Thursday, December 25, 2014

The Christmas Spirit

Author Unknown

I am the Christmas Spirit—
I enter the home of poverty, causing pale-faced children to open their eyes wide, in pleased wonder.
I cause the miser’s clutch hand to relax and thus paint a bright spot on his soul.
I cause the aged to renew their youth and to laugh in the old, glad way.
I keep romance alive in the heart of childhood, and brighten sleep with dreams woven of magic.
I cause eager feet to climb dark stairways with filled baskets, leaving behind hearts amazed at the goodness of the world.
I cause the prodigal to pause a moment on his wide, wasteful way and send to anxious love some little token that releases glad tears—tears which wash away the hard lines of sorrow.
I enter dark prison cells, reminding scarred manhood of what might have been and pointing forward to good days yet to be.
I come softly into the still, white home of pain, the lips that are too weak to speak just tremble in silent, eloquent gratitude.
In a thousand ways, I cause the weary world to look up into the face of God, and for a little moment forget the things that are small and wretched.
I am the Christmas Spirit.
May we each discover anew the Christmas spirit—even the Spirit of Christ.

Wednesday, December 24, 2014

The Camel Had Wandered

by Janet Eyestone

Our family has always enjoyed a Christmas tradition of setting out a ceramic nativity scene complete with wise men, camels, shepherds, sheep, and, of course, Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus. Each season the nativity scene was the same.

One year when my children were young, I carefully unwrapped each piece and set up an artistic display representing the first Christmas. The children gathered around to watch. We talked about the birth of Jesus and the visit of the shepherds and Magi. Then I cautioned the children, as always, not to touch the pieces, explaining that they were fragile and easily broken.

This year, however, the temptation was too great for my two-year-old daughter, Elizabeth. The day we set up the nativity scene, I noticed several times, with some irritation, that a camel had wandered from its appointed place or a sheep had strayed from the watchful care of the shepherd. Each time, I returned the piece to its rightful place, then tracked down the culprit and admonished her to leave things alone.

The next morning, Elizabeth awoke and went downstairs before I did. When I walked into the living room, I noticed right away that the manger scene had been disturbed again. All the pieces were clumped together in a mass, as tightly as they could be fitted together. Impatiently, I stepped forward to put things right; but I stopped short as I realized that some thought had gone into this new arrangement. All twenty-three figures were grouped in a circle, facing inward, pushed together as if to get the best view possible of the figure resting in the center of them all - the baby Jesus.

The spirit touched my soul as I pondered the insight of a two-year-old. Certainly, Christ should be the center of our holiday celebrations. If we all could draw in around our Savior, not only during the Christmas season, but during each day what a better perspective we would have. The love he offers to each of us would be easily shared with others who have not ventured so close. I left the nativity arranged according to Elizabeth’s design that year. It served as a poignant reminder during the rest of the season of what Christmas is all about.

Tuesday, December 23, 2014

Surprises in a Shoebox

by Richard Engar
For the Deseret News, 2013

In 1933, Amy was left an orphan at age 8. Her father had died in May of that year and her mother had died in Amy's infancy. So her grandparents had to take over raising her.

Her father, Wendell, had always been so generous, jolly and fun with her and Christmas simply would not be special without him. The light-heartedness and mirth she had become accustomed to this time of year would surely be missing.

Young Amy had always known that her father had the power to arrange for her to receive exactly what she really wanted most from Santa since he had a direct link to the North Pole. Now, Amy was afraid the conduit was gone.

As Barbie dolls, Cabbage Patch Kids or Tickle Me Elmo have been popular in more recent years, Shirley Temple was the absolute rage in 1933. Naturally, it would mean the world to little orphan Amy to have that doll. She realized that her grandfather and grandmother were very busy people and she was not sure they could perceive how much having that popular Shirley Temple doll would mean.

Amy knew how her grandmother, Grammy, traditionally procrastinated and would not plan to do any Christmas shopping until Christmas Eve. By then the dolls would be long gone. Amy was afraid Grammy would not get word to Santa.

Eighty years ago, in 1933, the United States was still in the depths of the Great Depression. Although Amy's grandparents had been fortunate to weather the storm, being of pioneer stock they had a strong basic ethic of austerity. Therefore, the standard gifts would include a simple toy, a game, a book and a puzzle. The stocking would be filled with a big grapefruit, apple, orange, nuts and a silver dollar. But there was always a surprise from Santa. Or so Amy hoped.

Finally, the anticipated Christmas morning dawned. Young Amy had to toss and turn in bed until 7 a.m., the designated time for the Christmas Day activities to begin. So Amy skipped down the stairs followed a bit more carefully by her elderly grandparents to see what Santa had brought.

The living room was filled with wonder, but Amy felt crestfallen as she looked around the room because there was no Shirley Temple doll.

Grandfather started pulling out the packages to distribute one by one, in turn, to prolong the fun and excitement.

Amy received the puzzle, a book she came to adore titled "The Really Doll," which she shared lovingly with her own daughters and granddaughters for many years much later on, and a brand new game Monopoly, which was quite the thing in 1933.

The presents were now unwrapped, and there was no Shirley Temple doll. Without her late father's conduit, Santa had failed her. There only remained an old, brown box, and it was Grandfather's turn.

Grandfather reached for the box, the shape and size of a shoe box, wrapped in bland, brown paper with a simple string. He exclaimed, "Oh, just what I need. A brand new pair of shoes. But wait, there is a card attached to this box. Why, this is not for me. It must be a new pair of shoes for little Amy."

He proceeded to pass the box to his now intrigued granddaughter.

She took the gift, cut the string, pulled off the plain brown paper, and opened the austere box. She beheld what had to be the most beautiful Shirley Temple doll ever created. Little Amy was absolutely speechless. The heartache of the loss of her father diminished as Santa was able to come through and provide one of the most heart-warming and wonderful Christmases a child could have.

Amy was my mother. Christmas 1933 served as a salve and balm to help alleviate her mourning and was the Christmas she remembered best. And through the years her Shirley Temple doll remained as a keepsake and reminder of the miracle of peace and hope the Christmas season brings.

Since Amy's passing in 1996, the doll, preserved and on display in my sister's home, continues to serve as a reminder of sweet generosity and wonderful Christmas magic.

Monday, December 22, 2014

Acts of Kindness Touch a Family

by Michael Abel
For the Deseret News, 2012

Christmas 1983 promised to be rather bleak for us.

In April I had lost my position at U.S. Steel's Geneva Works and had practically worn out a pair of shoes pounding the sidewalk in a futile hunt for stable new employment. We had battened down the hatches, canceled magazine subscriptions, ended piano lessons and scaled back discretionary purchases of all kinds — and learned to live on very little.

We were truly blessed throughout this experience. It seemed that whenever we hit a new low spot, some good friend or neighbor, usually anonymously, dropped off a box of groceries or a $50 bill. I managed to get some church food assistance and a few extra days of National Guard duty just when we needed it most, so we were able to keep up with our bills and meet our basic obligations, despite the many bumps along the way.

But it was not easy, and there were discouraging times, especially as the search for full-time employment dragged on and on. Particularly disappointing were the "near misses," those times when it seemed like I had a good shot at a job only to have the opportunity slip away.

Despite the challenges and disappointments, our family held together well. Everyone was healthy and happy and we had sufficient for our needs.

But it was hard for us not to dread the coming holidays just a little bit. The prospect of such a materially meager Christmas for our eight little ones, ages 3 to 12, was almost overwhelming at times.

And then on Nov. 30, I spotted an item in the local American Fork newspaper soliciting gifts for a special "Christmas Family." Thinking that helping with this worthy project, even in a small way, might be a good way to take our minds off our own troubles, I showed the article to my wife, Eva. As we read the details more closely, especially the depiction of the family's circumstances and the ages and gender of the children, it dawned on us that it was a perfect description of our family! How in the world did they find out about us?

After an initial wave of embarrassment at being considered a suitable object for communitywide charity, we sought advice from our clergyman on what we ought to do. He counseled us to swallow our pride and let our neighbors and friends help. Not yet convinced, we contacted the newspaper's publisher, hoping perhaps to persuade him to find a more needy family, but when he expressed his and his staff's heartfelt conviction that we were the right family, we reluctantly agreed to go along.

What a wonderful experience it turned out to be! We were overcome by the outpouring of love and kindness by so many good people in the community.

A local square dance club provided a beautiful, fully decorated Christmas tree. Others provided groceries, including all the fixings for a great holiday feast. There were gifts for all of us; so many, in fact, that they literally filled our living room. We were able to stash enough away to take care of the following year's Christmas as well. Our hearts were indeed full of gratitude for such generosity. Other community organizations also reached out to help hundreds of other families in our community that year, and kind neighbors made it a memorable Christmas for many beside us.

Among the many gifts, however, was one very special one. Some good person had sent along a set of beautiful, hand-made Christmas stockings — one each for Mom and Dad and all the children. They immediately became a central feature of our family Christmas tradition and have been ever since. But the most interesting twist of all is that they had "mistakenly" included one extra stocking. It wasn't until several weeks later that we learned that there was to be one more member added to our family. How did they know? God knew! And he touched their kind hearts in this very special manifestation of his love.

Sunday, December 21, 2014

The Christmas Baby

by Deanne Francis
For the Deseret News, 2003

It was still dark at 6:30 on the morning of Dec 21. I was cold and feeling pretty sorry for myself as I drove to work. Nobody likes to work on Christmas, and most places close down completely. Not hospitals. It doesn't matter if it's a night, a weekend or a holiday, the hospital is always open for business.

The tiny babies I would care for in the Newborn Intensive Care Unit that day didn't know or care that it was the season for celebrating Christ's birth. My children did, however. Even though they understood that nurses have to take turns working holidays, and it was my turn to work both the 24th and the 25th of December, they were still unhappy about it.

My obstetrician husband had arranged for someone else to be on call for him so both of us wouldn't end up in the hospital over Christmas, but I was feeling less than charitable about the whole thing. It wasn't so much that I thought someone else should be there in my place. The system was fair, but it didn't prevent my longing to be participating in family traditions and watching my children joyously open their gifts. Instead, I would be caring for sick babies who belonged to someone else.

When I reached the hospital, I parked, slogged through the snow and made my way to the NICU, which was so busy that someone had put a big sign over the door that said, "No room in the inn." I received a pretty sketchy report from the nurse going off duty, who was anxious to go home to her family. She gave me a report on two critically ill premature babies, and another new little boy recovering from mild respiratory distress who was to be placed for adoption. As she walked out the door, a pretty, blond teenager wearing a raggy bathrobe walked in. She didn't say a word, just showed me the identification band on her wrist and walked over to the bedside of her baby boy. It was the baby I had just been told was being placed for adoption.

She picked up the baby and sat down in the rocking chair. A few minutes later, I heard soft crying and looked over to see her tears dripping onto the baby as she rocked him and kissed the little fuzzy head. I could almost feel her pain as I picked up a box of Kleenex and sat down next to her. "Is there anything I can do to help?" l asked.

She wiped her eyes and sighed. "It's just that this is the only time I will get to hold my baby," she said. "I know I am doing the right thing to give him the gift of a family, but it is hard to give my son to another woman. No one told me how hard this was going to be. Now I know how God must have felt when he sent his only son to Earth for Mary to raise."

She cried on my shoulder for a few minutes, and I could find no appropriate response to ease her anguish. After rocking him for a while, she whispered final words of love into the baby's ear, told him to be a good boy and asked me to please take good care of him. A few minutes later, she put the baby back in his crib and left, sobbing. The baby, swaddled snugly in a receiving blanket, remained quietly unaware of his mother's sadness.

I was very busy that day with the two babies who were really sick and forgot about the incident until Christmas morning. I left all my children sitting around the Christmas tree in their jammies, looking less than merry. My husband was holding our baby, who was clutching the baby Jesus from the Nativity and howling at the top of her lungs. She didn't look Christlike. I didn't feel Christlike. No matter. Hospitals never close.

As I walked into the nursery, all the nurses going off shift were busy finishing up their work. Waiting for one of them to give me a report, I noticed an older woman sitting in the back of the nursery rocking a baby. I walked slowly toward her, realizing she was sitting in the same rocking chair, holding the same little boy whose mother had sobbed on my shoulder the day before. This woman, too, was weeping, dripping tears onto the baby's head as she rocked him. A man stood near her struggling not to cry.

Picking up the same box of Kleenex, I walked over to where she sat hugging that sweet little body to her breast. Once again, I asked if there was anything I could do to help and offered the box of tissues.

"Oh," she said, "This is the first time I have ever held a baby of my own, and I am so happy. This is the most beautiful gift I have ever received. Now I know how Mary must have felt when she held the baby Jesus in her arms for the first time. Her son was a gift from God. Mine is a gift from a woman I'll never know. I wish I could tell her how much I love him."

There is a young man somewhere, now older than 20, who was that beloved Christmas baby. He was the greatest gift ever to be exchanged between two women who both loved him and who never met. Christmas and babies go together. This year, once again, there will be three women remembering that particular Christmas baby — each of us for different reasons: the birth mother, his adoptive mother and me.

How I wish I could tell both of his mothers what a gift of the heart I received on that Christmas so many years ago when I was somewhere I didn't want to be, doing something I didn't want to do. No Christmas has passed since without remembering that one, and I'm glad I didn't miss it.

Saturday, December 20, 2014

The Least of These

by Richard M. Siddoway

We married in August and settled into a small apartment near the university where both of us went to school. We each had a year until graduation and scrimped and struggled through that autumn quarter. Now Christmas was approaching and we had little money between us to squander on Christmas gifts. We managed to put aside enough money for winter-quarter tuition and books, and that had taken all we had except for rent, utilities, and food.

We walked through the department stores of Salt Lake arm in arm with the confidence of better days ahead. My bride paused before a winter coat, caressing it with her eyes and fingers. Together we looked at the price tag—seventy-five dollars. Tuition for a quarter was eighty-five dollars. We both knew the coat was out of the question. Her coat, seam-split and stained, would have to do another year. But Christmas is a time for dreaming and hoping, and her gaze lingered long upon the coat.

When I received my paycheck on December 20, we paid what bills we owed and discovered we had twenty dollars left for Christmas. Together we found a Christmas tree lot where a stack of broken branches lay. For fifty cents, they let us fill the trunk of our old car with pine boughs. We drove home and wired them together into the semblance of a Christmas tree. With a borrowed string of lights and some handmade ornaments, we created our first Christmas tree.

We agreed to spend no more than five dollars apiece in shopping for each other. While my wife drove the car to do her shopping, I walked the half dozen blocks to the Grand Central drugstore to see how far I could stretch five dollars. After considerable searching, I selected a paperback novel my wife had commented about and a small box of candy. Together they came to $4.75. As I approached the checkout stand, I was met with a long line of shoppers, each trying to pay as quickly as possible and get on with the bustle of the season. No one was smiling.

I waited perhaps half an hour, and only three people were ahead of me in the line when I became aware that the line had ground to a halt. The clerk was having an animated discussion with an elderly customer. He was tall and thin, with an enormous shock of white hair that had been carefully parted and combed. He was wearing a pair of navy blue slacks that ended nearly three inches above his shoes. His plaid shirt was missing a button, and the sleeves of the shirt protruded two or three inches past the sleeves of his light jacket. He had an ancient leather wallet in his hand.

“Sir,” barked the clerk, “the price of insulin has gone up. I’m sorry, but we have no control over that. You need four more dollars.”

“But it has been the same price ever since my wife started taking it. I have no more money. She needs the medication.” The man’s neck was turning red and he was obviously uncomfortable with the situation. “I must have the insulin. I must.”

The clerk shook her head. “I’m sorry, sir, but I have no control over the prices. You need four more dollars.”

The woman immediately ahead of me in line began to mutter under her breath. She had other purchases to make and resented this clot in the artery of Christmas shopping. “Hurry up, hurry up,” she whispered loudly.

“Please let me take the insulin and I will bring you back the four dollars,” pleaded our elderly friend. The clerk was adamant; he had to pay before he got the medicine.

The man standing behind him put a hand on his shoulder and said, “Come on, pop, you’re holding up the line. Pay the lady and let’s get on with it.”

“I don’t have any more money,” he replied. As he turned to face the man behind him, I saw his face for the first time. He had enormous bushy white eyebrows that seemed out of place on his emaciated face, but complimented the thin, white moustache on his upper lip. “I’ve been buying insulin here for years. Always it has been the same price. Now it’s four dollars more. My wife”—he threw up his hands in despair—“must have it.” He turned back to the clerk.

The lady in front of me grew more agitated. The dozen or so people behind me began craning their necks to see what was holding up the line. Suddenly I stepped out of line, reached into my pocked, withdrew my wallet, and handed five dollars to the old man. “Merry Christmas,” I said.

He hesitated a moment, then his blue eyes grew moist as he took the money. “God bless you, my son.”

I tuned and walked back into the store aisles. I counted the money I had remaining in my wallet—four dollars. I replaced the box of candy on the shelf and got back into line to pay for the novel. The line moved slowly, but at last I made my purchase.

Snow was falling in soft, white, feathery flakes as I walked up the hill toward our apartment. The lights from the city reflected from the clouds above and gave a glow to my surroundings that matched the glow I felt inside. I turned in our driveway and saw an envelope stuck in our screen door. I removed it and found written on the front of the envelope simply, “Matthew 25:40.”

I opened the door, stepped inside, and turned on the light. I ripped open the end of the envelope and withdrew a hundred-dollar bill. There was no other message. With wonder, I folded the envelope and stuffed it in my pocket as I heard my wife drive in. She brought in her sack of purchases and shooed me out of our apartment while she did her wrapping.

It was only after I had driven to the department stored and purchased the winter coat for my wife that I took time to get out my Bible and read the scripture written on the envelope: “Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”

To this day, I have no idea who blessed our lives that Christmas.

Friday, December 19, 2014

A Wonderful Christmas

by Cyndi

My ex-husband had made some very bad choices in his life, and I did not want my children to pay for them all their lives, so the boys and I talked and we decided to move. We moved 2700 miles from home. We had a small car that pulled a small U-haul over the Rocky Mountains. I could barely read a map. (My 8-year old reads them great, I learned.)

We arrived in our new town three days later, and found an apartment. I started the boys in their new school and I went to our new home to unload the U-haul. I had brought all the clothes, dishes, blankets and toys that I could fit in the U-haul. As I began unloading, a lady whom I had briefly met the day before was driving down the road and she stopped to help me unload and carry everything up the three flights of stairs. After getting moved in, I was blessed two days later when I found a job.

Things were going great. The boys went to the Boys & Girls Club after school, and I would pick them up after work. In December, two months after moving, the manager of the Boys & Girls Club called me and said that there was a group of people who wanted to adopt a family for Christmas and would I mind if they chose our family. My first thought was no, because we had all the love we needed for the holidays, but then he said that my children had told him that there was no furniture in the house, and this group had a lot of used furniture, and that the boys and I would be making them very happy. So I agreed.

They called me and asked what the boys wanted for Christmas and I told them that anything would be appreciated, and I told them what their favorite toys were. They showed up for the first time on December 18. The brought in a couch, kitchen furniture, a bed for me (the boys already had one that I had found for them), and dressers and other furniture. I was so grateful, and in telling them thank you, they said that wasn't all. They went back out and came in with an artificial Christmas tree and decorations. We talked for hours as we put the tree up, and decorated my house for Christmas.

On December 23 they called and said they'd like to drop by. They came over and brought used appliances, and a whole mess of food. They even had someone dressed up as Santa to give each of the boys a small gift. I cried when I saw all that they were doing.

On December 24 after the kids were in bed they stopped by and set outside my door gifts for the kids to have Christmas. I cannot tell you how wonderful a Christmas that was.

My children and I have since adopted a child every year. The boys know that even with the little bit we have we can really help.

This year is going to be different though because my girlfriends and I are planning to adopt a whole family. I am hoping that we can give someone the joy that was once given to us.

I hope everyone can join in the spirit of love during this upcoming holiday season, and remember that there are angels all around us, not just spiritual ones, but real ones that we can see.

Thursday, December 18, 2014

Trimming the Christmas Tree

by Barry Ewell
For the Deseret News, 2013

A few days ago my wife and I put up the Christmas decorations in our home. It would be different this year, as it was just the two of us in our home.

Our six children, now grown and living in different places, are beginning to establish their own experiences and traditions for the holiday. At first, I really didn't care whether there was a tree, ornaments or a baby Jesus and manger scene on the piano. Who was going to be there to enjoy it with us? All I was seeing was the emptiness and the home void of our traditional December activities in preparing for Christmas morning.

Much like the first time I held my oldest daughter following her birth, not knowing how to be a father, I didn't know how to be alone.

Begrudging, with a bah humbug cloud to my demeanor, I retrieved the boxes full of decorations from storage with the intent of getting it over as quickly as possible.

First we moved the sofa to make room for the tree. Next we pulled our artificial scotch pine from its box, connected the parts, strung the lights and prepared for hanging the ornaments. In years past, my official decorating participation would end here, and the children would take over with hanging the ornaments and dressing the home with Christmas decorations gathered during the previous 35 years as a family. This year we split the duties between my wife and me. My wife setup the manger scene and holiday knickknacks, and I hung the ornaments.

The ornaments were consolidated into two small boxes and had been carefully packed from last season. As I opened the boxes, I quickly placed the first few ornaments on the tree. The next ornament I handled was one I had made for my mother when I was a boy. And an unexpected transformation began. I felt like a child whisked away, rediscovering Christmases I had all but forgotten.

My first experience was the Christmas mornings in Las Vegas during the '60s and '70s. My mother was a single mom, raising three children without much help from my dad. She worked the graveyard shift as a waitress at the Horseshoe Club. Every Christmas was usually split between going over to my dad's for Christmas Eve for our first Christmas and then being brought home Christmas morning for our second Christmas with mom.

I think it was the Christmas when I was 12 I remember most. As my dad dropped us off at our home, unlike previous Christmases, we brought our presents received from dad, to my mom's home. And oh what a Christmas it was; more toys and things than a child could wish for.

Inside the home, we laid new gifts on the couch and excitedly dove in to discovering and unwrapping our second Christmas with mom. Within just a few minutes, the few presents mom was able to secure on her limited income were unwrapped. I had received everything I had asked for. Christmas couldn't have been better. Then I turned to mom as she sat on the couch to thank her for what I thought was a wonderful Christmas. She was alone, no presents to open and tears streaming from her eyes, and said, "Barry, I'm sorry I couldn't do more."

How do you respond as a child? I simply replied, "Mom, my Christmas is perfect. Thank you."

I understood for the first time the sacrifice and love my mother was offering for her children. When I looked at the things my father had purchased, they lost all value to me because they had not been given in love but despitefully, to hurt my mom.

Next, came four ornaments from my last Christmas in Germany as a missionary, in a little city called Hof. They were the wooden soldiers and the bird house. That was the year my companion burned down our tree.

In Germany there is a tradition to light candles on the tree. Our tree was about five feet tall, very much like a Charlie Brown Christmas tree, scrawny and very dry. In addition to a few wooden ornaments, we had placed a few candles on the tree as decoration. While I was in the kitchen preparing our Christmas Eve feast, my companion shouted, "Help! Help! Fire! Fire!" I went into the room and our tree was in flames.

My companion, against my warning, decided he wanted to light the candles. We got the fire out; however, we were unable to save the tree. It was black with no needles. The apartment smelled of smoldering fire. We did everything we could to clean up the mess, which took until 2 or 3 a.m. In order to get the smell out of the apartment, we left the window open all night. It was one of the coldest nights I can remember. The next morning for Christmas, we rehung the ornaments on the tree and opened our presents. It’s a Christmas memory that literally burned a special place in my heart and will always bring a smile.

One by one, as I uncovered each of the ornaments, memory after memory of Christmases past were brought into view. One of my most favorite memories was the 1992 Christmas in West Jordan. That was the year we began what would become our family tradition I will refer to as a Christmas Treasure Hunt.

That year rather than having all the presents under the tree on Christmas morning, each of the children was presented with a Christmas paper-wrapped container filled with candy and a letter from Santa. Oh, what a shock the children had when to their amazement there was only one gift for each of them under the tree. One by one they opened their present and read aloud their letter from Santa, "Merry Christmas from Santa. It’s time to start your Christmas adventure. Solve one riddle at a time. Search out and find one gift at a time. Once you have found your present, return to let the next person in line begin their quest."

Each letter was filled with Christmas riddles and clues. Solve the riddle in order to find your present. The gifts were hidden throughout the home under tables, in closets, under beds and even inside the washing machine. In the years that followed, each and every member of the family has eagerly awaited finding his letter from Santa under the tree to begin the Christmas Treasure Hunt quest.

Now as our children are starting their families, we are seeing them continue the tradition and create their own versions of the Christmas Treasure Hunt.

Within a couple of hours, my wife and me had decorated our home. This year the decorations had more meaning than in past years because I took time to remember and wrote down those memories so they will not be forgotten. It's a new chapter for my wife and me, but it was a very important time for us as we remembered Christmases past, we still have many more Christmases present and future to share together alone and with our children and grandchildren. I look forward to the memories that will be created.

Wednesday, December 17, 2014

Frankenstein Christmas

by Rosi Bennett
For the Deseret News

I grew up in Costa Rica with five brothers and two sisters. We were very poor. My father was a hard worker and worked two jobs to feed us, but it was not enough. I was always hungry. My mother could put only one scoop of food on our plates each night, and it was never enough for me.

My happiest Christmas in Costa Rica was when I was about 7 years old. My father gathered us together and said, "Well children, this Christmas will be a poor one. We are not going to have presents." We all felt so sad. But my oldest brother, Jorge, tried to comfort Papa by telling him that it was OK and that we didn't need presents.

My father said, "We will still go to the forest and cut our cypress Christmas tree and we will decorate it and it will smell so good in our house. And on Christmas Eve we will make wonderful tamales and everything will be just fine."

You have to know that in Costa Rica it is tradition to make delicious tamales to eat on Christmas Eve. It is also tradition to wake up at midnight and eat tamales and open your Christmas presents. But this year there would be no presents. I was very sad, and I said to my mother and my father that I'd like to have a very expensive doll that I saw in the store window. I said to my father, "Poppy, can't I have a doll for Christmas? I want a doll very bad." I think my father had a knot in his heart when he just looked at me and patted my head.

That year on Christmas Eve our father woke us up as usual at midnight to eat our tamales. And we were surprised that he had presents for all of us. He had taken some wood and made guns for my brothers. For my sister he made a small play stove out of a piece of tin. My sister enjoyed the stove, but she had to be careful because the edges were so sharp that it was dangerous. My sister said that even though our father was a good worker, he was not a good craftsman.

I was so excited that the big box under the tree was for me. When I picked it up it was so heavy. And when I opened it, what a surprise! My father had made a doll for me.

It was not a regular or a normal doll. It was a wooden doll that Father had cut out of a large piece of wood. It was all one piece, and he had made a simple cut to show the form of the arms and legs. The doll had kind of a square head, slightly rounded at the top. Papa had tried to paint a face on the doll. But he was not an artist, and the doll had a man's face with big bushy eyebrows sticking to the nose.

When my brother looked at my doll he said he was the ugliest doll in the whole world. He said he looked like Frankenstein! Everyone laughed at my doll and called him "Frankenstein." But I did not care! He was my doll and I loved him!

I wrapped him in a rag for a blanket. My sister said she could not believe that I took him outside and carried him up and down the street showing all the neighbors the doll I got for Christmas.

When I think of all my growing up years in Costa Rica, my favorite memory is the year of my "Frankenstein Christmas."

Tuesday, December 16, 2014

All for One and One for All

by Brenda Freeman
For the Deseret News, 1998

Our family received the priceless gift of a Christmas never to be forgotten last year. It all began on Thursday, Dec. 11. I sat alone in the office of a kind doctor who had informed me, as gently as he could, that I had breast cancer and it looked as if it had spread to an inoperable place in my head. His parting words brought home the gravity of the situation. He said, "You're young, we'll go after it with everything we can."

He then left me in the privacy of his office with a telephone and a box of Kleenex. I reflected for a moment on the cold, hard facts. I was 38 years old. I had five wonderful children between the ages of 3 and 13. My 3-year-old son had suddenly begun having seizures only weeks before. In fact, the day that we brought him home from the hospital was the same day that I found the small lump under my arm. Since then, it had been all my husband and I could do to protect him from the sudden falls. Now, it looked like I might not be there to protect him at all. I picked up the phone and called my husband, and we cried together. He came to the hospital as soon as he could with our little son in tow.

My husband, Brad, is a Murray firefighter. It has been his first love for as long as he can remember. As we sat in the lobby of the hospital, fighting back the tears, waiting to see one of the doctors who would assist in the surgery, a fellow Murray firefighter and close friend, Gil, walked into the lobby to pick up medicine for his daughter.

When we told him why we were there, his big heart just melted. He hugged us both and told us that the firefighters would be there for us with anything we needed. As he walked out the hospital doors, into the dark December night, a Christmas of miracles and love was about to begin.

There were two more tests to complete before surgery the following Monday. They would tell us whether the cancer had spread to other areas as well. The next day was Friday, Dec. 12.

I completed one of the two tests at the hospital, without learning the results. Then, I decided that I would begin my own personal stand against cancer by keeping one of my most cherished Christmas traditions, an evening with "The Forgotten Carols," by Michael McLean.

That night, Brad and I held hands tightly during the performance, trying to keep the tears at bay. We were both struggling with the feeling that this might be our last Christmas together, and silently, I began to wonder if Heavenly Father was aware of our sorrow. The answer wasn't long in coming. Toward the end of the performance, to my complete surprise, Michael dedicated the song, "Together Forever," to me, and told me that Heavenly Father was watching over my family and everything would be all right. My sweet husband had sneaked backstage. It was so un-Brad-like, the first of many miracles to come.

Saturday morning I awoke to find Brad full of new hope. He said that we would begin the day with a new blessing, before we went for my final test. After the test, we were gathered at my mother-in-law's home, everyone in a somber mood, when the phone rang. It was my doctor. Both tests had come back clear. At last, we had something to cheer about.

From then on, it only got better. As we drove home to Alpine, Brad's Murray city pager went off. He picked it up and held it up for me to see. It read, "All for one and one for all . . . we're praying for you." The firefighters had jumped into action. First, they got together and volunteered for Brad's shifts at the station for the next month. Next, several of them took the $100 Christmas bonuses they had just received and deposited them in our account, anonymously. One of them brought Brad's bonus to our home, along with his own.

Then, later that night, I received perhaps the most touching phone call I've ever had. It was one of the firemen, a good friend. He had called to thank me for helping to bring the meaning of Christmas back to him. Then he said, "I want you to know, I have never prayed before. But, tonight I prayed for you."

Sweeter words were never spoken. When I hung up the phone, I walked to the window to bask in the glow of the Christmas lights. Tears came softly, as I realized that I was also basking in the glow of more love than I had ever known. It was then I knew that each of us, those who gave and those who received, had been given the priceless gift of the true meaning of Christmas.

In the weeks that passed before Christmas, we were the recipients of gifts of prayer, service, music, books, flowers and love from our family, our friends, all of our ward members and, of course, those incredible firefighters. They sustained us through surgery, and I even received a personal escort home from the hospital, big yellow fire engine and all.

By Dec. 23, I was home with my children for Christmas. Four days later, we would learn that the cancer in the brain had completely disappeared. Two months later, as a result of a family fast and subsequent help from some inspired friends, 3-year-old Joshua was completely healed.

As this wonderful season is upon us, I am filled with absolute joy and gratitude. We are together for one more wonderful Christmas. As long as I live, I shall never forget my Season of Miracles, each precious act of kindness and the way the Murray firemen stood so very tall, because they stooped to help a friend. Because of them, and so many others, I have come to know that the spirit of Christmas can be found somewhere in those words, "All for one and one for all."

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Monday, December 15, 2014

Christmas Giving

by Beverly Roberts Jostad

Christmas 1940 makes me misty-eyed every time I think about it. I was a high school student in California’s San Joaquin Valley. In the hard times of the era, people depended on one another. We collected food, clothing, bedding and household items and gave them to the needy.

We saved the toys we collected for Christmas. The home economics classes made new dresses for the dolls, while the shop classes turned lumber into trucks, games and other toys.

That Christmas we students found ourselves wrapping toys and loading packages for delivery. As we presented the gifts, we saw joy in many faces, especially those of the children.

We had a few more visits to make on Christmas morning. The air was heavy and chilled us to the bone. A rancher offered us his truck for deliveries, and we gratefully accepted. For several hours, we knocked on doors. But as the cold hours passed, our enthusiasm gradually waned.

When we finally headed home, someone pointed to a small house down a canal bank. Although there were no electric or telephone lines running to the structure, smoke curled from the chimney. The house stood bleak in the forlorn terrain that surrounded it.

None of us knew who lived there, and we wondered if there were children. We still had a doll, two trucks, assorted small toys, chocolate Santas and a box of groceries. We decided to make one last visit. Three of us climbed down from the truck bed and gathered the gifts.

Mud sucked at our boots, slowing our progress. When we knocked on the door, a young woman whose dark hair was tied back with a red ribbon answered it. Three small children peeked from behind her skirt—a little girl of about 2, and boys perhaps 4 and 5 years old. The mother put an arm around the toddler and looked at us questioningly.

“Merry Christmas,” we chorused as we bent down and handed the gift-wrapped packages to the children and the box of groceries to the mother, whose eyes widened with amazement. She slowly smiled then quickly said, “Come in.”

The catch in her voice was sufficient for us to accept her invitation. We removed our boots and stepped inside.

I knelt to reach the little girl, and it was then that I looked around the room. The linoleum floor was worn but spotless. Bleached flour-sack curtains hung at the windows. Neatly made beds occupied one corner of the room and the kitchen another. A small stove furnished heat.

As I turned back to the children, dressed in clean, neatly patched clothes, I noticed several green tree branches standing upright in a dirt-filled pot. A red cloth circled the base. Can lids and paper angels hung on strings, and a tiny paper star graced the treetop. Streamers of popcorn completed the decorations.

The room was silent as the children looked at their mother, wondering if the gifts were really for them. The little girl hugged her doll, and the boys grasped the trucks as they sought an answer. She put her arms around them and said in a choked voice, “I told you Santa Claus would come.”