Sunday, December 25, 2016

It’s Christmas Night

By Max Lucado

It’s Christmas night. The house is quiet. Even the crackle is gone from the fireplace. Warm coals issue a lighthouse glow in the darkened den. Stockings hang empty on the mantle. The tree stands naked in the corner. Christmas cards, tinsel, and memories remind Christmas night of Christmas day.

It’s Christmas night. What a day it has been! Spiced tea. Santa Claus. Cranberry sauce. “Thank you, so much.” “You shouldn’t have!” “Grandma is on the phone.” Knee-deep wrapping paper. “It just fits.” Flashing cameras. It’s Christmas night. The girls are in bed. Jenna dreams of her talking Big Bird and clutches her new purse. Andrea sleeps in her new Santa pajamas. It’s Christmas night. The tree that only yesterday grew from soil made of gifts, again grows from the Christmas tree stand. Presents are now possessions. Wrapping paper is bagged and in the dumpsite. The dishes are washed and leftover turkey awaits next week’s sandwiches.

It’s Christmas night. The last of the carolers appeared on the ten o’clock news. The last of the apple pie was eaten by my brother-in-law. And the last of the Christmas albums have been stored away having dutifully performed their annual rendition of chestnuts, white Christmases, and red-nosed reindeer.

It’s Christmas night.

The midnight hour has chimed and I should be asleep, but I’m awake. I’m kept awake by one stunning thought. The world was different this week. It was temporarily transformed. The magical dust of Christmas glittered on the cheeks of humanity ever so briefly, reminding us of what is worth having and what we were intended to be. We forgot our compulsion with winning, wooing, and warring. We put away our ladders and ledgers, we hung up our stop watches and weapons. We stepped off our racetracks and roller coasters and looked outward toward the star of Bethlehem.

It’s the season to be jolly because, more than at any other time, we think of him. More than in any other season, his name is on our lips. And the result? For a few precious hours our heavenly yearnings intermesh and we become a chorus. A ragtag chorus of longshoremen, Boston lawyers, illegal immigrants, housewives, and a thousand other peculiar persons who are banking that Bethlehem’s mystery is in reality, a reality. “Come and behold him” we sing, stirring even the sleepiest of shepherds and pointing them toward the Christ-child.

For a few precious hours, he is beheld. Christ the Lord. Those who pass the year without seeing him, suddenly see him. People who have been accustomed to using his name in vain, pause to use it in praise. Eyes, now free of the blinders of self, marvel at his majesty. All of a sudden he’s everywhere. In the grin of the policeman as he drives his paddy wagon full of presents to the orphanage.

In the twinkle in the eyes of the Taiwanese waiter as he tells of his upcoming Christmas trip to see his children. In the emotion of the father who is too thankful to finish the dinner table prayer. He’s in the tears of the mother as she welcomes home her son from overseas. He’s in the heart of the man who spent Christmas morning on skid row giving away cold baloney sandwiches and warm wishes. And he’s in the solemn silence of the crowd of shopping mall shoppers as the elementary school chorus sings “Away in a Manger.” Emmanuel. He is with us. God came near.

It’s Christmas night. In a few hours the cleanup will begin lights will come down, trees will be thrown out. Size 36 will be exchanged for size 40, eggnog will be on sale for half-price. Soon life will be normal again. December’s generosity will become January’s payments and the magic will begin to fade. But for the moment, the magic is still in the air. Maybe that’s why I’m still awake. I want to savor the spirit just a bit more. I want to pray that those who beheld him today will look for him next August. And I can’t help but linger on one fanciful thought: if he can do so much with such timid prayers lamely offered in December, how much more could he do if we thought of him every day?

Saturday, December 24, 2016

A Token of Love

By Janice for anonymousthankyous.com
“Christmas Eve 2014 proved to be one of the hardest, yet most special days of my life. I live alone, so the holidays are always a little hard. Sure, I have neighbors and a few friends I could celebrate with, but I always feel out of place. I found staying home with my cats and my beloved dog to be good enough year after year.
“My world crumbled the morning of Christmas Eve. My dog was hit by a truck and killed instantly. I ran into the street and struggled to pull him out of the road. My kind neighbor was kind enough to help me dig through the frozen ground to give him a proper burial.
“The hours following my sweet dog’s death were some of the loneliest and empty hours of my life. I truly felt alone and more despair than I knew was possible. That afternoon, a knock came to my door. It was a young woman I had never met before. We live in the small town of Vernal, Utah, so I think I had noticed her around before, but I didn't even know her name. In her hands was a darling tiny potted Christmas tree plant. She handed it to me along with a card. She said, 'I know you don't know me, but earlier this morning I was down your street quite a ways and saw what happened to your dog. My heart broke for you. I drove by, not wanting to bother you at such a sad time. When I got home, I could not get you out of my mind. So I wanted you to have this to know that I am sorry for your loss, and that you aren't alone.'
“I could not even speak as my emotions got the best of me. The tears came, and I was able to mutter a small 'thank you' as she hugged me. She walked off, and joined what I am assuming was her family in her car and drove off. I went inside and opened the card. It was a beautiful handmade Christmas card as well as a beautiful picture of Jesus and a Wal-Mart gift card.
“By this time I was crying tears of joy. I was not alone after all! There are still kind, good, charitable and Christlike people in this world! Because of my limited income, I didn't even have a Christmas tree, and now I did. I also didn't have money for a Christmas meal, but now I did. My day of sorrow turned out to be one of gratitude.
“I relayed the events of my day to a friend a few days ago. To my surprise she told me that she had heard of a similar woman and her family going around town doing good deeds on Christmas Eve. Her friend, a cashier at our local Smith's grocery store had witnessed a young boy handing a card to a highway patrolman. She asked to see my card, and it was identical to the ones she had seen that were given to others. Some of their cards contained money; others had gift cards to restaurants, gas stations and more. They all contained the same picture of Jesus and an anonymous note reading, 'Please accept this gift from our family to yours.'
“I wish I knew who they were so I could thank them in person, but sometimes not knowing makes it even more special. All my friend and I could piece together was that it was a mom and dad and three children a girl and two boys. The children and adults were handing out the cards randomly, saying Merry Christmas, and then walking away. I hope that whoever they were and wherever they are, they are reading this. I want them to know how touched I was by their kindness to me and others in this little town. I applaud them on their parenting to teach their young children to give. May God bless their family. Let the city of Vernal (and anyone reading this) take note and pay it forward."

Friday, December 23, 2016

Just Sing

By Joan Wester Anderson
She should never have waited so long to tackle the Christmas shopping, Kimberley Little reminded herself as she shifted her bundles from one aching arm to the other. She hated shopping, hated having to brave the crowds, and sift through endless piles of merchandise. But there was only so much holiday gift-buying one could do through catalogues, and of course, the children needed their annual photo taken with Santa Claus. So here she was, imprisoned in a slow-moving "Visit Santa" line, wondering if she might spend the entire holidays in this Albuquerque mall.
Of course, she had to admit she was never "up" at this time of year, no matter how smoothly things went. Her father had died tragically in a plane crash just a few days before Christmas when Kimberley was fourteen, and although many years had passed, she never faced December without feeling echoes of that familiar shock, sorrow and loneliness. As her faith matured, Kimberley had gotten involved in her church, singing in the choir, and teaching her young sons to pray. She didn't doubt that her father was in heaven with Jesus, and she would see him again. But every year as Christmas approached, the same nagging question emerged: "This is all supposed to be so wonderful. So why isn't it?"
Kimberley shifted packages again, and looked at her three young sons. Their moods seemed no cheerier than hers. One was demanding a ride on the train further down the mall. Another was hungry. "I hate Christmas!" muttered the eldest, his lip thrust out in frustration.
Kimberley felt guilty. "Moms have so much influence on the spirit of the family," she says. "If we're just a little bit cranky, everyone picks up on it." She didn't want to spoil this season for the children. They shouldn't carry the same vague sadness that she did.
And yet She glanced around at the other families in line. They were all like hers, she realized, the kids were irritable, tired, fighting with one another, the parents grimly Determined to Endure.
Why are we like this? Kimberley wondered. Where was the real Christmas, the spirit of love and peace, the joyful awareness that a Savior had come into the world? How did one cut through the confusion, the fatigue, the pressure, yes, even the sorrowful memories, to find it?
Suddenly, God nudged her. "It couldn't have been anything else," Kimberley says, "because all at once I felt a little tingle, as if something new was happening. And I realized that if I wanted to feel better about myself, I had to take the first step. I had to be brave." But how?
Sing a carol The suggestion was already in her heart. She had recently performed a solo in church. She knew how to sing. But this noisy shopping center was not church. "Oh, no, God, not me," she told Him silently. "You remember how shy I am ... People will stare."
Bring Christmas to the mall. Sing.
Kimberley sighed. It was no use. She knew that Voice. And hadn't she asked Him where Christmas was?
Softly she began to sing. "Silent night, holy night ..." The couple in front of her, who had been filling out a photography order form, paused and turned around.
"All is calm, all is bright ..." Kimberley reached for her youngest son and picked him up. What if they threw her out of the mall, for disturbing the peace?
You're bringing the peace, the answer came. Sing.
The children behind her had stopped arguing. "Listen," one whispered to the other. "That lady's singing."
The tips of Kimberley's ears turned red. "Round yon virgin, mother and child ..." she went on. Her sons would never speak to her again.
ButWas it her imagination, or did she hear another voice? And another? Yes, the couple in front of her was singing, their order form forgotten. Now the children behind her, and their parents, and the family next to them. Dazed, Kimberley realized that the entire section of the Santa Claus line had joined her. Even her own offspring.
It was true! Little risks could lead to wonderful things. And she was feeling better, her spirit soothed, her mind quieted. Maybe Christmas, and its eternal message, was simply as close as anyone allowed it to be.
Voices faded as the song ended. "Let's do 'Angels We Have Heard on High'" Kimberley suggested to the people around her. It was her eldest's favorite carol, and her dad had always liked it too.
It was going to be a wonderful Christmas.

Thursday, December 22, 2016

Grief and Grace

By Angela Fields
For the Deseret News 2006
While many people spent December 1999 preparing for Y2K, my family prepared for a much more personal event, the birth of our sixth child. Even though we hadn't had any scientific confirmation, we knew he was a boy. He had announced to his father that his name was Noah. We were anxious to bring him into the world, especially since I had just miscarried. My pregnancy was uneventful, although Noah wasn't quite as active as my other children. Then one day Noah did a giant somersault, putting him in the breech position. Because he stayed in this position, we decided to have an ultrasound.
On Dec. 13, my husband, Gary, and I went to the doctor's office eager for a report of a healthy little boy. As the ultrasound progressed, and the technician became less talkative, we began to worry. I was rolled onto my side to get a better picture of Noah's heart. After many pictures and a lot of silence, the technician announced that she needed to show the pictures to the doctor and I would have to see him before I could go. Soon after I heard the doctor's cold words, "trisomy 13 ... defects from head to toe ... worst being the heart ... defects incompatible with life." My Noah was going to die. As we drove home through the falling snow, I was in a daze. How was I going to tell the kids? How was I going to live through this?
We spent the next few days enduring more tests and more doctor visits. Their final conclusion was that it was a miracle that my pregnancy had lasted this long and that the only guarantee I had of holding Noah alive was by having an immediate C-section. I considered this but felt at peace with letting nature take its course. We would wait until Noah decided to come.
After many tears, we tried to go about preparing for Christmas. We felt the love of our neighbors and family as they offered their support and prayers. But I still found it quite difficult. So many songs about a baby in a manger. One day while I was in a bookstore, I passed by pictures of Mary holding baby Jesus. I had to leave the store to hide my tears. It just wasn't fair, I said to myself. Mary was able to hold her sweet baby boy, and I would be left with empty arms. As I sat there crying, a thought came to me that changed my perspective. Yes, Mary did hold Jesus and raise Jesus. But, when he was grown, she had to watch as he was crucified. Her precious boy was also taken from her. And why? So that one day I will be able to hold Noah again. He will be mine because of the precious gift of our Savior. Again I cried, but this time they were tears of gratitude. My best gifts that year were Noah's life within me and the knowledge that my Savior loved me enough to die for me and Noah.
On Jan. 1, 2000, Noah Steven Chanku-washte was born at home, held by his family for one brief hour, and then died in his father's arms. His little body did have quite a few imperfections, but he was perfect to us. He will forever be our millennial baby.
I will always remember Christmas 1999 as the year I felt the most despair and yet the most peace. Christmas is a time of giving, and so many people gave so much love to our family that year. Christmases are still difficult as we remember our loss, but each year as I remind myself of the greatest gift, I feel more hope than despair.
"For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son." (St. John 3:16).

Wednesday, December 21, 2016

A Doubtful Christmas

By Doyle Suit
During the summer of 1944, my father sold everything we owned, took all the money and disappeared from our lives. My mother suddenly found herself alone to care for five boys. I was the oldest, barely ten years old. My youngest brother still wore diapers.
My grandparents welcomed us to their place eighty acres of rocky hill country, twenty miles from the nearest town. They scratched a living out of growing row crops in the thin topsoil, and running beef cattle on open range.
Grandpa butchered an extra hog that year, and we planted a field of turnips to mature in the cool fall weather. We didn’t know a lot of different ways to prepare turnips, but the farm supplied adequate food. My mother worked in the fields and cared for us kids while I started fifth grade at school.
Changes in our lives couldn’t be avoided. My father had been abusive at times, but he’d always provided for us. Now, I worried about what might happen, but my mother stayed positive, and assured us that she would keep us together as a family and safe from harm.
Relatives donated hand-me-down clothes whenever they could, and the farm produced enough food to nourish all of us every day. I milked cows before catching the school bus, and did chores after I got home each day. The younger boys washed dishes, fed chickens and pigs, and carried in firewood. Six-year-old Jerry was paired with me on a crosscut saw, and we regularly cut wood to heat the house during the winter.
Our efforts paled in comparison to what our mother did, however. At one hundred-five pounds, she could swing an axe, manhandle heavy horse-drawn plows, haul hay for the cattle, and harvest crops. Still, she found time to help us with homework and say prayers with the younger boys. She also made sure we attended church regularly, and taught us to appreciate music.
As Christmas approached, my mother didn’t seem to smile as much. She hinted that Santa might have trouble bringing us presents this year. I considered myself practically grown, so I hid my disappointment, but when I overheard a conversation between my mother and grandma, I really started to worry.
“I can’t afford to buy Christmas presents for the kids,” my mother said.
“You need to have something for them,” grandma replied. “Maybe you could wrap some of the hand-me-downs.”
“The kids would be terribly disappointed to find old clothes under the tree. I have to do better than that. Maybe I can make toys.”
Homemade toys didn’t excite me, but I realized she had no money to buy presents. Explaining that to the younger kids might be difficult, though.
One day, my mother took a saw into the forest and returned with a stack of tree limbs. She left them in the harness room in the barn and refused to tell her curious children what they were for.
She worked on her project while I was in school, but I peeked when I had a chance. Pieces of wood had been cut into different shapes, then planed and sanded smooth. Later I found a stack of discs cut from a round oak limb. She also had started to carve a long piece of hickory, but I couldn’t figure out its purpose.
She hid everything from us and frustrated my attempts to snoop. But I saw that she had used nails, glue, and paint from grandpa’s workshop. I concluded that she had to be making presents.
By Christmas week, my mother was her normal happy self again. Her project was apparently complete, and she evidently kept it secret because I’d looked everywhere without success.
When school let out for the holiday, my brothers and I cut a Christmas tree in the forest and dragged it home through the early snow. The whole family helped decorate it with ornaments, pinecones, and strings of popcorn. We gathered mistletoe and holly boughs and hung them throughout the house.
While my mother and grandma prepared food for Christmas dinner, I helped grandpa with chores. The younger kids kept a diligent watch on pastries in the cupboard.
On Christmas Eve, we sang carols, and grandpa read aloud from his Bible. After my mother shooed us off to bed, I lay awake for a long while, anticipating Christmas morning. Aunts, uncles, and cousins would come for dinner, and I was curious about what my mother’s project would yield. I doubted that it could be anything elaborate, and homemade toys still didn’t sound exciting, but I couldn’t help noticing that she’d made a huge effort to provide for us.
I was already awake when she tapped on our door. “Merry Christmas, boys.”
We hurried into the living room, and saw that a stack of packages had magically appeared overnight under the tree. But before we were allowed to investigate what Santa had brought, my mother herded us into the kitchen for breakfast.
We gathered around the tree a little later, and my mother handed out the presents. My brothers opened packages stuffed with brightly colored trucks, tractors and trains. Those odd pieces of wood she had handled in secret were assembled and painted to form toys. The round discs made wheels that rolled, and the trucks and trains carried tiny logs and blocks. A tractor pulled a miniature wagon. The toys were beautifully crafted, and my siblings were thrilled.
When I tore off the newspaper wrapping my present, I found a hand carved bow and a quiver of blunt arrows. Blunt was fine, because I knew how to make them suitable for hunting rabbits by forging steel arrowheads in grandpa’s shop.
Many difficult years would follow that particular Christmas, but I never again doubted my mother’s ability to care for us. That Christmas would have been bleak without her skill and dedication, and it foretold her ability to provide for us. We were never hungry, and she made sure we got an education. She taught us faith in God and faith in our own abilities. That faith sustains me still.
Looking back, my mother’s determination and perseverance changed the harsh reality of that time, transforming our poverty into a memorable Christmas filled with delight. And as it turned out, the craftsmanship in those toys predicted her later accomplishments as an artist and sculptor.
Sixty-three winters have come and gone since that special holiday that doubtful Christmas. Im quite sure, in fact I have no doubts, that Ive never had a happier one.

Tuesday, December 20, 2016

An Older Brother’s Gift

By Ada Foy
It was the Christmas season of 1994. Nine-year-old Jaron and his six-year-old brother, Parker, were excited. They had entered a reading contest sponsored by a grocery store in their hometown. The two students who read the most books would each win a brand-new bicycle. All they had to do was have their parents and teachers sign for each book they read. Two bikes were to be awarded, one for the first-to-third grade levels, and one for the fourth-to-sixth grade levels.
Parker was especially excited because this was a way for him to earn a bike. He really wanted one. He was tired of watching his older brother ride around on the new purple ten-speed bike he had earned by working at a yard sale. Parker thought that it would be great to earn a bike of his own by reading books. So he started to read books as fast as he could. He read Curious George, Green Eggs and Ham, and Brown Bear, Brown Bear. But no matter how many books he read, someone in his grade level had read more.
Meanwhile, Jaron had not been all that enthusiastic about the contest. When he went to the grocery store and checked the big chart with all the readers listed and how many books each had read, however, he could see that his younger brother had little chance of winning the contest.
Touched with the true meaning of Christmas, the joy of giving, he decided to do for Parker what he could not do for himself. So Jaron put away his own bike and, library card in hand, went to work. He read and read.  He read when he wanted to ride his bike. He read as much as eight hours a day. The thrill of perhaps having such a wonderful gift to give kept him going.
The day came when the final lists were to be turned in.  Jaron’s mother took him to the store, and he turned in his list, then admired the prize-winners bikes on display.
The store manager watched him admire the shiny red twenty-inch bike. “I suppose if you win the contest, “the manager said, “you’ll want the larger bike, won’t you?”
Jaron looked up at the man’s smiling face and said very seriously, “Oh, no sir. I would like one exactly this size.”
“But isn’t this bike too small for you?”
“No sirI want to win it for my little brother.”
The man was surprised. He turned to Jaron’s mother and said, “This is the best Christmas story I’ve heard all year!”
Jaron’s mother hadn’t known that he had worked so hard for his little brother. She looked at Jaron with great pride and joy as they went home to await the contest results.
Finally, the phone call came! By reading 280 books, Jaron had won! With his parent’s help, he hid the bicycle in his grandma’s basement until Christmas Eve.  He could hardly wait to give Parker his gift!
On Christmas Eve, the whole family gathered at Grandma’s home for a special family home evening.  Mother told the story of Heavenly Father’s gift to the world of His Son Jesus Christ. Then she told the story of another older brother’s love. Although it wasn’t the great sacrifice the Savior has made for each of us, she said, it was a sacrifice, and it showed how much the older brother loved his younger brother. Parker and his family listened to the story of a brother who had read 280 books to win his little brother a bike.
“My big brother would do something like that for me,” Parker said.
At that, Jaron ran to the other room, where Grandma had moved the bike.  The rest of the family proudly grinned while he wheeled out the two-wheeled treasure he had earned for his younger brother.  Parker ran over to the bike, and the brothers hugged over the top of it.

Monday, December 19, 2016

My Cork-and-Burlap Treasure

by Dianne H. Despain

Many years ago I had the good fortune to be a volunteer teacher at a privately owned home for mentally disabled children where my duties included helping children with their normal daily routines, reading stories to them, teaching music, and creating various forms of entertainment. I was given permission to teach a gospel class to a few of the more receptive and eager students.

My eight gospel students, who ranged in age from 8 to 16, were excited to learn about Jesus Christ. Despite their various capacities to learn, they responded well, each in his own wayexcept for Freddie.

Freddie was 14 years old, mildly mentally disabled, and severely disturbed emotionally. He had been abandoned when he was very young, and no one really cared about him other than the people who worked or lived at the home. For this reason I allowed Freddie to become a class member, even though he was the center of every disruption imaginable. It bothered me that I did not seem to be getting through to my little troublemaker. While the rest of the class seemed to have some concept of whom Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ were and what they represented, Freddie seemed oblivious.

Each week it was my practice to present each child with a scripture verse. While most of the children could not read, many taped their verses to the wall above their beds so they could be reminded of it as they offered their evening prayersa requirement in my class. However, each time I gave Freddie his verse, he would tear it up in front of me. It was frustrating, and I was beginning to seriously consider removing him from the class.

As Christmas approached, I explained to my children the meaning of this special holiday. All but Freddie seemed receptive. Then, a few days before Christmas, the home held a party and invited everyone: staff, volunteers, students, and parents. As I mingled with the guests, I did not see Freddie. I found him in his room, laboring over a very crumpled, worn-looking package that he was trying to wrap by himself. I left him to his task and returned to the party. Shortly after, Freddie approached me and threw the package in my lap and ran away. When I opened the package, I found a ragged piece of burlap, hand sewn at the top, with a piece of cork glued in the middle. It was a wall hanging, and the cork in the middle was to be used to tack up the weekly scripture verses. Later, I was told that Freddie had worked for three months on the gift. It was indeed a labor of love, sacrifice, and patience, for I knew the frustrations Freddie must have suffered in making it. Maybe in his own way Freddie had understood what I had been trying to teach him.

Freddie lives with Heavenly Father now, but the gift he gave me still hangs in my home. Whenever I look at it, I see Freddie once again and remember the sacrifice he made to teach me about patience. The lesson he taught me is embedded deeply in my heart.

Sunday, December 18, 2016

Feliz Navidad

By Alma J. Yates
I wanted to skip this Christmas. Mom had cancer and was having radiation treatments. Dad stayed with her, and my brother, Kipp, and I were going to spend Christmas with Uncle Hank and Aunt Clara in Arizona.
Our aunt and uncle lived in the middle of nowhere. The closest thing to a town was a little junction twelve miles away.  It had a gas station, a miniature store, and a run-down café.
The last time it had snowed on Uncle Hank’s ranch was ten years ago, so unless there was a miracle, it wasn’t ever going to look like Christmas there. Aunt Clara did have a Christmas tree. Sort of. It was one of those fake silver ones about four feet tall; a dozen red balls hung from its branches. When Kipp and I arrived, there were only four gifts under the treeall of them small and none of them for us.  We did add a few gifts wed brought for them and each other, but it didn’t help much.
We arrived about a week before Christmas. Uncle Hank and Aunt Clara’s only child had been bucked off a horse and killed when he was fifteen. So Kipp and I had nothing to do but stare out across the miles of brown grass, cactus, mesquite, and yucca plants.
“Some Christmas this is going to be,” Kipp muttered as we put our things away.
“Two lousy weeks here!” I grumbled, staking claim to the top bunk.
For the next hour, we lay on our bunks, feeling sorry for ourselves and wishing we were back home with Mom and Dad.
At dinner, Aunt Clara tried to visit with us, but Kipp and I still didn’t feel like talking. Uncle Hank was tired and just wanted to eat, bathe, and go to bed. After helping Aunt Clara with the dishes, that’s what we did, too.
The next morning at breakfast, Uncle Hank wiped his plate clean with a piece of toast and said, “You two boys come down to the barn when you’ve finished eating, and I’ll show you how to saddle old Bill.  He’s not much of a looker, but he’ll take you where you want to go.  He’s the best horse I’ve ever had.”
Bill was an old, shaggy-looking, blue-gray gelding with black-stocking feet. He looked about as excited to ride as a rail fence, but when we walked up he clopped over to us.  Kipp held out his hand and stroked Bill’s soft muzzle.
Uncle Hank saddled Bill, carefully explaining what he was doing. Then he stripped off the saddle and blanket and made us do it while he watched. He had us each saddle Bill three times to make sure that we knew what we were doing. Then he pushed his hat back and said, “I’d like you boys to do me a favor. See the fence that runs east toward that far hill and then cuts back toward that clump of trees and brush?”
Kipp and I looked where he was pointing.
“I’d like you to ride along that fence and see if there are any breaks. Sometimes the kids bring their four-wheelers and dirt bikes out this was. Occasionally they push through the fence. Sometimes they even cut the wires.  If I don’t get the fence mended, I have cows all over the place. Do you two think you can handle that?”
“Sure, we can handle it,” I answered for both of us.
It was strange how Kipp and I forgot about Christmas once we got on old Bill. We felt pleased that Uncle Hank had enough confidence in us to send us out on this kind of assignment.
Most of the fence was in good shape. We made a note of a few places where the wires sagged or the fence posts had been pushed over at an angle. Just before noon we were heading back toward the ranch house, having made a complete, eight-mile loop around the ranch.
The house was still more than a half-mile away when Kipp called out, “Look at that!” He pointed to a section of the fence where all five strands of wire had been cut. There were four-wheeler tire marks crisscrossing the ground. We were so intent on the hole in the fence that we didn’t pay attention to where old Bill was stepping until he flinched and started dancing strangely.
“Whoa, Bill,” Kipp called out, tugging on the reins.  “What’s the matter?”
Bill whinnied. His head came up and I could feel his body grow tense as he stepped stiffly. Looking down, I discovered the danger. “Kipp,” I called out, panic in my voice, “Bill’s stepped into a bunch of barbed wire.”
Whoever had cut through the fence had tossed the cut strands into the grass. Bill had walked into them, and they tangled around his legs. The more he moved, the more the sharp barbs bit into his flesh; and the more Bill felt the prick of the barbs, the more panicked he became.
“Jacob, I can’t hold him. What if he starts to buck?”
I closed my eyes and prayed with all my might. Even before I opened my eyes, someone spoke in a calm, gentle voice.  “Easy, boy.  Stop your dancing, old feller.”
I felt Bill relax and saw a short, dark, wrinkled man with white hair streaked with black. He took Bill’s bridle and stroked his neck. He spoke softly in what I guessed was Spanish. While he stroked Bill with one hand, he reached into a leather pouch on his belt, pulled out some wire cutters, and began to snip at the wire tangled about the horse’s legs. Soon the old man led Bill, Kipp, and me from danger.
“Where’d you come from, Mister?” I rasped as Kipp and I slid off our mount.
He didn’t answer my question. “You are riding Hank’s best horse.  How come you are riding old Bill?”
“Hank’s our uncle,” Kipp explained.
The old man nodded, gathered up the loose wire, and disappeared into the mesquite.
“Let’s follow him,” Kipp suggested after we’d seen for ourselves that there was no more wire around to cause trouble. Cautiously we led Bill through the mesquite toward a little grove of trees. We found a little board hut hunkered down under two big trees. It wasn’t much bigger than our bedroom back home. There was a small garden to one side. We knocked on the door and heard someone shuffle around inside; then the door squeaked open. There stood the short, wrinkled man, staring at us.
“We just wanted to thank you for helping us with old Bill,” I got out.
“Yeah, thanks,” Kipp joined in.
“Bill’s a good horse,” the man responded. “I saw you riding and knew the wires were down. I was afraid you’d walk into them before I could fix the fence.” He gestured toward the inside of his house. “It’s time to eat. You eat too.
It wasn’t an invitation. It was an order. Kipp and I tied Bill to a post and went inside. The old man had a stack of corn tortillas and a pot of refried beans on a rough wooden table.  ’d never eaten tortillas and beans before, but they were good. He also had a special salsa that he’d made from his own garden.
At first we just ate, no one saying much of anything.  Then the old man started to talk. He had a crinkly little grin and smiling eyes under his bushy gray brows. His name was Carlos Sanchez, and he’d worked since he was a boy on Uncle Hank’s ranch. Uncle Hank’s dad had owned the place back then.
Carlos didn’t have any family, and Uncle Hank had given him this place. Although he couldn’t work much anymore, occasionally he’d wander over to the ranch and do odd jobs.
It was the middle of the afternoon before Kipp and I returned to the ranch house. Aunt Clara had been worrying about us, but as soon as we told her about finding Carlos, she smiled. “He is a good man.”
The next day Kipp and I rode out to Carlos’s place again. He was working in his garden. Kipp and I gave him a hand. He told us stories of when he was a young man. He had left home when he was twelve years old to work as a ranch hand, first in Mexico and finally in Arizona. At noon we went into his little house and ate beans and tortillas again.
Kipp and I made at least one visit a day to Carlos’s place. Sometimes we’d help him work around his house. Other times we’d just sit in the shade and he’d talk. Two days before Christmas, I asked him, “What are you doing for Christmas?”
“I’m too old for Christmas.  It is for children and families.”
Kipp and I were quiet as we rode Bill back to the barn.  As we stripped off the bridle and saddle, I said, “Carlos can’t spend Christmas alone.”
Kipp nodded. “We thought things were rough for us.  He doesn’t have anybody. And he won’t have any presents.”
“Aunt Clara,” I asked as we burst through the front door, “do you suppose we could invite Carlos over for Christmas?”
Aunt Clara sighed. “We used to invite him every year, but the last few years he hasn’t come. He says he doesn’t care for Christmas anymore.”
“Can’t we try?” Kipp pleaded. “Spending Christmas in that little hut can’t be any fun. Christmas is for everybody. This year we can be his family, and he can be ours.”
Uncle Hank thought our idea was a good one, so the next morning we went to Tucson. It took us most of the day, but when we had finished, we had two blankets, a pair of work boots, a new hat, and a basket of fruit and nuts for Carlos.
“Now, how are we going to get him to celebrate with us?” Uncle Hank asked as we drove down the dirt road to the ranch.
“Kipp and I will worry about that,” I said with a grin.
It was turning dark, but there was a bright, full moon when Kipp and I saddled old Bill and headed for Carlos’s place. As we rode up, we saw a little light from the two windows. When he opened his door, we shouted, “Merry Christmas, Carlos!” I added, “Grab a jacketwere going to be late.
“Late? Late for what?”
“It’s Christmas Eve. The party’s ready to start.”
“I thought I told you that I don’t celebrate Christmas anymore.”
Kipp said, “But we can’t celebrate Christmas without you. This year we don’t have family except you, Uncle Hank, and Aunt Clara. You have to come!  You can ride old Bill. We’ll walk.”
Kipp and I had to do some more fast talking, but we finally got Carlos out of his house and onto Bill; then the three of us left for the ranch house.
Aunt Clara had a stocking for each of us, bulging with candy and nuts. We sang Christmas carols, read the Christmas story from the Bible, and snacked on popcorn, candy, and apple cider. Toward the end of the evening, we gave him our gifts.
Carlos was like a little kid! He admired the blankets and fruit basket. Then he tried on his new shoes and hat and marched around the house, studying himself in the hall mirror. Big, happy tears trickled down his cheeks.
When Kipp and I took Carlos back to his place, he paused in the doorway and said, “Maybe I am still a child, because Christmas feels good tonight. Or maybe it is because I was with family.” He grinned. “Feliz Navidad, muchachos. Y muchas gracias!” (Merry Christmas, boys.  And many thanks!)
Kipp and I rode Bill back to the ranch house in silence.  “You know, Jacob,” Kipp said quietly, “a week ago we thought that this was going to be our worst Christmas ever.”
“Yeah,” I answered, “but this Christmas was special, and I’m going to remember it more than any other.”

Saturday, December 17, 2016

Being Santa

By Julie Wright
She crept up behind me and asked me a question that halted me mid-pan-scrub.
I am a terrible liar. I get all flustery and red when I try to fib. And I am not the Grinch. My heart is not two sizes too small. And my shoes fit just fine. I'd always loved Christmas-Santa Claus; packages; warm comforting smells from the kitchen-I loved it. All of it. And then I had her.
The lines between right and wrong and of good parenting seemed blurry with a child of my own, especially at Christmastime. Did I buy into the lie of a guy in fancy red pajamas breaking into houses to deliver presents? Or did I teach her the Christmas story of a stable, shepherds, and a baby?
Could I do both-cross my fingers behind my back and not count the little tale of the guy in red as a fib? I had avoided the issue by simply not stating one way or the other when it came to the reality of the fat guy in a red suit. I figured when the kids were old enough to ask outright, I'd fess up to the truth. Until then, I'd just avoid it all. Avoidance was a vital part of my parenting toolbox. It had served me well until that day of dishes and the question.
"Is Santa Claus real?"
Oy. I pulled my hands from the sink and methodically wiped them on a dish towel, my mind spinning for a good answer to that particular question-one that didn't implicate me as the bad guy. I bent down and stared at my four-year-old, her big hazel eyes wide with suspicion and accusation. "What do you think?" Hedging questions by placing them on the other party usually worked when it came to topic avoidance.
She wasn't having any of that, though. Her wide eyes narrowed, and her little hands went to her hips. It bothered me that she looked a lot like me when she did that. "I asked you."
I couldn't lie. But I couldn't tell the truth either. In a moment of decision, I removed one of her hands from her hips so I could hold it and walked her to the coat rack, pulling both her jacket and mine off the hooks.
"Well? Is he real?"
"Let's go for a walk." I opened the front door to the cold, gray-drenched landscape outside and led her across the street to the hair salon.
As we pushed the door open and stamped the snow from our shoes, she said, "Mo-om!" in that plaintive voice that meant she was tired of being put off.
"Just give me a minute." I scanned over the snowflakes taped to the window. Genders, ages, and wishes were found on each white piece of paper.
I told her what the snowflakes said and asked her which one she wanted to pick. Puzzled and still looking suspicious, she pointed to one. We pulled it free from the window and headed to the store.
"Mo-om! I asked a question!"
"Yes, you did. Just give me a minute." Stalling was another important part of my parenting toolbox, kept in the same general area as avoidance and hedging. The ability to explain complicated situations has always evaded me. It isn't that I don't know the answers, but it's hard for me to explain that knowledge to other people. And that's why I found myself wandering the store in search of the doll requested on the paper snowflake. I couldn't explain Santa Claus. I had to show her.
She picked out the doll and the wrapping she wanted to use, and we went home to wrap the gift. "Is he real, Mom?"
"Be a good girl and hand me the tape pieces. I'll answer your question in a minute."
She did as instructed, babbling about how the little girl who got this doll would love it because it came with hair jewels that could be used in real hair too. She placed a small finger on the ribbon while I tied the bow. "Are you not telling me because you don't know? 'Cause I can go ask Dad." I'd have been offended by such a statement if it weren't for the fact that her dad really did know a lot about everything. We went back out to the hair salon to drop off the present.
Once we were back out in the cold and walking home I asked, "Do you know what you just did?"
"I gave a present."
"Yes. You gave a present. You were Santa Claus for someone."
She stopped in the middle of the road. "What?"
I tugged at her hand. Stalling wasn't such a good tool when your child stood in the middle of the road. "You were Santa Claus. Santa Claus isn't anyone person. He isn't a guy with a beard who slides down chimneys. Lots of people get to play Santa Claus for Christmas. Your dad and I get to be Santa for you and your brothers. And sometimes, when there are people who are having hard times, other people get to be Santa for them, like you were just now for a little girl you don't know and might not ever meet."
"Has someone ever been Santa for you?"
I thought back to several years earlier, when things had been hard and finances tight. We'd found a basket on our porch filled with things we needed, and even a few things we just wanted. "Yes. Someone has been Santa for me."
"I like being Santa." She pulled harder on my hand and started to run. "Let's get the boys so they can be Santa too!" I had to stop her and tell her we had to wait until the boys actually asked about Santa before we could tell them.
I felt pretty good about the whole situation and patted myself on the back. Self-congratulation doesn't get out of the parenting toolbox very often, so I like to soak in it when the opportunity arises. It was three or four days later when my daughter came back with a statement rather than a question. I was doing laundry this time. "Heavenly Father is Santa Claus."
"What?" I mentally slapped my forehead. She still didn't get it. I thought I'd done a good job explaining the Santa situation, but it seemed I'd ended up confusing her even more. I should have told the truth, let her feel betrayed and have a good cry, and be done with the whole business.
"Heavenly Father gave us Jesus. That's a really good present. He's a better Santa Claus than even me." She skipped off, leaving me standing stunned with a pair of mismatched socks in my hands. With eyes stinging from tears, I glanced at the Nativity scene on top of the bookshelf. I dropped the socks back to the pile and wandered over to pick up the little carved manger with a baby in it.
For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given:
and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and
his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, The
mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of
Peace. (Isaiah 9:6)
Every moment of my life requires that gift given on the first Christmas. A baby in a manger who grew to be exactly what every person in the world needed. Yes, Heavenly Father is a better Santa Claus than even me. Often when things are hard, that gift Heavenly Father gave has wrapped around me and whispered, "Peace unto you ... Merry Christmas."

Friday, December 16, 2016

Riding Dreams on a Pony

By Ken Jennings, Jr.
A pony for Christmas? The year was 1953, and most American children were secretly wishing, praying and writing letters to Santa Claus promising to be nice rather than naughty in return for that ultimate desideratum of gifts: the “real, live pony.”
Subtle hints were everywhere. The Lone Ranger’s face on the back of the Cheerios box revealed a sly, knowing grin if you looked at it just right. Trigger, Silver and Topper were inevitably the focus of comparative analysis when the neighborhood gathered for tag and philosophy. Silver was faster, but Trigger was smarter. Everyone could agree on that. Those secondary characters that tagged along with these great steeds? Roy Rogers, the Lone Ranger and Hopalong Cassidy? They were as fungible as the extras in last year’s western.
The irony of asking Santa for a pony when you lived in a third floor walk-up in Brooklyn totally escaped my generation.
We didn’t live in a third-floor walk-up. We lived in Bothell, Washington, just beyond the suburbs of greater Seattle. We had chickens, rabbits, fruit trees and a kitchen garden sprawling over 5 acres that qualified as the wild frontier in my 4-year-old eyes. Bears had been seen on Pontius Road and salmon swimming upstream had once strayed into the ditch in front of our house. Plenty of room for a pony.
Only there would be no pony.
My 6-year-old sister had recently emerged from months in a cast and slept with braces on her legs every night. Mother was attending the University of Washington to qualify for a teaching certificate so she could help make ends meet. Dad was working extra hours in his grocery store trying to earn enough money to keep up with the hospital bills. Looking back, I know that in the weeks approaching Christmas, while my sisters and I lay sleepless but snug in our beds with visions of sugarplums and that real-live-pony dancing in our heads, in the quiet of the room next to ours, my parents lay sleepless and weeping that they had nothing to give their three children for Christmas.
But Mother had served in the Marine Corps during the recent world war. Once a Marine, always a Marine, they say, and she planned the operation and carried it out with Semper Fi precision. On her way home from the university a few days before Christmas, she stopped by the plywood mill near our home. Enduring the whistles and leers of the mill workers she begged them for a few cores from the turned logs and loaded them into the old Desoto. Dad found discarded lumber and an old tire under the chicken house. There was also a left-over gallon of that hideous swimming-pool-aquamarine paint that people used in kitchens and bathrooms in the '50s. The big splurge was probably 39 cents for a pint of black enamel.
Christmas Eve came and we sat together as a family while Dad read from Luke and Matthew. Decades hence, the images I still see of shepherds, angels, wise men and the babe in the manger surrounded by animals in a rustic stable retain the miraculous clarity and astonishment that were engraved on my 4-year old heart that night.
On Christmas morning the miracle! Standing patiently side by side in our back yard were three horses of slightly different stature, but custom made (literally) for a 4-year-old boy and his 5- and 6-year-old sisters. I didn’t notice that their glistening coats were of a pale blue-green hue, that their two-by-four legs had knots in them, that their manes and tails were cut from an old tire, or that the saddles and faces were painted on. Those horses carried us across plains, forded streams, traversed mountains and deserts, and penetrated jungles in adventures that would have astounded John Wayne.
There have been many memorable Christmases since 1953. From my youth, I recall the Christmas of the electric train, the Christmas of the BB gun, and the Christmas of the shortwave radio. From my adult life, there was the first “starving student Christmas” with my sweet wife and subsequent Christmases with special gifts for one, two, three and finally four children. And now we watch as our grandchildren discover the magic, peace and holiness of the season.
A pony for Christmas? Yes, indeed. I will never forget “the Christmas that we got horses!” And now the irony that eluded me at age 4 has taken on a meaning worthy of wondering awe. That Christmas of 1953 is the one that I look to as an echo of the magnificent irony of the first Christmas, where sorrow, humble circumstances and perfect love combined to bestow the greatest gift of all.