded cop and whispered, "Why?"
Chuck just said, "Merry Christmas, boy. And you too, George, and thanks for everything."
"Well, looks like you got one doozy of a break there. That ought to solve some of your problems." George went into the back room and came out with a box. He pulled out a ring box.
"Here you go. Something for the little woman. I don't think Martha would mind. She said it would come in handy some day."
The young man looked inside to see the biggest diamond ring he ever saw. "I can't take this," said the young man. "It means something to you."
"And now it means something to you," replied George. "I got my memories. That's all I need."
George reached into the box again. A toy airplane, a racing car and a little metal truck appeared next. They were toys that the oil company had left for him to sell. "Here's something for that little man of yours."
The young man began to cry again as he handed back the $150 that the old man had handed him earlier. "And what are you supposed to buy Christmas dinner with? You keep that, too. Count it as part of your first week's pay." George said. "Now git home to your family."
The young man turned with tears streaming down his face. "I'll be here in the morning for work, if that job offer is still good."
"Nope. I'm closed Christmas day," George said. "See ya the day after."
George turned around to find that the stranger had returned. "Where'd you come from? I thought you left?"
"I have been here. I have always been here," said the stranger. "You say you don't celebrate Christmas. Why?"
"Well, after my wife passed away, I just couldn't see what all the bother was. Puttin' up a tree and all seemed a waste of a good pine tree. Bakin' cookies like I used to with Martha just wasn't the same by myself and besides I was getting a little chubby."
The stranger put his hand on George's shoulder. "But you do celebrate the holiday, George. You gave me food and drink and warmed me when I was cold and hungry. The woman with child will bear a son and he will become a great doctor.
"The policeman you helped will go on to save 19 people from being killed by terrorists. The young man who tried to rob you will become a rich man and share his wealth with many people.
"That is the spirit of the season and you keep it as good as any man."
George was taken aback by all this stranger had said. "And how do you know all this?" asked the old man.
"Trust me, George. I have the inside track on this sort of thing. And when your days are done you will be with Martha again." The stranger moved toward the door.
"If you will excuse me, George, I have to go now. I have to go home where there is a big celebration planned."
George watched as the man's old leather jacket and his torn pants turned into a white robe. A golden light began to fill the room.
"You see, George, it's My birthday. Merry Christmas."
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Santa’s Helper
by Tom Baker
People sometimes ask, "What was your favorite Christmas?" "Did you get a present that you will never forget?" Looking back I can truly say, a great lesson can also be a gift of priceless value. I still remember when I was young, Mom and Dad would take us to town to look at all the neat things that were in the stores, and to see Santa Claus. It seemed as if there was a Santa on every corner and in every department store. I remember asking Mom, "Which one is the real Santa, Mom?"
She said, "These are Santa’s helpers, he can’t be everywhere at the same time. Santa is very busy this time of year. He is still probably at the North Pole getting ready for his long journey."
Then she said, "Do you know that Santa’s helpers are special people, and know how to keep Christmas secrets? Someday you might get the opportunity to be one of his special helpers." I wasn’t quite sure about wearing a red suit and having a snow white beard. Mom always had a way of saying things that made you stop and think, communication was one of her specialties. It was one of her many talents, which she was born with, and developed. Mom and Dad taught us to be thankful for what you receive. We never had big Christmas’s with each child receiving lots of presents. Instead we had special Christmas’s with one or two presents.
Finally the time came when Mom said, "This year you get to be one of Santa’s helpers." I was so excited this year would be my best Christmas yet. Mom said, "Remember Santa’s helpers know how to keep Christmas secrets." It was Christmas Eve, December 1966 I had just graduated from high school, earlier that year. We were living in Ogden, Utah. My brother, Don was serving our country in Viet Nam, spending Christmas Eve in a fox hole along with other Marines.
I had just started working at the Defense Depot in Ogden labeling boxes with clothing and supplies which were going to Viet Nam. Being the oldest sibling at home, Mom and Dad decided that this year I could be Santa’s helper. My younger brothers and sisters knew that I got to be Santa’s helper, which they felt was down right unfair.
They thought that one of them should be able to stay up and help too, especially the older ones. After a short discussion Mom & Dad let them know that someday they might each be able to have the same opportunity.
After my younger siblings had gone to bed, Mom & Dad let me help. To be one of Santa’s helpers is quite an honor. It is more than filling stocking and placing presents on a couch, or in a chair, with a name on it. After I had finished helping I went to bed and could not sleep. I was so excited anticipating the next morning and seeing the expressions on the faces of my younger siblings.
For some reason my Sister, Marilyn woke up very early about 3:00 AM. She noticed that I wasn’t asleep, so she came into my room and we started talking. She wanted to know what it was like to be Santa’s helper. I somehow got caught up in the moment and started sharing some of Santa’s secrets. She was the next oldest, it would soon be her turn. We talked about putting out the presents and filling the stocking. She wanted to know some of Santa’s Christmas secrets. I told her that she couldn’t tell anyone about what our younger siblings were getting from Santa for Christmas. She said, "Ok, please tell about just a few gifts." The problem was that once you start it’s hard to stop. As the excitement grew in our conversation, and the questions kept coming it was hard to say, I just can’t tell you, to someone that is very close to you. We ended up talking about a couple things that she was getting.
When it was time for everyone to get up and go to the living room to see the Christmas tree and presents. The rest of my siblings were so excited except for Marilyn. She told Mom & Dad about our early morning conversation, and that she knew about some of the things that she was receiving from Santa. Mom turned to me and said, "You spoiled your sister’s Christmas, for that you don’t deserve any of the gifts that Santa had brought for you, go to your room." For me this was the worst Christmas ever, having betrayed the trust of being one of Santa’s helpers. I don’t remember if Mom & Dad took back the presents that I received. What my Mom said made me feel terrible and taught me a great lesson at the same time, which I will never forget.
From that time on, I vowed if I ever had the opportunity to be one of Santa’s helpers again, I would not make the same mistake. In time I earned back Mom’s and Dad’s trust and did have other opportunities which I have always cherished. That Christmas, the gift I received was a valuable lesson that I will never forget. I knew Mom & Dad loved me. A great lesson was the thing that I needed the most that Christmas. The greatest gift that anyone could give is the gift of love.
I believe in Santa Claus, this true Christmas symbol of giving has lived through the ages. Santa loves all of God’s children, whether rich or poor he loves us just the same. May we all try to give the perfect gift this year, it doesn’t require wrapping.
What it requires is giving of ourselves that perfect Christ-like love, keeping Christ in Christmas. Being Santa’s helper is more than keeping Christmas secrets, it is the act of sharing of that special love.
People sometimes ask, "What was your favorite Christmas?" "Did you get a present that you will never forget?" Looking back I can truly say, a great lesson can also be a gift of priceless value. I still remember when I was young, Mom and Dad would take us to town to look at all the neat things that were in the stores, and to see Santa Claus. It seemed as if there was a Santa on every corner and in every department store. I remember asking Mom, "Which one is the real Santa, Mom?"
She said, "These are Santa’s helpers, he can’t be everywhere at the same time. Santa is very busy this time of year. He is still probably at the North Pole getting ready for his long journey."
Then she said, "Do you know that Santa’s helpers are special people, and know how to keep Christmas secrets? Someday you might get the opportunity to be one of his special helpers." I wasn’t quite sure about wearing a red suit and having a snow white beard. Mom always had a way of saying things that made you stop and think, communication was one of her specialties. It was one of her many talents, which she was born with, and developed. Mom and Dad taught us to be thankful for what you receive. We never had big Christmas’s with each child receiving lots of presents. Instead we had special Christmas’s with one or two presents.
Finally the time came when Mom said, "This year you get to be one of Santa’s helpers." I was so excited this year would be my best Christmas yet. Mom said, "Remember Santa’s helpers know how to keep Christmas secrets." It was Christmas Eve, December 1966 I had just graduated from high school, earlier that year. We were living in Ogden, Utah. My brother, Don was serving our country in Viet Nam, spending Christmas Eve in a fox hole along with other Marines.
I had just started working at the Defense Depot in Ogden labeling boxes with clothing and supplies which were going to Viet Nam. Being the oldest sibling at home, Mom and Dad decided that this year I could be Santa’s helper. My younger brothers and sisters knew that I got to be Santa’s helper, which they felt was down right unfair.
They thought that one of them should be able to stay up and help too, especially the older ones. After a short discussion Mom & Dad let them know that someday they might each be able to have the same opportunity.
After my younger siblings had gone to bed, Mom & Dad let me help. To be one of Santa’s helpers is quite an honor. It is more than filling stocking and placing presents on a couch, or in a chair, with a name on it. After I had finished helping I went to bed and could not sleep. I was so excited anticipating the next morning and seeing the expressions on the faces of my younger siblings.
For some reason my Sister, Marilyn woke up very early about 3:00 AM. She noticed that I wasn’t asleep, so she came into my room and we started talking. She wanted to know what it was like to be Santa’s helper. I somehow got caught up in the moment and started sharing some of Santa’s secrets. She was the next oldest, it would soon be her turn. We talked about putting out the presents and filling the stocking. She wanted to know some of Santa’s Christmas secrets. I told her that she couldn’t tell anyone about what our younger siblings were getting from Santa for Christmas. She said, "Ok, please tell about just a few gifts." The problem was that once you start it’s hard to stop. As the excitement grew in our conversation, and the questions kept coming it was hard to say, I just can’t tell you, to someone that is very close to you. We ended up talking about a couple things that she was getting.
When it was time for everyone to get up and go to the living room to see the Christmas tree and presents. The rest of my siblings were so excited except for Marilyn. She told Mom & Dad about our early morning conversation, and that she knew about some of the things that she was receiving from Santa. Mom turned to me and said, "You spoiled your sister’s Christmas, for that you don’t deserve any of the gifts that Santa had brought for you, go to your room." For me this was the worst Christmas ever, having betrayed the trust of being one of Santa’s helpers. I don’t remember if Mom & Dad took back the presents that I received. What my Mom said made me feel terrible and taught me a great lesson at the same time, which I will never forget.
From that time on, I vowed if I ever had the opportunity to be one of Santa’s helpers again, I would not make the same mistake. In time I earned back Mom’s and Dad’s trust and did have other opportunities which I have always cherished. That Christmas, the gift I received was a valuable lesson that I will never forget. I knew Mom & Dad loved me. A great lesson was the thing that I needed the most that Christmas. The greatest gift that anyone could give is the gift of love.
I believe in Santa Claus, this true Christmas symbol of giving has lived through the ages. Santa loves all of God’s children, whether rich or poor he loves us just the same. May we all try to give the perfect gift this year, it doesn’t require wrapping.
What it requires is giving of ourselves that perfect Christ-like love, keeping Christ in Christmas. Being Santa’s helper is more than keeping Christmas secrets, it is the act of sharing of that special love.
Dime Store Angel
Author Unknown
It was just a Christmas Angel, that my Mom put on our tree.
She bought it at a five and dime, when I was only three.
Each year we'd trim our Christmas tree, with lights and ornaments.
Then Mom would always tell me, what the Angel represents.
The Angels came to tell the shepherds, of the Christ Child's birth.
And, Angels are still here with us, to guide us here on earth.
The Angel on our Christmas tree, was made in such a way.
That if the light inside burned out, you just threw it away.
The light burned out when I was twelve, the Angel would not shine.
But, Mom would not throw it away, she said it looked just fine.
She loved that little Angel, that she put upon our tree.
She said it didn't need a light, for anyone to see.
Then I grew up, and I moved out to start my family.
And, I'd go home at Christmas time, to help her trim her tree.
My wife and children went with me, to mom's house every year.
The house was filled with love and joy, as we shared Christmas cheer.
The kids would always say to her, "The Angel is burned out."
Then, she would smile and tell them, what the Angel's all about.
She told another reason, for its specialty.
Your daddy picked that Angel out, when he was only three.
My mother passed away this year, early in the spring.
And then I had the painful task, of going through her things.
The beautiful old house she owned, was left me in her will.
We moved back in the summertime, we feel her in it still.
Early in December, we brought out our Christmas tree.
I went up to the attic, just to see what I could see
I saw a cardboard box, with markings, "ornaments and stuff."
And in it was the little Angel, that she loved so much.
I brought the cardboard box downstairs, and showed the family.
Then they persuaded me to put the Angel on our tree.
We trimmed the tree that weekend, as we talked of Christmas past.
Then when the tree was finally done, the Angel went on last.
Every night till Christmas, all the lights were burning bright.
Except the little Angel, that had long burned out her light.
Then on Christmas morning, I arose before the rest.
I had to have my coffee, to be at my very best.
I walked into the living room, my coffee cup in hand.
Then what I saw, so puzzled me, I could not understand.
I just stood in silence, as, my eyes filled up with tears.
The little angel was all aglow, that had been dark for many years.
It was just a Christmas Angel, that my Mom put on our tree.
She bought it at a five and dime, when I was only three.
Each year we'd trim our Christmas tree, with lights and ornaments.
Then Mom would always tell me, what the Angel represents.
The Angels came to tell the shepherds, of the Christ Child's birth.
And, Angels are still here with us, to guide us here on earth.
The Angel on our Christmas tree, was made in such a way.
That if the light inside burned out, you just threw it away.
The light burned out when I was twelve, the Angel would not shine.
But, Mom would not throw it away, she said it looked just fine.
She loved that little Angel, that she put upon our tree.
She said it didn't need a light, for anyone to see.
Then I grew up, and I moved out to start my family.
And, I'd go home at Christmas time, to help her trim her tree.
My wife and children went with me, to mom's house every year.
The house was filled with love and joy, as we shared Christmas cheer.
The kids would always say to her, "The Angel is burned out."
Then, she would smile and tell them, what the Angel's all about.
She told another reason, for its specialty.
Your daddy picked that Angel out, when he was only three.
My mother passed away this year, early in the spring.
And then I had the painful task, of going through her things.
The beautiful old house she owned, was left me in her will.
We moved back in the summertime, we feel her in it still.
Early in December, we brought out our Christmas tree.
I went up to the attic, just to see what I could see
I saw a cardboard box, with markings, "ornaments and stuff."
And in it was the little Angel, that she loved so much.
I brought the cardboard box downstairs, and showed the family.
Then they persuaded me to put the Angel on our tree.
We trimmed the tree that weekend, as we talked of Christmas past.
Then when the tree was finally done, the Angel went on last.
Every night till Christmas, all the lights were burning bright.
Except the little Angel, that had long burned out her light.
Then on Christmas morning, I arose before the rest.
I had to have my coffee, to be at my very best.
I walked into the living room, my coffee cup in hand.
Then what I saw, so puzzled me, I could not understand.
I just stood in silence, as, my eyes filled up with tears.
The little angel was all aglow, that had been dark for many years.
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