Monday, December 25, 2017

Keeping Christmas

By Henry Van Dyke

There is a better thing than the observance of Christmas day, and that is, keeping Christmas.

Are you willing… 
  • to forget what you have done for other people, and to remember what other people have done for you;
  • to ignore what the world owes you, and to think what you owe the world;
  • to put your rights in the background, and your duties in the middle distance, and your chances to do a little more than your duty in the foreground;
  • to see that men and women are just as real as you are, and try to look behind their faces to their hearts, hungry for joy;
  • to own up to the fact that probably the only good reason for your existence is not what you are going to get out of life, but what you are going to give to life;
  • to close your book of complaints against the management of the universe, and look around you for a place where you can sow a few seeds of happiness.
  • Are you willing to do these things even for a day? Then you can keep Christmas.

 Are you willing… 
  • to stoop down and consider the needs and desires of little children;
  • to remember the weakness and loneliness of people growing old;
  • to stop asking how much your friends love you, and ask yourself whether you love them enough;
  • to bear in mind the things that other people have to bear in their hearts;
  • to try to understand what those who live in the same home with you really want, without waiting for them to tell you;
  • to trim your lamp so that it will give more light and less smoke, and to carry it in front so that your shadow will fall behind you;
  • to make a grave for your ugly thoughts, and a garden for your kindly feelings, with the gate open—
  • Are you willing to do these things, even for a day? Then you can keep Christmas.

Are you willing…
  • to believe that love is the strongest thing in the world—
  • stronger than hate, stronger than evil, stronger than death—
  • and that the blessed life which began in Bethlehem nineteen hundred years ago is the image and brightness of the Eternal Love?

Then you can keep Christmas.

And if you can keep it for a day, why not always?

But you can never keep it alone.

Sunday, December 24, 2017

O Holy Night

By Brian Summerall
Facebook Post December 25, 2016
I spent Christmas Eve, not in the way I expected last night. My friend, Tod Bush, passed away a couple of days ago. While his brain showed no activity, his body was kept alive on a respirator for the last two days. So yesterday evening I went up to the hospital for one last earthly goodbye and to try to find some closure. What I found instead was hope.
You see, Tod was an organ donor, and his body was kept alive so he could serve as a gift to many with no hope. After a tearful “I love you and I’ll see you in heaven,” and a final prayer, I sat with his family in the waiting room as this friend I love became the ultimate gift on Christmas.
In the midst of pain and heartbreak, hope entered in right about 8:00 in the form of a blue cooler that rolled into the room.
It was accompanied by an EMT and two heart surgeons (one in scrubs and one in golf pants and hat) from North Carolina. They had just landed at Addison Airport and arrived by ambulance. One of the surgeons told us Tod’s heart was going to a woman who desperately needed it in North Carolina. While the surgeons were rushed to the operating room with their cooler, we sat with the EMT for two hours and told her about Tod.
Next thing we knew, the EMT got up, the surgeons rushed by, thanked us and told us everything went perfectly, and Tod’s heart rolled out the door in that blue cooler and boarded a private plane to North Carolina.
Jesus gave Tod a new heart when he accepted him at Frontier Ranch 30 years ago. On Christmas Eve, Tod gave that heart to a woman in North Carolina to save her life.
“Love so amazing. Love so divine.”
Within minutes, the next EMT rushed in with the lung team. We told her about Tod and his love of the Dallas Mavericks. We told her about the woman in North Carolina who would get Tod’s heart and would soon be wondering why she has a strange desire to watch Mavericks games.
After about an hour, his lungs rushed out the door to save a man in Florida.
“Then the LORD God formed a man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being.” Genesis 2:7
The same lungs that God breathed life into for Tod would now give life to a man in Florida. The lungs that climbed mountains so countless kids could hear about Jesus would now give life at sea level.
“A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices.”
It went on all night. They took his eyes so a blind man could see.
“Mary did you know that your baby boy will give sight to a blind man?”
He gave everything… heart, lungs, kidneys, liver, eyes, skin, bones, tissue. Coolers rolled out, and planes took off one after another filled with gifts of hope.
Tod gave everything so that people who had no hope on Christmas Eve would receive the gift of life on Christmas morning.
What’s truly amazing about all of this and the reason it truly stirs our hearts is that Tod’s story is really God’s story. What Tod did for so many last night, God did for all of us on Christmas.
Like the woman in North Carolina, God’s word says our heart is defective.
“The heart is more deceitful than all else and is desperately sick; Who can understand it?” - Jeremiah 17:9
We are in desperate need of a transplant. Without a donor, we have no hope… no life.
On Christmas Eve, God entered the story. But instead of hope in a rolling cooler, we find it in a manger. Hope entered the world in a baby. Jesus. God with us.
A world with no hope on Christmas Eve, was given the gift of life on Christmas day.
“He came that we might have life and life to the full.” - John 10:10.
And just like Tod, God gave everything.
“For God so loved the world, that he GAVE his only son…” John 3:16
“Surely he took up our pain and bore our suffering… and by his wounds, we are healed.” Isaiah 53:4-5
The ultimate gift.
“Yet to all who did receive him, to those who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God” - John 1:12
Those who received Tod’s gifts last night got a new life. Those who receive God’s gift today, get eternal life.
New heart, new breath, new sight, new life.
So in the midst of heartache and loss last night, I saw God’s story. I saw what God did for me. I saw hope.
I saw Jesus in Tod when he lived, I experienced Jesus in Tod when he died.
“A thrill of hope the weary soul rejoices
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn!
Fall on your knees
Oh hear the angel voices
Oh night divine
Oh night when Christ was born.”

Saturday, December 23, 2017

The Christmas Spirit Strikes Again

By Heather Thompson
Readers Digest
I always dreamed of pulling off the surprise prank of a lifetime. You know, the kind you see on TV, or laugh about late at night with friends? Well, thanks to a little determination, some luck, and a generous helping of Christmas Spirit, my dream became a reality.
 My family is Canadian, although my sister moved down to Australia a few years ago to study speech pathology. She was graduating just before Christmas, but due to my own scholarly schedule back home, I would be unable to make it down in time for her graduation. She was understandably disappointed, and I felt guilty that I wasn’t able to be there for her on this most special of occasions.
While I was talking to my supervisor the week before my sister’s graduation, the conversation drifted toward Christmas plans. When I mentioned that I would be missing my sister’s graduation by less than forty-eight hours, she commented, “Well, if you want to go, I have no problem with it, so go ahead!” I couldn’t believe my luck! I nearly jumped for joy. “Just make sure you get permission from admin,” she added. My heart sank. The administration at my school was notorious for denying any sort of time-off requests, and last-minute pleas would undoubtedly draw nothing but ire. I almost didn’t bother asking, because I knew it would be a waste of time and I didn’t feel like a thorough chastisement. Plus, I knew the answer already: no. But something in me decided to try, just in case. Maybe it was the hope that the Christmas Spirit would somehow permeate the administrative office at this time of year.
When I returned home to find the Associate Dean’s reply in my inbox, I steeled myself for disappointment. I gritted my teeth, opened the e-mail, and started to read. And re-read. And re-read, just to make sure I’d understood. Approval? I could actually go? I rubbed my eyes—there must be a mistake. But no. I was flabbergasted. There was no logical explanation. I couldn’t believe my luck! The only explanation I could possibly come up with was that the Christmas Spirit had been lurking in the heart of my Associate Dean when she’d read my request.
Immediately, I called the airline. Miraculously, even during the busy Christmas season, I was able to change my ticket to arrive the day before my sister’s graduation.
With news this fantastic, I was bursting to tell my sister. But, fingers on the dial, I paused. Wouldn’t it be so much more fantastic if I could surprise her? I pictured myself just showing up, knocking at her door. What a state of shock she would be in! I laughed gleefully to myself as I pictured her face when she opened the door and saw me. She loves pranks and practical jokes of all sorts. Pulling off a prank like this would certainly be the ultimate gift, and if I were successful, she’d probably be more excited about my unconventional arrival than even my attendance at her graduation.
Slowly the idea evolved in my mind. For a surprise of this grand a scale, I needed a much more dramatic arrival than just a ring of the doorbell. For me, Christmas surprises are epitomized by presents. Or at least boxes. What if I could arrive in a box? I started to plot. Then, brilliance struck. Getting delivered in a box to my sister’s house by couriers! I knew if I pulled this off, my presence at her graduation and my grand arrival would be the best Christmas present I could ever give my sister. No one appreciates a prank like a prankster!
Although I was leaving in less than seventy-two hours, I frantically jumped on my computer in Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada, and started Googling courier companies. One of the first I came across, and the only one willing to go along with my Christmas surprise, was CouriersPlease. At first the branch manager said no, pointing out that Christmas was their busiest season and he couldn’t spare a courier for this rather unorthodox request. But he suddenly and inexplicably warmed up to the idea and actually volunteered to dress up and deliver me himself. The Christmas Spirit strikes again!
Upon arrival in Australia, the manager met me in full uniform, but that wasn’t all. He’d brought one of his couriers, plus a CouriersPlease van along for the ride as well! They even had a reinforced box prepared for me that they’d already tested at the office. I’d thought it would be easiest to walk up to the doorway, and then jump in the box while they rang the doorbell. But no, they insisted; my sister might see me through the window and they certainly didn’t want to jeopardize my Christmas surprise. Instead, they parked a few hundred meters up the street, where they loaded me in the box and carried me all the way up to my sister’s, where they rang the doorbell and announced they had a delivery for her.
I couldn’t see the look on my sister’s face as she opened the door to couriers with a surprise delivery, but I could tell from her voice that she was more than a little perplexed. This soon morphed into utter disbelief and shock when the box was opened and she saw her older sister sitting inside smiling up at her. She was at a complete loss for words, and I will never forget the look on her face as she opened those flaps on the box.
It was such a gift to be able to attend my sister’s graduation, and to show her my love by giving her the most unique, unconventional Christmas present in the history of our family. It was a memory both she and I will cherish forever. It also served as a lesson for me: never, ever underestimate the power of the Christmas Spirit. It can move hearts, minds, and yes, even people in boxes.

Friday, December 22, 2017

The Empty Box

Author Unknown
Even though it was only September, the air was crisp and the children were already whispering about Christmas plans and Santa Claus. It made the already long months until Christmas seem even longer. With each passing day the children became more anxious, waiting for the final school bell. Upon its ringing, everyone would run for coats, gloves and the classroom door, racing to see who would be the first one home: everyone except David.
David was a small boy with messy brown hair and tattered clothes. I had often wondered what kind of home life David had and often asked myself what kind of mother could send her son to school dressed so inappropriately for the cold winter months without coat, boots, or gloves. But something made David special. It wasn’t his intelligence or manners for they were as lacking as his winter clothes, but I can never recall looking at David and not seeing a smile. He was always willing to help and not a day passed that David didn’t stay after school to straighten chairs and clean erasers. We never talked much, he would just simply smile and ask what else he could do, then thank me for letting him stay and slowly head for home.
Weeks passed and the excitement over the coming Christmas grew into restlessness until the last day of school before the holiday break. I can’t recall a more anxious group of children as that final bell rang and they scattered out the door. I smiled in relief as the last of them hurried out. Turning around, I saw David quietly standing by me desk. “Aren’t you anxious to get home, David?” I asked.
“No,” he quietly replied.
Ready to go home myself I said, “Well, I think the chairs and erasers will wait, why don’t you hurry home.”
“I have something for you,” he said and pulled from behind his back a small box wrapped in old paper and tied with string. Handing it to me he said anxiously, “Open it!”
I took the box from him, thanked him and slowly unwrapped it. I lifted the lid and to my surprise saw nothing. I looked at David’s smiling face and back into the empty box and said, “The box is nice, but David, it’s empty.”
“Oh, no it isn’t,” said David. “It’s full of love. My mom told me before she died that love was something you couldn’t see or touch unless you know it’s there...can you see it?”
Tears filled my eyes as I looked at the proud dirty face I had rarely given attention to. “Yes, David, I can see it,” I replied. “Thank you.”
David and I became good friends after that Christmas and I can say that with the passing years, I never again let the uncombed hair or dirty faces bother me, and I never forgot the meaning behind the little empty box that still sits on my desk.

Thursday, December 21, 2017

The Love Bug

By Cheryl Warren Anderson
Christmas was a little challenging as a single mother.
I was living paycheck to paycheck, but I always managed to scrape together enough for some presents for my two kids. We managed to have a wonderful Christmas each year.
One year, probably in about 1996, my son Paul and I had gone Christmas caroling with the young family group at our church. My daughter, Carrie, had gone to a basketball game at the high school with her friends. Since several families had vans, I let her use our old, rickety car and my son and I rode with friends.
We had a wonderful time caroling at the nursing home, then to several homes of elderly individuals in our congregation. We had just arrived back at the church for chili and hot cocoa when I got a phone call from my daughter that the car had died in the middle of the entry into the high school parking lot. Some dads in the group came with me to check out the car. Despite their best efforts, the car wouldn’t start and they pushed it into a parking space, out of the way.
The news was not good. It looked like I was either facing a hefty repair bill or buying a new car. Either option was impossible. I was devastated and in tears as we drove back to the church. In the church basement, I was in the kitchen talking to one of the moms, when my friend Jane came in and said, “Cheryl, you need to go talk to Mark. Now.”
This seemed a bit odd, but I figured that Mark was probably a good person to talk this over with, as he was a kind Christian dad and husband with an unbelievable faith and knowledge of the Bible. Jane took my hand and led me up the basement stairs to the church entryway.
Mark was smiling, and said, “We’ve had a little project in the works for a while now. We were going to save this for Christmas, but it needs to be now.” He opened the door and pointed to a burgundy-colored car parked by the front door.
“That is your new car,” he said.
I broke into tears as he revealed the story. He had been concerned about my old car and knew with the problems I’d been having that the old junker was on its last leg. When a friend of his asked if Mark knew anyone who needed a good, used car, Mark immediately thought of me. I believe several people in the church went together and paid for the car, but it was Mark who brought it back to his farm and went over it with a fine tooth comb to make sure it was safe, good vehicle for us.
The car was not new. In fact, it was only a couple years newer than my old car. But it was in far better shape, had fewer miles, and had been taken good care of.
Although the car was a Buick, not a Volkswagen, it was always referred to as “The Love Bug,” since it was the love of our friends that brought it to us. I made sure to sit my kids down and make sure they understood how God knew our need, and had set the plans in motion for our friends to help weeks before the problem arose. A Christmas blessing indeed!

Wednesday, December 20, 2017

The Christmas Grandma

By Robyn Nykaza
For the Deseret News, 2006
The Christmas I remember best started with a miracle. Not a miracle in the gift giving, receiving, feasting, normal Christmas miracle expectations, but in the quiet awe of truly seeing and recognizing a miracle for what it was.
Dorothy Linton was born on a snowy Christmas Day in 1917. Her parents were both immigrants to the United States from England and were very poor. Dorothy grew up with an amazing musical talent and spent many hours over many years creating beautiful music for soloists and choirs. She raised six children alone, and even took in a daughter and three grandkids after a divorce. I was one of those kids.
At the time, my grandma was sweet and loving, but I was too young to really have a friendship with her. Due to health problems in later years, she came to live with our family when I was in elementary school. Being a little older, I finally got to have a friendship with my grandmother. I would spend hours in her room watching TV, doing crossword puzzles or just talking. She had the softest arms. That probably sounds very strange, but I would kiss up and down her arm just to feel that soft skin against my lips. I do that now with the soft skin of my own babies, but it's not the same.
Christmas morning 1981 just hours after my parents had finally made it to bed after setting Christmas up, my grandma got up and started playing Christmas carols on the piano. She was like a kid, and you have to remember, it was her birthday.
As we got even older, she would come and stay with us when my parents would go out of town. I remember watching out the pantry window waiting to see her car drive up. I was 14 or 15 and still giddy with the excitement waiting for my grandma to come.
Shortly thereafter a lump was discovered in her side. It looked to be about the size of a mason jar under her skin. She would hold it and say, "This is my ticket home!" You see, she had lived a hard life. But through all of her trials, she never strayed from the teachings of living a Christ-like life. She knew what was coming, and she was ready for everything. A reunion with her parents and family members that had gone on before awaited her, and she was ready.
She was put in the hospital just days before Christmas. I was a junior in high school and was part of the Davis High choir. We had a concert on Temple Square that year and came home late on a Sunday night. I found out that she was in the hospital and demanded to be able to go see her. It was a school night, but I prevailed. I remember thinking how small she looked in the big hospital bed. She was moved to a care center, and I got to visit her again on Christmas Eve. She wasn't awake during our visit, and I remember thinking, "Please take her! I'm going to miss her, but please take her!" She was suffering, and she was ready. We went home that evening with plans to come back Christmas Day, but that visit never happened.
You see, the miracle came around 9 a.m., on Christmas Day 1987, her 70th birthday. We had finished up our Christmas morning and were going to start getting ready to visit her when the phone rang. I was holding a teddy bear and sitting quietly in the living room. I couldn't hear the phone conversation, but I knew what had happened.
Grandma got her gift. She got to go home. She got to leave that frail, sick body behind, and she was having a wonderful reunion. I pictured it in my head as though those loved ones were waiting, watching with giddy anticipation for her to show up, just like I had so many times when she'd come to visit us.
It has been 19 years since those events took place, and yet I remember them all so vividly. I remember being angry with my 16-year-old self. I didn't cry. I couldn't cry. It was what we had been waiting for, and you can't cry when you get what you wished for.
I've cried many times over the years that have followed. Even now as I relive them here, I can't help but cry. But at that time, and it remains true today, I had seen a miracle, and I would never forget it! Christmas Day saw the birth and death of a truly elect soul, and I cherish the heritage that she has bestowed on us. Not only in the incredible music that she left behind, but also in the lessons of unconditional love that all of us as her family have continued to feel from her.
She truly was a Christmas miracle!

Tuesday, December 19, 2017

Emma’s Christmas Wish

by Sallyann F. Murphey
Outside, snow tumbled down, piling against gates and doorways, obliterating the road, and filling the old farmhouse with opalescent light. Inside, all was quiet—except for the whisper of voices upstairs: “Rosie, please…We must have Christmas, and how can we do that without the Christmas book?”
“But Dad told us we couldn’t this year. No Christmas, no cookies, no carols, no… anything…” The seven-year-old’s bottom lip began to quiver.
The owner of the first voice sighed. She was an attractive thirteen-year-old, with a mane of tawny curls and bright green eyes, which now gazed compassionately at her small sister.
“That’s not what he said,” Emma corrected her gently. “What he said was that Mom won’t be coming home.”
The past few weeks had been hard on both girls. In early November their mother, Jan, had taken to her bed.  Just before Thanksgiving, she’d been whisked off to a hospital a hundred miles away for what Dad mysteriously called “tests.” They hadn’t seen her since.
“Rosie’s too young to visit,” Ben Metcalfe had explained, “and I’m relying on you, Emma, to look after her while I’m gone.” Then yesterday he’d delivered the bad news: Their mother was very sick and might not be back for months.
“I think Dad’s wrong,” Emma said now. “I’m convinced that we can get Mom home.”
Her sister looked at her with huge eyes.
“Last night, I dreamed we were having Christmas like always, except we were doing the work—not Mom. We did everything just the way she likes it. Then, on Christmas Eve, we heard a voice saying what good children we’d been. It was her, Rosie–and she told us that our work had made her well.  I’m sure that if we can pull Christmas together, Mom’ll be here to enjoy it.”
The little girl nodded solemnly. “OK.  Where do we begin?”
“Well, let’s start by finding the book.”
As the sisters searched through dusty attic boxes, Emma tried to cheer Rosie along. “Remember last year—when Mom was making gingerbread?” she reminisced. “The air was this wonderful mix of smells: pine needles, spices, warm sugar….”
“…and don’t forget Mom’s scent,” Rosie added.
Emma smiled.  It was their mother’s only indulgence—a carryover from her big city beginnings as a career woman in a business suit.  These days, Jan Metcalfe dressed in sneakers and jeans, but she couldn’t give up that daily dab of perfume.
“I can just see her,” Emma mused, “dancing between bubbling pots and all those bowls, mixing and stirring, checking her recipes again and again…”
“Those recipes….” Rosie echoed.  “Emma!” she burst out, “I bet the scrapbook’s in the kitchen!”
The girls flew downstairs.
The family scrapbook, or album, had been started six generations before, when their great-great-great-great-grandmother Marianne first wrote in the ledger she had brought with her from France.
She did this in 1835, when the family was living in the log cabin that once stood where the farmhouse stood today. The circumstances were a matter of record because Marianne had included a diary entry about her new home, preceding some instructions for wheat bread.  Since then, all Metcalfe wives had taken their turn, contributing favorite recipes and crafts and short paragraphs about their lives.  Their mother added to it often and, as the girls now discovered, kept it in a kitchen drawer.
They settled down to read it, passing over yellowed pages until they came to their mom’s distinctive scrawl. Then Emma found what she’d hoped for—Jan’s “Countdown to Christmas: A Guide to Holiday Plans.”
“Here it is,” she said. “A blueprint we can follow.”
The moment they finished school, the girls began working through their mother’s list. Step one was to “give everything a thorough cleaning,” and they went at it with a will. In the evenings, they gravitated to the kitchen where they used the album to put together their Christmas menus.
Some dishes, they learned, were decided on generations back. Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, for instance, had been the main meal at Christmas since Nana Jessie arrived from Britain after World War II. The little crocks of rumtopf (fruits preserved in liquor) that were prepared each summer for use as Christmas gifts were a custom that their great-great-grandmother Anna had brought with her from Germany in 1889. She had also given the family their treasured recipe for christollen bread. The onion soup they still ate on Christmas Eve had been invented by Great-Grandma Kathleen during the Depression, when that was all the food they had.
“I’m glad she did,” Rosie exclaimed. “Can we have it again this year?”
“Of course!” Emma assured her. “Remember, for this to work we have to stick to Mom’s plan.”
“I know, but we’ve also got to make macaroons, vanilla fudge, marzipan, Turkish delight, coconut ice, and peppermint creams,” Rosie declared. “And don’t forget the sugar cookies, shortbread, and Nana Jessie’s Battenberg cake.”
“Rosie, we’ve got only three weeks!” Emma reminded her. “And we need time for the gingerbread village.”
“You’re not going to try that?” Rosie was incredulous.
“Why not?  Mom makes one every year,” Emma replied.
For the next few days, the kitchen came alive with the sounds of clinking bowls, crashing pans, and bursts of helpless giggles. Emma was a good cook—she had won a fistful of ribbons at the county fair—but the girls still had their share of disasters. Pastry burned, sponge cake sank, and the christollen bread almost blew the over door off.
“Watch out!” Rosie shrieked. “It’s going to explode.” Both girls stared at the balloon of dough that hissed and heaved against the oven window.
Emma scratched her head. “I followed the instructions.” She went over to the book and rechecked the recipe. “See….exactly as it says.”
“Not quite,” Rosie pointed out, peering over.  “You’re supposed to split it into six loaves.”
Throughout it all, Ben came and went, too tired to notice the strange fragrances or a sprinkling of flour. The man had exhausted himself juggling work, home, and the 200-mile round-trip to the hospital each day. The doctors had discovered what was wrong—Hantavirus, they said, an illness new to America—but they had no medicines to offer. His wife’s body had to fight this off on its own, and all that Ben could do was watch, consumed by his own worrying.
Then, one afternoon he came home to find the girls garlanding the stairs.
“What are you two up to?” he asked mildly amused.
Rosie looked guilty, and Emma looked resigned.
“Dad, I know what you said,” she began, “but we thought we should go ahead with Christmas, in case Mom’s home in time.  We’ve done most of the work already. We haven’t made a mess.”
“I can see that,” he nodded, glancing around.  The windows glittered, the floors shone, and a freshly made holly wreath hung above the mantelpiece. “You’ve been busy,” he murmured.
“And that’s not all,” Rosie burst out. “We’ve made the Christmas food, too.”
She took him by the hand and led him to the kitchen, where Emma opened the pantry door.  Her father stood there, speechless. Across the countertop and along the shelves were boxes, baskets, jars, and plates, all filled with seasonal goodies. The sisters had outdone themselves. There were cookies and candies, plates of fudge, and carefully wrapped cakes—and in the center of it all, a wobbly gingerbread village which lovingly echoed their mother’s design. Ben reached out and touched a lopsided roof.  His eyes were damp.
“You must have worked very hard,” he said in a strangled voice.
“Just wait till you see the freezer,” Emma replied.
A teasing smile flashed across her face, and Ben’s heart lurched: She was so like her mom.  He had assumed that he was being strong—shouldering the situation all on his own—but now he realized his children had shown the true courage by never giving up hope.
“I have been a fool,” he whispered, beckoning to his daughters with both arms open wide.
The following evening, Ben called them into the living room. “I’ve got a surprise for you,” he announced. There, standing in its traditional corner, was the tallest, bushiest blue spruce they had ever seen. It was the girl’s turn to be speechless.
“Well—don’t just stand there,” Ben said.  “Let’s decorate.”
As they worked, he reported on his visit to the hospital.
“I told Mom about your efforts, and she spoke for the first time in days.”
“She did!” Emma exclaimed. “What did she say?”
“Good children…” Ben reached up to fill in a blank spot. “She said what good children you’ve been.” He turned away too quickly to notice Emma’s shocked look. “I was thinking that, if she continues to improve, the hospital might let you visit for the holidays.…”
Emma’s eyes hardened and she changed the subject.
“By the way—are you visiting her on Christmas Eve?”
“I thought I should. Why?”
“Well, I was hoping you’d have time for a small celebration before you leave,” she explained.
“Not a problem,” he said, intrigued.
“Good!” Emma looked pleased. “One more thing: Do you have anything you could do away from home that day?” Ben’s eyes twinkled.
“I could probably find something. What time am I expected back?” he inquired.
“Oh, about five would be fine,” she replied airily, skipping away before he could ask more questions.
At 5:30 p.m. on Christmas Eve, Ben Metcalfe found himself knocking on his own front door.  He had a key, of course, but presumed that he should announce his arrival. Emma let him in.  She was not the tousle-haired teenager he’d seen that morning, but a young lady dressed in a skirt, with tawny curls piled carefully on top of her head. Rosie stood behind her, shiny as a new penny, in the dress that Jan had made for her that fall.
“Well, look at you two,” Ben said appreciatively.
“Hungry?” Emma asked.
“Starved,” he admitted.
“Then let’s eat!” Rosie declared.
The three of them crossed the big hall to the dining room door. Inside, the room was bathed in light. There were candles everywhere—in the windows, along the mantelpiece, and lined up on the table. Their reflections leaped and flickered in the gleaming wood, bouncing off silverware and making the crystal sparkle.
“This is beautiful,” their father gasped.
He pulled out his chair, then stopped to survey the array of food in front of him.
“Em, how have you managed this?” Ben blurted out. “You can’t have learned all these recipes just by watching your mother?”
“Of course not!” she laughed. “I didn’t have to. She wrote everything down in the family album. We used her ‘Countdown’ as our guide and then tried some of the other stuff.  In fact, there’s a dish here from every woman in the family. The wheat bread is from Great-Great-Great-Great-Grandma Marianne, and the herringsla’ is Great-Great-Great-Grandma Constance’s recipe. The onion soup comes from Great-Grandma Kathleen’s kitchen, and the potatoes are Mom’s idea. Great-Great-Grandma Anna provided us with the rumtopf for dessert, or you can have Nana Jessie’s lemon curd tarts.”
“You talk about them as if you know them,” Ben remarked.
“I do. They’ve each told me their stories in their own words—and none of this Christmas would have been possible without their help.”
For a moment, it felt as if there were five shadowy figures around them, smiling down at the table.
“Em,” Ben said gravely. “I’m very proud of you.”
After the meal was finished and Rosie was in bed, Ben headed back to the hospital.
“I’ll be home late,” he called out. “Don’t wait up!”
At the kitchen table, Emma opened the family Album. The very last entry in Jan’s “Countdown” read: “Prepare sweet rolls for baking in the morning.”
Emma could not imagine a Christmas that didn’t begin with this delicious breakfast and was looking forward to finishing her list. “Then I’ll be done,” she thought, “and Mom will come home.” She flicked through Jan’s pages searching for the recipe. It wasn’t there. She scanned the entire book. There were no sweet rolls to be found. A lump formed in her throat. She could only guess that this was the one occasion when her mother carried the instructions in her head.
Emma slumped back in her chair, defeated.
“Who was I kidding?” she said bitterly: “It was just a stupid dream….”
The sunshine was streaming through her window the following morning when her father woke her.
"Merry Christmas!” Ben declared. “Come down and have breakfast.”
Emma reluctantly complied, knowing already what a disappointment the day would be. She put her robe on and crept downstairs. As her foot hit the bottom step, she stopped. What was that smell—the sweet medley of cinnamon and fresh yeast? Could it be…? She ran into the living room. There, on the coffee table, were cups and jugs and a large plate of sweet rolls.  Emma pointed.
“How did you….?” She sounded outraged.
Ben was smiling—no, grinning—for the first time in weeks.
“I’ve always made the breakfast,” he explained. “It was the one Christmas job that your mom would let me do.”
“Only because he wouldn’t give me the recipe,” said a voice from behind her.
Emma stiffened and almost didn’t dare to look. She turned slowly to find a pale but upright Jan standing by the door.
“Merry Christmas, my girls.” Jan held her arms out.  Emma and Rosie flung themselves at her.
“You made me well,” their mom whispered, between kisses and tears.
Eventually, she let them over to the tree, where Ben stood with a scroll of paper wrapped in red ribbon. He gave it to Emma. “After all you’ve done, Em, I thought that you should record the recipe in the family book.”
As four sets of arms went around each other, Emma closed her eyes and drank in the fragrance of pine, warm sugar, wood smoke—and the faint whiff of perfume….

Monday, December 18, 2017

The Christmas Miracle that Brought Little Paul Home

By Casi Smith
For the Deseret News, 2015
People make a difference in our lives for good or ill. Sometimes their actions even determine if we live or die. Such was the case with our little brother, Paul, born in 1945. His bleeding episodes, both external and internal, were frequent and frustrating for my young parents. Doctors then did not know much about hemophilia, and special treatments were not available for this life-threatening condition. Hemophiliacs were simply given blood transfusions.
Two deadly strikes were against little Paul; he also had a rare blood type. His life frequently hung in the balance awaiting the generosity of strangers willing to donate the lifesaving gift of their blood. Urgent appeals for donors were published in Salt Lake City newspapers and broadcasted over local radio stations. In 1949 when Paul was 3 years old, he was in the hospital a long time with a serious and painful cerebral hemorrhage, so it was uncertain if he could come home to celebrate Christmas with us. Being young girls, my sister, Carolyn, and I were unaware of the severity of Paul’s condition, but we missed our little brother and wanted to share the holiday fun with him.
When life was already challenging enough for our family with Paul’s heart-breaking medical condition and mounting medical bills, Daddy lost his job in a company layoff. Jobs were hard to come by, and losing a decent one right before Christmas was devastating — especially with three young children excited to celebrate the magic of the holiday.
Happiness and relief filled our hearts when our parents brought our little brother home for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. When Daddy carried Paul into our small living room, his eyes lit up when he spotted the Christmas tree. He pointed excitedly at our poor little tree barren of gifts underneath and decorated with silver icicles and a few simple ornaments — it looked beautiful to him.
Christmas Eve was a festive, happy time shared with Aunt Helen and Uncle Dale. As naïve children, we had high hopes that tomorrow would be exciting, but in reality the chances were slim due to our parents’ financial situation. However, the next morning we awoke to an amazing abundance of presents displayed under and around the tree. Never had we witnessed so many gifts in one place, wrapped and unwrapped. Mommy soon emerged from my parents' bedroom, carrying Paul who cried out happily, “Santy, Santy!”
The magic of Christmas was in the air, so real it felt almost tangible to us. We took turns opening gift after gift and admired larger presents displayed without gift wrap. We gazed at everything with awe. It was convincing proof to us children that Santa was absolutely real!
What joy we felt that Christmas morning! What sweet memories were made in those two days spent together! It was indeed a combination of Christmas miracles. Our time with little Paul flew by too quickly, and the magic of Christmas ended with the necessity of Daddy and Mommy driving him back to the hospital while we stayed with our relatives. Kisses and hugs were shared with him and sad tears shed when the time came for him to leave. We never knew how long it would be until he could join us at home again. His hospital stays had become more frequent and lengthy and his visits at home rare and brief. Children were not allowed to visit hospital patients in those days.
A couple days later our little brother went into a 36-hour coma. Carolyn and I were unaware of this latest crisis or the serious decline of his health and didn’t realize that this was expected to be his last Christmas. As it turned out, it was even worse than that — those two days we shared with Paul were the last time my sister and I saw him. On New Year’s Eve, 1949, he passed away.
Several years later our parents explained the secret of that special Christmas. The majority of those gifts were stealthily provided before Christmas Eve by kind co-workers at Daddy’s former place of employment who felt compassion for our family and other employees who had also been laid off right before the holidays. Their generosity provided a great blessing at that particular time for our family and so much joy in our difficulties.
For years I’ve pondered this extraordinary event and wished it was possible to personally thank those wonderful Utah folks and express my heartfelt gratitude for their benevolent deed as well as the caring blood donors who saved Paul’s life many times. But each time I’ve followed their example, I realize how richly we’re repaid for acts of kindness and generosity that we extend to others, especially when they’re anonymous.