My Favorite Christmas Stories

A Christmas Meditation

2011-12-25T09:44:00.000-08:00

by Jeanne W. Rosenberger

I saw Christmas…

It was a beautiful thing to see.
It was all red and green, and sparkly in colour.
It was tinseled stars, snow-clad hills, and scented pine trees.
It was gay packages, colored lights, happy Santas, and prancing reindeer.
It was stuffed turkey, cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie and wished-for electric trains.
It was a stocking hung by the chimney, a sleepy little boy, a warm crackling fire.
It was a humble bed of straw, a radiant Mother, a beautiful baby.

I heard Christmas…

As greetings were exchanged over the counter, and along the street.
I heard Christmas, form the choir as it was practicing a cantata from a group of carolers as they lifted their voices in the glorious harmony of “Silent Night.”
I heard Christmas in the scuff of sandaled feet as Shepherds and Wise Men crossed the fields to enter Bethlehem, bearing their treasured gifts.

I felt Christmas…

It was a beautiful thing to feel.
I felt it all around me and it enfolded me as a warm, soft cloak.
I felt it in the very cold tingle of the air.
I felt it in the mass of humanity moving around me in a closer walk of brotherhood, where quarrels are forgotten--wrongs righted--and a smile on the face of all.

I felt Christmas in the very presence of the New Born King.
I felt Him so near, I could almost touch the hem of His garment.
I felt the true meaning and the Spirit of Christmas, as it renewed itself in each man’s heart.
I felt that life and death again held purpose and meaning through the birthday of a King!

I saw Christmas…I heard Christmas…I felt Christmas…

And I knew that, once again there would be “Peace on Earth, Good will towards all men.”

Small Miracles

2011-12-24T04:53:00.000-08:00

by Shelia Race

It was Christmas of 1991. We had three daughters, ages nine,six, and nine months. We had just buried their beloved grandmother who had losta long, hard fight with cancer.

We were exhausted, physically, mentally and emotionally. Andit was Christmas Eve. And there was a Christmas Eve service that we had toattend.

While we were getting the girls dressed, my sleep-deprivedbrain was struggling to remember something. Something was missing. Somethingwas forgotten. And I couldn’t put my finger on what it was.

The tree was up. A midnight trip to Meijers to refill emptycupboards had given me Christmas gifts gleaned from an unexpected clearancesale. Those were wrapped and under the tree. Stockings were hung. My foggybrain could not grasp what it was that was forgotten.

Then I remembered.

“Paul! There are no dolls for the girls! I forgot to getthem a doll. Or something stuffed. Something to sleep with . . . .” I burstinto tears. Me, the stoic who had read her mother’s eulogy at the funeral, dryeyed and calm.

He tried to reassure me. “It’s OK, Shelia. The girls havegifts, plenty to unwrap. They won’t notice there isn’t a doll or stuffedanimal. It doesn’t matter. You’ve done well for the girls. They won’t notice.”

But it did matter. Maybe not to them but to me.

We were poor growing up. But Mama always managed Christmas.And, to Mama, Christmas meant a doll for my sister and me. And, somehow, I hadfailed Mama because I hadn’t managed what she had always managed. A doll.Something to sleep with. A tangible sign that Mama was with me.

But now there was no time. No time to make things right. Wehad to be at the Christmas Eve service and all stores would be closed by thetime it was over.

So I did what any mother would do. Wiped my eyes, blew mynose, and called the girls to put their coats on. And went to Christmas Eveservice.

After the service, an older lady, who was herself agrandmother, pressed three packages into my hand. “For the girls,” Jean said,with her perpetual sweet smile and kind eyes. I’m sure I thanked her, but myheavy heart was already home where I would have to make Christmas special forlittle ones who no longer had their grandmother.

And Paul was right. The girls were thrilled with their giftsthat Christmas, not aware that anything was amiss.

Then we let them open Jean’s gifts. She had given each girla handmade doll with yarn hair and a calico dress. Soft dolls, the kind you cansleep with. Lovingly made by a grandmother.

The girls were excited, of course. But I was the one in tears.The one who knew that God had whispered into Jean’s ear that Christmas. Godknew that what I needed wasn’t a doll but a certainty that I was not forgotten.Not forsaken. He cared for my hurts, my cares. He cared for me.

His hands that year were Jean’s hands. His words were Jean’swords: “For the girls.” He was still with them. With us. We were not forgotten,not alone.

Several Christmases later, Jean went home to be with ourLord. The girls are grown now and no longer sleep with dolls, but Jean’s dollsremain in their “keeper boxes.” Each is a reminder of a kind woman who wasGod’s messenger, His angel that year.

I still remember. Will always remember.

Thank you, Jean. Thank you, Lord.

Have a blessed Christmas with those you love.

Hear the Angels' Voices

2011-12-23T05:20:00.000-08:00

AuthorUnknown

Snow,the kind that is soundless and brings stillness to the crisp air, rarely fallsin Southern Nevada. Even though decorations and lights adorn my neighborhood,this year the spirit of Christmas seems to be more than a breath away. Thepassing of a loved one can do that to a person. Especially when the onedeparted, my mom, brought the spirit of Christmas alive early every season.

Boxesof decorations stay hidden in the hall closet, way back under the stairs andout of plain sight for when the door is open. Christmas carols play on the carradio and television commercials offer enticing buys, and still the ambiance ofthe season escapes me.

Inlate November, I bought a box of Christmas cards, which still sits on my desknext to a book of holiday stamps and return address labels. I glance at themevery so often without one ounce of enthusiasm. I know my mom would want thespirit of Christmas to fill our home, for us to sing carols and give praise toour Lord for all He has given us. Knowing this, still the power to embrace theseason eludes me.

Yesterday,I heard her angelic voice whisper in my ear, "I am always with you.Rejoice, for you are all blessed." Then her voice faded away before Icould capture it in my grieving heart.

TodayI wonder if I'm simply wishful, hopeful that she is near and watching over us.If I doubt her presence, then the strength of my faith is questionable. Thememory of her beautiful voice singing in the church choir on Christmas Everesonates. "Ave Maria," her solo, hums through the recesses of mymind and restores my beliefs.

Mygrandson, Zack, enters the room and stands next to my desk. I look up withquestioning eyes. His vibrant green eyes hold my gaze. I sense he's unsure andfull of concern.

"What'sthe matter?" I ask.

"Iwant to ask you about a dream I had last night. It wasn't bad or anything... Ijust don't understand."

"Whydon't you tell me about it maybe I can help you figure it out."

"Iwas asleep and the phone rang. When I got up and answered it, the woman askedfor you. I recognized her voice, but I was afraid to say anything. She asked,'Zack?' I said, 'Grammie!' I told her she couldn't be calling because she wasin heaven. She said she was so happy there and she had a dog. She could see allof us and a miracle was gonna happen to our family. She promised that we'dalways be together and for me not to worry so much. Then I woke up."

Myheart flutters. The room goes still.

"Sowhat do you think? Was it really Grammie?" I ask, hoping to encourage himto talk more about his experience.

"Yes,it was."

"Shegave you a gift then. You were chosen to tell us her message, maybe so we'llstop crying in her absence. She wants us to be happy, happy as she is inheaven."

"ThenI'm glad I had the dream. Grandma?"

"Yes?"

"She'sreally, really, happy."

"I'mso glad you told me about this."

Zack'seyes mist over and he offers a half grin. He leaves the room and heads backinto his bedroom. I glance at the box of Christmas cards: the embossed VirginMary holding baby Jesus in her arms, angels in the background looking down onthem. The television is on and yet the sound trails off. Above me, from adistant place, I hear a choir of angels humming "Ave Maria." Onevoice sings louder. Her voice is clear, her words distinct, and offers a toneso familiar and missed. The true meaning of Christmas resurrects in my heart.

Iaddress my Christmas cards and hold my mom's love of this special time of yearin my heart. I embrace her memory and all the love she showered upon each andevery one of us over the years. I have received the most precious Christmasgift. I am truly blessed and grateful. Come Christmas morning, surrounded byfamily, I will look upon the tree strung with tiny white lights and know my momis right beside me.

Where's the Line to See Jesus?

2011-12-22T05:34:00.000-08:00

I found this in my inbox this morning when I checked my email. This song and video are beautiful and I had to share it with all of you. Thanks for checking out my blog.

About the Song

While at the mall a couple of years ago, my then four year old nephew, Spencer, saw kids lined up to see Santa Claus. Having been taught as a toddler that Christmas is the holiday that Christians celebrate the birth of Jesus, he asked his mom, "Where's the line to see Jesus"?"

My sister mentioned this to my dad, who immediately became inspired and jotted words down to a song in just a few minutes. After putting music to the words, and doing a quick recording at home, he received a great response from friends. He sent the song off to Nashville without much response, except for a Christian song writer who suggested adding a bridge at the end of the first chorus.

My dad then asked if I wanted to record the song to see what we could do with it. I listened to the song, made a few changes to the words to make it flow better, and we headed to Shock City Studios. It was at the studio where Chris, owner and producer, rewrote the 2nd verse and part of the chorus. With goose bumps and emotions high, we were all hopeful and felt like we had something special. The demo was recorded in just under 2 hours and sent off again to Nashville ... still no response.

Then two weeks before Christmas last year, my cousins Greg and Robbie decided to do a video to see what we could accomplish on YouTube. The first day we had 3,000 hits and it soared from there. We received e-mails, phone calls, Facebook messages from people all over asking for the music, CDs, iTunes, anything...we had nothin'.

After a couple of meetings with Chris following the amazing response, we got serious. We headed back into the studio this past spring...this time with guitars, drums, bass, pianos, choirs...the real deal...and here we are today, getting iTunes set up, a website put together, and loving that thousands upon thousands of Christians have come together...remembering the true meaning of Christmas. Out of the mouths of babes come profound truths that many adults can not understand.

Hopefully Spencer's observation will cause people all over to reflect on the love of Jesus, and that one day we will all stand in line to see Him. We are most thankful to our Heavenly Father to have this chance to share our music with you. Merry Christmas everyone.

Here is the link to the song and video:

"Where's the Line to See Jesus" by Becky Kelley

The Christ Child

2011-12-22T04:47:00.000-08:00

astold by Emily Freeman

Inthe first few years of our marriage, we did not own a nativity set. It wassomething I always wanted but could never afford. So one year I worked a smalljob for several afternoons to save up some money for a simple crèche. I boughta very inexpensive set that came with a small wooden stable. The figurinesportrayed children dressed up in nativity clothes; they were about three inchestall and made of white porcelain. I chose that particular set because we hadtwo small boys—Caleb, who was three, and Josh, who was just over a year old.

Ibrought the nativity home and carefully set it up on the end table in theliving room. Josh was too little to notice it, but Caleb was immediately drawnto the new display. I patiently explained to him how fragile each piece was andthat he must not touch it, but only look at it with his eyes. I took a momentto point out Joseph with his shepherd’s crook, and Mary kneeling beside thecradle that held the baby Jesus. There was a tiny angel, three wise men, and ashepherd with two tiny lambs. I carefully placed each figure in the appropriatespot—Joseph, Mary, and the baby in the stable, the wise men on the left, andthe shepherd and the angel on the right. Then Caleb and I sat back and proudlyadmired our new decoration.

Thenext morning Caleb beat me down the stairs. I heard him in the pantry puttingCheerios in a cup to eat while he watched a TV show as I finished getting readyfor the day. About fifteen minutes later I followed him down, pausing to lookat my new treasure on my way into the kitchen. I was surprised to find it incomplete disarray! All of the figurines had been squished together in thestable. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason in their placement, and I knewCaleb must have been involved.

Icarefully placed each figure back into its appointed place and went to get Caleb.Again we sat in front of the manger as I patiently explained how important itwas not to touch the glass figures because they might break. “We can’t touchit,” I told him again. “We just look at it.” Caleb was such an obedientchild—he always had been—and I knew it would not happen again.

Imaginemy surprise when I walked down the stairs the next morning and found the scenein the same disarray as the morning before. This time I went right in and gotCaleb. Setting him in front of the displaced nativity, I asked, “Did you touchthe manger?”

Helooked up at me with his round blue eyes and replied, “Yes.”

“Doyou remember you’re not supposed to touch Mommy’s manger?” I asked.

Againthe reply was the same, “Yes.”

“Thenwhy did you touch it?” I questioned.

“Becausethey can’t see Jesus,” was his simple reply.

Ilooked carefully at the manger and realized that perhaps there was some orderto the disarray. His clumsy little hands had tried to place every figure in acircle around the most important piece of the set—the baby in the manger.Crowded into the small stable, each had a perfect view of the baby. Everyonecould see Jesus.

Needlessto say, our nativity set has remained the same ever since, and Caleb has nevertouched the set again. The most important figure has become the focus.

Papa Panov's Special Christmas

2011-12-21T04:48:00.000-08:00

by Leo Tolstoy

It was Christmas Eve and although it was still afternoon,lights had begun to appear in the shops and houses of the little Russianvillage, for the short winter day was nearly over. Excited children scurriedindoors and now only muffled sounds of chatter and laughter escaped from closedshutters.

Old Papa Panov, the village shoemaker, stepped outside hisshop to take one last look around. The sounds of happiness, the bright lightsand the faint but delicious smells of Christmas cooking reminded him of pastChristmas times when his wife had still been alive and his own children little.Now they had gone. His usually cheerful face, with the little laughter wrinklesbehind the round steel spectacles, looked sad now. But he went back indoorswith a firm step, put up the shutters and set a pot of coffee to heat on thecharcoal stove. Then, with a sigh, he settled in his big armchair.

Papa Panov did not often read, but tonight he pulled downthe big old family Bible and, slowly tracing the lines with one forefinger, heread again the Christmas story. He read how Mary and Joseph, tired by theirjourney to Bethlehem, found no room for them at the inn, so that Mary's littlebaby was born in the cowshed.

"Oh, dear, oh, dear!" exclaimed Papa Panov,"if only they had come here! I would have given them my bed and I couldhave covered the baby with my patchwork quilt to keep him warm."

He read on about the wise men who had come to see the babyJesus, bringing him splendid gifts. Papa Panov's face fell. "I have nogift that I could give him," he thought sadly.

Then his face brightened. He put down the Bible, got up, andstretched his long arms to the shelf high up in his little room. He took down asmall, dusty box and opened it. Inside was a perfect pair of tiny leathershoes. Papa Panov smiled with satisfaction. Yes, they were as good as he hadremembered--the best shoes he had ever made. "I should give himthose," he decided, as he gently put them away and sat down again.

He was feeling tired now, and the further he read thesleeper he became. The print began to dance before his eyes so that he closedthem, just for a minute. In no time at all Papa Panov was fast asleep.

And as he slept he dreamed. He dreamed that someone was inhis room and he know at once, as one does in dreams, who the person was. It wasJesus. "You have been wishing that you could see me, Papa Panov." hesaid kindly. "Then look for me tomorrow. It will be Christmas Day and Iwill visit you. But look carefully, for I shall not tell you who I am."

When at last Papa Panov awoke, the bells were ringing outand a thin light was filtering through the shutters. "Bless my soul!"said Papa Panov. "It's Christmas Day!"

He stood up and stretched himself for he was rather stiff.Then his face filled with happiness as he remembered his dream. This would be avery special Christmas after all, for Jesus was coming to visit him. How wouldhe look? Would he be a little baby, as at that first Christmas? Would he be agrown man, a carpenter--or the great King that he is, God's Son? He must watchcarefully the whole day through so that he recognized him however he came.

Papa Panov put on a special pot of coffee for his Christmasbreakfast, took down the shutters and looked out of the window. The street wasdeserted, no one was stirring yet. No one except the road sweeper. He looked asmiserable and dirty as ever, and well he might! Whoever wanted to work onChristmas Day--and in the raw cold and bitter freezing mist of such a morning?

Papa Panov opened the shop door, letting in a thin stream ofcold air. "Come in!" he shouted across the street cheerily."Come in and have some hot coffee to keep out the cold!"

The sweeper looked up, scarcely able to believe his ears. Hewas only too glad to put down his broom and come into the warm room. His oldclothes steamed gently in the heat of the stove and he clasped both red handsround the comforting warm mug as he drank.

Papa Panov watched him with satisfaction, but every now andthen his eyes strayed to the window. It would never do to miss his specialvisitor.

"Expecting someone?" the sweeper asked at last. SoPapa Panov told him about his dream.

"Well, I hope he comes," the sweeper said."You've given me a bit of Christmas cheer I never expected to have. I'dsay you deserve to have your dream come true." And he actually smiled.

When he had gone, Papa Panov put on cabbage soup for hisdinner, then went to the door again, scanning the street. He saw no one. But hewas mistaken. Someone was coming.

The girl walked so slowly and quietly, hugging the walls ofshops and houses, that it was a while before he noticed her. She looked verytired and she was carrying something. As she drew nearer he could see that itwas a baby, wrapped in a thin shawl. There was such sadness in her face and inthe pinched little face of the baby, that Papa Panov's heart went out to them.

"Won't you come in," he called, stepping outsideto meet them. "You both need a warm place by the fire and a rest."

The young mother let him shepherd her indoors and to thecomfort of the armchair. She gave a big sigh of relief.

"I'll warm some milk for the baby," Papa Panovsaid, "I've had children of my own--I can feed her for you." He tookthe milk from the stove and carefully fed the baby from a spoon, warming hertiny feet by the stove at the same time.

"She needs shoes," the cobbler said.

But the girl replied, "I can't afford shoes, I've gotno husband to bring home money. I'm on my way to the next village to getwork."

Suddenly a thought flashed through Papa Panov's mind. Heremembered the little shoes he had looked at last night. But he had beenkeeping those for Jesus. He looked again at the cold little feet and made uphis mind.

"Try these on her," he said, handing the baby andthe shoes to the mother. The beautiful little shoes were a perfect fit. Thegirl smiled happily and the baby gurgled with pleasure.

"You have been so kind to us," the girl said, whenshe got up with her baby to go. "May all your Christmas wishes cometrue!"

But Papa Panov was beginning to wonder if his very specialChristmas wish would come true. Perhaps he had missed his visitor? He lookedanxiously up and down the street. There were plenty of people about but theywere all faces that he recognized. There were neighbors going to call on theirfamilies. They nodded and smiled and wished him Happy Christmas! Or beggars--and Papa Panov hurried indoors to fetch them hot soup and a generous hunk ofbread, hurrying out again in case he missed the Important Stranger.

When Papa Panov next went to the door and strained his eyes,he could no longer make out the passers-by. most were home and indoors by nowanyway. He walked slowly back into his room at last, put up the shutters, andsat down wearily in his armchair. So it had been just a dream after all. Jesushad not come.

Then all at once he knew that he was no longer alone in theroom.

This was not dream for he was wide awake. At first he seemedto see before his eyes the long stream of people who had come to him that day.He saw again the old road sweeper, the young mother and her baby and thebeggars he had fed. As they passed, each whispered, "Didn't you see me,Papa Panov?"

"Who are you?" he called out, bewildered.

Then another voice answered him. It was the voice from hisdream--the voice of Jesus.

"I was hungry and you fed me," he said. "Iwas naked and you clothed me. I was cold and you warmed me. I came to you todayin every one of those you helped and welcomed."

Then all was quiet and still. Only the sound of the bigclock ticking. A great peace and happiness seemed to fill the room, overflowingPapa Panov's heart until he wanted to burst out singing and laughing anddancing with joy.

"So he did come after all!" was all that he said.

There Are No Coincidences

2011-12-20T04:07:00.000-08:00

ByWarren Miller

Forthree days a fierce winter storm had traveled 1,500 miles across the NorthPacific from Alaska, packing gale-force winds and torrential rains. In theNorth American Sierra Nevadas, the snow was piling up and would offer greatskiing once the storm had passed.

Inthe foothills of the Sierras in the town of Grass Valley, California, thestreets were flooded and in some parts of the town, the power was off wherefallen trees had snapped overhead cables. At the small church, the heavy rainand high winds beat against the windows with a violence that Father O'Malleyhad never before heard.

Inhis tiny bedroom, out of the darkness the phone rang. As he picked up thephone, a voice quickly asked, “Is this Father O'Malley?”

“Yes.”

“I'mcalling from the hospital in Auburn,” said a concerned female voice. “We have aterminally ill patient who is asking us to get someone to give him his lastrites. Can you come quickly?”

“I'lltry my best to make it,” O'Malley answered. “But the river is over its banks,and trees are blown down all over town. Look for me within two hours.”

Thetrip was only 30 miles, but it would be hard going. His progress was slow andcautious, but he continued on toward the hospital. Not a single vehicle passedhim during his long, tense journey. Finally, in the near distance, he could seethe lights of the small hospital, and he hoped he had arrived on time.

Withhis tattered Bible tucked deep inside his overcoat pocket, O'Malley forced thecar door open, stepped out and then leaned into the wind. Its power almostbowled him over, and he was nearly blown away from the hospital entrance. Onceinside, the wind slammed the hospital door shut behind him. He heard footstepsheaded his way. It was the night nurse.

“I'mso glad you could get here,” she said. “The man I called you about is slippingfast, but he is still coherent. He's an alcoholic and his liver has finallygiven out. He's been here for a couple of weeks this time and hasn't had asingle visitor. He lives up in the woods, and no one around here knows muchabout him. He always pays his bill with cash and doesn't seem to want to talkmuch.”

“What'syour patient's name?” O'Malley asked.

“Thehospital staff has just been calling him Tom,” she replied.

Inthe soft night-light of the room, Tom's thin, sallow countenance lookedghostlike behind a scraggly beard.

“Hello,Tom. I'm Father O'Malley,” and he began to say the prayers of the last rites.

Afterthe “amen,” Tom perked up a bit, and he seemed to want to talk.

“Wouldyou like to make your confession?” O'Malley asked him.

“Absolutelynot,” Tom answered. “But I would like to just talk with you a bit, before Igo.”

Andso Tom and Father O'Malley talked about the Korean War, and the ferocity of thewinter storm, and the knee-high grass and summer blossoms that would soonfollow.

Aftera couple of hours, and after about the fourth or fifth time that FatherO'Malley asked the same question, Tom replied, “Father, when I was young, I didsomething that was so bad that I haven't spent a single day since withoutthinking about it and reliving the horror.”

FatherO'Malley gently said, “I'm sure that God will forgive you, Tom, whatever it wasyou did. He is love. He wants us to confess and to receive His forgiveness. Hewants you to be free of whatever it is that has plagued you for so long.”

“Evennow, I still can't talk about what I did,” Tom said, “even to you.”

O'Malleysilently waited. Finally Tom said sadly, “Okay. It's too late for anyone to doanything to me now, so I guess I might as well tell you.

“Iworked as a switchman on the railroad all my life, until I retired a few yearsago and moved up here to the woods. Thirty-two years ago, I was working inBakersfield on a night kind of like tonight. It was Christmastime.”

Tom'sface became intense as the words began to tumble out. “It happened during a badwinter storm with a lot of rain, 50-mile-an-hour winds and almost novisibility. Two nights before Christmas, the whole yard crew drank all throughthe swing shift. I volunteered to go out in the rain and wind and push theswitch for the northbound 8:30 freight.”

Tom'svoice dropped almost to a whisper as he went on. “I guess I was more drunk thanI thought I was because I pushed that switch in the wrong direction. At 45miles an hour that freight train slammed into a passenger car at the nextcrossing and killed a young man, his wife and their two daughters.

"Ihave had to live with my being the cause of their deaths every day since then.”

Therewas a long moment of silence as Tom's confession of this tragedy hung in theair. After what seemed like an eternity, Father O'Malley gently put his hand onTom's shoulder and said very quietly, “I know God can forgive you, son, becauseI can. In that car were my mother, my father and my two older sisters.”

Perfect Match

2011-12-19T02:44:00.000-08:00

byGary Sledge

EveryChristmas the giant tree in Rockefeller Center sparkles with thousands oflights. From the beginning, when construction workers raised the first oneduring the depths of the Depression, it has been a symbol of hope. Diana Abad,like most Americans, loved that tree.

In1999, however, Diana was writing her will. The 33-year-old woman from StatenIsland, New York, was diagnosed with leukemia and wanted to put her things inorder. Doctors told her she had nine months to live.

Herslim chance for survival lay in finding a bone marrow donor. The most likelysource for a match is always among relatives -- but her family was tested andthere was none.

Thenone day in February 2000, she got a call from the hospital saying that out ofthe four million people enrolled in the National Marrow Donor Program Registry,there was only one match. The potential donor was thinking about it. In Marchthe donor agreed, and the transplant procedure was scheduled for March 27.

Onthat day, a doctor came in with the marrow in a bag, and Diana remembers himsaying: "This is it. If it doesn't graft within four to six hours, nothingwill bring you back." Diana asked a priest to give her last rites.

Almostimmediately after the two-hour procedure, she felt stronger. Doctors told herit looked like the graft had taken.

Donorsare anonymous, but when she was better, Diana sent a note through the Registry:"You don't know the joy that I am experiencing," she wrote. "Ihope that one day we can meet and I can thank you in person."

Itwas several months before the donor replied. At first he didn't even give hisname. He was 34-year-old David Mason, and he lived in Dedham, Massachusetts.But eventually the two exchanged phone numbers and began to talk.

Thenunexpectedly and unannounced, he turned up at her door in Englishtown, NewJersey, on December 23. She says it was love at first sight. He says he didn'tfeel it until they met the second time.

Thatmeeting began a long-distance romance that culminated under the Christmas treein Rockefeller Center in December 2004. That's where David proposed to Diana.She, of course, said yes.

When Christmas Changed My Heart

2011-12-18T04:23:00.000-08:00

By William J. Ctibor

Charleycame over to Tom and me and dared us: “If I switch toys, will you?” Charley wasa star athlete and the most popular guy in school, so foolishly we accepted hisdare.

Fourlarge boxes, one for each of the classes, had been placed in the middle of ourlarge California high school campus. The boxes were for the toys each class hadbeen challenged to collect for our annual Christmas toy drive for needychildren. The winning class earned points toward the “Class of the Year”competition. Anyone caught switching toys—taking a toy from one box and puttingit in another—would cause his or her entire class to be disqualified fromearning points.

Charleyled the way, taking a toy from one box and blatantly tossing it in the seniorclass’s box. Tom and I tried to make our switches inconspicuously, but someonesaw us and reported us to the principal. The next morning we were summonedbefore the student council and confronted by the principal. Shamefaced, weslowly nodded when he asked if we had switched the toys.

Laterthat morning, an announcement went out over the public address system to theentire campus: “Due to the switching of toys by two members of the seniorclass, seniors are no longer eligible to earn points in the toy competition.”We had not been named, and we had hoped to remain anonymous. But news traveledfast among the 3,500 students. The students from other grades sarcasticallycomplimented and thanked us, but we had definitely become unpopular with ourfellow seniors.

Afterschool, we dejectedly sat on Tom’s couch and discussed what we should do to tryto turn the situation around. We put on our critical thinking caps for probablythe first time in our lives. Finally we came up with a brilliant idea. Sincethe principal had invited the seniors to continue to bring toys to school, thatwas what we would do.

Thelast day of the toy drive coincided with the last day of school beforeChristmas break, which was three days away. Tom and I would go into theneighborhoods around our school and spend the next three nights collecting toys.

Goingdoor to door for hours on end was very hard work. Families with childrenusually had a toy to give us. Elderly people usually had nothing for us. Buttwo events caught us off guard.

Oneelderly gentleman, who said that his only son had been killed in the KoreanWar, asked us to wait a moment and left us standing at his front door. He sooncame back and handed us $100. “I’ve never seen you boys before,” he said, “andfor all I know you’ll spend this money on yourselves, but my contribution is intendedto be used as a memorial to my son.”

Wewere speechless, which was unusual for us. We immediately headed for theWhittier Downs Mall, and 15 minutes later we were talking to the manager of atoy store, explaining what we were doing. Before we knew it, we had three verylarge bags of toys he sold us at a discount. Excited, we headed right back tothe elderly man’s house to show him we had done as he wished. He cried as heshook our hands.

Thenext evening, at another home, Tom and I were greeted by a much younger man whoseemed taken aback when we explained what we were doing. He invited us in andthen excused himself to go get his wife. After what seemed like a very longtime, he came back with his wife and a large box of toys. His wife was crying.

Theman introduced his wife to us and with great difficulty he softly said, “Thanksfor being patient with us. I know you must feel ill at ease with the way we arebehaving, so let me explain. A year and a half ago our three-year-old sonpassed away from leukemia. We would like to give you his toys. It’s hard, butwe feel it’s the right thing to do.”

Tomand I were inclined to refuse their offer, but they were insistent. As we droveaway, they stood on their porch, arms wrapped around each other, watching us.

Onthe third and final night, we found ourselves standing before a pile of toysthat almost filled Tom’s single-car garage. It took two trips with two cars toget all of the toys to school the next morning. We began long before dawn, andwhen we were through, the senior class toy collection box was perched atop apile of toys that dwarfed the other classes’ contributions. It still didn’tqualify for points, but the senior class honor had been restored.

Afterall the excitement, by the time Christmas Eve arrived, Tom and I were onceagain sitting on his couch, intensely bored. I was about to go home when Tom’sfather appeared wearing the most spectacular Santa costume I had ever seen.“How do I look, fellas?” he asked. Before we could overcome our astonishmentand reply, we heard the deep rumble of a powerful diesel engine, and a brandnew fire truck pulled up in front of the house. Covered with a net, a pile ofbeautifully wrapped presents filled the truck.

Tom’sdad jumped in, climbed up to roost high above the mammoth vehicle, and thetruck lurched forward. Suddenly, our day was no longer empty. I yelled at Tom,“Quick, let’s follow them.”

Atfirst I thought they must be headed to the Whittier Downs Mall to play Santafor the lucky, privileged kids there. But with lights blazing and sirenwailing, the fire truck turned off the main highway and into Old Pico, afour-block square of leaky wood-slat shacks occupied by migrant farm workersand their families. With a whoosh of air brakes the truck stopped and Tom’s dadclimbed down. A host of excited children gathered from all directions, theirparents watching from a distance as their little ones rejoiced over theirgifts.

Asthe scene played out, many thoughts ran through my mind. My perception of Tom’sfather took on a new aspect. Here was a man who possessed little himself yetwas giving what he could. I saw thankful parents who must have been agonizingover providing basic necessities, much less Christmas presents, shedding tearsof joy for their children. I considered for the first time how children mustfeel when Santa forgets them.

Frankly,until then I had been pretty full of myself. Our whole effort to gather thetoys had been focused on restoring our social standing. But those experienceswith the generosity of grieving parents, along with what I saw in Old Pico,began to soften my heart and turn my view outward. I realize now that it all helped prepare me to seriouslyconsider and accept the gospel when I heard its message a few years later.

Thatevening when I asked Tom’s dad where the presents came from, he was puzzled.“You mean you don’t know?” he said. “They came from the toy drive at yourschool.”

Wewatched in amazement as the fire truck parked and children gathered from alldirections.

Christmas Eve Chili

2011-12-17T04:38:00.000-08:00

byTracy G. Rasmussen

"Don'tpush it," my mother said to me that afternoon. Her voice crackled on thephone with the static of the storm that was icing and blowing and snowingsomewhere west of New England. "Wait for the storm to pass and then comehome. You'll be here on Christmas. That's what's important."

Maybe,I said to myself, as I hung up the phone and looked out the window of my Bostonapartment, up at the gathering clouds. It wasn't snowing. And if I left now --right now -- I might beat the storm to New York and be home in time for thechili, cornbread, and tree decorating that had become my family's tradition forChristmas Eve. Besides, my mother was a weather worrier, calling us in from thesnow before the first flake hit the grass and handing us umbrellas when cloudswere tinted any shade of gray. What I didn't tell her, she wouldn't worryabout. And when I walked in the house she'd see that I was an adult who couldmake decisions for myself.

Andso minutes later I was in the front seat of my 1974 Oldsmobile Omega that hadbeen given to me by my grandmother "Ging Ging" the year before shedied. It was an armored tank of a car with doors that closed with a decisivethunk and an engine that roared with power, plus a muffler that probably neededreplacement. I worried less about cars than I did about the weather. Apig-headed certainty was another of Ging Ging's legacies. So that's how I cameto be on the Massachusetts Turnpike at dusk with snow and ice hammering at mywindows, the heater flashing on and off and an ominous pause whenever my wipershit the top of their arc. I fed the car some extra gas, trying in my pig-headedcertainty to outrun the storm, and turned the radio up to drown out thethunking, thudding, and roaring of the storm. The storm, though, was havingnone of that. And so that's how I came to be on the side of the MassachusettsTurnpike at dusk with a car that was slightly chilly on the inside and sofrozen on the outside that the windshield wipers simply stopped working.

Isat there in the dark. In the silence. In the chill. I sat there thinking aboutthe chili and church and my father announcing somewhere around 8:00 PM that it wastime to haul the tree down from the attic, put it together, and decorate it. Onesister was in charge of the lights, another in charge of finding the colorednibs at the base of the branches to match the colored holes on the tree trunk.The twins would hang the ornaments on the lower branches. We'd toss handfuls oftinsel on the tree, and Mom and Dad would admonish, "One strand at atime."

I'dbe hanging ornaments on the upper branches, taking photos, and singing loudlyand somewhat off-key to the SingAlong with Mitch Christmas album. Only I was sitting on the side ofthe Massachusetts Turnpike slowly becoming a drift of snow.

Igot out of my car and surveyed the wipers. I took off my mittens and mopped thewipers clean and blew some hot air on them. They didn't move. Not a centimeter.I wrapped my mittens around the bases and waited a minute or two before tryingagain.

Nothing.

Iwas going to not only celebrate Christmas Eve in the breakdown lane, but quitepossibly Christmas Day. In fact, I was -- at that moment -- pretty convincedthat I'd be sitting here in this exact spot until the spring thaw, which inMassachusetts happens sometime around May. Why didn't I listen to my mother?

GingGing, of course. Ging Ging, for the entire time I'd known her, had done exactlyas she pleased, when she pleased. And it was clear that I possessed that actfirst, think later mentality.

Soas my car got whiter on the outside and colder on the inside, I had a littlechat with Ging Ging. We talked about why I was here on the Massachusetts Turnpikein the middle of a blizzard and how I was so pig-headed that I thought I couldcontrol Mother Nature and that no one really was to blame except for me.

But,I argued back, I really just wanted to be home with my family for Christmas. Iwanted the chili and the artificial tree and the arguments about clumps oftinsel versus strands of tinsel. I had ventured out in the snow, it turned out,not because I was proving to my mother that I was old enough to make up my ownmind, but rather because I missed my parents, and my sisters and my brother andthe chili and cornbread and the Yule Log burning on the television deep intothe night. The snow might keep me away, but my mother was right. Christmas wasChristmas, whether I was there or whether I was celebrating with them in myheart and in my memory.

Andwith that realization the windshield wipers miraculously moved back and forthand back and forth as I held my breath watching my own personal Christmasmiracle. They cleared the snow from the front of the car while I went out andcleared it from the other windows.

Ithought about my family the whole way home. Now they'd be complaining that Mommade them go to church an hour early to get seats and then make them give uptheir seats for elderly latecomers. Now they'd be stirring the bubbling chiliin the pot. Now they'd be slathering the cornbread with butter. Now they'd begetting the tree from the attic.

Eachmile I slid closer to home I thought of all the things about Christmas that Iloved and that would always be a part of me. The windshield wipers kept rhythmwith my memories as the wind pushed the car onward.

Twoand a half hours later I walked in the door, shaking snow from my hair, andannouncing my arrival.

"I'msorry I came out in the snow," I said, hugging my mother who stood in thekitchen pouring eggnog and arranging rum balls and spritz cookies on aChristmas tree tray.

"Wesaved you some chili," she said.

Because of Love

2011-12-16T04:40:00.000-08:00

byWilly Eagle

Abrother and sister had made their usual hurried, obligatory pre-Christmas visitto the little farm where dwelt their elderly parents with their small herd ofhorses. The farm was where they had grown up and had been named Lone Pine Farmbecause of the huge pine which topped the hill behind the farm. Through theyears, the tree had become a talisman to the old man and his wife and alandmark in the countryside. The young siblings had fond memories of theirchildhood here, but the city hustle and bustle added more excitement to theirlives and called them away to a different life.

Theold folks no longer showed their horses, for the years had taken their toll,and getting out to the barn on those frosty mornings was getting harder, but itgave them a reason to get up in the mornings and a reason to live. They sold afew foals each year, and the horses were their reason for joy in the morningand contentment at day's end.

Angry,as they prepared to leave, the young couple confronted the old folks "Whydo you not at least dispose of 'The Old One'. She is no longer of use to you.It's been years since you've had foals from her. You should cut corners andsave so you can have more for yourselves. How can this old worn out horse bringyou anything but expense and work? Why do you keep her anyway?"

Theold man looked down at his worn boots, holes in the toes, scuffed at the barnfloor and replied, "Yes, I could use a pair of new boots."

Hisarm slid defensively about the Old One's neck as he drew her near, and withgentle caressing he rubbed her softly behind her ears. He replied softly,"We keep her because of love. Nothing else, just love."

Baffledand irritated, the young folks wished the old man and his wife a MerryChristmas and headed back toward the city as darkness stole through the valley.

Theold couple shook their heads in sorrow that it had not been a happy visit. Atear fell upon their cheeks. How is it that these young folks do not understandthe peace of the love that filled their hearts?

Soit was that because of the unhappy leave-taking, no one noticed the insulationsmoldering on the frayed wires in the old barn. None saw the first spark fall.None but the "Old One".

Ina matter of minutes, the whole barn was ablaze and the hungry flames werelicking at the loft full of hay. With a cry of horror and despair, the old manshouted to his wife to call for help as he raced to the barn to save theirbeloved horses. But the flames were roaring now, and the blazing heat drove himback. He sank sobbing to the ground, helpless before the fire's fury. His wife,back from calling for help, cradled him in her arms. Clinging to each other,they wept at their loss.

Bythe time the fire department arrived, only smoking, glowing ruins were left,and the old man and his wife, exhausted from their grief, huddled togetherbefore the barn. They were speechless as they rose from the cold snow coveredground. They nodded thanks to the firemen as there was nothing anyone could donow. The old man turned to his wife, resting her white head upon his shouldersas his shaking old hands clumsily dried her tears with a frayed red bandana.Brokenly, he whispered, "We have lost much, but God has spared our home onthis eve of Christmas. Let us gather strength and climb the hill to the oldpine where we have sought comfort in times of despair. We will look down uponour home and give thanks to God that it has been spared and pray for ourbeloved most precious gifts that have been taken from us.”

Andso, he took her by the hand and slowly helped her up the snowy hill as hebrushed aside his own tears with the back of his old and withered hand.Thejourney up the hill was hard for their old bodies in the steep snow. As theystepped over the little knoll at the crest of the hill, they paused to rest.Looking up to the top of the hill, the old couple gasped and fell to their kneesin amazement at the incredible beauty before them.

Seemingly,every glorious, brilliant star in the heavens was caught up in the glittering,snow-frosted branches of their beloved pine, and it was aglow with heavenlycandles. And poised on its top most bough, a crystal crescent moon glistenedlike spun glass. Never had a mere mortal created a Christmas tree such as this.They were breathless as the old man held his wife tighter in his arms.

Suddenly,the old man gave a cry of wonder and incredible joy. Amazed and mystified, hetook his wife by the hand and pulled her forward. There, beneath the tree, inresplendent glory, a mist hovering over and glowing in the darkness was theirChristmas gift. Shadows glistening in the night light.

Beddeddown about the "Old One" close to the trunk of the tree, was theentire herd, safe.

Atthe first hint of smoke, she had pushed the door ajar with her muzzle and hadled the horses through it. Slowly and with great dignity, never looking back,she had led them up the hill, stepping cautiously through the snow. The foalswere frightened and dashed about. The skittish yearlings looked back at thecrackling, hungry flames, and tucked their tails under them as they lickedtheir lips and hopped like rabbits. The mares that were in foal with a newyears’ crop of babies, pressed uneasily against the "Old One" as shemoved calmly up the hill and to safety beneath the pine. And now she lay amongthem and gazed at the faces of the old man and his wife.

Thoseshe loved she had not disappointed. Her body was brittle with years, tired fromthe climb, but the golden eyes were filled with devotion as she offered hergift--

Becauseof love. Only Because of love.

Tearsflowed as the old couple shouted their praise and joy... and again the peace oflove filled their hearts.

Thisis a true story.

It Must Be Raining

2011-12-15T05:12:00.000-08:00

byBob Perks

Theimages flash across my television screen as I sit there in the comfort of myhome.

"It'sthat time of year again," I thought to myself.

Thenrealizing how foolish that was to say, I sat up in my chair and watched closer.The news reporter was telling the story of one of many food banks in our areathat were serving those in need of the basics for the holidays. This particularplace had both food and clothing. Food for the body and warm second hand coatsfor children.

"It'sthat time of year again," replayed in my mind.

Imeant that throughout the holidays we see such reports over and over, unlikethe other 11 months when the same people are hungry, in need of clothing, basicservices and a little help with life. Maybe I said it because I was becomingnumb to it all, like watching the same commercials a hundred times.

Iwas about to feel the real impact of it all. I was sitting at the counterhaving breakfast at a local diner the next day. It's a small "quaint"place. Local people, husband and wife cook and serve. A man walked in and satnext to me. There is little elbow-room as it is and he was a big fellow.

Ontop of the milk dispenser is a small television placed there for both thecustomers' enjoyment and the owners' when things get slow. It just so happenedthat the news was on and once again that same report on the food bank. Thistime it included more information and a few interviews of some of the peoplewho participated.

Therewas a little girl looking through the coats. The reporter asked her if shefound something that fit. She turned toward the camera and smiled. She flippedher soft brown hair up over the collar as she pulled and tugged at the front tomake sure it would zipper properly.

"Ilike this store. Mommy said I could have any coat I wanted, but I'm gettingthis one for my friend. Her daddy won't come here. Mommy says he's too proud.Whatever that means. All I know is Mandy needs a coat."

Outof the corner of my eye I could see the man next to me lower his head. Withoutlooking up he fumbled for a napkin and began to wipe his eyes.

"Incrediblysad, isn't it?" I said.

Hedidn't respond.

"Areyou okay?" I asked.

"Yes,"he said quietly.

"Hey,don't feel bad, I've shed many tears through the holidays for those who don'thave nearly as much as I, and I am in no way financially set for life," Itold him."I'm a writer. I live on my dreams," I added.

Heturned toward me. I could still see the dampness of tear filled eyes. He raisedhis hand to his chest and pointing at himself he said..."I'm Mandy'sfather. That's the first I've seen that. The little girl goes to school with mydaughter."

Oh,my god! My chest tightened, my hands shook and I shared in his tears.

"Itmust be raining," he joked.

Wespoke for a few more minutes about how he felt and what he needed to do. Turnsout he's unemployed for more than a year now and doing odd jobs to pay bills.We said our goodbyes and I approached the register. I whispered that I wantedhis check.

"Heonly gets coffee," she said.

"Well,here. This is for my meal, his coffee and tell him this is for Mandy. He'llunderstand."

Manyyears ago I spoke at my friend's church in Atlanta, The Ark of Salvation. Awoman came up to me and said God told her to give me everything she had in herwallet. I was shaken by the thought and began to refuse it. Things were betterfor me back then. I couldn't justify what she offered.

Godspoke to me as I listened to her explain.

"Itisn't very much, but God said that it would multiply. Please take it."

Idid. I shared the story with Nathaniel Bronner, the pastor of the church and hesmiled assuring me I did the right thing. It was $57. I always carry it withme. I give it away and replace it. It has indeed multiplied many times.

Godis an amazing God who has never failed to replace that $57 each and every timeI use it.

Iturned to walk away and another man sitting at the counter grabbed my arm andsaid..."I overheard your conversation with that man. I'll help him,too."

Hethen wiped his eyes and said, "He's right. It must be raining."

Santa Claus

2011-12-14T02:37:00.000-08:00

byKimberly Henrie

Thiswas our first Colorado winter and we were excited about our first Christmas inour new home. We had just moved from the desert and my daughters, who were sixand nine, had only seen a real winter once before in their lives. They were solittle, they didn't remember it.

Itwas Christmas Eve. The girls and I were out and about, running holiday errands.We delivered treats to some of our friends and made a last minute trip toKmart. My youngest daughter, Megan, was distracted by a simple jewelry box.You've probably seen them, the little square box with a dancer inside thattwirls around when you open the box while sweet ballerina music plays. Meganand her big sister Elizabeth were enchanted. They each wanted to take one home.I just smiled and said, "Not tonight. Tomorrow is Christmas; let's seewhat Santa Claus will bring."

I,like thousands of other parents over the years, had given my children the giftof believing in Santa Claus. I'd spent hours of their young lives telling themthe stories, wrapping "Santa's gifts" in different colored paper andleaving milk and cookies. Among my favorite childhood memories that I sharewith them were those annual movies, "Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer"and "Santa Claus Is Coming to Town." I still love them!

Iwould really have liked to sneaked those gifts into the shopping cart thatChristmas Eve. The jewelry boxes weren't very expensive, but with our move to anew home that year, we were on a budget, and Christmas spending was done.Though I yearned for the day when we could afford such simple gifts, I wasthankful to God for how far we had come. You see, there were Christmases pastthat the girls and I relied on the kindness of others. When Megan was born, wewere living on public assistance, in an old trailer in a very small town on theprairies of the Midwest. We had struggled to make our lives better since then,and in answer to my prayers, my husband, Randy, came into our lives when thegirls were four and seven years old. Yes, though times were frugal, life hadbecome so much richer for us. There was a great deal to be thankful for.

Weleft the store that night without the jewelry boxes. Our errands were justabout done. One last stop for gas on the way home, and then it would be time totuck the girls in for the night, while Randy and I played Santa Claus. It wasdark at the gas station at about 8:30 p.m. As I got out of the car to beginfueling, I was careful to be aware of my surroundings. You can imagine hownervous I was as a beat-up old truck pulled into the gas station right up nextto my car and a gruff-looking man rolled down his window and beckoned me over.With a glance at the girls to make sure they were snug in the car with windowsrolled up, I cautiously approached the truck. The man looked like he had beenworking hard in filthy conditions all day and had not had a chance to bathe. Iexpected a question about where to find a hot meal or a warm bed and wasprepared to direct him to our church or the police station. Imagine my surpriseas the man held up two jewelry boxes almost exactly like the ones we had seenat the store!

"Ma'am,I won these two jewelry boxes at the movie theater," he said, "and Inoticed you had two little girls. I don't have anyone to give them to and waswondering if your girls might like them."

Iwas speechless as I stood there, face-to-face with Santa Claus. Somehow Istuttered my way through thanks and gratitude, and assured him that the girlswould be delighted to have the gifts he offered. I watched as he disappearedinto the night – Santa Claus in an old, beat-up truck.

Ithas been four years since that night, and it still brings a tear to my eye as Itell the story. Who was that man? I don't know. I've never seen him again, butI do believe that God used him that night to answer my simple prayer. He openedmy eyes to the true Santa Claus – the love of Christ shining through us to allthe world.

Teddy

2011-12-13T04:11:00.000-08:00

AuthorUnknown

Asshe stood in front of her 5th grade class on the very first day of school, shetold the children an untruth. Like most teachers, she looked at her studentsand said that she loved them all the same. However, that was impossible,because there in the front row, slumped in his seat, was a little boy namedTeddy Stoddard.

Mrs.Thompson had watched Teddy the year before and noticed that he did not playwell with the other children, that his clothes were messy and that heconstantly needed a bath. In addition, Teddy could be unpleasant. It got to thepoint where Mrs. Thompson would actually take delight in marking his paperswith a broad red pen, making bold X's and then putting a big F at the top ofhis papers.

Atthe school where Mrs. Thompson taught, she was required to review each child'spast records and she put Teddy's off until last. However, when she reviewed hisfile, she was in for a surprise.

Teddy'sfirst grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is a bright child with a ready laugh. He doeshis work neatly and has good manners. He is a joy to be around."

Hissecond grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is an excellent student, well liked by hisclassmates, but he is troubled because his mother has a terminal illness andlife at home must be a struggle!"

Histhird grade teacher wrote, "His mother's death has been hard on him. He tries todo his best, but his father doesn't show much interest, and his home life willsoon affect him if some steps aren't taken!"

Teddy'sfourth grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is withdrawn and doesn't show much interestin school. He doesn't have many friends and he sometimes sleeps in class."

Mrs.Thompson realized the problem and she was ashamed of herself. She felt evenworse when her students brought her Christmas presents, wrapped in beautifulribbons and bright paper, except for Teddy's. His present was clumsily wrappedin the heavy, brown paper that he got from a grocery bag. Mrs. Thompson tookpains to open it in the middle of the other presents. Some of the childrenstarted to laugh when she found a rhinestone bracelet with some of the stonesmissing, and a bottle that was one-quarter full of perfume. But she stifled thechildren's laughter when she exclaimed how pretty the bracelet was, putting iton, and dabbing some of the perfume on her wrist. Teddy Stoddard stayed afterschool that day just long enough to say, "Mrs. Thompson, today you smelled justlike my Mom used to."

Afterthe children left, she cried for at least an hour. On that very day, she quitteaching reading, writing and arithmetic. She began to teach children. Mrs.Thompson paid particular attention to Teddy. As she worked with him, his mindseemed to come alive. The more she encouraged him, the faster he responded. Bythe end of the year, Teddy had become one of the smartest children in the classand, despite her lie that she would love all the children the same, Teddybecame one of her teacher's pets!

Ayear later, she found a note under her door, from Teddy, telling her that shewas the best teacher he ever had in his whole life.

Sixyears went by before she got another note from Teddy. He then wrote that he hadfinished high school, third in his class, and she was still the best teacher heever had in life.

Fouryears after that, she got another letter, saying that while things had beentough at times, he'd stayed in school, had stuck with it, and would soongraduate from college with the highest of honors. He assured Mrs. Thompson thatshe was still the best and favorite teacher he had ever had in his whole life.

Thenfour more years passed and yet another letter came. This time he explained thatafter he got his bachelor's degree, he decided to go a little further. Theletter explained that she was still the best and favorite teacher he ever had.But now his name was a little longer. The letter was signed, Theodore F.Stoddard, MD.

Thestory does not end there. There was yet another letter that spring. Teddy saidhe had met this girl and was going to be married. He explained that his fatherhad died a couple of years ago and he was wondering if Mrs. Thompson mightagree to sit at the wedding in the place that was usually reserved for themother of the groom. Mrs. Thompson did. And guess what? She wore that bracelet,the one with several rhinestones missing. She made sure she was wearing theperfume that Teddy remembered his mother wearing on their last Christmastogether.

Theyhugged each other, and Dr. Stoddard whispered in Mrs. Thompson's ear, "Thank youMrs. Thompson for believing in me. Thank you so much for making me feelimportant and showing me that I could make a difference."

Mrs.Thompson, with tears in her eyes, whispered back. She said, "Teddy, you have itall wrong. You were the one who taught me that I could make a difference. Ididn't know how to teach until I met you."

Foryou that don't know, Teddy Stoddard is the doctor at Iowa Methodist in DesMoines that has the Stoddard Cancer Wing.

The Appalachian Christmas Tree

2011-12-12T02:35:00.000-08:00

byLaurie Hopkins

Christmasof 1977 was not a happy one for me. No family members were close enough tovisit, we had almost no money, and we had no pretty decorations to boost myspirits—only a scraggly little Christmas tree strung with colored paper andpopcorn chains. If not for the wide-eyed hope of our small children, I probablywouldn’t even have bothered with the tree.

Myhusband had to drive our car about 45 minutes to get to work, taking with himour only means of transportation. I was stuck at home all day, every day, milesaway from anything and everything. The nearest town was a 20-minute drive overinsanely twisting mountain roads. The chapel and most of the members of ourtiny church congregation were nearly an hour away.

Wehad moved to this isolated Appalachian valley in a spasm of youthful idealismand adventurousness. My husband heard of cheap land in Virginia, and before Icould say, “Middle of nowhere,” we had moved there. He built us a little houseon the side of a mountain, with water piped in from a nearby spring.

Wedid have neighbors, though they were few and far between. The closest house wasan 1801 log cabin, rented for a short while by a young family from ourcongregation, the Andersons. They were poor like we were. Donald, the dad, wasworking six and sometimes seven days a week. Donald and Ruth had three smallchildren, as we did, and Ruth was in a constant state of exhaustion.

Itwas a fairly precarious hike from my house to Ruth’s, over a deeply rutted,muddy road. For either of us—with a baby in our arms and two small children intow—visits were a bit tricky. On one of our rare visits, however, Ruthmentioned to me that they hadn’t been able to get a Christmas tree. Donald lefthome before dawn and didn’t get back until late evening. Ruth just wasn’t up totraipsing about the countryside in search of a tree.

Oneevening just before Christmas I was struck with a sudden, passionate urge tofind a Christmas tree for the Andersons. Out of nowhere the idea hit me—I justhad to get them a tree. As pathetic as my own tree might be, it brought atleast a portion of the Christmas spirit into our home.

Ispent the rest of the evening making paper chains, popcorn strings, and, ofcourse, a yellow star with glitter for the treetop. In the morning I hiked outonto the mountainside and searched until I found a small tree. I hacked it downand found an old can to decorate and fill with dirt for a base. The end productwas more laughable than beautiful, but it looked cheery enough—if you sort ofsquinted your eyes.

Icalled to ask Ruth if I could come down, then bundled up my kids and made thehike down the mountain. I somehow managed to balance the tree and the childrenwithout major mishap and arrived safely at the cabin door. When Ruth answeredmy knock, she took one look at my comical little tree and burst into tears. Ientered the house very much afraid that my idea had not been such a good oneafter all.

WhenRuth regained her composure, she explained her tears. It was late the eveningbefore when Donald finally arrived home from work. With nearly empty cupboards,the family had piled into the car for the long ride to the store. After a whilethree year old Michael said, “Daddy, can we say a prayer?”

Donaldasked Michael if he would like to say it. Then with the simple faith of achild, Michael asked Heavenly Father to help them get a Christmas tree. Aftersaying, “Amen,” Donald and Ruth looked at each other, knowing they would haveto try harder to satisfy the longing of their little boy’s heart. They were notable to come up with a plan that night and went to bed more than a littleperplexed.

Soit was that when we appeared with the little tree, we were an answer to morethan one prayer. As soon as the Anderson children caught a glimpse of us, theysquealed with joy and made a place of honor for the funny looking tree. Therecould never have been a Christmas tree more loved.

Themiracle of that Christmas, however, was not just the prayer that bounced from alittle boy’s heart to heaven and back again to the heart of someone who couldhelp. It was also the healing power I found in the act of giving.

Fromthe moment the thought of finding a tree for the Andersons struck me, thespirit of Christmas began to fill my own heart. I was grateful that the Lordloved me enough to try to get through to me and teach me. And I was remindedanew that it is in losing ourselves that we find ourselves. As we serve, wefind that “He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds” (Psalm147:3).

Loading Up The Little Red Wagon

2011-12-11T04:58:00.001-08:00

byAnnette Paxman Bowen

Itwas the day before Christmas. Lights and ornaments gleamed from our Christmastree in the corner window, and the pine aroma filled our home. Packages ofvarious shapes and sizes were wrapped in bright paper and adorned with jauntilytied bows and colorful Christmas stickers. From the stereo came the refrains ofChristmas carols. In my pantry, red and green canisters contained treats andgoodies: divinity, fudge, iced Christmas cookies, candied pretzels, andbrownies. The refrigerator had ingredients for delicious holiday meals: freshcranberries, a turkey and a ham, mushrooms for stuffing, chestnuts forroasting. We had sent carefully selected gifts to loved ones in faraway cities.Our cards had been mailed with greetings and wishes. I had surprises for my husbandand three boys to discover in the morning. But I was not yet ready forChristmas in the way that counted: instead of feeling joy and excitement, all Ifelt was heartache, homesickness, and loneliness. We had recently moved to anew state, and I acutely missed my family, old neighborhood, and dear friends.

AsI stood at my window looking at the houses of my new neighbors, tears slippeddown my cheeks. We were surrounded by strangers. I said a quiet prayer:“Please, help me somehow get the Christmas spirit. I’ve done everything I canthink of, and I’m still sad.”

Momentslater, my oldest son came bounding up the stairs. “Hey, Mom! When are we takingtreats around to the neighbors?” In our former neighborhood, we hadtraditionally filled baskets with homemade goodies and delivered them alongwith a carol on Christmas Eve.

“Oh,honey. We can’t do that this year. We don’t know these people. We haven’t evenmet most of them.”

“So?What difference does that make? We’ve always taken stuff to our neighbors onChristmas Eve. It’s a tradition!”

Hewould not take no for an answer, and I couldn’t come up with a good enoughreason why we shouldn’t continue the tradition. We had plenty of goodies. I hadgreen paper plates and red tissue to wrap them in. “OK,” I told him. “You’reright. It is a tradition. Now go count the number of houses down to the cornerand back across the street.”

Hecalled for his brothers to join him, and I quickly assembled what we’d need.The boys bounced back through the front door and announced that we’d need 12gifts. Within the hour, we had our little red wagon full of 12 brightly wrappedplates of the best samples from our kitchen. Since we knew no names of ourneighbors, we’d added tags that said simply, “Merry Christmas! From your newneighbors, the Bowens.” Then I listed our names, address, and phone number.

Iwas nervous as we walked up the hill to the first house. I had the boys standin front of me on the doorstep. They weren’t hesitant at all. As the dooropened, the boys started to sing the simple lines of “We Wish You a MerryChristmas,” and I joined in halfheartedly. I was surprised when the attractivewoman standing in the doorway started to sniffle. “Oh, thank you!” sheexclaimed. “I’ve never had anyone do anything like this for me in my life! I’vedreamed of moving into a neighborhood where people did things like this. Wejust moved in from Spokane.” It turned out her family had preceded us toBellevue, Washington, by one week.

Atthe next house, the family responded by bringing out huge gingerbread cookiesfor my boys. They introduced us to theirtwo teenage children, who offered their services as baby-sitters. Cars filledthe driveway of the next home. A party was obviously going on, so I suggestedwe skip that house. The boys wouldn’t hear of it, so up the stairs we went. Aswe sang, a whole clan came into the hall to listen. The couple who lived thereintroduced us to their grown-up sons and daughters who were gathered with theirspouses and children to spend Christmas Eve with them. The family’s obviouslove for one another reminded me of my parents, brothers, and sisters. As Ifondly remembered times when we had gathered at my parents’ home, love andappreciation began to squeeze out my loneliness. I felt comforted as I realizedI would be part of such gatherings again in the future.

Next,a warmhearted, grandmotherly woman hugged my children after we sang at herdoor. She called her husband to join her and insisted we sing another carol.“Children are the secret ingredient of a magical Christmas,” she told me.“Thank you for sharing yours with us. They are angels!” She stood in herdoorway and waved to us until we were well on our way.

Noone answered at the next door or the next, but we left our gifts on theirporches.

AnAsian woman timidly opened the next door. We noticed pairs of shoes andbeautiful embroidered satin slippers neatly lined up along the hall. We sangour song and then tried to introduce ourselves, but she interrupted bymotioning for us to wait a minute. Using a foreign language, she called up thestairs to someone. Soon a young man joined us, and he interpreted for us. Heexplained that his mother was from China and did not speak English. They ownedand operated a restaurant in town. He wrote her name and phone number on a cardfor us and thanked us profusely for the gift. As we walked back down thedriveway, the boys were thrilled to have heard someone speak another languageand were fascinated by the evidence of her Chinese culture.

Acrossthe street, we met a young couple with a little toddler and a family with apreschooler who could be a play pal for my youngest son. These families werepleased to meet us and promised to visit or contact us soon.

Aswe walked back to our home, pulling our empty red wagon behind us, we sang moreof our favorite carols. My husband’s car was in the driveway; he had arrivedhome from work. He stepped out on the porch and called to us, “Where have youbeen?”

Myoldest son answered, “Where do you think? We’ve been taking treats to theneighbors! And Dad, we’ve met the coolest people.”

“MerryChristmas, honey!” I said exuberantly. I was now full of Christmas cheer.“We’ve been out making friends.”

Thatnight, after we’d eaten our traditional dinner, made long-distance calls to thegrandparents, hung the stockings, read the beautiful Christmas story from thescriptures, left out cookies and milk for Santa, said a family prayer, andtucked the boys in bed, I returned to the front room to look at the Christmastree. Visible through the window, our neighbors’ Christmas lights gleamed likestars through the darkness.

Ithought of that first Christmas star and felt grateful that my son had insistedwe continue a family tradition by serving the strangers on our street. “MerryChristmas,” I whispered as I looked out my front window at the homes of our newfriends. Their Christmas lights twinkled in reply.

One Last Carol

2011-12-10T03:00:00.001-08:00

byGuy O. Woodward

DallinWoodward, a cousin and dear friend of mine from Franklin, Idaho, loved musicand lent his beautiful tenor voice as a youth to many Church and schoolfunctions. His trumpet playing could be heard the half-mile distance to ourhome on warm summer evenings. He enjoyed Christmas music most of all,especially “Silent Night.” Little did he know that the title to this carolwould describe his own nights as well as his days for three-fourths of hislife.

Oneday in early summer of 1928, Dallin experienced a severe headache that quicklyworsened. Doctors came to his home and later confirmed he had the dread diseasespinal meningitis. There was o miracle medicine in those days for Dallin, who was just15 years old. The local hospitals did not have adequate facilities forisolating patients with contagious diseases, so Dallin was confined to hisbedroom at home, with only his father, mother, and doctor permitted to enter.It was several weeks before the fever finally broke, but even during thefollowing month, visitors had to stay outside and visit through a window.Gradually his health improved, but the disease left him totally deaf.

Duringhis recovery time, Dallin’s mother spent many hours each day helping him learnto adjust to his condition. Her patience and faith paid off, as Dallin was soonable to communicate with his many friends and family.

Iwill never forget Christmas Eve of 1928—the first Christmas after Dallin’sillness. My brother Ivan and I walked up the snow-covered lane to see him. Aswe visited with him and his parents, we heard the jangling of sleigh bells andthe voices of carolers in the distance. Soon the carolers stopped outside thehome and began to sing. We continued talking with Dallin, thinking it wouldmake him sad if he knew they were singing the Christmas carols he loved butcouldn’t hear. The last song they sang that night was “Silent Night,” Dallin’sfavorite carol. As they began to sing the words, he rose from his chair, walkedto the window, and stood motionless until they finished the last verse. He thenreturned to his chair, and with tears running down his cheeks, he quietly said,“The Lord has been good to me. He let me hear my favorite song one more time.”

Dallinhad 45 more soundless Christmases, eventually surrounded by his much-lovedwife, Myrtle, and their four children. The simple words of “Silent Night,”which testify so powerfully of the birth of our Savior, became like scriptureto Dallin and continually reaffirmed his faith in Him who said, “He that hathears to hear, let him hear” (Matt. 11:15). The memory of Dallin’s not-so-silentnight lingers long in the hearts of those of us who witnessed it.

The Christmas I Remember Best

2011-12-09T03:58:00.001-08:00

by Inge Ettrich

Asa young girl, I survived World War II in Berlin, Germany. Our country had beenpretty much destroyed. I had a chance as the only member of my family to leaveGermany for a better life in America, in the city of Salt Lake City in Utah.I've lived in this beautiful land since 1955 and have never been sorry aboutthe decision I made so long ago.

Left behind were my parents, a younger sister and brother. Saying goodbye wasvery difficult. Would we ever see each other again? On Mother's Day my fatherdied. He was only 50 years old. In August 1961, the infamous wall went up,dividing not only the country of Germany into east and west, but also keepingmillions of families apart. I was extremely concerned about the safety of myfamily and I suggested to them, with the support of my dear husband, that theyjoin us here in America. My sister had gotten married and so we needed to comeup with four sponsorships. With the help of some very dear friends, we managed.
My family of four boarded the ocean liner "America" in Bremerhavenand arrived in New York City after only a five-day voyage across the Atlantic.It was there in New York that they got on the train for Salt Lake City. Thecalendar said December 1961. The arrival date for them had been set for acouple of days before Christmas Eve.

I don't think that I had ever been more nervous or excited and thrilled all atthe same time. It had been six long years since we had last seen each other.Even a phone call had been impossible because my family had been phoneless. Myhusband and my family had never met. How would it all play out?

At this time we lived in a very small but warm and cozy home. Many dear friendsdonated bedding and other necessary items so that we were able to provide quitecomfortable accommodations for our foursome.

During the nail-biting wait period, my husband and I made a major shopping tripto THE store at the time — Grand Central. During the Christmas shopping season,Grand Central provided brown paper shopping bags that were at least four feettall. These were simply huge! There was absolutely nothing this store did nothave. We filled two of these amazing bags with many electric appliance andhousehold goods, up to the very top.

Our house was all decked-out for Christmas. Colored outside strands of lightsgave our house a look of a Hansel and Gretel Cottage. The outside lights wouldbe a real hit because Germany didn't know about this custom and I just knewthat our travelers would be in awe. We had also purchased enough food to feedan army.

In the meantime, while we were up to our ears with making preparations fortheir arrival, Father Winter played a vicious, cruel joke on us. The train fromNew York City had turned into the Polar Express. It was being bombarded by aonce-in-a-century snowstorm. The train was completely stuck and stranded in themiddle of nowhere. It snowed so heavily that the tracks could not be cleared.

My17-year-old brother had learned English in school. This helped the family to atleast understand a little about their predicament. It became a very serioussituation. Passengers were freezing cold and many other problems keptdeveloping. There was talk about an evacuation but some guardian angel musthave done double duty. It's sort of ironic because of this major delay, thearrival time of "our" train ended up being right on Christmas Eve —Christmas morning. Even though our newcomers were utterly exhausted, we allexperienced enormous joy. We were elated, ecstatic and so immensely gratefulthat this roving odyssey had culminated on such a high note.

Manyfriends and relatives had joined us at the Union Pacific Railroad Station inthe middle of the night, giving up their own plans to welcome ourglobetrotters. Once at home, we just couldn't get enough living in during thisChristmas Night. How can one possibly fit six long years of separation into onelong night? We were trying to just get used to each other's voices again.

Of course, we had a turkey feast with all the trimmings on the very next day.This would be my family's first exposure to a roasted turkey and most otherfoods on the table. Before we started to eat, the three men had a crazy idea.They all stepped on to a scale before and after the meal and yes, they had eachgained five pounds. I would guess that we were most likely one of the veryhappiest families in the Salt Lake Valley on this rapturous Christmas day.

"Frohliche Weihnachten" or Merry Christmas!

~~~~~~~~~~

Ingewas born in Berlin, Germany. She came to the United States by herself in 1955at the age of 19, leaving her family behind. She attended Stevens-HenagerCollege majoring in office management. Inge was married to Frederick Ettrichfor 48 years. They have two daughters and six grandchildren. Frederick passedaway four years ago. Inge likes music, the performing arts, reading books andwriting. She has read stories to first graders for 16 years.

The Christmas Train

2011-12-08T03:20:00.001-08:00

AuthorUnknown

In1963, I was a ten-year-old girl living with my parents and four-year-oldbrother in Madrid, Spain. We were poor Cuban refugees who had left our countryjust a few months before.

Ourstay in Spain would be brief as we waited for our U.S. residency to beapproved. My maternal grandfather and uncle had sacrificed their little savings– they were recently arrived refugees to New York – to send us a meager monthlystipend for our humble lodgings. Our only meals came from a soup kitchen wherewe lined up in the late morning along with dozens of other Cubans.

Thatparticular winter was bitterly cold in Madrid. Our hospice room was freezingduring the day, so we would spend our time walking Madrid's magnificentboulevards. We marveled at the architecture and the large plazas and the snow!We missed our homeland, but the promise of a fresh beginning beckoned, and lamadre patria was a magnificent start for a new life.

TheChristmas season arrived. Overnight, Madrid lit up. Every corner was awash insparkling holiday lights, los madrileños were busy bustling about buying giftsand looking forward to la Noche Buena, and el día de los reyes.

Everystorefront was a winter wonderland full of dolls, trolleys and every imaginabletoy. The storefront at the Corte Inglés department store had a fabulousChristmas village full of enchanting chalets, snow-covered peaks and a shinyred train that circled the town, hooting its horn at every turn.

Myyounger brother, Santiago, was born during the first year of the CubanRevolution, and he had never seen such a wondrous toy. Toys were considered aluxury then and were very hard to obtain.

Mybrother fell in love with that train. Every day he would push his nose againstthe glass in the window and ask: "Do you think los reyesmagos will bringme that train? Do you? Do you?" My parents' pain was apparent as theylooked at their son's hopeful face. They knew that no matter how hard their sonwished for that train, his wish would not be granted.

Lookingat my parents, I just wished Santiago would stop asking. But I also didn't wantto destroy the innocence of a hopeful four-year-old. So the next time Santiagoran up to the storefront window and asked the question, I pulled him aside.

"Santiago,you know that we left our country and we are in a strange land," I said."The three wise men are pretty smart, but since we are only here in Madridfor a little while, they probably don't have our address. I don't think we'llbe getting any toys this year."

Ialso told him that once we were settled in the United States, the three wisemen would find us once again. To my utter surprise, he accepted my explanationwithout question, and our excursions up and down the main boulevard continuedwithout any major interruptions.

Ayear later, we were settled in Union City, New Jersey, the town we had moved toupon entry into the United States. Both my parents – a teacher and an engineer– were working at factory jobs. Santiago and I were adapting to a new schooland quickly learning English.

ThatChristmas was modest, but my parents bought a silver-colored Christmas tree,and we put tiny, sparkling lights on it. They also bought the traditional porkand turrones for the Noche Buena meal.

OnChristmas Day, I woke up early, and to my surprise and delight found severalpresents underneath the tree with my name on them. But even better than thatwas watching my brother's face as he opened a square box with a large red bowand his name on it.

Insidewas a shiny, brand-new train! The locomotive and caboose resembled the one thathad so enthralled my brother a year before. Santiago's face lit up like theChristmas tree. He looked at my parents and me, and his eyes shined withhappiness and surprise.

"Babby,you were right!" my brother told me eagerly. "The three wise menfound our address, and they gave it to Santa Claus!”

Kaden's Fundraising Event

2011-12-07T02:40:00.001-08:00

I posted a couple of days ago about my great nephew who is in need of a kidney transplant. On Monday night, a dinner and auction fundraising event was held on his behalf. In a small community with a population of around 5,000, an incredible $31,000 was raised in one night! A news station out of Salt Lake City (KSL) came to do a story on Kaden and an interview with his parents, Curtis and Krista. Here is the link to the story:

Kaden's News Story

The hospital in Roosevelt, Uintah Basin Medical Center, has a charity foundation which donated $10,000 to Kaden's cause that night. It was an amazing Christmas present for the entire McCormick family as the community came together to rally around them and offer love and support.

If everything goes as planned, the transplant will take place on January 10. Best of luck to the McCormick family, who has been through so much during the past four years, not only with Kaden's illness, but with the unexpected loss of Curtis' mother four years ago, the loss of his stepfather three years ago, and the loss of his grandfather this past summer. We know that these loved ones will be watching over the family through this exciting but difficult time.

(If you watch the news story closely, you will see a shot of me [wearing a purple shirt] with my entire family looking at auction items. My kids were pretty excited to see themselves on the news.)

A Father’s Surprise

2011-12-07T02:36:00.001-08:00

byAnne Cassidy

DesirayWilder wasn’t looking forward to Christmas 2007. It would be the first holidayaway from her husband, Matthew, then an Army sergeant, in more than a decade.Worse still, her daughters, Destiny, 10, and Mariah, 7, had celebrated theirbirthdays without their dad. Now they would have to celebrate Christmas withouthim, too. “Mariah said she wished he could be wrapped up in a box like apresent and mailed home,” says Desiray, who then lived in Elkton, Kentucky.

Matt,on his fourth tour of duty, had six months left, so Desiray knew it was unlikelythey’d see him soon. Then one day in early December, Matt called from Iraq.He’d just been accepted to flight school and might be coming home sooner thanplanned. Desiray thought it would be January at the earliest, so she kept busyvolunteering at North Todd Elementary, her girls’ school. “I tried not to getmy hopes up,” she says.

OnDecember 10, she got the call she’d been hoping for: Matt was coming home in afew days. Desiray still kept the news from the girls because she knew thatmilitary plans could change in an instant. Plus, she’d begun to hatch a secretplan: “I thought, ‘Wouldn’t it be wonderful to surprise Mariah and Destiny atschool?’” She knew she couldn’t pull it off alone, so she asked some of theteachers to join in. At first Matt was going to walk in during the morningassembly. But then instructional assistant Tracy Latham, who recalled whatDesiray had told her about Mariah’s wish, got the idea of giftwrapping him.

“Ibought a red ribbon and wrapping paper,” Latham recalls. While at the store,she couldn’t resist sharing the news with the store greeter, who was helpingher find a big, discarded box. “Have you called Channel 13?” he asked. She hadnot thought of that. Soon the TV station was notified, and by the time all thekids had gathered for the assembly there was a camera crew in the gym andexcitement in the air.

Mariahand Destiny had been told that they’d be opening a present sent from their dadduring the assembly. As the girls stood in the middle of the gym, an enormousgift-wrapped box was wheeled out. They ripped off the paper and out poppedtheir father, still wearing his Army fatigues.

“Daddy!”they shrieked. Destiny grabbed him around the waist as he reached down, scoopedup Mariah and held her close. One look at her girls’ happy faces and Desirayknew that they’d just received the best gift ever. “It was wonderful to haveMatt home,” she says. “I don’t know what we’d have done without him.”

Christmas Boy

2011-12-06T03:54:00.001-08:00

byShirley Barksdale

Asan only child, Christmas was a quiet affair when I was growing up. I vowed thatsomeday I'd marry and have six children, and at Christmas my house wouldvibrate with energy and love.

Ifound the man who shared my dream, but we had not reckoned on the possibilityof infertility. Undaunted, we applied for adoption and, within a year, hearrived.

Wecalled him our Christmas Boy because he came to us during that season of joy,when he was just six days old. Then nature surprised us again. In rapidsuccession, we added two biological children to the family--not as many as wehad hoped for, but compared with my quiet childhood, three made an entirelysatisfactory crowd.

Asour Christmas Boy grew, he made it clear that only he had the expertise to select and decorate the Christmas tree eachyear. He rushed the season, starting his gift list before we'd even finishedthe Thanksgiving turkey. He pressed us into singing carols, our frog-likevoices contrasting with his musical gift of perfect pitch. Each holiday hestirred us up, leading us through a round of merry chaos.

Ourfriends were right about adopted children not being the same. Through his ownunique heredity, our Christmas Boy brought color into our lives with hisirrepressible good cheer, his bossy wit. He made us look and behave better thanwe were.

Then,on his twenty-sixth Christmas, he left us as unexpectedly as he had come. Hewas killed in a car accident on an icy Denver street, on his way home to hisyoung wife and infant daughter. But first he had stopped by the family home todecorate our tree, a ritual he had never abandoned.

Grief-stricken,his father and I sold our home, where memories clung to every room. We moved toCalifornia, leaving behind our friends and church.

Inthe seventeen years that followed his death, his widow remarried; his daughtergraduated from high school. His father and I grew old enough to retire, and inDecember 1986, we decided to return to Denver.

Weslid into the city on the tail of a blizzard, through streets ablaze withlights. Looking away from the glow, I fixed my gaze on the distant Rockies,where our adopted son had loved to go in search of the perfect tree. Now in thefoothills there was his grave--a grave I could not bear to visit.

Wesettled into a small, boxy house, so different from the family home where wehad orchestrated our lives. It was quiet, like the house of my childhood. Ourother son had married and begun his own Christmas traditions in another state.Our daughter, an artist, seemed fulfilled by her career.

WhileI stood staring toward the snowcapped mountains one day, I heard a car pull up,then the impatient peal of the doorbell. There stood our granddaughter, and inher gray-green eyes and impudent grin, I saw the reflection of our ChristmasBoy.

Behindher, lugging a large pine tree, came her mother, stepfather and ten-year-old half-brother.They swept past us in a flurry of laughter; they uncorked wine and toasted ourhomecoming. They decorated the tree and piled beautifully wrapped packagesunder the boughs.

"You'llrecognize the ornaments," said my former daughter-in-law. "They werehis. I saved them for you."

WhenI murmured, in remembered pain, that we hadn't had a tree for seventeen years,our cheeky granddaughter said, "Then it's time to shape up."

Theyleft in a whirl, shoving one another out the door, but not before asking us tojoin them the next morning for church and for dinner at their home.

"Oh,"I began, "we just can't."

"Yousure as heck can," ordered our granddaughter, as bossy as her father hadbeen. "I'm singing the solo, and I want to see you there."

Wehad long ago given up the poignant Christmas services, but now, under pressure,we sat rigid in the front pew, fighting back tears.

Thenit was solo time. Our granddaughter's magnificent soprano voice soared, dearand true, in perfect pitch. She sang "O Holy Night," which broughtback bittersweet memories. In a rare emotional response, the congregationapplauded in delight. How her father would have relished that moment.

Wehad been alerted that there would be a "whole mess of people" fordinner--but thirty-five! Assorted relatives filled every corner of the house;small children, noisy and exuberant, seemed to bounce off the walls. I couldnot sort out who belonged to whom, but it didn't matter. They all belonged toone another. They took us in, enfolded us in joyous camaraderie. We sang carolsin loud, off-key voices, saved only by that amazing soprano.

Sometimeafter dinner, before the winter sunset, it occurred to me that a true family isnot always one's own flesh and blood. It is a climate of the heart. Had it notbeen for our adopted son, we would not now be surrounded by caring strangerswho would help us hear the music again.

Later,our granddaughter asked us to come along with her. "I'll drive," shesaid. "There's a place I like to go." She jumped behind the wheel ofthe car and, with the confidence of a newly licensed driver, zoomed off towardthe foothills.

Alongsidethe headstone rested a small, heart-shaped rock, slightly cracked, painted byour artist daughter. On its weathered surface she had written, "To mybrother, with love." Across the crest of the grave lay a holly-brightChristmas wreath. Our number-two son, we learned, sent one every year.

Aswe stood by the headstone in the chilly but somehow comforting silence, we werenot prepared for our unpredictable granddaughter's next move. Once more thatday her voice, so like her father's, lifted in song, and the mountainsideechoed the chorus of "Joy to the World," on and on into infinity.

Whenthe last pure note had faded, I felt, for the first time since our son's death,a sense of peace, of the positive continuity of life, of renewed faith andhope. The real meaning of Christmas had been restored to us. Hallelujah!

A Coincidence?

2011-12-05T03:25:00.001-08:00

byEd Koper

Iwas very proud of my daughter Emily. At only nine years old, she had beencarefully saving her allowance money all year and trying to earn extra money bydoing small jobs around the neighborhood. Emily was determined to save enoughto buy a girls mountain bike, an item for which she'd been longing, and she'dbeen faithfully putting her money away since the beginning of the year.

"How'reyou doing, Honey?" I asked soon after Thanksgiving. I knew she had hopedto have all the money she needed by the end of the year.

"Ihave forty-nine dollars, Daddy," she said. "I'm not sure if I'm goingto make it."

"You'veworked so hard," I said encouragingly. "Keep it up. But you know thatyou can have your pick from my bicycle collection."

"Thanks,Daddy. But your bikes are so old."

Ismiled to myself because I knew she was right. As a collector of vintagebicycles, all my girls bikes were 1950s models--not the kind a kid wouldchoose today.

Whenthe Christmas season arrived, Emily and I went comparison shopping, and she sawseveral less expensive bikes for which she thought she'd have to settle. As weleft one store, she noticed a Salvation Army volunteer ringing his bell by abig kettle. "Can we give them something, Daddy?" she asked.

"Sorry,Em, I'm out of change," I replied.

Emilycontinued to work hard all through December, and it seemed she might make hergoal after all. Then suddenly one day, she came downstairs to the kitchen andmade an announcement to her mother.

"Mom,"she said hesitantly, "you know all the money I've been saving?"

"Yes,dear," smiled my wife Diane.

"Godtold me to give it to the poor people."

Dianeknelt down to Emily's level. "That's a very kind thought, sweetheart. Butyou've been saving all year. Maybe you could give some of it."

Emilyshook her head vigorously. "God said all."

Whenwe saw she was serious, we gave her various suggestions about where she couldcontribute. But Emily had received specific instructions, and so one coldSunday morning before Christmas, with little fanfare, she handed her totalsavings of $58 to a surprised and grateful Salvation Army volunteer.

Movedby Emily's selflessness, I suddenly noticed that a local car dealer wascollecting used bicycles to refurbish and give to poor children for Christmas.And I realized that if my nine-year-old daughter could give away all of her money,I could certainly give up one bike from my collection.

AsI picked up a shiny but old-fashioned kids bike from the line in the garage,it seemed as if a second bicycle in the line took on a glow. Should I give asecond bike? No, certainly the one would be enough.

Butas I got to my car, I couldn't shake the feeling that I should donate thatsecond bike as well. And if Emily could follow heavenly instructions, I decidedI could, too. I turned back and loaded the second bike into the trunk, thentook off for the dealership.

WhenI delivered the bikes, the car dealer thanked me and said, "You're makingtwo kids very happy, Mr. Koper. And here are your tickets."

"Tickets?"I asked.

"Yes.For each bike donated, we're giving away one chance to win a brand new men's21-speed mountain bike from a local bike shop. So here are your tickets for twochances."

Whywasn't I surprised when that second ticket won the bike? "I can't believeyou won!" laughed Diane, delighted.

"Ididn't," I said. "It's pretty clear that Emily did."

Andwhy wasn't I surprised when the bike dealer happily substituted a gorgeous newgirls mountain bike for the mens bike advertised?

Coincidence?Maybe. I like to think it was God's way of rewarding a little girl for asacrifice beyond her years – while giving her dad a lesson in charity and thepower of the Lord.

Christmas Is a Time for Sharing

2011-12-04T05:02:00.001-08:00

byGlen D. Kittler

Thenoise was enough to make Father Bonaventure almost regret having given thisparty. The wild Indiansare certainly running true to form, he thought.

Thechildren were indeed Indians—members of the Papago [Tohono O'odham] tribe, andthey had gone wild with joy. This was their first Christmas party, given forthem by the Franciscan priests at the San Xavier Reservation mission south ofTucson, Arizona.

Aparty?Father smiled to himself. It'smore like an uprising. The children came from poor families wholabored on farms that never produced enough to buy proper food and clothes."Let the kids have their fun," Father concluded, clenching his fiststo control his impatience.

Gameswere being played with prizes for the winners, but now Father began to receivereports that Luis Pablo, just going on eight, was trying to take away prizesfrom boys who had won them. Time and again Father had to force Luis to return apencil or a scarf or a book.

"Luis!"Father said severely, "why can't you behave?"

"Iwant to win something."

"Thenwin something," said Father. "Don't steal it."

Butthe boy had no luck at all. Whatever the game, he lost. Father watched himsadly. It was a shame, for these defeats had driven Luis to the brink ofviolence. Father was both puzzled and angry.

Atthe end of the party the children formed a line and to each Father presented abag of hard candy—the only gift the mission could afford in bulk. When Luis'turn came he asked, "Can I have three bags?"

"Youcannot," said Father sternly. "One bag to each."

"ButI mean empty bags."

"Oh!Well, why not?" Father gave Luis three empty bags and the boy left.

Later,alone in his office, the priest glanced out the window and saw Luis sitting onthe school steps.

Luishad three bags open beside him and carefully, by precise count, was dividinghis candy into them. Then Father Bonaventure suddenly remembered: At home Luishad two brothers and a sister; they were all too young to come to the Christmasparty. So this was the reason. Father went to the party room and scooped theremaining candy into a large bag. He had intended to give the candy to theSisters, but he knew that they would not object to what he was about to do. Hewent outside and presented the bag to Luis.

"Here'syour prize," he said.

"Prize?"Luis asked, astonished. "What for?"

"Allduring the party I was watching to see which one of you had the true spirit ofChristmas," Father said. "You win."

Thenthe priest turned and entered the school quickly because he did not want theboy to see his tears.

Kaden's Story

2011-12-03T18:15:00.001-08:00

This is my nephew Curtis holding his son Kaden. In January, Kaden will be turning two years old. Since his birth, Kaden has struggled with kidney problems and will be needing a kidney transplant. After being tested, it was determined that Curtis was a match and could be Kaden's kidney donor. The surgery is tentatively scheduled for mid January.

The estimated cost of the surgery is $500,000. Although the family has insurance, not all costs will be covered. Fundraising has been taking place for the past couple of months with a goal to raise $100,000.

Here is a link to Kaden's story found on the website of the Children's Organ Transplant Association, also known as COTA. Click on "Kaden's Website" to read his touching story.

Kaden McCormick's Story

Merry Christmas and thanks for checking out my blog.

Christmas Now

2011-12-03T01:18:00.001-08:00

by Kitsy Jones

TheSunday before Christmas one year, my husband, a police officer in Arlington,Texas, and I were just leaving for church when the phone rang. Probably someonewanting Lee, who had already worked a lot of extra hours, to put in some more,I thought. I looked at him and commanded, "We're going to church!"

"I'llleave in five minutes and be there in about twenty," I heard him tell thecaller. I seethed, but his next words stopped me short.

"’A Wish with Wings' was broken into last night, and the presents are gone,"he told me. "I have to go. I'll call you later." I was dumbfounded.

AWish with Wings (Lee serves on the administrative board) is anorganization in our area that grants wishes for children with devastatingillnesses. Each year, Wish also gives a Christmas party where gifts aredistributed. Some 170 donated gifts had been wrapped and were ready for theparty, which was to be held that evening, less than nine hours away.

Ina daze, I dressed our two children – Ben, just seventeen months, andfive-year-old Kate – and we went to church. In between services, I told friendsand the pastors about what had happened. The president of our Sunday schoolgave me forty dollars to buy more presents. One teacher said her class wasbringing gifts to donate to another charitable organization and they would behappy to give some of them to Wish. A dent, I thought.

At10:30 A.M., I phoned Lee at the Wish office. He was busy making other calls, soI packed up the kids and headed in his direction. I arrived at a barren scene.Shattered glass covered the front office where the thief had broken the door.The chill that pervaded the room was caused not only by the cold wind comingthrough the broken door but also by the dashed hopes of the several people whostood inside – including Pat Skaggs, the founder of Wish, and Adrena Martinez,the administrative assistant.

Lookingout at the parking lot, I was startled to see a news crew from a localtelevision station unloading a camera. Then I learned that Lee's first phonecalls had been to the local radio and TV stations.

Afew minutes later, a family who had heard a radio report arrived with gifts,already wrapped. Other people soon followed. One was a little boy who hadbrought things from his own room.

Ileft to get lunch for my kids and some drinks for the workers. When I got back,I found the volunteers eating pizzas that had been donated by a local pizzaplace. More strangers had arrived, offering gifts and labor. A glass repaircompany had fixed the door and refused payment. We began to feel hope: Maybe wecould still have the party!

Leewas fielding phone calls, sometimes with a receiver in each ear. Ben wasfussing, so I headed home with him, hoping he could take a nap and I could finda baby-sitter.

Meanwhile,the city came alive. Two other police officers were going from church to churchto spread the news. Lee told me later of a man who came directly from church,complete with coat and tie, and went to work on the floor, wrapping presents. Athird officer, whose wife is a deejay for a local radio station, put on hisuniform and stood outside the station collecting gifts while his wife made aplea on the air. The fire department agreed to be a drop-off point for gifts.Lee called and asked me to bring our van so it could be used to pick them up.

Theclock was ticking. It was mid-afternoon, and 6:00 p.m.– the scheduled time ofthe party – was not far away. I couldn't find a sitter, and my son startedrunning a fever of 103 degrees, so I took him with me to the Wish building justlong enough to trade cars with Lee.

NothingI had ever witnessed could have prepared me for what I saw there – people linedup at the door, arms laden with gifts. One family in which the father had beenlaid off brought the presents from under their own tree. It was like a scenefrom It's a Wonderful Life.

Inside,Lee was still on the phone. Outside, volunteers were loading vans with wrappedgifts to be taken to the party site, an Elks lodge six miles away. By 5:50 P.M.– just before the first of the more than 100 children arrived – enough presentshad been delivered to the lodge. Somehow, workers had matched up the donateditems with the youngsters' wishes, so many received just what they wanted.Their faces shone with delight as they opened the packages. For some, it wouldbe their last Christmas.

Thosepresents, however, were only a small portion of what came in during the day.Wish had lost 170 gifts in the robbery, but more than 1,500 had been donated!Lee decided to spend the night at the office to guard the surplus, so I packedsome food and a sleeping bag and drove them down to the office. There giftswere stacked to the ceiling, filling every available inch of space except for asmall pathway that had been cleared to the back office.

Leespent a quiet night, but the phone started ringing again at 6:30 A.M. The firstcaller wanted to make a donation, so Lee started to give him directions."You'd better give me the mailing address," the caller said."I'm in Philadelphia." The story had been picked up by the nationalnews. Soon calls were coming from all over the country.

Bymidday, the Wish office was again filled with workers, this time picking up theextra gifts to take to other charitable organizations so they could distributethem before Christmas, just two days away. Pat and Adrena, whose faces had beentear-stained twenty-four hours earlier, were now filled with joy.

WhenLee was interviewed for the local news, he summed up everyone's feeling:"It's really Christmas now." We had all caught the spirit – and themeaning – of the season.

Homemade Holy Night

2011-12-02T03:49:00.001-08:00

byElla Ruth Rettig

Wheredid I get the idea of a family Christmas pageant? I don’t really know. All Ican say is that when the idea came to me, I felt that I might never see aChristmas again.

Itwas June. I’d just gone through major cancer surgery that hadn’t been fullysuccessful. Once a month I’d travel 250 miles to Houston for chemotherapy, andreturning home I felt sick to death.

Thedays were long. My husband Gene is a telephone repairman, and we live on ahilltop in the farm country of central Texas. It’s beautiful country, but I hadno energy to go out in it. I’d just sit by the window and watch our horseloping from the barn to the shade of the mulberry tree. I’d lost my appetite,my hair, but, worst of all, at times I was too sick to care whether ornot I got well.

Myfamily tried to bolster my spirits, but I couldn’t seem to focus on anything.Then I tried playing a little game myself. “Get rid of all those gloomythoughts, Ella Ruth,” I told myself. “Start thinking only good, brightthoughts.” And when I asked myself what was good and bright, I came upwith—Christmas, my favorite time of year.

Ifonly,I thought, if only I could feel that every day was leading me nearer toChristmas.

Butwhat could I do? Start my Christmas shopping early? In summer? No, that wouldbe silly. Well, maybe I could plan a special celebration that would bring myfamily all together. And, of course, it should honor Jesus’ birth. I had readsomewhere that cancer patients should set goals—and a Christ-honoring Christmasbecame one of my goals.

WhatI really wanted to do was bring the Christmas story to life for mygrandchildren. Maybe a Christmas play …

Yes!But how? Where? With what? My mind and body were weak. How could I put a playtogether?

Iprayed, “Father, I want to honor You, but You’ll have to show me how. I don’teven know where to start.”

Slowly,God got me going. Looking out the window, I saw our barn and thought, There!There’s the manger, Ella Ruth.

Iknew what the plot of the play should be—it was right there in Luke.

ThenI wondered who in my family could play what parts? Right away I saw that we hada perfect Mary. My daughter Kristi was pregnant, due in February … and herhusband Bobby had a beard. He could be Joseph. The angels and shepherds? Mygrandchildren.

Theresaw my cast. But what would we do? Stand around in the barn? No. Somehow Iwould have to come up with a simple script, and so I studied Luke 2 andChristmas books for ideas. And costumes. Did I have the needed strength to makethem? I really didn’t want anybody’s help. I wanted this to be a secret betweenthe Lord and me.

“Goslow,” I heard God saying, “and I’ll help you.” I did take it slow. During mylong afternoons, I would sit beside our old cedar trunk, rummaging throughmementoes of wonderful times.

Therewas an old jeweled collar … how stylish I’d felt wearing this in the long-agodays when my husband and I were courting. Now the collar could be a Wise Man’scrown. A red and black afghan … here was a labor of love. My daughter Kristihad made this for me just before her marriage. Now it would keep warm a king ofthe Orient. Old elastic hairbands and old towels—sewn together they’d makeheaddresses for the shepherds. My house took on new life with all the objectsin it calling out to be used.

Oneday, though, while turning a pillowcase into a shepherd’s dress, I suddenlysuffered doubts. Was I setting myself up for a big embarrassment? What if mychildren and grandchildren thought this was a stupid, silly idea? Wouldsix-year-old Jeremy take one look at his pillowcase and say, “Forget it”?

Butthe longer I thought, the more sure I was that my family—they were all a bunchof actors anyway—would play along wholeheartedly. So I hoped.

Amonth before the holiday, I let my husband Gene in on my secret. I needed himto make the “star in the East” and shepherds’ crooks in his workshop. And whenwe made the drive to Houston for my chemotherapy, the fear and silence were alittle less terrible. Gene and I had pageant details to talk about.

Thenbefore I knew it, the holiday was upon us. I arranged to have all of our familygather at our house for Christmas Eve. They suspected something when I toldthem to wear warm clothes.

Allwas going well until the day before, when a heavy rain began to fall. Would webe able to get the manger in the barn? I forlornly painted a king’s crown, andlooked up now and then to see the rain come pouring down. The morning ofChristmas Eve, though, we woke up to a clear sky and a brisk north wind. Bynoon, the way to the manger was dry.

DuringChristmas Eve dinner I was a bundle of joyous nerves. I could barely eat. Aseveryone began the after-dinner cleanup, Gene and I exchanged winks and then heslipped outside to set up the star and arrange things in the barn.

Dishesdone, everyone gathered around me, waiting for me to spill my secret. But mydoubts were back. Would everyone try to back out? Handing out costumes andprinted instructions, I didn’t dare look up to see how everyone was reacting.But then my son Mike quietly said, “Hey, Ma, I haven’t seen you this excitedsince … in a long time.”

Ifelt I’d just been given a big dose of bravery. When everyone was dressed, Ibegan to read from Luke 2 and the pageant at last began to unfold. Joseph andMary (“being great with child”) left the house and I told of their journey toBethlehem. With no room at the inn, they took refuge in the barn. We thenwatched from the window as shepherds went out into the field. Mydaughter-in-law Donna wore an old quilt top and a towel headdress, and herlittle Jeremy and Kerrie wore old pillowcases.

Then,“the angel of the Lord” (my oldest grandchild) came upon them. Tracy waswrapped in a white bed sheet, with a tinsel halo nestled in her hair. I flippeda light switch and “the glory of the Lord shone round about them.” More angels,Little Kellie (Kerrie’s twin sister) and Stephanie, appeared. The angelsbrought “good tidings of great joy” to the shepherds, and then they all headedfor the manger. I followed, leaving the Wise Men in the house. In the barneverything was dark except for a gentle glow shining on Mary, Joseph, and theBabe (a doll) in swaddling clothes. Angels and shepherds and my husband kneeledor stood in the shadows, silent in the cold night air.

Istood at the door and read the story of the Wise Men from Matthew 2. Myhusband’s handmade “star in the East,” a flashlight hidden within a cardboardstar began moving along its cable toward the barn. The Wise Men (my two sons,Ron and Mike, and our family friend David Taylor) followed the star across thefield, singing “We Three Kings of Orient Are.”

Andthen the Wise Men were with us in their jeweled and (bath) robed splendor,presenting their gifts as the angel sang “Silent Night.” Then the grandchildrensang “Away in a Manger.” We all joined in on “Joy to the World.”

Thiswas all I had planned. But none of us could move. We all felt God’s warmpresence in this cold, dark barn.

Myoldest son Ron gently broke the stillness, saying, “I feel like we shouldpray.” Ron led us in a prayer of praise, and we then sang another carol, andthen another, all of us wanting to hang on a little longer to this lovingcloseness.

Andin that closeness I no longer felt like the sick one in the family—I simplyfelt like one of the family. A good loving family. I’d left my fear behind. Mysoul was full of light, a newborn light that God had been leading me to for sixmonths. It was the radiance of the manger, a radiance I’d helped God create.

Soyou see, if you’re stricken by illness or misfortune, set some goals. Findsomething worthwhile to do. And then do it. Make a Christmas pageant or anEaster vigil or organize a bake sale. If you know a trade, offer your servicesto those in need. To get better, you often have to go out of your way. Don’t beafraid. Go.

The Most Magical Christmas of All

2011-12-01T03:26:00.001-08:00

by Christina Chanes Nystrom

When I was a child, our Christmas Eve rituals never varied. First, we sat down to an all-fish dinner – which I absolutely dreaded – followed by a talent show run by my bossy older cousin. At midnight, we attended Mass and then, in the wee hours of Christmas morning, we opened some of our presents at Grandma's house.

The year I was seven, my mother, three brothers and I made the long drive home from Grandma's house. Finally, Mom eased the car slowly into our driveway. As she got out of the car, she told us later, she had a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Leaving us safely sleeping in the car, my mother entered the house. As soon as she opened the door, she knew we'd been robbed. She immediately took a short inventory of the house to make sure the robbers were gone and to see what had been stolen.

As she surveyed our small home, she discovered that food from our freezer – mostly chopped meats and frozen vegetables – and her meager life savings, the nickels, dimes, and pennies she'd saved in a container hidden in her underwear drawer, were missing. It wasn't much, but to a single mother living on a limited income, the loss was devastating.

Then, to her horror, she saw that the robbers had also taken our Christmas tree, the presents -- even the stockings.

While other parents were putting the finishing touches on bicycles and dollhouses, she stood gazing at the spot where the Christmas tree had been, too heartsick to cry. It was two in the morning. How was she going to fix this?

But fix it she would. Her children were still going to have Christmas.

Carrying us in one by one, my mother put us to bed. Then she stayed up for what was left of the night and, using buttons, cloth, ribbon and yarn, made gifts of finger puppets and shoelaces.

As she sat and stitched, she remembered the Christmas tree lot around the corner. Just before dawn, she slipped out and came back with a small broken tree, the best one she could find.

My brothers and I woke early that morning, excited to see what Santa had brought us for Christmas. We hurried to the living room and stopped in the doorway, confused by the strange magic that had transformed our beautiful Christmas spruce, glittering with decorations, into a small, bare tree leaning against the wall.

When my little brother asked what had happened to our tree and our stockings, my mother told us that someone really poor had needed them. She told us not to worry because we were very lucky. We had the most important gifts of all – God's love, and one another.

As she filled our cups with hot chocolate, we opened our gifts. After breakfast, we made Christmas ornaments out of old egg cartons. Together we laughed, sang carols, and decorated our new tree.

It's an odd thing. Although I don't remember what I got for Christmas when I was five or even 10 years old, I have never forgotten anything about that wonderful Christmas when I was seven – the year when someone stole our Christmas and gave us the unexpected gift of joyous togetherness and love.

Story Document

2011-11-29T06:01:00.001-08:00

If anyone is interested in having this year's story collection emailed to them in a Word document, email me with a request. Please put "Story Request" in the subject line. My email address is beckylbd@yahoo.com. Happy reading and Merry Christmas!

One Solitary Life

2010-12-24T04:20:00.000-08:00

Author Unknown

How do you explain the greatness of the Man whose birth we celebrate on Christmas?

He was born in an obscure village, the child of a peasant woman. He grew up in another village. He worked in a carpenter shop until He was 30, and then for three years was an itinerant preacher. He never wrote a book. He never held office. He never owned a home. He never traveled 200 miles from the place where He was born. He never did one of the things that usually accompany greatness. He had no credentials but Himself.

Although He walked the land over, curing the sick, giving sight to the blind, healing the lame, and raising people from the dead, the top established religious leaders turned against Him. His friends ran away. He was turned over to enemies. He went through the mockery of a trial. He was spat upon, flogged, and ridiculed. He was nailed to a cross between two thieves. While He was dying, the executioners gambled for the only piece of property He had on earth, and that was His robe. When He was dead, He was laid in the borrowed grave of a friend.

Nineteen wide centuries have come and gone, and today He is the central figure of the human race and the Leader of the column of progress.

All the armies that ever marched, and all the navies that were built, and all the parliaments that ever sat, and all the kings that ever reigned, put together, have not affected mankind upon this earth as has that

One Solitary Life.

Christmas Magic

2010-12-23T04:58:00.000-08:00

Author Unknown

I wish I could tell you that the whole thing happened because I’m caring and unselfish, but that wouldn’t be true. I had just moved back to Wisconsin from Colorado because I missed my family and Denver wages were terrible. I took a job at a hospice in Milwaukee and found my niche working with the patients and families. As the season changed into fall, the schedule for the holidays was posted.

I was devastated. Newly engaged, it was my first Christmas back home with my family after many years. But with no seniority, I had little clout to get Christmas off while my dedicated colleagues worked.

While lamenting my predicament, I came up with an idea. Since I couldn’t be with my family, I would bring my family to the hospice. With the patients and their families struggling through their last Christmases together, maybe this gathering would lend support. My family thought it was a wonderful plan, and so did the staff. Several invited their relatives to participate, too.

As we brain-stormed ideas for a hospice Christmas, we remembered the annual 11:00 P.M. Christmas Eve service scheduled in the hospital chapel.

“Why don’t we take the patients to church?” I suggested.

“Yes,” replied another staff nurse. “It’s a beautiful candlelight service with music. I bet the patients would love it.”

“Great. And we can have a little party afterwards, with punch, cookies and small gifts,” I added.

Our enthusiasm increased as we planned the details of our hospice Christmas celebration.

Now, it never occurred to me that all these great ideas might not float so well with the administration. It never occurred to me that we might have to get permission for each of these activities—until the director called me into her office.

“Uh, Barb, I’m hearing rumors of a Christmas Eve celebration here at the hospice.”

“Well, yes,” I replied. Eagerly, I outlined all the plans and ideas the staff had developed. Fortunately for my career, she thought involving our families with the unit activities was a wonderful idea, too.

“But,” she said, “certainly you are not serious about taking the patients to church. It has never been done.”

“Yes, I’m serious. It would mean a lot to the patients and families.”

“Very seldom do you see any patients at this service, and if they do go, they are ambulatory and dressed.” She shook her head. “Our patients are too sick to go.”

“But a number of them have indicated an interest,” I argued.

“I cannot authorize the additional staff needed.”

“The family members can help.”

“What about the liability?”

Now I felt like saying, “What could be the worst thing that could happen—someone dies in church?” But I didn’t. I just kept convincing her, until she begrudgingly gave approval.

Christmas Eve arrived. Family members gathered in the lounge and decorated a small tree, complete with wrapped packages. Then we implemented our plan for the staff and families to transport the patients to the chapel. While most of the patients had family members with them, one young girl had no one. At just nineteen, Sandy had terminal liver cancer. Her mother had died of cancer three years previously, and her father stopped coming long ago. Perhaps he couldn’t sit by the bedside of another loved one dying so young. So my family “took charge” of Sandy. My sister combed her hair while my mother applied just a hint of lipstick. They laughed and joked like three old friends as my fiancé helped her move to a gurney.

Meanwhile, other nurses hung IVs on poles, put IVACs on battery support and gave last-minute pain meds. Then, with patients in wheelchairs and on gurneys, we paraded our group into the chapel just as they were finishing “Joy to the World,” with the organ and bells ringing out in perfect harmony. Silence descended on the congregation as we rolled slowly down the aisle. The minister just stood there with his mouth open, staring. Everyone turned around to look at us. We faltered in our steps, each movement echoing in the large, crowded chapel.

Then the magic began.

One by one, people stood up, filed into the aisle and began to help us. They handed patients hymnals and distributed programs. They wheeled patients to the front so they could see well. They handed out candles to be lit for the closing hymn. One woman adjusted Sandy’s pillow and stroked her hair. Throughout the service, the congregation catered to our patients, guiding them through the worship.

The beautiful service closed with a candlelight recessional to “Silent Night.” Voices rang in disjointed harmony as the congregation assisted us in exiting the chapel and returning our charges to the unit. Many stayed to share punch and cookies and stories.

As I got Sandy ready for bed that late night, she whispered, “This was one of the nicest Christmases I ever had.”

When I shared her comments with my family later, we realized the magic that evening was on many levels. The unit had a special climate we’d never experienced before. Sandy had one of the best Christmases she’d ever known. The congregation had shared in a special, caring way. But we also realized that this evening impacted our family as well. We felt closer, bonded in purpose and spirit.

Since that Christmas, my family has been blessed with many Christmases together—but I think that one was the best. Like the author Bill Shore, I, too, believe that when you give to others and give to the community, you create something within yourself that is important and lasting. He calls it the “Cathedral Within.”

Our family cathedral is a little stronger for the privilege of giving that Christmas.

The Red Mittens

2010-12-22T05:16:00.000-08:00

Author Unknown

When I was a little girl, I lived in the small town of Eau Claire, Wisconsin. In town was a school for the deaf. Each school year, deaf children from the surrounding farming communities would live with families in town so that they could go to school. One year, Tom, age ten, and Bernie, age eleven, lived with our family. We didn't have much money, but we had a lot of love to share.

The boys came with a limited amount of clothing, but it did include a warm jacket and hat for the bitter Wisconsin winters. However, neither boy had mittens or gloves. It just so happened that Mom was famous for her hand-knit mittens. She had made them for years as gifts for family, friends, and neighbors.

Mom asked the boys if they would like to have a pair of her mittens for themselves, and they both smiled and nodded. She had them trace their hands on a piece of paper and choose a color for their mittens. They both chose red. The mittens were completed in a few evenings, and Tom and Bernie wore them to school the following day.

After school, they returned home and excitedly told Mom that some of the other children at the school also needed mittens. They asked her if she would make some for them. Mom agreed and asked the boys to have each child who needed mittens trace his or her hands on a piece of paper and write the color of mittens wanted.

Tom and Bernie came home from school the next day with 137 pieces of paper, all requesting red mittens! Mom looked a little surprised, but she was undaunted. It was the end of September. She figured how long it would take to knit each pair and decided that she could have all 137 pairs finished just before Christmas.

At this point, I became involved in the plan. Yarn did not come ready to use, as it does now. It came in skeins that needed to be wound into balls. I spent many evenings for the next several months with my elbows propped up on several books, a skein of yarn stretched between my wrists, and Mom winding the red yarn into balls.

December 22 was a crisp winter day. Outside a light snow was falling. On this day, Tom and Bernie proudly took 137 pairs of red mittens to school. Mom had made it!

Many years have passed since that day in December. Dad died, my brothers grew up, and Mom eventually moved to Oregon. Through the years, Mom lost track of Tom and Bernie. When she grew old and became ill, she moved back to Wisconsin to live with my brother John. Shortly afterward, she died.

We held a small graveside service for family members in the cemetery, where she would be buried next to Dad. It was December 22--a crisp winter day. At the cemetery, a light snow was falling.

As the short service ended, I noticed two figures coming toward us in the distance. I didn't recognize the man or the boy, who looked to be about ten. As the two came closer, I noticed that the boy was wearing a pair of red mittens. Then the man smiled, and my brother and I recognized him. It was Bernie!

"I read about your mother's death in the newspaper yesterday," he said. "I had to come. She was very important in my life."

I noted the red mittens on the boy's hands. "Surely those aren't the same red mittens that Mom knitted for you?" I asked in surprise.

"They are," he assured me. "My five sons have all worn them, too. They are a symbol of a loving, caring, and sharing woman whom I have never forgotten. I will treasure these red mittens forever."

Christmas Is Coming

2010-12-21T04:30:00.000-08:00

Author Unknown

I sat on the floor near Jeremy, my three-year-old, and handed him assorted ornaments to put on the Christmas tree. He stood on a holiday popcorn can to reach the middle section of the tree, which was as high as he could reach. He giggled with a child’s pure delight every time I said, “Christmas is coming!” Although I had tried many times to explain Christmas to him, Jeremy believed that Christmas was a person. “Christmas is coming!” he would giggle. “And all of these presents are for Christmas when she comes!”

I was sitting back, watching him smiling to himself as he carefully placed each ornament on the tree. Surely he can’t know enough about Christmas to love it this much, I thought.

We lived in a small apartment in San Francisco. Although the weather was usually mild, this Christmas season it was chilly enough for us to need a fire. On Christmas Eve I threw in a starter log and watched my son sliding around the apartment, sock-footed on hardwood floors. He was anxiously awaiting Christmas. Soon he couldn’t stand it any longer and began jumping up and down. “When will she be here, Mommy? I can’t wait to give her all these presents!”

Again I tried to explain it to him. “You know, Jeremy, Christmas is a time of year, not a person, and it will be here sooner than you know. At twelve o’clock, Christmas will be here but you will probably be sleeping, so when you wake up in the morning it will be Christmas.”

He laughed as if I was telling a silly joke. “Mommy,” he said, “will Christmas eat breakfast with us?” He spread out his arms over the gifts under the tree. “All of these presents are for Christmas! All of them!”

I tickled his belly and laughed with him. “Yes,” I said. “They are all for Christmas!”

He scampered about the apartment until fatigue slowed him down and he lay on the rug by the tree. I curled up next to him, and when he finally fell asleep I carried him into his bed.

I decided on a hot chocolate before bed, and as I drank it I sat near the window looking down on the decorated streets of San Francisco. It was a beautiful scene. But there was one thing that disturbed me. Directly outside our apartment, in the spot where I usually left the garbage, was what looked like a crumpled heap of old clothes. But I soon realized what the heap really was. It was an old homeless woman who usually hung out near the corner store down the street. She was a familiar sight in the neighborhood, and I had tossed a few coins into her bag a few times after shopping at the grocery store. She never asked for money, but I think she got quite a few handouts from passersby because she looked so helpless.

As I looked out on this Christmas Eve, I wondered about this poor old woman. Who was she? What was her story? She should be with family, not sleeping in the cold street at this special time of year.

I felt a sinking feeling inside. Here I was, with a beautiful child sleeping in the next room. I had often felt sorry for myself as a single mom, but at least I wasn’t alone and living on the streets. How hopeless and sad that would be for anyone, let alone a woman who must be about eighty years old.

I went to my front door and walked down the steps to the street. I asked the old woman if she would like to come inside. At first, she hardly acknowledged me. I tried to coax her; she said she didn’t want my help. But when I said I could use a little company, she relented and agreed to spend Christmas with Jeremy and me.

I arranged for her to sleep in the living room on our foldout couch. The next morning, I was awakened by Jeremy yelling at the top of his lungs. “Christmas is here! Christmas is here, Mommy!”

I quickly pulled on my robe and hurried to the living room, where I found a very excited little boy presenting a very surprised “Christmas” with gifts from under the tree. “We’ve been waiting for you!” he shouted joyfully. He giggled and danced around as she opened the presents he had given her.

I don’t think “Christmas” had known a Christmas like this for a very long time. And neither had I. I also knew that it would have taken more than just one special day to lift the burden from that old lady’s weary heart, but I was thrilled when she promised to come back the following year. I hope she will. And Jeremy knows she will.

The Christmas Kindness Blanket

2010-12-20T04:50:00.000-08:00

by Maurine Proctor

I had a pit in my stomach the first few weeks after we moved from Utah to Virginia, feeling somewhat like the baby eagles who are pushed from their cliff-high nests by their weary mothers and plummet wildly to the ground. When I've seen these nature documentaries with pictures of the falling eagles, I hold my breath, frightened for their safety, “Oh, please fly.”

Leaving Utah had been like leaving a nest for me, because there I had a lifetime of friends and family, a network of support that cushioned every blow. Grocery shopping at Macy's always took much longer than I planned, because around each new aisle I ran into a friend, whose eyes lit with recognition, and we'd catch up. What was the price per pound of turkey? How are the plans for your daughter's wedding? Did you hear that the Perrin boy got his mission call?

It was all such sweet familiarity. Wherever we went, we ran into old college chums, second cousins, fellow writers. But most of all, around our kitchen table still sat eight of our children. Yes, some of them were grown and going to college, on the verge of flight themselves, but here they still were, making us laugh at dinner, prolonging the time together at the end of each day because the conversation was so lively.

So moving after a lifetime in one place was a shock, and nowhere did I feel it more starkly than the grocery store or a school event where there were no loving greetings, no light of recognition in the eyes of friends. We had all suddenly become invisible; we were ciphers surrounded by people who wouldn't know or care if we just suddenly disappeared.

Four of our children had moved with us, while the rest, who had been at home, stayed on in Utah for college. Those of us who had made the 2,000 mile move were feeling the shock of displacement. “Dinner is my favorite time of the day,” our son, Andy, regularly told us. It was a time of connection. He had been the sophomore class president in Utah , but now in a school of 4600, he was just the oddball from someplace in the West, whose standards were a little squeaky clean.

We had moved just before school started, and now with Christmas coming, I was eager to find some new seasonal traditions that would tie us to our Virginia home. One day, I picked up the local Fairfax newspaper and scanned the listings for the upcoming Christmas events. I landed on one I thought would be memorable. It seemed the “President's Own” United States Marine Band joined with several church choirs for a Holiday Sing-A-Long at Wolf Trap, the National Park for the Performing Arts. It was on Sunday after church, and it was free.

Here it was. A possibility for starting a new tradition in this place that still felt so foreign, and I presented the idea to the family, who thought it sounded fun.

The day came, and we piled in our car after church still in our Sunday clothes. Staying in our Sunday clothes had long been the Sabbath tradition in our family, and so this day as we drove to Wolf Trap, I had on a thin, wool jacket I'd worn to church; my husband, Scot, had only his suit coat, our sons had on only light coats, and our little girls had bare, thin legs sticking out of their Sunday dresses.

It was a bitterly cold day, but we envisioned finding a place to park, scurrying into the auditorium, and being warmed. It was the ignorance of a newcomer.

We drove into the massive parking lot, jammed with cars, and as we looked around at other families, we could see immediately that something was wrong. They were bundled up like Arctic trappers. Woolen hats pulled over their ears; tasseled, knitted scarves around their necks, quilts and blankets bundled around them. They wore gloves and carried steaming jugs of hot chocolate. They stamped across the parking lot in fur-lined boots.

We followed the trail of people toward the sounds of the U.S. Marine band playing Christmas carols with a growing suspicion that we had badly miscalculated.

What I hadn't known and didn't entirely realize, until we were right at the entrance, was that Wolf Trap was an outdoor pavilion. It had a beautiful stage festooned with 10-foot wreathes, a roof that sloped up covering the rows of seats, but it was unheated and the sides were open so the chilling breeze came through, ruddying up the cheeks of the singers and quickly numbing any exposed fingers until they ached.

Virginia can have some temperate days in the winter, but this wasn't one of those. In all the years we have since gone to Wolf Trap, no year has seen such a biting temperature that gnawed at our warm flesh, freezing our extremities, stiffening our arms and legs.

You'd think at that point we'd wise up and leave, but the band in their bright red uniforms and brass buttons were playing a piece of the Nutcracker, that delighted the senses. We'd been given a book with the words to the carols that the audience would soon be joining in to sing. We had looked forward to this Christmas outing to have a new tradition in our family, so needy to connect in our new community.

We sat down on ice-cold metal chairs and hoped that the warmth of those several thousand bodies around us would lessen the impact of the freezing weather that we were already experiencing as pain.

We were part way through singing, “Joy to the World”, singing at the top of our lungs, because in the mass of singers in the audience, no one could hear our mistakes or faltering voices. We were singing like a concourse of angels, singing like our voices could roll across the entire earth, inviting the rocks and stones to arise and join us. We were people of all faiths, but we loved why we had come to sing.

“Joy to the world
The Lord is come
Let earth receive her king.”

Suddenly the people two rows in front of us passed up a blanket. “We see you're cold,” they said. How could they have noticed? Did they have eyes in the back of their heads? Was this icy night a good time to give up an extra blanket? They did more.

“Our gloves have liners. It makes it like two pairs of gloves.” They passed up their glove liners and then our hands were warmed.

Others chipped in. All around us people were passing “extra” hats and scarves our direction. “You might need this,” they said. “Does this help?” Before the next song, we were bundled up with donations from people all around us.

“Hark, the Herald Angels Sing” we all joined together like the original chorus that came to the shepherds, “Glory to the newborn king.”

We all stood together for the chorus from Handel's Messiah. “Hallelujah, Hallelujah.” I felt as one with everyone around me. There were no more strangers. All these people I didn't know were shouting the same praises I felt, “Hallelujah, Hallelujah. For the Lord, God, omnipotent reigneth.” Bundled up in our nearest neighbors' blankets and hats, I felt as warm as I ever had.

The last song was “Silent Night” and the Wolf Trap tradition is for each person to light a candle on the last verse and exit in a reverent recessional, the pool of candles a glow against the early darkness of a winter night. As we passed back our borrowed things with our gratitude, everyone around us was lighting their candle.

“Silent night, Holy night
Son of God, love's pure light.”

We joined the sea of people exiting the arena and moving out on to the lawn, shorn back to our thin coats. My husband, Scott, carried our five-year-old, Michaela, her pale, thin legs sticking out from her dress, exposed now to even colder air. She has always been a wisp, who in years to come would make as her New Year's resolution with little conviction, “Eat more, maybe.” This night her legs looked and felt like scrawny icicles.

Suddenly out of the darkness as we walked along, a woman came up and wrapped a green blanket around those naked legs. Warmth made her snuggle closer to her Daddy, and I said to the kind woman, “Thank you so much. We'll follow you to your car, and return your blanket.”

“Oh no,” she said, “That's for her. I'm a grandmother.”

In the darkness, I didn't see her face clearly. I didn't get her name, before she moved back into the flowing crowd.

Michaela stayed bundled in the blanket all the way home. She slept with it that night and gave it a name. It became her “kindness blanket.” She slept with it for years to come, and the funny thing was, so did I. So did all of us. We slept each night and rose each day with the memory of the kindness of strangers whose faces we don't know and names we didn't learn who wanted to keep us warm against an icy night.

I had been wrong all along. Our new home wasn't filled with strangers—just friends we hadn't met yet. It was the beginning of making Virginia our home.

’Twas the Night Before Christmas

2010-12-19T06:27:00.000-08:00

by Mary Marcdante

Two Decembers ago, my dad called wanting to know what I wanted for Christmas. I mentioned a particular book and then interrupted myself and said, “No, what I’d really like is for you to put ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas on audiotape.”

There was this long pause and then Dad said with familiar stern emphasis in his voice, “Oh for Heaven’s sake, Mary. What in Sam Hill do you want that for? You’re forty years old!”

I paused, feeling embarrassed yet determined, “Dad, I remember how good it felt when you used to cuddle us all up next to you on the couch when we were little and read ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas. I can still remember how strong your voice was, how safe I felt and how well you acted out all the different sounds. I’d really appreciate your doing this, since I live 2,500 miles away and I’m not coming home for Christmas. It would be nice to have you with me.”

Dad said with a little more softness but still incredulously, “You mean you want me to read just like I did when you were kids, with all the bells and whistles and everything?!”

“Yaaaaaah, just like that,” I said.

Again, he paused a long time and then said, “I’ll get you the book.”

I heard the clarity of his decision in his voice and resignedly said, “Okay. Talk to you on Christmas.” We said our “I love yous” and hung up. I felt bad but tried to understand. I assumed it was too much sentimentalism for a seventy six year old bear, and that in his mind it was a foolish request for an adult to ask. Maybe. Maybe not. All I knew was that each time I talked to Dad his voice sounded more tired, and I was beginning to accept that it was no longer if, but when, the day would come that I wouldn’t hear it anymore.

On Christmas Eve day, a small, brown, heavily recycled padded envelope with lots of staples and tape all over it arrived. My name and address were written out in my dad’s memorable architect’s lettering with thick black magic marker. Inside was a tape, with a handwritten label, “’Twas the Night b4 Christmas.”

I popped the tape in my recorder and heard my father’s words come roaring out. “’Twas the niiiiiiiiiiiiiight before Christmas when allllllllllllllllllllllllll through the howwwwwwse,” just like when we were children! When he finished, he went on to say, “And now I’m going to read from The Little Engine That Could. I guess Dad had another message in mind when he included one of our favorite childhood bedtime stories. It was the same story we read to my mom when she was dying of cancer three years ago.

He continued with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing “Silent Night,” our family’s favorite Christmas Eve song we sang together before bedtime. And then “Oh Come All Ye Faithful” . . . song after song until the tape ran out. I went to sleep safe and sound Christmas Eve, thanking God for giving me another Christmas miracle with my dad.

The following May, Dad passed away suddenly and unexpectedly. No more phone calls every Sunday morning, no more phone calls asking me, “What was the Gospel about today, Mary?” no more “I love yous.” But his voice lives on . . . and continues to remind me that I can do what I put my mind to and that I can stretch myself emotionally for someone else, even when it’s difficult. That’s the power of love.

For Christmas this year I sent my sisters and brother and their children a copy of the tape, which they weren’t expecting. My youngest sister called and left a tearful message on my machine that said, “Mary, I just got the tape. Did you know that on the tape he said it was December 19. That’s today! When I put the tape on while I was in the living room, Holden (her two and one half year old son) came running out from the kitchen full steam, yelling at the top of his lungs, ‘Grampa’s here, Grampa’s here.’ You should have seen him, Mary, looking all around for Dad. Dad was here.”

His voice lives on.

Christmas is for Love

2010-12-18T03:14:00.000-08:00

Author Unknown

Christmas is for love. It is joy, for giving and sharing,
for laughter, for reuniting with family and friends, for
tinsel and brightly decorated packages. But mostly
Christmas is for love.

I had not believed this until a small elf-like student with
wide-eyed innocence and soft rosy cheeks gave me a
wondrous gift one Christmas.

Mark was an orphan who lived with his aunt, a bitter
middle-aged woman greatly annoyed with the burden of
caring for her dead sister's son. She never failed to
remind young Mark, if it hadn't been for her
generosity, he would be a vagrant, homeless waif. Still,
with all this scolding and chilliness at home, he was a
sweet and gentle child.

I had not noticed Mark particularly until he began
staying after class each day (at the risk of arousing his
aunt's anger, I later found) to help me straighten up
the classroom. We did this quietly and comfortably, not
speaking much, but enjoying the solitude of that hour
of the day. When we did talk, Mark spoke mostly of his
mother. Though he was quite small when she died, he
remembered a kind, gentle, loving woman, who always
spent much time with him. As Christmas drew nearer,
however, Mark failed to stay after school each day.

I looked forward to his coming, but as the days
passed, he continued to scamper hurriedly from
the room after class. I stopped him one afternoon and
asked why he no longer helped me in the room. I told
him how I had missed him, and his large gray eyes lit up
eagerly as he replied, "Did you really miss me?" I
explained how he had been my best helper.

"I was making you a surprise." he whispered
confidentially. "It's for Christmas." With that, he
became embarrassed and dashed from the room. He
didn't stay after school anymore after that. Finally
came the last school day before Christmas. Mark crept
slowly into the room late that afternoon with his hands
concealing something behind his back.

"I have your present." he said timidly when I looked up.
"I hope you like it." He held out his hands, and there
lying in his small palms was a tiny wooden box.

"It's beautiful, Mark. Is there something in it?" I asked,
opening the top to look inside.

"Oh, you can't see what's in it," he replied," and you
can't touch it or taste it, or feel it, but Mother always
said it makes you feel good all the time...warm on cold
nights, and safe when you're all alone."

I gazed at the empty box. "What is it, Mark," I asked
gently, "that will make me feel so good?"

"It's love," he whispered softly, "and Mother always
said it's best when you give it away."

And he turned and quietly left the room.

So now I keep a small box crudely made of scraps of
wood on the piano in my living room and only smile as
inquiring friends raise quizzical eyebrows when I
explain to them that there is love in it.

Yes, Christmas is for merriment, mirth and song, for
food and wondrous gifts. But mostly... Christmas is for
love.

A String of Blue Beads

2010-12-17T03:17:00.000-08:00

Fulton Oursler

Pete Richards was the loneliest man in town on the day Jean Grace opened his door. Pete's shop had come down to him from his grandfather. The little front window was strewn with a disarray of old-fashioned things: bracelets and lockets worn in days before the Civil War, gold rings and silver boxes, images of jade and ivory, porcelain figurines.

On this winter's afternoon, a child was standing there, her forehead against the glass, earnest and enormous eyes studying each discarded treasure as if she were looking for something quite special. Finally she straightened up with a satisfied air and entered the store.

The shadowy interior of Pete Richards's establishment was even more cluttered than his show window. Shelves were stacked with jewel caskets, dueling pistols, clocks, and lamps, and the floor was heaped with andirons and mandolins and things hard to find a name for.

Behind the counter stood Pete himself, a man not more than thirty but with hair already turning gray. There was a bleak air about him as he looked at the small customer who flattened her ungloved hands on the counter.

"Mister," she began, "would you please let me look at the string of blue beads in the window?"

Pete parted the draperies and lifted out a necklace. The turquoise stones gleamed brightly against the pallor of his palm as he spread the ornament before her.

"They're just perfect," said the child, entirely to herself. "Will you wrap them up pretty for me, please?"

Pete studied her with a stony air. "Are you buying these for someone?"

"They're for my big sister. She takes care of me. You see, this will be the first Christmas since Mother died. I've been looking for the most wonderful Christmas present for my sister."

"How much money do you have?" asked Pete warily.

She had been busily untying the knots in a handkerchief and now she poured out a handful of pennies on the counter.

"I emptied my bank," she explained simply.

Pete Richards looked at her thoughtfully. Then he carefully drew back the necklace. The price tag was visible to him but not to her. How could he tell her? The trusting look of her blue eyes smote him like the pain of an old wound.

"Just a minute," he said and turned toward the back of the store. Over his shoulder he called, "What's your name?" He was very busy about something.

"Jean Grace."

When Pete returned to where Jean Grace waited, a package lay in his hand, wrapped in scarlet paper and tied with a bow of green. "There you are," he said shortly. "Don't lose it on the way home."

She smiled happily at him over her shoulder as she ran out the door. Through the window he watched her go, while desolation flooded his thoughts. Something about Jean Grace and her string of beads had stirred him to the depths of a grief that would not stay buried. The child's hair was wheat yellow, her eyes sea blue, and once upon a time, not long before, Pete had been in love with a girl with hair of that same yellow and with eyes just as blue. And the turquoise necklace was to have been hers.

But there had come a rainy night—a truck skidding on a slippery road—and the life was crushed out of his dream.

Since then, Pete Richards had lived too much with his grief in solitude. He was politely attentive to customers, but after hours his world seemed irrevocably empty. He was trying to forget in a self-pitying haze that deepened day by day.

The blue eyes of Jean Grace jolted him into acute remembrance of what he had lost. The pain of it made him recoil from the exuberance of holiday shoppers. During the next ten days trade was brisk; chattering women swarmed in, fingering trinkets, trying to bargain. When the last customer had gone late on Christmas Eve, he sighed with relief. It was over for another year. But for Pete Richards the night was not quite over.

The door opened and a young woman hurried in. With an inexplicable start, he realized that she looked familiar, yet he could not remember when or where he had seen her before. Her hair was golden yellow and her large eyes were blue. Without speaking, she drew from her purse a package loosely unwrapped in its red paper, a bow of green ribbon with it. Presently the string of blue beads lay gleaming again before him.

"Did this come from your shop?" she asked.

Pete raised his eyes to hers and answered softly, "Yes, it did."

"Are the stones real?"

"Yes. Not the finest quality—but real."

"Can you remember who it was you sold them to?"

"She was a small girl. Her name was Jean Grace. She bought them for her older sister's Christmas present."

"How much are they worth?"

"The price," he told her solemnly, "is always a confidential matter between the seller and the customer."

"But Jean has never had more than a few pennies of spending money. How could she pay for them?"

Pete was folding the paper back into its creases, rewrapping the little package just as neatly as before. "She paid the biggest price anyone can ever pay," he said. "She gave all she had."

There was a silence then that filled the little curio shop. Then from a faraway steeple, a bell began ringing. The sound of the distant chiming, the little package lying on the counter, the question in the eyes of the girl, and the strange feeling of renewal struggling unreasonably in the heart of the man, all had come to be because of the love of a child.

"But why did you do it?"

He held out the gift in his hand. "It's already Christmas morning," he said. "And it's my misfortune that I have no one to give anything to. Will you let me see you home and wish you a Merry Christmas at your door?"

And so, to the sound of many bells and in the midst of happy people, Pete Richards and a girl whose name he had yet to hear, walked out into the beginning of the great day that brings hope into the world for us all.

A True Christmas

2010-12-16T04:29:00.000-08:00

Author Unknown

“You don't choose your family. They are God's gift to you, as you are to them.”
~Desmond Tutu

I plopped the last of the ready-made cookie dough onto the cookie sheet and shoved it into the oven. These standard-issue chocolate chip cookies would be a far cry from the bejeweled affairs I'd baked for twenty-six years, but the only reason I'd even summoned the effort was because my youngest son, Ross, had opened and re-opened the cookie jar four times the previous night, saying with fourteen-year-old tact, "What? No cookies this year?"

Since today was the twenty-third, and his older siblings, Patrick and Molly, would be arriving Christmas Eve, Ross informed me that they would be "big-time disappointed" if there wasn't "cool stuff" to eat. This from the same kid who had never watched a Christmas TV special in his life and who had to be dragged into the family photo for the annual Christmas card.

I never considered a family picture this year. A big piece of the family was now missing -- or hadn't anybody noticed?

All my friends had been telling me the same thing since the day of the funeral, "Pam, the first year after you lose your husband is the hardest. You have to go through the first Valentine's Day without him, the first birthday, the first anniversary..."

They hadn't been kidding. What they hadn't told me was that Christmas was going to top them all in hard-to-take. It wasn't that Tom had loved Christmas that much. He'd always complained that the whole thing was too commercial and that when you really thought about it, Easter seemed to be a much more important Christ-centered celebration in the church.

The phone rang. Molly was calling collect from the road. She and two dorm buddies were driving home after finals.

"Do you know what I'm looking forward to?" she said.

"Sleeping for seventy-two straight hours?" I asked.

"No." She sounded a little deflated. "Coming home from Christmas Eve services and seeing all those presents piled up under the tree. It's been years since I've cared what was in them or how many were for me -- I just like seeing them there. How weird is that?"

Not weird at all, my love, I thought. I sighed, took a piece of paper and penciled in a few for Ross, Molly, Patrick, his wife Amy and my grandson, Shane.

And then I snapped the pencil down on the counter. A part of me understood that the kids were in denial. Tom's sudden death eleven months earlier had left them bewildered and scared. And now at Christmas, their shock was translated into exaggerated enthusiasm. The Cobb family Christmas traditions provided a sense of normalcy for them. Patrick had even asked me last week if I still had the old John Denver Christmas album.

But as far as I was concerned, there just wasn't that much to deck the halls about. Tom was gone. I was empty and unmotivated. At worst, I wished they'd all just open the presents and carve the turkey without me.

When the oven dinged, I piled two dozen brown circles on a plate and left a note for Ross: "I don't want to hear any more complaining! Gone shopping. I love you, Mom."

The complaining, however, went on in my head as I elbowed my way through the mob at the mall.

Tom was right, I thought. This is all a joke.

It really was everything he hated: canned music droning its false merriment, garish signs luring me to buy, tired-looking families dragging themselves around, worrying about their card limits as they snapped at their children.

Funny, I thought while gazing at a display of earrings I knew Molly wouldn't wear. All the time Tom was here pointing this out to me, it never bothered me. Now it was all I could see.

I abandoned the earring idea and took to wandering the mall, hoping for inspiration so Molly would have something to look at under the tree. It wasn't going to be like years past -- I should have told her that. She wasn't going to see a knee-deep collection of exquisitely wrapped treasures that Tom always shook his head over.

"You've gone hog-wild again," he would always tell me -- before adding one more contribution. Instead of buying me a gift, he'd write a check in my name to Compassion International or a local food pantry, place it in a red envelope, and tuck it onto a branch of our Christmas tree.

"This is a true gift," he'd tell me. "It's a small demonstration that Christ is real in our lives."

I stopped mid-mall, letting the crowds swirl past me.

Tom wasn't there, a fact that the rest of the family didn't want to face or discuss. But he could still be with us, maybe just a little.

I left the mall and quickly found a Christmas tree lot. The man looked happy to unload one very dry tree for half price. He even tied it to my roof rack.

Then it was off to Safeway, where I bought a twenty-four-pound Butterball turkey and all the trimmings. Back home, the decoration boxes weren't buried too deeply in the garage. I'd barely gotten them put away last year when Tom had his heart attack.

I was still sorting boxes when Ross emerged from the kitchen, munching the last of the two dozen cookies.

"Oh, I thought we weren't going to have a tree this year," he said between mouthfuls.

"Well, we are. Can you give me a hand getting it up?"

Two hours later, Ross and I stood back and admired our Christmas tree. The lights winked softly as I straightened a misshapen glittery angel Molly had made in second grade and Ross's first birthday Christmas ball.

I wanted to cry.

The house sprang to life when everyone arrived Christmas Eve. In the middle of our church service, however, my spirits sagged. There was no lonelier feeling than standing in the midst of one's family singing "Silent Night" -- surrounded by a vivacious college daughter; a sweet, gentle daughter-in-law; a handsome, successful twenty-five-year-old son; a wide-eyed, mile-a-minute three-year-old grandson; and an awkward teenager whose hugs were like wet shoelaces -- and being keenly aware that someone was missing.

Back at home everyone continued to avoid the subject.

"The tree is gorgeous, Mom," Molly said. She knelt down and began hauling gifts out of a shopping bag to add to my pile.

"I love what you did with the wrappings, Pam," Amy said. "You're always so creative."

"I forgot to buy wrapping paper," I told her. "I had to use newspaper."

It was Christmas as usual -- easier to pretend everything was normal than to deal with harsh reality. Ross and Patrick sparred over whose stocking was whose, and Shane parked himself in front of a bowl of M&Ms. They all got to open the customary one present on Christmas Eve, and after doing so, they schlepped off to bed.

But there was one more thing that had to be done. I went over to Tom's desk, found a red envelope in the top drawer, and stuck into it a check made out to the American Heart Association. It seemed appropriate.

"I know the kids -- and even I -- have to go on with our lives, Tom," I whispered. "But I wish you were here."

It occurred to me as I tucked the red envelope midway up the tree that one of the kids would say, "Oh, yeah -- I remember, he always did that," and then there would be an awkward silence and perhaps sheepish looks.

I hoped so.

Morning, or at least dawn -- came way too soon. Shane was up before the paper carrier. I dragged myself into the kitchen and found it already smelling like a Seattle coffeehouse.

"This is what we drink at school," Molly told me and handed me a cup.

"Is anyone else awake?" I asked.

She nodded her head, and for the first time I noticed a twinkle in her eye that was unprecedented for this hour of the morning. "What are you up to?" I asked.

"Mom!" Patrick yelled from the living room. "You've got to see this!"

"At this hour of the..."

What I saw was my family perched on the couch like a row of deliciously guilty canaries. What I saw next was our Christmas tree, dotted with bright red envelopes.

"Man, it got crowded in here last night," Ross said. "I came down here about one o'clock and freaked Amy out."

"I almost called 911 when I came down," Patrick said, "until I saw it was Molly and not some burglar."

I had never heard a thing. I walked over to the tree and touched each one of the five envelopes I hadn't put there.

"Open them, Mom," Molly said. "This was always the best part of Christmas."

From Patrick, there was a check to Youth for Christ, to help kids go on mission trips like the one Dad supported him on to Haiti five years earlier. From Amy, a check to our church for sheet music, because some of her best memories of her father-in-law were of him helping the children's choir. From Molly, several twenty-dollar bills for the local crisis pregnancy center, "because many of the women who go there have probably never experienced the love of a husband like Daddy," she said. From Ross, a twenty-dollar bill for a local drug program for kids, "since Dad was all freaked out about me staying clean."

The last envelope was lumpy. When I opened it, a handful of change spilled out.

"Mine, Gamma," Shane said, his little bow-mouth pursed importantly. Amy finished his thought. "He wants this to go to the animal shelter -- you know, for lost dogs. Like the one he visited with Dad just before he died."

I pulled all the envelopes against my chest and hugged them.

"You know what's weird?" Molly said. "I feel like Daddy's right here with us."

"Yeah, that's pretty weird," Ross said.

"But true," Patrick said. "I feel like he's been here this whole time. I thought I'd be all bummed out this Christmas -- but I don't need to be."

"No, you don't, my love," I said. To myself, I added, Neither do I. I have my family, and I have my faith.

The Spirit of Christmas

2010-12-15T04:09:00.000-08:00

Author Unknown

Long, long ago in a far away country there lived a King. For many years, he ruled his kingdom wisely and well. For a while, this was a happy kingdom where friendship and love were shared by everyone. But then something strange happened. The people became gloomy and no one laughed or smiled any more. Instead of people greeting each other kindly when they met, there were sharp words.

The King became worried and thought to himself, “Christmas will soon be here. Then the people will be happy and my kingdom will be filled with love again.” But as Christmas drew near, nothing changed. No one gathered the lovely, wild holly that grew so abundantly on the hillsides near the city. No one made wreaths to hang upon their doors. The spicy smell of holiday puddings and cakes and pies were replaced with a moldy, musty stench. Where once were heard the songs of cheerful carolers, there was now only bleak, cold silence in the air.

The King was sad indeed. “What has happened to my people? Why have they all lost the Spirit of Christmas? Something must be done! And done quickly!” So he called his sons together to ask for their help. Bryan, the eldest was very obedient. Thomas, the middle was a diligent young man. His youngest son, Michael, was very loving.

“My sons,” began the King, “I am in need of your help. The Spirit of Christmas has fled from our midst, and we must bring it back. I’ve been told that in the dark forest many miles to the north lives the Christmas Spirit. In the deepest part of the forest, you will find a special tree hidden by many other trees. You will know this tree is special because it has a golden trunk and silvery, white boughs. And it is said that anyone who has love in his heart can find it easily. People say that when someone does a good deed, its blossoms glow with a soft and beautiful light. And if many good deeds are done, the whole tree becomes a glory of light – beautiful to behold. That light can be seen for a great distance and is accompanied with beautiful music floating through the forest, and the Spirit of Christmas appears and dances for joy.

“Now, my sons, you are all good boys and it is important that I save my kingdom. Bryan, because you are the eldest, I will send you first to find the Spirit of Christmas. If you do not return in three days, Thomas will follow you. And if neither of you has come back to me within six days, I will send young Michael to search for the Spirit of Christmas. The time is short, so go quickly, Bryan, my son. You must make haste!”

Bryan set off on his quest with his father’s last words ringing in his mind, “Go quickly, my son. Make haste!” He came upon an old beggar pleading for a crust of bread to eat. But obediently, he hurried on. Then he came upon two young urchins fighting furiously in the road. He stepped around them and hurried on his way. Soon he came upon a shivering, small child who was coatless and stood in the wintery cold. He felt sorry for the child, but time was quickly passing, so he turned his face away from her. He hastened on and nearly stumbled into an old woman. She was bent beneath the heavy bundle of firewood on her back and was gathering sticks of wood. But Bryan seemed to see or hear nothing except his father’s last words, “Go quickly, my son. Make haste!”

At last he entered the dark forest to begin his search for the Spirit of Christmas. He searched all night long and all the next day until darkness fell. But he saw no glow from the special tree nor heard the sweet strains of music fill the air. Exhausted and filled with despair, he sank to the ground and fell asleep.

On the third day when his eldest son did not return, the King sent forth his second son, Thomas. He gave him the same instructions and said, “Go quickly, my son. Make haste!” Thomas sped on his way. He too passed the hungry old beggar who reached out his bony hand for food. When he saw the uncontrolled fighting of the two young urchins, Thomas simply shook his head and went on. He felt sorry for the shivering small child, but felt that he must keep his cloak because the forest would be cold and damp. He patted her head as he remembered the saddened face of his father and heard his words, “Go quickly, my son. Make haste!” Seeing the old woman bent beneath her load of firewood, Thomas politely smiled and said, “Good morning, madam.” As he entered the forest he thought of the unfortunate people he had passed on the road. “I must stop on my way home and help them,” he promised himself as he continued his search. Morning came, dusk fell, but there was not light from the special tree to guide him as he wandered deep into the forest and became lost.

When the sixth day came, the King called Michael to him and gave him the same instructions before he left on his search for the Spirit of Christmas. “My son, there are but three days left until Christmas. If you fail, there will be no Christmas in this kingdom. You must hurry, my son...hurry!”

Michael took off as if he had wings on his feet. Shortly, he came upon the old beggar asking for a crust of bread. He quickly opened his knapsack and withdrew a slice of bread for the man. The beggar’s eyes filled with tears as he thanked the young man. Michael sped on until he came upon the two young urchins, still fighting in the road. He paused for a moment and said, “My lads, why do you fight? Do you know that adding hurt to hurt does not solve your difficulty? There are better ways. Come, let us have peace!” He talked to them and helped them settle their differences, leaving them playing happily together.

As he hurried on, he saw the shivering child standing coatless in the cold. He took his cape from his shoulders and wrapped it snugly around the child. Then he hastened on his way, wondering if he had delayed too long. He thought of the saddened face of his father and the task he had to do. He remembered the words, “Go quickly, my son. Make haste!” Just then, the old woman crossed his path as she continued gathering sticks at the forest’s edge. “Here, Grandmother, let me help you. It is fast growing dark.” Then he speedily gathered the wood for her and was on his way again.

As he entered the dark forest, he saw light through the trees. Drawing nearer, he heard the sweet strains of music and saw a lovely figure dancing before a strange and beautiful tree. “That must be the Spirit of Christmas!” he exclaimed. He stood there as though entranced, wondering why he had been able to find the tree so easily. He watched the Christmas Spirit as she joyously whirled and pivoted.

When the Christmas Spirit saw him, she stopped dancing and came to him saying, “Oh, Prince! You and you alone made the tree glow again, and that has brought me such great happiness. When you shared your food with the beggar, this special flower bloomed. When you stopped to teach the urchins of peace, this flower burst forth with light. When you unselfishly gave your cape to the small child, this blossom lighted. And when you stopped to help the old woman, yet another flower glowed.

“Oh, Prince, you have no need to search for the Spirit of Christmas, because you carry it in your heart. Do you not know that the Spirit of Christmas comes from giving and sharing with others? Do you not know that it is unselfishness and love? It is the same spirit by which the Savior of the world brought great happiness to man.”

The tree glowed with its lights of unselfish love. The two other brothers, weary and hungry from their search, were drawn to the spot by the great light shining through the darkness. As the Spirit of Christmas spoke, they listened to her, and then Michael told her of his father’s special request. “Please come home with us and bring the Spirit of Christmas back to our kingdom.” Bryan and Thomas bowed their heads remorsefully, realizing that in their haste to be obedient, they had forgotten their father’s first teachings, “Serve others unselfishly and treat them with kindness.”

Together they left the dark forest to return home. As they passed through the kingdom, they saw joy and happiness return to the people. And a voice was heard as if from a far distance, “Even as ye have done it unto the least of these, yea have done it unto me.”

A Christmas to Share

2010-12-14T04:28:00.000-08:00

by Johanna Goodwin

Rulon snuggled down into the warmth of his sheets and comforter. Every evening just before he hopped into bed, his mother ironed the foot of the sheets to remove the chill of the unheated bedroom. Rulon shivered involuntarily when he realized that even with such saving measures, their coal supply would probably not last out the winter. “If only Pa hadn’t died last summer,” he sighed miserably.

He tried to shut out such thoughts by thinking of the Christmas tree downstairs. Earlier that Christmas Eve afternoon, he and his brothers had hiked into the woods to chop down the Douglas fir his sisters had picked out the day before. “It’s a beauty, all right,” he thought, “thick and full and fragrant with the rich smell of fir.”

He smiled to himself, remembering Bessie’s laughter as she threaded popcorn and cranberries into garland for the branches. This was the first year she’d been old enough to do it without breaking more of the popped kernels than she strung, and she had proudly declared, “I strung almost as many pieces as you ate, Rulon!”

His pleasant thoughts ended abruptly as he remembered the emptiness of the floor beneath the tree. He knew that his mother had an orange and some nuts for each of the children, but that was all there would be this year. The family had sold almost everything to pay off the debts when their father died, and there wasn’t anything extra to spare. “There’s not even a new ornament this year,” Rulon thought dismally. One of his father’s favorite traditions had been to make a different hand-carved wooden ornament for the tree each year. Lately, Rulon had been trying to fill Pa’s shoes in most respects, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to take on this particular responsibility.

Rulon awoke the next morning to find two huge, blue eyes staring into his. “Oh, Rulon,” Bessie cried. “Wake up! It’s Christmas! Are you going to sleep all day?

“All day!” Rulon muttered to himself as he watched her scamper out of the room. “There’s a whole hour before daylight yet!” But he couldn’t help chuckling at her eagerness as he leapt out of the bed and dressed, dancing from one foot to the other on the cold floor.

The kitchen was a mess of confusion by the time Rulon got there. His mother was busy frying eggs and making biscuits while his seven brothers and sisters scurried around in an effort to help setting the table and pouring the milk. “Thought this one day I’d let you sleep as long as you could,” his mother called over her shoulder as Rulon entered. “But I guess Bessie couldn’t wait.”

“Come on, Rulon!” eight year old Nathan fairly shouted. “The sooner we get breakfast eaten and cleaned up, the sooner we can go to the tree.”

With all of them pitching in, everything was soon ready. Despite Ma’s warning of, “Don’t wolf your food!” and “Slow down and taste it!” there was soon nothing left of the morning’s fare. After breakfast was cleared away, the family lined up according to ages and marched in to the tree.

Caught up in the excitement of the morning, Rulon almost forgot his bitterness. After feasting on oranges and nuts, the whole family joined in singing every Christmas carol they knew – and then they sang some over again. Finally Ma declared, “Because this is such a happy occasion, I think we should do something really special. Since we have so much and are so blessed, I think it’s only right that we should share Christmas with another family.”

So much! The words hit Rulon like a bullet. Why, we don’t have enough for ourselves, and she wants us to take to someone else! The children glanced at each other, somewhat puzzled, as though they couldn’t believe what they had heard. But Ma seemed not to notice their bewilderment and went on to explain. “I want each of you to go to your rooms and find something you would like to give away. You have some nice hair ribbons, Wanda, and I know you have two pairs of mittens, Harold. But you decide. While you find your gifts, I’ll bake some apple pies to put in a crate with everything else.”

As Rulon dragged up the stairs after his brothers and sisters, confused thoughts whirled around in his mind. “What do I have to give away?" He wondered. “I – we’ve all had to do without so much lately, and now Ma wants us to find something nice we don’t need. I don’t get it.”

Rulon was the last one to bring his gift back down to the tree. After looking around for a long time, he finally settled on a fine linen pocket handkerchief that a maiden aunt had sent him from the East. His brothers and sisters were already wrapping their offerings in some brown paper and string. Rulon looked with interest to see what they had found. Wanda had contributed hair ribbons; Harold his extra pair of mittens; Nathan was parting with the straw hat he had woven last summer – “Can always make me a new one next year,” he volunteered as he saw Rulon watching him; Thelma was intently wrapping the lace jabot that adorned her otherwise plain Sunday dress, and from the shape of the package Ralph was tying string round, Rulon knew he had given away his reed whistle. Tears sprang to Rulon’s eyes, though, when he saw Bessie struggling to wrap the stuffed calico cat that she slept with every night.

Just then, Ma entered the room, brushing some flour off her apron. “Well, the pies are baking,” she announced. “Rulon, why don’t you go get the crate from the barn to put all of these gifts in?”

Something seemed to snap suddenly inside Rulon, and he faced his mother fiercely. “Ma, what are we doing, anyway? We don’t even have enough for ourselves, and here you have us taking Christmas to someone else? This is crazy.”

The room was hushed as the children stared in amazement at their oldest brother. But Ma didn’t seem angry at his outburst. Her shoulders sagged a little as though she were suddenly tired, but her face reflected only deep love and concern. Finally she spoke, “I’m not quite sure I understand, son. We’re some of the richest people on this earth. We have a fine house to live in, clothes to wear, and I don’t recall any of us ever having to go to bed hungry. More importantly, we’ve got each other and even though your Pa’s gone, we know that we’ll see him again. And we’ve got our testimonies of the gospel, and there’s no kind of earthly treasure that I’d ever exchange for that.” She paused, but went on when Rulon didn’t speak. “Seems to me we’re rich and very blessed, and it would be selfish of us not to want to share our bounty with others.”

Rulon was strangely quiet on the way home from the Kirkham’s house later that evening. He had laughed with the others when the presents were opened and as the two families joined in games and singing. But after doing his evening chores and eating supper, he excused himself, saying he needed to get something from the barn. While the others gathered around the tree to tell stories, he went to the room he shared with his brothers, explaining that there was something he wanted to do.

It was past everyone’s usual bedtime when Ma called the family together for the traditional reading of the Christmas story from Luke. Rulon appeared at the top of the stairs holding something behind his back. “I have something to say,” he began a little shyly, but his eyes twinkled. “This has been a wonderful day for all of us, and especially for me.” He cleared his throat before he went on. “I learned a lot today, and I tried to think of some way to remind myself of it in the future. I know it’s a little late to be hanging up our new ornament for the year, and I know it’s not nearly as nice as the ones that Pa always made, but...”

Rulon drew his hands from behind his back to reveal a soft wood carving of a wooden crate, topped with a Christmas bow and inscribed: “A Christmas to Share, 1931.”

Everyone was sniffing as Rulon lifted Bessie up so she could hang the new ornament near the top of the tree.

“It’s lovely, son,” Ma said softly. “Now why don’t you sit here in this chair and read the Christmas story to us.”

An Angel Among Us

2010-12-13T04:24:00.000-08:00

by Rita Hampton

I come from a large family of nine brothers and sisters, and all of us have kids of our own. On each Christmas night, our entire family gathers at my oldest sister’s home, exchanging gifts, watching the nativity skit put on by the smaller children, eating, singing and enjoying a visit from Santa himself.

The Christmas of 1988, my husband Bob and I had four children. Peter was eleven, Leigh-Ann was nine, Laura was six and Matthew was two. When Santa arrived, Matthew parked himself on Santa’s lap and pretty much remained dazzled by him for the rest of the evening. Anyone who had their picture taken with Santa that Christmas also had their picture taken with little Matthew.

Little did any of us know how precious those photos with Santa and Matthew would become. Five days after Christmas, our sweet little Matthew died in an accident at home. We were devastated. We were lucky to have strong support from our families and friends to help us through. I learned that the first year after a death is the hardest, as there are so many firsts to get through without your loved one. Birthdays and special occasions become sad, instead of joyous.

When our first Christmas without Matthew approached, it was hard for me to get into the holiday spirit. Bob and I could hardly face putting up the decorations or shopping for special gifts for everyone. But we went through the motions for Peter, Leigh-Ann and Laura. Then, on December 13th, something extraordinary happened to raise our spirits when we didn’t think it was possible.

We were just finishing dinner when we heard a knock on the front door. When we went to answer it, no one was there. However, on the front porch was a card and gift. We opened the card and read that the gift-giver wanted to remain anonymous; he or she just wanted to help us get through a rough time by cheering us up.

In the gift bag was a cassette of favorite Christmas music, which was in a little cardboard Christmas tree. The card described it as being “a cartridge in a pine tree,” a twist on the “partridge in a pear tree” verse in the song “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” We thought that it was a very clever gift, and the thoughtfulness of our “elf” touched our hearts. We put the cassette in our player and, song by song, the spirit of Christmas began to warm our hearts.

That was the beginning of a series of gifts from the clever giver, one for each day until Christmas. Each gift followed the theme of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” in a creative way. The kids especially liked “seven swans a-swimming,” which was a basket of swan-shaped soaps plus passes to the local swimming pool, giving the kids something to look forward to when the warm days of spring arrived. “Eight maids a-milking” included eight bottles of chocolate milk, eggnog and regular milk in glass bottles with paper faces, handmade aprons and caps. Every day was something very special. The “five golden rings” came one morning just in time for breakfast -- five glazed doughnuts just waiting to be eaten.

We would get calls from our family, neighbors and friends who would want to know what we had received that day. Together, we would chuckle at the ingenuity and marvel at the thoughtfulness as we enjoyed each surprise. We were so caught up in the excitement and curiosity of what would possibly come next, that our grief didn’t have much of a chance to rob us of the spirit of Christmas. What our elf did was absolutely miraculous.

Each year since then, as we decorate our Christmas tree, we place on it the decorations we received that Christmas while we play the song “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” We give thanks for our elf who was, we finally realized, our very own Christmas angel. We never did find out who it was, although we have our suspicions. We actually prefer to keep it that way. It remains a wondrous and magical experience – as mysterious and blessed as the very first Christmas.

Our New Holiday Tradition

2010-12-12T06:08:00.000-08:00

by Douglas Presençça

During the Christmas season of 1995, when I was 13 years old, my family talked about creating a new Christmas tradition. For a long time, we looked for the right idea in our neighborhood in Manaus-Amazonas, Brazil. But the season continued to pass, and we had not yet put any of our ideas into practice.

Christmas Eve fell on a Sunday that year, and as usual Mama prepared roast chicken for dinner. It never felt like Sunday if we didn’t have roast chicken. But on this special Sunday, Mama prepared three chickens instead of the usual two. She wrapped the extra chicken in aluminum foil and put it in a sack. Then she picked up a cake she had made.

“These are presents,” she told us. “Do you know who they are for?”

We guessed the names of our friends, neighbors, and ward members. None of our guesses was correct.

Then she said, “They are for Banel.”

We fell silent. Banel was a boy about my age who lived with his grandmother in a humble little house. He was also the terror of the streets. He got into cars if they were not locked. He stole the wallet of one of our friends and tore up the papers inside. He threw rocks at dogs and threatened children at play. The neighbors wanted to file a complaint against him to get him off the streets.

But after we had recovered from our surprise, we agreed. My father, my eight-year-old brother, and I took the chicken and cake and went to visit Banel. He was at home and came out when we asked for him.

He looked distrustful. He thought we had come to complain about something. “What is it? What is it?” he kept asking.

My father just smiled and handed him the packages. Banel was very surprised. “For me?” he asked. His countenance changed, and he became friendly and courteous. He was very grateful for the presents.

Since that day, Banel has not bothered the neighborhood children. Sometimes he even plays with them. He smiles and speaks to the neighbors when he sees them on the street.

Our family learned something important that day. We learned that a friendly gesture, however small, has the power to change people, even people who seem as unreachable as Banel.

We also started a practice that we hope will become more than just a Christmas tradition: taking the time to show love and kindness to those who need it most.

A Pocketful of Memories

2010-12-11T07:05:00.000-08:00

by Brenda Taylor Peterson

Rhonda loved to tell her four year old daughter, Katie, stories about the time when she was a little girl. Only in that way could she make grandpas and grandmas and cousins who lived far away come alive for her daughter.

Rhonda spent hours transforming her own memories of Christmas spent at Grandpa and Grandma Eppich’s - of sleigh rides and making snowmen and ice skating on the town pond - into mental pictures for her daughter. Katie probably knew her relatives better than many of the people who lived in the same farming town with them.

So, for Katie’s sake, Rhonda was especially pleased that they were having their first family reunion back east during the holiday this year. They would all be together at least one more time with Grandpa Bill.

Grandpa Bill was actually Katie’s great-grandpa. He was the reason grandpa had a special sparkle for Rhonda. As a child, she loved him so much. On Sunday afternoons when everyone else went to take a nap, he always had time to read her the funny papers, and he had more stories about skipping school and putting tacks on teachers’ chairs than anybody else’s grandpa. But she had especially liked a secret game the two of them had played.

Whenever Grandpa came for a visit, she would run to him and, before giving him a kiss, would shove her hands into his pockets, searching for the candy she knew was hidden in one of them. He’d always look shocked and deny that he had brought any candy. He’d apologize and say he was sorry that he had forgotten this time. But she persisted until she found it, because Grandpa Bill never forgot the candy.

But Grandpa Bill was 85 now, and, according to the nurses at the home where he lived, a lingering illness had left him unable to remember most things. Senile was the catch all word someone mentioned, and that’s what Rhonda’s mom warned her of when they were planning their reunion.

Rhonda’s parents had been to Seattle several times since Katie’s birth, but this was Katie’s first trip east, and the excitement of a plane flight to her great-grandma’s house was almost more than she could stand. And when they arrived, there was so much fun to explore at Grandpa and Grandma Eppich’s farm that Katie never stopped running from morning till night.

On Christmas Eve, Rhonda sat with her daughter on the big, lumpy bed that had been hers years ago and told Katie that Grandpa Bill would be coming to dinner the next day.

Katie’s eyes grew wide. “You mean Grandpa Bill who worked in the silver mines and who lived with the Indians?”

“Yes,” Rhonda said, realizing her stories had made Grandpa Bill a bigger than life size hero for Katie. Then she tried to explain. “Grandpa is very old now and has been sick for a long time. He has forgotten almost everything that ever happened to him. He won’t remember the Indians or the silver mines. He probably won’t even remember me.”

The change they would see in Grandpa Bill would be much easier for Katie to accept than for Rhonda. Katie was asleep seconds after Rhonda tucked the familiar old quilt around her, but Rhonda lay awake for a long time, regretting that Katie could never know the wonderful man Grandpa Bill had been.

Early next morning, the aunts and uncles began to arrive. Rhonda introduced Katie to each one and explained their part in the stories she had told her daughter. By 11:30, everyone was accounted for except Tim and his family, who were bringing Grandpa Bill. Then someone yelled, “Uncle Tim and Aunt Stacey are here!” and everyone crowded around the front door to welcome them.

Tim’s family piled out of their van, and then Tim carefully helped Grandpa Bill out. Rhonda was shocked at how old and frail he looked as he slowly followed Tim’s family up the sidewalk.

Tim and Grandpa Bill came through the door just as everyone was hugging Stacey and the children. Grandpa Bill stopped just inside the door and looked blankly around, bewildered by the noise and the sight of so many people. He stood silent, stiff, unsure of what was expected of him.

“Merry Christmas, Dad. We’re so glad you could come,” Rhonda’s mother said as she kissed him on the cheek and took his hat.

Rhonda’s heart went out to him as he stood there confused and frightened, being greeted by people he didn’t recognize, She saw tears well up in his eyes, and all of a sudden she regretted the family reunion she had looked forward to so much.

She longed to go to him and put her arms around him and say, “It’s ok, Grandpa, We’re your family. We love you.” But she just stood still, now wanting to add to his confusion.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Katie slip through the crowd of cousins and aunts and uncles and shyly sidle up to Grandpa Bill. With a knowing look, Katie reached up and put her hand in his sweater pocket. Through the fabric, Rhonda could see her fingers searching the corners. Undaunted at finding nothing there, Katie went around to his other side and tried another pocket.

Rhonda’s heart was twisted again as she realized what Katie was doing, but there would be no candy in Grandpa Bill’s pockets for her to find. Rhonda longed to pull her daughter away from disappointment and spare Grandpa Bill the humiliation of having this unknown child rifle through his pockets. But she stood frozen, unable to halt Katie’s candy hunt.

Apprehensively, Rhonda looked at Grandpa Bill’s face again. Tears were streaming down his wrinkled cheeks, but the confusion and pain were gone, and he was smiling. In fact, he was almost laughing. As Katie stopped the search of pockets within her reach, he slowly bent over and shakily pointed to the breast pocket on his flannel shirt. Katie’s hand quickly disappeared inside and triumphantly came out with a small package of breath mints, the only candy the rest home allowed him. She turned and said, “See, Mom, I knew he wouldn’t forget.”

Then Katie took Grandpa Bill by the hand, led him to the sofa, and pulled him down to sit beside her. “Would you like me to tell you a story about when you were little, Grandpa Bill?” she began.

A Coat For Mother

2010-12-10T03:35:00.000-08:00

by Tom Baker

It was Christmas time in 1969; I had no idea that this would be the last Christmas we would spend with Mom. This was a very special Christmas for me – you see Mom never owned a new coat that I could remember. Mom was the kind of person who would give you everything she had, and would very seldom buy anything for herself. Mom and Dad had seven mouths to feed, in addition to their own, and lived on a very modest income.

Mom truly had a Christ-like attitude and endured to the end. She’d had polio as a young child. One of her legs was larger than the other. Sometimes she would have trouble walking, but never complained. Mom always treated my friends with kindness and they were always welcome at our house anytime. I remember my good friend Glen coming over and talking with Mom even when I wasn’t at home. Mom was always willing to lend a listening ear. She was a great mentor in that respect; if you ever asked her what she thought, you had to be prepared to listen, because she would tell you. When I was a teenager, Mom would always wait up for me – to talk with me after a date, or if I was just out with friends.

For never having much personal wealth, Mom had a heart of gold. Mom was one of the original founders, of the Head Start Program, in the area where we lived. I remember many times taking Christmas presents and food items to the needy people in the program. Mom would say to me, “This is a good cause and we are doing good things. By the way, you’re driving.”

As I think back on her unselfish acts of giving, watching the expressions of gratitude on the little children’s faces was priceless. So was hearing the heartfelt “Thank you” from needy parents, knowing that this family would have a better Christmas. To me this truly brings the spirit of Christ into Christmas. Mom would always let us know that it was important to be thankful for what you have and never dwell on the things we didn’t have.

Mom’s entire wardrobe consisted of four dresses, four pairs of shoes, a light jacket, and a couple of sweaters. The only jewelry that she had was her wedding ring, a watch, and some costume jewelry.

I decided that I would buy Mom a coat that year, so I took her down to Sears (almost dragged her) to find something for Christmas. As we went past the coat rack, one of the coats on the rack caught Mom’s eye. On a hanger was beautiful long dress coat that buttoned down the front. The blue and gray colors made a charcoal blend. I had to persuade her to try on the coat for fun. She said that we did not have the money to buy the coat. Money was tight and we needed the money we had, just to get by this Christmas. I nodded my head that she was right.

I told her, I would buy the coat and was not going to take “No” for an answer. Trying to convince Mom to let me get the coat for her was a tough job. I don’t remember the price of the coat. Eventually, we left the store with Mom wearing that nice new coat. She agreed that the coat did look good on her. I will ever be grateful for this opportunity, being able to give back just a little. This was the nicest coat that she ever owned.

In February of 1970 Mom passed away at age 42. I remember getting the award trophy for her, from the Head Start Program for valiant service with the program after she passed away. As I reflect back on my mother’s life, it was filled with acts of kindness too numerous to mention. Giving came from her heart, with a willingness to help whenever possible. Little things like a cup of sugar, or a loaf of homemade bread. She had a pure talent to make things from scratch, no cookbook necessary. There was always room to set another place at our dinner table for unexpected guests.

She knew the true meaning of Christmas, giving unselfish gifts from the heart. She was an example to us that, without Christ there would be no Christmas.

Mom left this little motto,
Which is important to follow.
The true place to start,
Is giving from the heart.
Sharing her Christ like love,
Unselfish acts worth thinking of.
Leaving things here on earth,
That still have great worth.
You never know whose lives you’re going to touch

At the pharmacy I go to for my prescriptions, I share the things that I write with my good friends, the pharmacist and his wife. I gave them the story "A Coat for Mother" last week. Monday when I went in I asked Jeff how Nancy liked the story. He said, "She loved It." Standing next to him was his assistant pharmacist, she picked up the copy I left with them and said "I loved this story, too."

The assistant pharmacist continued, “You see my mother passed away this year. I bought her a new coat last Christmas; my mother thought also that it was too expensive. I bought it for her anyway; my mother also had polio as a little girl. Also the date at the bottom of your story November 16th is my mother’s birthday. Thank you this story meant a lot to me.”

It’s a small world after all. You never know whose lives you are going to touch.

Yearlong Gift Dazzles A Dad

2010-12-09T04:29:00.000-08:00

by Lincoln J. Card
Deseret News - January 3, 2003

All night, fierce winds swept the ground of the crisp, white snow and had chipped at the frozen earth, eroding off precious particles of top soil. The driving winds caused ground blizzards that had piled snow in great grayish-brown-tipped drifts around the house. As the frigid winds subsided, the whole world seemed frozen in the quiet, crisp chill of the frosty dawn. Meager threads of smoke curled upward from guarded blazes of stoves desperately trying to heat the scantily equipped homes. The 1930s Depression was at its peak. It seemed that no one was spared from the bony clutches of this catastrophic experience.

We were no exception. The furnace in our home sat cold and muted. The 10-room, two-story house had been closed off except for three adjoining rooms. The bathroom, kitchen and dining room struggled for the warmth from the coal-burning stove in the kitchen.

A Christmas tree crowded the corner of the dining room. My older brothers had tied a rope from the hinge of the door leading to the front entry hall, then diagonally across the room to the hinge of the door leading to the kitchen. From this rope hung 10 limp, well-worn stockings, many of them filled from heel to toe with loving stitches.

Mother's stocking hung at one end of the line, followed in succession, the oldest to the youngest, of each family member, ending with Father's stocking.

I was 8 years old and had saved every penny since the past February in order to buy presents for my family.

My oldest brother, Brigham, had been working on a government highway project high in the Rocky Mountains of southern Alberta. He had sent all of his earnings home to my father to help the family survive the stranglehold of financial depression.

Today, however, was Christmas morning, and the laughing excitement of eight children electrified the air as they lined up at the kitchen door awaiting Father's signal to enter the magical Christmas room. Enchantment had swallowed up the harried struggles for survival of the past year.

"Open the door!"

This signal brought cheers of delight as eight eager children flew to their stockings. For a fleeting moment, I had a feeling of disappointment as the stockings appeared to look as limp and lifeless as they had been on Christmas Eve. However, on closer observation my disappointment turned to thrilling delight as I recognized some small bulges stretching the sides of the otherwise gaunt stockings.

A comb, a pair of socks, a toothbrush, a pair of shoelaces, some handkerchiefs, a few nuts and most of all the wonderful hard-tack candy with colored stripes and designs.

A feeling of love, excitement and joy filled the room. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Father open a plain, wrapped, small gift. It was a notebook, the kind a man carries in his shirt pocket. As he fingered through the pages, his cheerful smile melted into thoughtful reflection. Tears began to dazzle his eyes, overflowing in little bursts of silver down the creases of his weary, worn cheeks. Quickly, he left the room.

Briefly, I wondered about this strange behavior on Christmas. My wonderment was soon distracted by the excitement of all the "ohs" and "ahs" and "thank yous" and laughter that punctuated this magic morning.

Soon, Father reappeared. His countenance was subdued and calm. There was a glow about him as if he had seen some heavenly vision. He walked slowly to his stocking, bowed his head for a moment, then slowly raised it. In a composed and gentle voice, he called out: "I would like to have everyone's attention."

This unusual request on a Christmas morning brought quick silence from eight children and Mother. All eyes were fixed on Father in the wonderment of expectation. Slowly he raised his hand, which held a little well-worn book, and spoke. The sound of his voice rang with a mellow yet driving sincerity that seemed to infuse my very being.

"I have just been given the greatest Christmas gift that I have ever received."

There was a short pause as he blinked away the mists that blurred his vision. Then he continued: "I want to tell you all about it. This is a gift from your brother Brigham. It is a little book with a notation written for each day of this year. In the front of the book is a note which says: 'Dear Father, I had no money to buy gifts this year. This is all I have to give you. It is a record of a good deed which I have done for someone each day of the year.'"

Father then stopped speaking. A hush fell over the whole family. The impact from the message of this gift left us all in thoughtful, reverent silence. Then someone began to clap their hands. Soon everyone was clapping with the joy of having experienced such an inspirational moment.

Though many years have passed since that eventful Christmas morning, the impact of its message of service and love lingers on as a brilliant, guiding star.

The Christmas Star

2010-12-08T04:21:00.000-08:00

Author Unknown

This was my grandmother's first Christmas without Grandfather, and we had promised him before he passed away that we would make this her best Christmas ever. When my mom, dad, three sisters, and I arrived at her little house in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina, we found she had waited up all night for us to arrive from Texas. After we exchanged hugs, Donna, Karen, Kristi, and I ran into the house. It did seem a little empty without Grandfather, and we knew it was up to us to make this Christmas special for her.

Grandfather had always said that the Christmas tree was the most important decoration of all. So we immediately set to work assembling the beautiful artificial tree that was stored in Grandfather's closet. Although artificial, it was the most genuine-looking Douglas fir I had ever seen. Tucked away in the closet with the tree was a spectacular array of ornaments, many of which had been my father's when he was a little boy. As we unwrapped each one, Grandmother had a story to go along with it. My mother strung the tree with bright white lights and a red button garland; my sisters and I carefully placed the ornaments on the tree; and finally, Father was given the honor of lighting the tree.

We stepped back to admire our handiwork. To us, it looked magnificent, as beautiful as the tree in Rockefeller Center. But something was missing.

"Where's your star?" I asked.

The star was my grandmother's favorite part of the tree.

"Why, it must be here somewhere," she said, starting to sort through the boxes again. "Your grandfather always packed everything so carefully when he took the tree down."

As we emptied box after box and found no star, my grandmother's eyes filled with tears. This was no ordinary ornament, but an elaborate golden star covered with colored jewels and blue lights that blinked on and off. Moreover, Grandfather had given it to Grandmother some fifty years ago, on their first Christmas together. Now, on her first Christmas without him, the star was gone, too.

"Don't worry, Grandmother," I reassured her. "We'll find it for you."

My sisters and I formed a search party.

"Let's start in the closet where the ornaments were," Donna said. "Maybe the box just fell down."

That sounded logical, so we climbed on a chair and began to search that tall closet of Grandfather's. We found Father's old yearbooks and photographs of relatives, Christmas cards from years gone by, and party dresses and jewelry boxes, but no star.

We searched under beds and over shelves, inside and outside, until we had exhausted every possibility. We could see Grandmother was disappointed, although she tried not to show it.

"We could buy a new star," Kristi offered.

"I'll make you one from construction paper," Karen chimed in.

"No," Grandmother said. "This year, we won't have a star."

By now, it was dark outside, and time for bed, as Santa would soon be here. We lay in bed, snowflakes falling quietly outside.

The next morning, my sisters and I woke up early, as was our habit on Christmas day -- first, to see what Santa had left under the tree, and second, to look for the Christmas star in the sky. After a traditional breakfast of apple pancakes, the family sat down together to open presents. Santa had brought me the Easy-Bake Oven I wanted, and Donna a Chatty-Cathy doll. Karen was thrilled to get the doll buggy she had asked for, and Kristi to get the china tea set. Father was in charge of passing out the presents, so that everyone would have something to open at the same time.

"The last gift is to Grandmother from Grandfather," he said, in a puzzled voice.

"From who?" There was surprise in my grandmother's voice.

"I found that gift in Grandfather's closet when we got the tree down," Mother explained. "It was already wrapped so I put it under the tree. I thought it was one of yours."

"Hurry and open it," Karen urged excitedly.

My grandmother shakily opened the box. Her face lit up with joy when she unfolded the tissue paper and pulled out a glorious golden star. There was a note attached. Her voice trembled as she read it aloud:

Don't be angry with me, dear. I broke your star while putting away the decorations, and I couldn't bear to tell you. Thought it was time for a new one. I hope it brings you as much joy as the first one. Merry Christmas.

Love,
Bryant

So Grandmother's tree had a star after all, a star that expressed my grandparents' everlasting love for one another. It brought my grandfather home for Christmas in each of our hearts and made it our best Christmas ever.

Our Matchbox Christmas

2010-12-07T04:16:00.000-08:00

Author Unknown

It was a rainy California Christmas Eve. Our tree was lit
up, and it shone through the large picture window of
our home in military quarters at Port Hueneme. My
husband would finally be spending Christmas with us.
He had often missed the holidays due to deployments,
leaving me and our three small children alone for
Christmas. He had just returned home from Vietnam
and would be home for six months. Then he would have
to go back to fighting the war in Vietnam.

Our children, six, four and two years old, were
anxiously waiting for their daddy to return from
battalion headquarters. He had to “muster and make
it.” Their little noses had been pressed against the big
frosty window almost all afternoon, waiting for him to
come back home.

Their daddy was a Seabee, and we were all as proud of
him as we could be, but we often struggled to make
ends meet. Once a month, I would buy a month’s worth
of groceries, and this month, I had managed to squeeze
in a large turkey and all the trimmings, to cook for our
Christmas Eve meal, but money for presents was
scarce. I had bought my husband a small gift, and he
had bought me one. The children each had a handful of
tiny department-store toys, all individually wrapped and
waiting for the big day. There were no names on the
small gifts; I could feel through the paper and tell what
they were.

I saw my husband’s car headlights cut through the dark
winter mist that engulfed our home. I pushed back my
hair and straightened my clothes. The children and I
rushed to the door. This was our big night! It had been
our tradition back home in Texas to eat our big meal on
Christmas Eve night, and this year we were going to eat
better than we usually did. Our little table was laden
with all sorts of tasty-looking food. Each of the kids
would get to open one present, and Santa Claus would
be coming after they went to sleep.

To my surprise, when I opened the door to give my
husband a big kiss, standing behind him were three
burly Seabees. They hung their heads as they entered
our home, as if to apologize for intruding on our family
feast.

“Honey,” my husband said, almost apologetically,
“these are some of the guys who were with me in
‘Nam. Their families are thousands of miles away. They
were just sitting in the barracks, and I asked them if
they wanted to come eat with us. Is it okay if they
stay?”

I was thrilled to have Christmas company. We, too,
were thousands of miles away from friends and family.
It had been so long since we had “entertained.” We
gladly shared our small feast with those three huge
Seabees. After dinner, we all sat down in the living
room. The children started begging to open their gifts.
I sat them down and walked over to the tree to get
them each a tiny wrapped gift.

As I glanced up, I could see my husband’s friends
sitting there looking sad and distant. I realized how
bittersweet it must feel to be here with us. I knew they
must be thinking about their own children, wives and
homes. They were staring down at the floor, lost in the
loneliness of the season, trying to shake the horrible
memories of the war they had just left — a war to
which they would soon return.

Quickly, I scooped up six colorfully wrapped Matchbox
cars. I called each of our children’s names, and they
quickly opened their presents. Soon, all three of them
were rolling their cars on the floor.

I walked over to the men. “Well, what do you know?” I
said. “Old Santa must have known you were going to be
here!”

Those big old Seabees looked up in surprise. They
opened their treasures: a Matchbox car for each of
them. Within seconds after they opened the gifts,
those men, grinning from ear to ear, were down on the
floor playing with their tiny cars.

I looked up at my husband. “How about me?” he asked.
“Did Santa leave me anything?”

I reached under the tree and handed him a tiny present
also. He joyfully joined our children and his friends.
They must have played for hours. They ate, told funny
stories and laughed while they rolled those race cars
around on the floor.

I watched them there, filled with pride. These men had
fought for us and kept us free. Free to have nights like
this one, and others that were to come.

I didn’t really know these men, but there they were,
sitting on our floor. They would have given the world to
be back home with their loved ones, but it wasn’t
possible. They had committed to defend our country.
They were trying to make the best of an awful time in
their lives.

Soon, the races were over, the food was almost all
devoured, and each of the men said their goodbyes and
left our home, their faces shining with new hope. In
each of their hands, clutched tightly, was a tiny
Matchbox car.

Years have passed since that Christmas Eve night. Two
of the men returned from the war. One didn’t.
We have seen them over the years, visited their
homes, met their families. The men have swapped war
stories while the women shared “left at home to do it
all by ourselves” stories. Our children played together.

When we first met again, I was surprised to learn that
every one of the men had kept their cars in their
pockets when they were in ‘Nam. When times got
tough, and everything would get still, the men would
quietly take out those little cars. They would give each
other a grin, as if to promise that there would be
another race and that they would see another day.

And they showed me how, high on a mantel, or proudly
displayed in a shadow box, safely tucked away from
harm, they still have their tiny Matchbox cars!

An Elf’s Tale

2010-12-06T04:03:00.000-08:00

by Tyree Dillingham

It was six o’clock at the mall, and I was as exhausted as an elf on Christmas Eve. In fact, I was an elf and it was Christmas Eve. That December of my sixteenth year, I’d been working two jobs to help my parents with my school tuition and to make a little extra holiday money. My second job was as an elf for Santa to help with kids’ photos. Between my two jobs, I’d worked twelve hours straight the day before. On Christmas Eve, things were so busy at Santaland that I hadn’t even had a coffee break all day. But this was it -- only minutes more, and I’d have survived!

I looked over at Shelly, our manager, and she gave me an encouraging smile. She was the reason I’d made it through. She’d been thrown in as manager halfway through the season, and she’d made all the difference in the world. My job had changed from stress-filled to challenging. Instead of yelling at her workers to keep us in line, she encouraged us and stood behind us. She made us pull together as a team. Especially when things were their craziest, she always had a smile and an encouraging word. Under her leadership, we’d achieved the highest number of mall photo sales in California.

I knew it was a difficult holiday season for her -- she’d recently suffered a miscarriage. I hoped she knew how great she was and what a difference she’d made to all her workers and to all the little children who’d come to have their pictures taken.

Our booth was open until seven; at six, things started to slow down, and I finally took a break. Although I didn’t have much money, I really wanted to buy a little gift for Shelly so that she’d know we appreciated her. I got to a store that sold soap and lotion just as they put the grate down. “Sorry, we’re closed!” barked the clerk, who looked as tired as I was and didn’t sound sorry at all.

I looked around and, to my dismay, found that all the stores had closed. I’d been so tired I hadn’t noticed.

I was really bummed. I had been working all day and had missed buying her a present by one minute.

On my way back to the Santa booth, I saw that Nordstrom was still open. Fearful that they, too, would close at any moment, I hurried inside and followed the signs toward the Gift Gallery. As I rushed through the store, I began to feel very conspicuous. It seemed the other shoppers were all very well-dressed and wealthy -- and here I was a broke teenager in an elf costume. How could I even think I’d find something in such a posh store for under fifteen dollars?

I self-consciously jingled my way into the Gift Gallery. A woman sales associate, who also looked as if she’d just stepped off a fashion runway, came over and asked if she could help me. As she did, everyone in the department turned and stared.

As quietly as possible, I said, “No, that’s okay. Just help somebody else.”

She looked right at me and smiled. “No,” she said. “I want to help you.”

I told the woman who I was buying for and why, then I sheepishly admitted I only had fifteen dollars to spend. She looked as pleased and thoughtful as if I’d just asked to spend $1500. By now, the department had emptied, but she carefully went around, selecting a few things that would make a nice basket. The total came to $14.09.

The store was closing; as she rang up the purchase, the lights were turned off.

I was thinking that if I could take them home and wrap them, I could make them really pretty but I didn’t have time.

As if reading my mind, the saleslady asked, “Do you need this wrapped?”

“Yes,” I said.

By now the store was closed. Over the intercom, a voice asked if there were still customers in the store. I knew this woman was probably as eager to get home on Christmas Eve as everybody else, and here she was stuck waiting on some kid with a measly purchase.

But she was gone in the back room a long time. When she returned, she brought out the most beautiful basket I’d ever seen. It was all wrapped up in silver and gold, and looked as if I’d spent fifty dollars on it -- at least. I couldn’t believe it. I was so happy!

When I thanked her, she said, “You elves are out in the mall spreading joy to so many people, I just wanted to bring a little joy to you.”

“Merry Christmas, Shelly,” I said back at the booth. My manager gasped when she saw the present; she was so touched and happy that she started crying. I hoped it gave a happy start to her Christmas.

All through the holidays, I couldn’t stop thinking about the kindness and effort of the saleswoman, and how much joy she had brought to me, and in turn to my manager. I thought the least I could do was to write a letter to the store and let them know about it. About a week later, I got a reply from the store, thanking me for writing.

I thought that was the end of it, until mid-January.

That’s when I got a call from Stephanie, the sales associate. She wanted to take me to lunch. Me, a fifteen-dollar, sixteen-year-old customer.

When we met, Stephanie gave me a hug, and a present, and told me this story.

She had walked into a recent employee meeting to find herself on the list of nominees to be named the Nordstrom All-Star. She was confused but excited, as she had never before been nominated. At the point in the meeting when the winner was announced, they called Stephanie -- she’d won! When she went up front to accept the award, her manager read my letter out loud. Everyone gave her a huge round of applause.

Winning meant that her picture was put up in the store lobby, she got new business cards with Nordstrom All-Star written on them, a 14-karat gold pin, a 100-dollar award, and was invited to represent her department at the regional meeting.

At the regional meeting, they read my letter and everyone gave Stephanie a standing ovation. “This is what we want all of our employees to be like!” said the manager who read the letter. She got to meet three of the Nordstrom brothers, who were each very complimentary.

I was already a little overwhelmed when Stephanie took my hand. “But that’s not the best part, Tyree,” she said. “The day of that first store meeting, I took a list of the nominees, and put your letter behind it, with the 100-dollar bill behind that. I took it home and gave it to my father. He read everything and looked at me and said, “When do you find out who won?”

“I said, ‘I won, Dad.’”

“He looked me right in the eye and said, ‘Stephanie, I’m really proud of you.’”

Quietly, she said, “My dad has never said he was proud of me.”

I think I’ll remember that moment all my life. That was when I realized what a powerful gift appreciation can be. Shelly’s appreciation of her workers had set into motion a chain of events -- Stephanie’s beautiful basket, my letter, Nordstrom’s award -- that had changed at least three lives.

Though I’d heard it all my life, it was the Christmas when I was an elf -- and a broke teenager -- that I truly came to understand that the littlest things can make the biggest difference.

Stocking Feet Faith

2010-12-05T05:15:00.000-08:00

by Patricia Lorenz

After twenty years of driving buses for the county transit system, John thought he’d seen everything. But something happened one cold December day in the early 1980s in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, that changed all of that.

John was worrying about his problems just like the next guy. Wondering how he was going to pay the December gas bill. Wondering if he’d be able to buy any Christmas presents that year. Wondering if he was ever going to get ahead of the game.

On that cold, dreary, gray-sky day before Christmas, the temperature was ten degrees and it was trying to snow. Every time John opened the bus door, a blast of cold air slapped him in the face.

“Lousy time of year,” John grumbled. “Just plain lousy.”

As usual, around 3:00 p.m., John was driving his bus down Wisconsin Avenue. At Marquette Prep School, a private boys’ high school, he picked up the usual group of students. It seemed to John that as Christmas drew closer, the high school boys grew louder and rowdier.

Pushing and shoving, they stumbled to the back of the bus. “Rich kids,” John mumbled disgustedly to himself. Most of the boys from the prep school lived in the ritzier suburbs and would be transferring off his bus in a mile or so.

A few stops later, John pulled up in front of the Milwaukee County Medical Complex grounds where a woman was waiting in the bus shelter. She looked to be about forty years old and pregnant, her dingy gray coat tattered from collar to hem. When she pulled herself up the steps of the bus, John noticed she was wearing only socks, no shoes.

“Good Lord, woman, where are your shoes?” he blurted out without thinking. “It’s too cold to be out without shoes! Get on in here and off that cold sidewalk!”

The woman struggled up the steps, pulling her gray buttonless coat around her protruding belly. “Never mind my shoes. This bus goin’ downtown?”

Still staring at her feet, John answered, “Well, eventually we’ll get back downtown. Have to head west first, then we’ll turn around.”

“I don’t mind the extra ride, long as I can get warm. It’s cold out there. Wind must be comin’ off the lake!”she sighed as she handed John her money and sat down on the front seat.

The high school kids in the back started in. “Hey, lady, nice coat!”

“That a Saks Fifth Avenue special?”

“Doesn’t she know we don’t serve patrons without shoes?”

John felt like strangling every one of those kids. To distract the woman from their remarks, he continued his conversation, “Yup, it’s a rough time of year all right.”

The woman sat up straight in her seat and smoothed the wrinkles in her coat. “Sure is. I got eight kids. Had enough money this year to buy shoes for every one of ’em, but that was it. I got some slippers at home, but I didn’t want to get ’em all wet in case it snowed.”

John kept the conversation going. “Yep. It ain’t easy with Christmas and all. Money’s scarce. And if this weather doesn’t warm up, I’m wonderin’ if I’ll have enough to pay the gas bill.”

“Mister, you just be glad you got a place to live and a job. The good Lord will take care of you. Always has for me.”

John couldn’t believe that a woman who didn’t have any shoes was telling him to stop worrying.

Before long, the bus was at the end of the line, time for the kids to get off and transfer to other buses that would take them to their comfortable suburban homes.

As the boys filed off, one young student named Frank, a freshman who had been sitting just a few seats behind the woman in the gray tattered coat, stopped in front of her and handed her his new leather sport shoes, saying, “Here, lady, you take these. You need ’em more than I do.”

And with that, Frank, a fourteen-year-old kid, walked off the bus and into the ten degree evening in his stocking feet.

The busy Christmas season that year turned out better for John than all the other years and months put together.

And it wasn’t just because when the woman tried on the shoes she let out a whoop and a holler. “Why, they fit perfect! Can you believe that? Perfect. Nice and warm, too. Bless the Lord. Mister, I told you not to worry ‘bout nothin’. Don’t you see? The Lord always provides. Always.”

On a bus heading west, John’s faith in God and in mankind was completely restored on that cold gray day in Milwaukee by a woman wearing a very expensive pair of sport shoes.

Substitute Santa

2010-12-04T06:15:00.000-08:00

by Jay Frankston

There's nothing so beautiful as a child's dream of Santa Claus. I know, I often had that dream. But I was Jewish and we didn't celebrate Christmas. It was everyone else's holiday and I felt left out -- like a big party I wasn't invited to. It wasn't the toys I missed, it was Santa Claus and a Christmas tree.

So when I got married and had kids I decided to make up for it. I started with a seven foot tree, all decked out with lights and tinsel, and a Star of David on top to soothe those whose Jewish feelings were frayed by the display and, for them, it was a Hanukkah bush. And it warmed my heart to see the glitter, because now the party was at my house and everyone was invited.

But something was missing, something big and round and jolly, with jingle bells and a “Ho! Ho! Ho!” So I bought a bolt of bright red cloth and strips of white fur and my wife made me a costume. Inflatable pillows rounded out my skinny frame, but no amount of makeup could turn my face into merry old Santa.

I went around looking at department store impersonators sitting on their thrones with children on their laps and flash-bulbs going off, and I wasn't satisfied with the way they looked either.

After much effort I located a mask maker and he had just the thing for me, a rubberized Santa mask, complete with whiskers and flowing white hair. It was not the real thing but it looked genuine enough to live up to a child's dream of St. Nick.

When I tried it on, something happened. I looked in the mirror and there he was, big as life, the Santa of my childhood. There he was . . . and it was me. I felt like Santa, like I became Santa. My posture changed. I leaned back and pushed out my false stomach. My head tilted to the side and my voice got deeper and richer and a "MERRY CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE."

For two years I played Santa for my children to their mixed feelings of fright and delight and to my total enjoyment. And when the third year rolled around, the Santa in me had grown into a personality of his own and he needed more room than I had given him. So I sought to accommodate him by letting him do his thing for other children. I called up orphanages and children's hospitals and offered his services free. But, "We don't need Santa, we have all sorts of donations from foundations and . . . thank you for calling." And the Santa in me felt lonely and useless.

Then, one late November afternoon, I went to the mailbox on the corner of the street to mail a letter and saw this pretty little girl trying to reach for the slot. She was maybe six years old. "Mommy, are you sure Santa will get my letter?" she asked. "Well, you addressed it to Santa Claus, North Pole, so he should get it," the mother said and lifted her little girl so she could stuff the letter into the box. My mind began to whirl. All those thousands of children who wrote to Santa Claus at Christmas time, whatever became of their letters?

One phone call to the main post office answered my question. They told me that, as of the last week of November, an entire floor of the post office was needed to store those letters in huge sacks that came from different sections of the city.

The Santa in me went “Ho! Ho! Ho!” and we headed down to the post office. And there they were, thousands upon thousands of letters, with or without stamps, addressed to Santi Claus, or St. Nick, or Kris Kringle, scribbled on wrapping paper or neatly written on pretty stationary. And I rummaged through them and laughed. Most of them were gimme, gimme, gimme letters, like "I want a pair of roller skates, and a Nintendo, and a GI Joe, and a personal computer, and a small portable TV, and whatever else you can think of." Many of them had the price alongside each item . . . with or without sales tax.

Then there were the funny ones like: "Dear Santa, I've been a good boy all of last year, but if I don't get what I want, I'll be a bad boy all of next."

And I became a little flustered at the demands and the greed of so many spoiled children. But the Santa in me heard a voice from inside the mail sack and I continued going through the letters, one after the other, until I came upon one which jarred and unsettled me.

It was neatly written on plain white paper and it said: "Dear Santa, I hope you get my letter. I am eleven years old and I have two little brothers and a baby sister. My father died last year and my mother is sick. I know there are many who are poorer than we are and I want nothing for myself, but could you send us a blanket, cause mommy's cold at night." It was signed Suzy. And a chill went up my spine and the Santa in me cried, "I hear you Suzy, I hear you." And I dug deeper into those sacks and came up with another eight such letters, all of them calling out from the depth of poverty. I took them with me and went straight to the nearest Western Union office and sent each child a telegram: "GOT YOUR LETTER. WILL BE AT YOUR HOUSE ON CHRISTMAS DAY. WAIT FOR ME. SANTA." I knew I could not possibly fill the need of all those children and it wasn't my purpose to do so. But if I could bring them hope. If I could make them feel that their cries did not go unheard and that someone out there was listening . . . So I budgeted a sum of money and went out and bought toys. I wasn't content with the five-and-ten cent variety. I wanted something substantial, something these children could only dream of, like an electric train, or a microscope, or a huge doll of the kind they saw advertised on TV.

And on Christmas Day, I took out my sleigh and let Santa do his thing. Well, it wasn't exactly a sleigh, it was a car and my wife drove me around because with all those pillows and toys I barely managed to get in the back seat. It had graciously snowed the night before and the streets were thick with fresh powder. My first call took me to the outskirts of the city. The letter had been from a Peter Barsky and all it said was: "Dear Santa, I am ten years old and I am an only child. We've just moved to this house a few months ago and I have no friends yet. I'm not sad because I'm poor but because I'm lonely. I know you have many things to do and people to see and you probably have no time for me. So I don't ask you to come to my house or bring anything. But could you send me a letter so I know you exist." My telegram read: "DEAR PETER, NOT ONLY DO I EXIST BUT I'LL BE THERE ON CHRISTMAS DAY. WAIT FOR ME. SANTA."

We spotted the house and drove past it and parked around the corner. Then Santa got out with his big bag of toys slung over his shoulder and tramped through the snow.

The house was wedged in between two tall buildings. The roof was of corrugated metal and it was more of a shack than a house. I walked through the gate, up the front steps and rang the bell. A man opened the door. He was in his undershirt and his stomach bulged out of his pants. "Boje moy " he exclaimed in astonishment. That's Polish, by the way, and his hand went to his face. "P-p-please . . ." he stuttered, "p-please . . . de boy . . . de boy . . . at mass . . . church. I go get him. Please, please wait." And he threw a coat over his bare shoulders and, assured that I would wait, he ran down the street in the snow.

So I stood in front of the house feeling good, and on the opposite side of the street was this other shack, and through the window I could see these shiny little black faces peering at me and waving. Then the door opened shyly and some voices called out to me "Hya Santa" . . . "Hya Santa".

And I “Ho! Ho! Hoed” my way over there and this woman asked if I would come in and I did. And there were these five young kids from one to seven years old. And I sat and spoke to them of Santa and the spirit of love which is the spirit of Christmas.

Then, since they were not on my list, but assuming from the torn Christmas wrappings that they had gotten their presents, I asked if they liked what Santa had brought them during the night. And each in turn thanked me for . . . the woolen socks, and the sweater, and the warm new underwear.

And I looked at them and asked: "Didn't I bring you kids any toys?" And they shook their heads sadly. "Ho! Ho! Ho! I slipped up," I said "We'll have to fix that." I told them to wait, I'd be back in a few minutes, then trudged heavily through the snow to the corner. And when I was out of their sight, I ran as fast as I could to the car. We had extra toys in the trunk and my wife quickly filled up the bag, and I trodded back to the house and gave each child a brand new toy. There was joy and laughter and the woman asked if she could take a picture of Santa with the kids and I said, sure, why not?

And when Santa got ready to leave, I noticed that this five year old little girl was crying. She was as cute as a button. I bent down and asked her "What's the matter, child?" And she sobbed, "Oh! Santa, I'm so happy." And the tears rolled from my eyes under the rubber mask.

As I stepped out on the street, "Pan, pan, proche . . . please come . . . come," I heard this man Barsky across the way. And Santa crossed and walked into the house. The boy Peter just stood there and looked at me. "You came," he said. "I wrote and . . . you came". He turned to his parents. "I wrote . . . and he came." And he repeated it over and over again. "I wrote . . . and he came." And when he recovered, I spoke with him about loneliness and friendship, and gave him a chemistry set, which seemed to be what he would go for, and a basketball. And he thanked me profusely. And his mother, a heavy-set Slavic-looking woman, asked something of her husband in Polish. My parents were Polish so I speak a little and understand a lot. "From the North Pole," I said in Polish. She looked at me in astonishment. "You speak Polish?" she asked. "Of course," I said. "Santa speaks all languages." And I left them in joy and wonder.

And I did this for twelve years, going through the letters to Santa at the post office, listening for the cries of children muffled in unopened envelopes.

In time I learned all that Santa has to know to handle any situation. Like the big kid who would stop Santa on the street and ask: "Hey, Santa, where's your sleigh?" And I'd say, "How old are you son?" And he'd say, "Thirteen." And I'd say, "Well, you're a big fellow and you ought to know better. Santa used to come in a sleigh many years ago, but these are modern times. I come in a car now." And I'd hop in the back seat and my wife would drive off.

Or the kid who would look at me closely and come out with, "That's a mask," pointing a finger. And you never lie to children so I'd say, "Sure, son, of course. If everybody knew what Santa really looks like they'd bother me all year long and I couldn't get my things ready for Christmas."

Or the mother who would whisper so her young son couldn't hear, "Where do you come from?" I'd turn to the child and say, "Your mom wants to know where I come from, Willy." And he'd say, "From the North Pole, Mommy," with absolute certainty. And she'd nudge me and whisper, "You don't understand. Who sent you? I mean, how do you come to this house?" I'd turn to the boy and say, "Hey, Willy, your mom wants to know why I came to see you." And he'd say, "Cause I wrote him a letter, Mommy." And I'd pull out the letter and she knows she mailed it, and she's confused and bewildered and I'd leave her like that.

As time went on, the word got out about Santa Claus and me, and I insisted on anonymity, but toy manufacturers would send me huge cartons of toys as a contribution to the Christmas spirit. So I started with 18 or 20 children and wound up with 120, door to door, from one end of the city to the other, from Christmas Eve through Christmas Day.

And on my last call, a number of years ago, I knew there were four children in the family and I came prepared. The house was small and sparsely furnished. The kids had been waiting all day, staring at the telegram and repeating to their skeptical mother, "He'll come, Mommy, he'll come." And as I rang the door bell the house lit up with joy and laughter and "He's here . . . he's here!" And the door swings open and they all reach for my hands and hold on. "Hya, Santa . . . Hya, Santa. We just knew you'd come."

And these poor kids are all beaming with happiness. And I take each one of them on my lap and speak to them of rainbows and snowflakes, and tell them stories of hope and waiting, and give them each a toy.

And all the while there's this fifth child standing in the corner, a cute little girl with blond hair and blue eyes. And when I'm through with the others, I turn to her and say: "You're not part of this family are you?"

And she shakes her head sadly and whispers, "No."

"Come closer, child," I say, and she comes a little closer. "What's your name?" I ask.

"Lisa."

"How old are you?"

"Seven."

"Come, sit on my lap," and she hesitates but she comes over and I lift her up and sit her on my lap. "Did you get any toys for Christmas?" I ask.

"No," she says with puckered lips.

So I take out this big beautiful doll and, "Here, do you want this doll?"

"No," she says. And she leans over to me and whispers in my ear, "I'm Jewish."

And I nudge her and whisper in her ear, "I'm Jewish too. Do you want this doll?" And she's grinning from ear to ear and nods with wanting and desire, and takes the doll and hugs it and runs out.

It's been a long time since I last put on my Santa suit. But I feel that Santa has lived with me and given me a great deal of happiness all those years. And now, when Christmas rolls around, he comes out of hiding long enough to say, "Ho! Ho! Ho! A Merry Christmas to you, my friend."

And I say to you now, “MERRY CHRISTMAS, MY FRIENDS.”

The Puppy Who Wanted a Boy

2010-12-03T01:38:00.000-08:00

by Jane Thayer

One day Petey, who was a puppy, said to his mother, “I’d like a boy for Christmas.”

His mother, who was a dog, said she guessed he could have a boy if he was a very good puppy. So the day before Christmas, Petey’s mother asked, “Have you been a very good puppy?”

“Oh, yes!” said Petey. “I didn’t frighten the cat.”

“You didn’t?”asked Petey’s mother.

“Well, ah, I just frightened her a little,” said Petey. “And I didn’t chew any shoes.”

“Not any?” said his mother.

“Just a teeny-weeny chew,” said Petey.

“All right,” said his mother. “I guess you’ve been good. Anyway, you’re awfully little. I shall go out and get you a boy for Christmas.”

But when Petey’s mother came back, she looked worried. “How would you like a soft, white rabbit with pink ears for Christmas?” she said to Petey.

“No, thanks,” said Petey.

“How about some fish? They’re nice,” said Petey’s mother.

“I don’t like fish,” said Petey. “I’d like a boy.”

“Petey,” said his mother, “there are no boys to be had. Not one could I find. They’re terribly short of boys this year.”

Petey felt as if he couldn’t stand it if he didn’t have a boy.

Finally his mother said, “There now, there must be a boy somewhere. Perhaps you could find some dog who would give his boy away.”

So Petey hopefully started off. It wasn’t long before he saw a collie racing with a boy on a bicycle. Petey trembled with joy. “If I had a boy on a bicycle,” said Petey, “I could run like everything! I’ll ask the collie politely if he’ll give his boy away.” So Petey leaped after the bicycle. He called out to the collie, “Excuse me. Do you want to give your boy away?”

But the collie said no, he definitely didn’t, in a dreadful tone of voice. Petey sat down. He watched the collie and his boy until they were out of his sight. “I didn’t really want a boy on a bicycle anyway.” said Petey.

After a while, he saw a red setter playing ball with a boy. Petey was just delighted. “If I had a boy to play ball with,” said Petey, “I’d catch the ball smack in my mouth.”

But he remembered how cross the collie had been. So he sat down on the sidewalk and called out politely, “Excuse me. Do you want to give your boy away?”

But the setter said no, he definitely didn’t, in a terrifying tone of voice! “Oh, well,” said Petey, trotting off, “I don’t think playing ball is much fun.”

After a while he met a Scotty walking with his boy and carrying a package in his mouth. “Now, that is a good kind of boy!” said Petey. “If I had a boy to carry packages for, there might be some dog biscuits or cookies in the package.”

But he remembered how cross the collie and the setter had been. So he stayed across the street and shouted at the top of his lungs, but polite as could be, “Excuse me. Do you want to give your boy away?”

The Scotty had his mouth full of package, but he managed to say no, he definitely didn’t, and he showed his sharp teeth at Petey. “I guess that wasn’t the kind of boy I wanted either,” said poor Petey. “But my goodness, where will I find a boy?”

Well, Petey went on and on. Up busy streets, dodging the cars, looking in stores and around corners. Down quiet lanes where dogs rushed to their fences and yelped at him. He asked every dog politely. But he couldn’t find a single dog who would give his boy away. Petey’s ears began to droop. His tail grew limp. His legs were so tired. “My mother was right,” he thought. “There isn’t a boy to be had.”

As it was getting dark, he came to a large building on the very edge of town. Petey was going by very slowly because his paws hurt, when he saw a sign over the door. The sign said: “Orphans’ Home”.

“I know what orphans are,” Petey said to himself. “They’re children who have no dog to take care of them. Maybe I could find a boy there!”

He padded slowly up the walk. He was so tired, he could hardly lift his little paws. Then Petey stopped. He listened. He could hear music. He looked. Through the window, he could see a lighted Christmas tree and children singing carols. Petey looked some more. On the front step of the orphans’ home, all by himself, sat a boy! He looked lonely. Petey gave a glad, little cry. He forgot about being tired. He leaped up the walk and landed in the boy’s lap.

Sniff, sniff went Petey’s little nose. Wiggle, wag went Petey’s tail. He licked the boy with his warm, wet tongue. How glad the boy was to see Petey! He put both of his arms around the little dog and hugged him tight.

Then the front door opened, “Goodness, Ricky,” a lady said, “what are you doing out here? Come in and see the Christmas tree.”

Petey sat very still. The boy looked up at the lady. Then he looked down at Petey. The boy said, “I’ve got a puppy. Can he come, too?”

“A puppy!” The lady came over and looked down at Petey. “Why,” she said, “you’re a nice dog. Wherever did you come from? Yes, bring him in.”

“Come on puppy,” said the boy, and in they scampered. A crowd of boys was playing around the Christmas tree. All the boys rushed at Petey. They all wanted to pick him up. They all wanted to pet him. Petey wagged his tail. He wagged his fat, little body. He frisked about and kissed every boy who came near.

“Can he stay?” the boys asked.

“Yes,” said the lady. “He may stay.”

“Come on, puppy,” Ricky said. “Get your supper.”

“We’ll fix you a nice, warm bed!” cried anther boy.

“We’ll all play games with you,” said a third.

“Who ever would think,” said Petey to himself, “that I’d get fifty boys for Christmas!”

Another Christmas Carol ~ Story of Joel

2010-12-02T03:55:00.000-08:00

by Joel

The kids on the bus asked, "You coming to the basketball game tonight?"

"I can't. My grandmother's coming to visit tonight." Joel was patient in his repeated denials. There was no visit from grandmother, of course, just another of Joel's well devised covers for the truth. Joel never went anywhere but straight to the house.

Blake House had been Joel's and his mother's home for the first four months of the school year. The place wasn't bad. There simply wasn't any privacy. Sharing a room with his mother was easier since she started going to night school. Many nights by the time she returned, Joel was already in pajamas and ready for sleep.

For Joel's mom, Blake House, in spite of the difficulties, was nothing short of a miracle. She knew it was hard on a boy of Joel's age, but it was a comfort to know that he realized it was necessary for them. One more day with her husband may have been the end of her or her son, and Joel knew it too. In a way, it was his growing intervention in the assaults that convinced her they had to leave.

For Joel, things had a calm predictability and the days went by quickly. His mom, though, was tormented by uncertainty. With the help of the Blake House staff, she had found a part-time job and a grant for vocational training. In spite of their support, it was hard to imagine a time when she might stand on her own. She married young and never learned a way to support herself; this was a tough way to learn.

As Christmas approached, she started preparing Joel for the reality of the upcoming holiday. She'd say they would have a nice dinner with the staff and the other families at Blake House, and then they would walk a few blocks north to take in the view of downtown from the overpass. She would explain that, with luck, they could be in their own home by March, and they would have a private Christmas and presents.

"I don't need Christmas, and I don't need presents," Joel grumbled each time.

"Scrooge!" she quipped back.

She was proud of his effort to deal with his envy of other children's holiday excitement at school. He was so serious though. She wished there was something she could do to give him a lighter heart and a happier Christmas.

On the Saturday before Christmas the families and staff were enjoying their holiday supper when Joan, the house counselor, called Joel's mom into her office.

"Do you have any plans tonight?" Joan asked.

"Joel and I are going to walk downtown to the overpass to look at the lights and decorations a little later."

Joan pointed out the front window of her office, "Maybe you'd prefer to ride instead of walk." Curbside sat a polished, black Lincoln Town Car with the front window rolled down. The driver saluted a friendly acknowledgment.

"I don't understand," was all Joel's mom could get out before Joan continued.

"An anonymous friend of Blake House has made arrangements for you and Joel to have use of this car for the next five hours … which will come in very handy since the performance is across town. If you leave now, you'll have time to get in some shopping before the show. What d'ya say? I thought so!" Joan smiled and led her out of the office to get Joel.

"Ma'am," said the driver opening the door as the two approached the car.

"What's up with this, Mom?" blurted Joel as the second door shut.

"We're going to the show," she said bewildered, holding up her hands.

As the driver settled back into the Lincoln, he turned and smiled, saying, "I'll be taking you to the mall before the show. And I was asked to give this to you first." The driver produced an envelope and gave it to the lady before he turned to set off.

"Please forgive this intrusion into your privacy," the note began. "I hope you accept this invitation to a Christmas celebration. Enclosed you will find two tickets to tonight's performance of 'A Christmas Carol' and a small token of appreciation for your loving care of Joel."

The tickets and a $100 gift certificate slipped into her hand.

The note continued, "Christmas is a time of hope and of gratitude. In hopes of a prosperous New Year for you, and in gratitude to loving mothers like you, I wish you a Merry Christmas. Remember, you are never alone in this world because where love lives, friends always follow, seen or unseen. Sincerely, The Spirit of St. Nicholas. P.S. You do not need to tip the driver."

"What's wrong, Mom?"

"Nothing, honey," she whispered through tears, hugging her son. "We're gonna go Christmas shopping, my little Scrooge!"

The mother and son felt special that magical night and for many days and nights that followed. The excitement of the performance and the touching story of the play stayed with Joel and his mother for a long time.

It took a little longer than planned for them to get their own home, but by the following summer, they began what was to be many years of stable and prosperous living. For that time and forevermore, Christmas became their favorite time of year.

Our "Family"

2010-12-01T04:27:00.000-08:00

by Linda Snelson

My daughter Gina was in Mrs. Melton's fourth grade class. After only a month in school, she began to come home on a regular basis asking for pencils, crayons, paper, etc. At first I just dutifully provided whatever she needed, never questioning her.

After ongoing requests for items that should have easily lasted a mere six weeks of fourth grade, I became concerned and asked her, "Gina, what are you doing with your school supplies?" She would always respond with an answer that satisfied me.

One day, after supplying the same thing only a week earlier, I became irritated with her pleading for more and sternly asked her once more, "Gina! What is going on with your school supplies?" Knowing her excuses would no longer work, she bent her head and began to cry. I lifted her tiny chin and looked into those big brown eyes, filled now with tears. "What?! What is wrong?" My mind was racing with all sorts of ideas. Had she been bullied by another child? Was she giving her supplies to him or her to keep from being hurt, or to gain their approval? I couldn't imagine what was going on, but I knew it was something serious for her to cry. I waited for what seemed like an eternity for her to answer.

"Mom," she began, "there is a boy in my class; he doesn't have any of the supplies he needs to do his work. The other kids make fun of him because his papers are messy and he only has two crayons to color with. I have been putting the new supplies you bought me in his desk before the others come in, so he doesn't know it's me. Please don't get mad at me, Mom. I didn't mean to tell you a lie, but I didn't want anyone to know it was me."

My heart sank as I stood there in disbelief. She had taken on the role of an adult and tried to hide it like a child. I knelt down and hugged her to me, not wanting her to see my own tears. When I pulled myself together, I stood up and said, "Gina, I would never get mad at you for wanting to help someone, but why didn't you just come and tell me?" I didn't have to wait for her to answer.

The next day I visited Mrs. Melton. I told her what Gina had said. She knew John's situation all too well. The oldest of four boys, their parents had just moved here, and when the school presented them with the school supply list for all four grades, they were overwhelmed. When the boys came to school the next week, they barely had the necessities: a few sheets of paper and a pencil each.

I asked Mrs. Melton for the list from all four grades and told her I would take care of it the next day. She smiled and gave me the lists. The next day, we brought the supplies in and gave them to the office with instructions to give them to the boys.

As Christmas neared, the thought of John, his brothers and family weighed heavily on my mind. What would they do? Surely they would not have money for gifts. I asked Mrs. Melton if she could get me their address. At first she refused, reminding me that there was a policy that protected the privacy of the students, but because she knew me from my work at the school and involvement on the PTA board, she slipped a piece of paper into my hand and whispered, "Don't tell anyone I gave it to you."

When my family began to set the stage for our traditional Christmas Eve, which was usually held at my house, I simply told them all that my husband, the kids, and I did not want gifts, but instead we would prefer to have groceries and gifts for our "family."

As the girls and I shopped throughout the holiday season, they delighted in picking things out for the four boys. Gina was especially interested in things for John. Christmas Eve came and my family began to arrive. Each of them had bags of food and gifts wrapped for the children. My living room was full and the excitement was contagious.

Finally at 9:00 we decided it was time to take our treasures to them. My brothers, dad, uncles and nephews loaded up their trucks and set out for the apartment complex address that Mrs. Melton gave us. They knocked on the door, and a little boy appeared. They asked for his mother or dad and he ran away. The guys waited until a young man, hardly more than a child himself, came to the door. He looked at the men standing there with arms full of gifts and bags full of groceries and couldn't say a word. The men pushed past him and went straight to the kitchen counter to set the bags down. There was no furniture. It was an empty one bedroom apartment with a few blankets on the floor and a small TV where they obviously spent their time. A Christmas tree was the result of the kids bringing in a bush they had found in the field behind the complex. A few paper decorations made in their classrooms made it look like a real Christmas tree. Nothing was underneath. The boys and their parents stood without speaking as the men sat down bag after bag. They finally asked who had sent them, how did they know them and so on. But the men just left them with shouts of "Merry Christmas!"

When the guys got back to my house they didn't say a word. They couldn't. To break the silence, my aunt stood up and began to sing "Silent Night," and we all joined in.

When school resumed, Gina came home daily telling of John's new clothes and how the other children now played with him and treated him like the rest of the children. She never told a soul at school about what we did, but every Christmas since that one she will say to me, "Mom, I wonder what happened to John and his family?" While I'm not quite sure of the answer, I'd like to think that John and his family were somehow helped by my daughter's gift.

A General History of Christmas Carols

2010-03-28T18:04:00.000-07:00

Material compiled and edited from:
"Christmas, Its Carols, Customs and Legends" by Ruth Heller
"Christmas Songs and Carols" by Henry W. Simon
"The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians" by Stanley Sadie

The first carol to be heard on Earth was sung by the angels the night Jesus was born. Ever since, Christians have continued to sing the glad tidings of Jesus' birth.

The origin of the word "carol" remains a puzzle. Some say it comes from the medieval 1 "circle" or "ring" dance called a "carolare," which was accompanied by singing. Others believe that "carol" may have come from the Greek word for "flute player," referring to the musician who accompanied the singing of the dancing group. Many of the early carols were sung to popular dance tunes. Although carols were frowned upon by the established Church, they were popular with the common people because they expressed the joy of Christmas in music and language that was understood and enjoyed by all. Later, as better stanzas 2 were prepared for the dancers and onlookers to sing, the word carol came to apply more to the song lyrics 3 than the dances. In striking contrast to the slow, monotonous chants of the established Church, carols were exciting, happy and cheerful. They were used and loved by the people far more than the hymns and chants that had received the stamp of approval from the church authorities in Rome, Athens or Jerusalem.

Since the first carols were handed down from one generation to the next by word of mouth rather than being written down, several versions of the same carol may be found today.

St. Francis of Assisi is considered the "Father of the Christmas Carol." During ceremonies at his nativity scene in Graecia, Italy, in 1224, St. Francis led his followers in songs of praises to the newborn King. From his jovial 4 singing came about a new idea regarding the holiday season--that of singing "Christmas carols."

By the 14th century, carols had become more melodic and were being used between the acts of the "mystery plays"--Bible stories or other religious lessons which were taught to the people in skit form at town squares or other locations where people gathered. The carols were first sung as interludes 5 but gradually became integral 6 parts of the Christmas plays. If the audience showed great approval for the carol singing, the singers would march off the stage into the street, singing their carols. This was the beginning of the custom of caroling as we know it today.

By the 15th century, people were beginning to be freed from old Church teachings which denounced dancing and communal singing of hymns and carols by people other than the trained church choir. The common people began to express their own feelings about Christian music, preferring to sing in their own languages, instead of in Latin. As a result, carols began to develop in the languages of the people, sometimes with choruses in Latin. A gradual substitution of folk songs and dance tunes for the solemn church music took place. The public wanted music that was less severe and more lively. The popularity of bards 7 and wandering minstrels and the growth of ballads also had a strong influence on religious music.

In 1521, Wynkyn de Word, an English printer's apprentice 8, produced the first printed book of carols. In 1562, the Lord Mayor of London gave Thomas Tyndale a license to print "certain goodly carols to be sung to the glory of God." The carols were widely distributed in England through printed "broadsides" or "broadsheets"--little leaflets containing three or more carols sold for only one penny. Broadsheets were often illustrated with crude woodcuts, showing nativity scenes. They were easy to read, and helped people get acquainted with Christmas music.

During the 16th century, carols became more and more popular. English carols continued to flourish, and throughout the rest of Europe folk songs were becoming increasingly popular, with a special emphasis on the Christmas season.

Martin Luther, the famous Reformation 9 leader in Germany, realized the importance of music in people's lives. He loved music, and as a boy sang in the village choir, where he received his musical education. After the establishment of the Lutheran Church, he promoted congregational singing, "encouraging melodies to be sung by the workers in the field, by the wayside, or indeed, anywhere, to help the people be strengthened in the faith."
During the 17th century, however, the Puritans 10 did away with holiday observance, including caroling. But after the restoration of King Charles II of England, in 1660, caroling came back into the open again, and a new book of carols was published.

During the 18th century, carols were looked down upon by sophisticated city dwellers as commonplace and rustic 11 In fact, during the boyhood years of Charles Dickens (1812-1870), the author of the story "A Christmas Carol," carols and caroling had almost disappeared.

Fortunately, certain scholars and pastors began to collect and preserve traditional carols, and it is because of their efforts that these folk songs were not totally lost to generations to come. Schools and choirs in villages and countryside regions sang and helped to keep them alive. By the last half of the 19th century, carols and caroling had again become an important part of Christmas celebrations, both in churches and in homes.

Now in the 20th century, the singing of Christmas carols and hymns has become an all-around accepted event, and many new Christmas songs have been composed.

In the following pages you will read how some of our favorite carols came to be written, and a little about the lives and experiences of some of the composers.

Away in a Manger

2010-03-28T18:01:00.000-07:00

Words: Anonymous
Music: German melody

In 1224, St. Francis of Assisi was wrestling with a problem. The Gospel message had become so intellectual that it was cold and dogmatic. "It must be simplified so that it might appeal to the heart of the common people," he resolved. Then an idea came to him. "Why not dramatize the Christmas story? The common folk will then be able to better understand the meaning of Christmas."

So he had a manger and all the trappings of a stable placed in his church at Graecia, Italy. On Christmas Eve, the members of his parish came to the church, and there, before their very eyes, were Joseph and Mary, and the Child in the manger. The people rejoiced! Christmas had never seemed so real to them.

Since that time, the manger has become the subject of many Christmas carols and lullabies. One of the best known of these is "Away in a Manger." This song is generally referred to as "Luther's Cradle Hymn." In 1887, the tune appeared in print in North America, with the subheading, "Composed by Martin Luther for his children, and still sung by German mothers to their little ones." The authorship of the lyrics has never been verified, and the source of the tune is still unknown. Some say it could have been composed by a member of a German Lutheran colony from Pennsylvania.

Away in a Manger

Away in a manger, no crib for a bed,
The little Lord Jesus laid down his sweet head.
The stars in the bright sky looked down where he lay,
The little Lord Jesus asleep on the hay.

The cattle are lowing, the baby awakes,
But little Lord Jesus no crying he makes.
I love thee, Lord Jesus! Look down from the sky,
And stay by my side until morning is nigh.

Be near me Lord Jesus, I ask thee to stay.
Close by me forever, and love my I pray.
Bless all the dear children, in thy tender care.
And take them to heaven, o be with thee there.

God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen

2010-03-28T17:55:00.000-07:00

Words: Anonymous--16th century traditional English carol
Music: Sir John Stainer

One of the most popular English carols is "God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen." It's interesting to notice that the comma after "Merry" is often misplaced, causing it to read "God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen." Yet the original punctuation helps to indicate that the song is for all gentlemen--to one and all--whether merry or not, with the hope and blessing that God will cause them to be merry.

The origin of the carol is still a mystery; some believe it is from Cornwall, England. There are several different versions, some of which go back to the 16th century. Even though written in a minor key, this song expresses Christmas joy, and is happy and triumphant. With music written by Sir John Stainer, "God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen" was usually the first carol heard on the streets of London at Christmas time.

God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen

God rest ye merry, gentlemen
Let nothing you dismay
Remember, Christ, our Saviour
Was born on Christmas day
To save us all from Satan's power
When we were gone astray
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy.

In Bethlehem, in Israel,
This blessed Babe was born
And laid within a manger
Upon this blessed morn
The which His Mother Mary
Did nothing take in scorn
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy.

From God our Heavenly Father
A blessed Angel came;
And unto certain Shepherds
Brought tidings of the same:
How that in Bethlehem was born
The Son of God by Name.
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy.

"Fear not then," said the Angel,
"Let nothing you affright,
This day is born a Saviour
Of a pure Virgin bright,
To free all those who trust in Him
From Satan's power and might.
"O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy.

The shepherds at those tidings
Rejoiced much in mind,
And left their flocks a-feeding
In tempest, storm and wind:
And went to Bethlehem straightway
The Son of God to find.
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy.

And when they came to Bethlehem
Where our dear Saviour lay,
They found Him in a manger,
Where oxen feed on hay;
His Mother Mary kneeling down,
Unto the Lord did pray.
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy.

Now to the Lord sing praises,
All you within this place,
And with true love and brotherhood
Each other now embrace;
This holy tide of Christmas
All other doth deface.
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy.

Good King Wenceslas

2010-03-28T17:48:00.000-07:00

Words: John Mason Neale (1818-1866)
Music: 16th century Swedish-German hymn

This song is based on a story about Prince-Duke Wenceslas of Bohemia (907-929), martyr and patron saint of Czechoslovakia, who ruled in Bohemia from 923 to 929. He was raised a Christian by his grandmother. At 16 years old, Wenceslas took over the reins of government from his mother, who was a pagan. He was very devout and was said to have had the power to perform miracles.

He encouraged the work of German missionary priests in the Christianization of Bohemia, and showed great liberality to the poor, especially at Christmas and St. Stephen's Day, December 26th (called "Boxing Day" in some countries). His zeal in spreading Christianity, however, antagonized his non-Christian opponents. Heathen enemies conspired against Wenceslas, and in 929, his younger brother, Boleslav, murdered him.

Wenceslas was regarded as Bohemia's patron saint almost immediately after he was assassinated.

Good King Wenceslas

Good King Wenceslas looked out
On the feast of Stephen,
When the snow lay round about,
Deep and crisp and even.
Brightly shown the moon that night,
Though the frost was cruel,
When a poor man came in sight,
Gathering winter fuel.

Hither, page, and stand by me.
If thou know it telling:
Yonder peasant, who is he?
Where and what his dwelling?
Sire, he lives a good league hence,
Underneath the mountain,
Right against the forest fence
By Saint Agnes fountain.

Bring me flesh, and bring me wine.
Bring me pine logs hither.
Thou and I will see him dine
When we bear the thither.
Page and monarch, forth they went,
Forth they went together
Through the rude wind's wild lament
And the bitter weather.

Sire, the night is darker now,
And the wind blows stronger.
Fails my heart, I know not how.
I can go no longer.
Ark my footsteps my good page,
Tread thou in them boldly:
Thou shalt find the winter's rage
Freeze thy blood less coldly.

In his master's step he trod,
Where the snow lay dented.
Heat was in the very sod
Which the saint had printed.
Therefore, Christian men, be sure,
Wealth or rank possessing,
Ye who now will bless the poor
Shall yourselves find blessing.

Hark! The Herald Angels Sing

2010-03-28T17:36:00.000-07:00

Words: Charles Wesley (1707-1788),
Rev. George Whitefield (1714-1770)
Music: Felix Bartholdy Mendelssohn (1809-1847),
William H. Cummings (1831-1915)

Charles Wesley, born in England in 1707, was the brother of John Wesley, the founder of Methodism. When Charles was thirteen years old, a wealthy Irishman offered to adopt him and make him his legal heir. However, Charles refused the offer, choosing to continue his way through school under very trying circumstances.

Charles followed in the footsteps of his father, and older brother, John, in studying to become a preacher. He wrote his first hymn just three days after his conversion. That hymn was "O For a Thousand Tongues to Sing." Within the following years, he is said to have written about 6,500 hymns and gospel songs on every conceivable subject. It was in 1738, at the age of 31, he wrote "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing."

By the time Charles Wesley sat down to write this carol, he had already had more than his share of adventure and travel. He had visited the "New World," to the colony of Georgia in America, as secretary to the colony's founder, General Oglethorpe. He was accompanied by his brother John who had plans to convert the Indians. During their trans-Atlantic voyage, the Wesley brothers were greatly influenced by a devout Christian group (the Moravians), who helped them discover in God's Word the joy of Salvation by grace. Charles particularly enjoyed listening to these Christians sing hymns while aboard the ship.

A year later, due to ill health, the Wesley brothers returned to England where they banded together as travelling preachers to spread the Gospel throughout the English countryside.

It was in 1739, while meditating upon the birth of Jesus, that Charles sat down and wrote the first of ten stanzas that contained these words:

"Hark! How all the welkin rings,
`Glory to the King of Kings,
Peace on Earth and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled.'"

Wesley's ten stanzas underwent a series of alterations and adjustments until Rev. George Whitefield, a co-worker, settled the matter once and for all by omitting the rather awkward word "welkin" (an old English word for "the vault of Heaven"), and rewriting the first two lines to instead read:

"Hark! The herald angels sing,
`Glory to the new-born King.'"

The great composer, Felix Bartholdy Mendelssohn, was born a Jew, but later became a Christian. Mendelssohn became almost as prolific a composer as Charles Wesley was a poet, and had he lived as long as Wesley, he doubtless would have equaled Charles' creative output in musical compositions.

For an anniversary celebration commemorating Gutenburg's invention of the printing press, Mendelssohn was commissioned to compose suitable music, and so in 1840, he wrote a cantata 15 called "Festival Song."

Mendelssohn was not completely satisfied with the original words to the melody. He told the printers, "Perhaps words suitable for a marriage ceremony should be put to it, but it will never do to sacred words."

An English professor of music, William H. Cummings, however, proved Mendelssohn wrong, when, in 1855, fifteen years later, he suddenly discovered that two sections of Mendelssohn's "Festival Song" fit perfectly with Wesley's Christmas poem. He arranged the song for his choir and presented it on Christmas day.

Since its publication in 1856, it has superseded 16 every other tune to which Wesley's stanzas had formerly been sung, and now is generally recognized as one of the most inspiring tunes the composer was to write during his brief life of thirty-eight years. Although Mendelssohn considered his tune a secular 17 one, God obviously had a better and higher purpose for it!

* * *

Moravian Church
Originating in Moravia, a region in the former Czechoslovakia, this Protestant denomination was formed after the death of religious reformer John Hus.

In 1457, some supporters of the martyred Hus organized themselves as the Unitas Fratrum (Unity of Brethren). They stressed the sole authority of the Bible; simplicity in worship; receiving the Lord's Supper in faith without authoritative human explanation; and disciplined Christian living. They suffered great persecution during the Thirty Years' War (1618-1648). The group revived in Germany in the early 1700s. They wanted to return to the simple life, and first immigrated to America in 1735.

Hark! The Herald Angels Sing

Hark! the herald angels sing
Glory to the new-born King!
Peace on earth and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled!
Joyful, all ye nations, rise,
Join the triumph of the skies;
With th' angelic host proclaim
Christ is born in Bethlehem!
Hark! the herald angels sing
Glory to the new-born King!

Christ, by highest heaven adored;
Christ, the everlasting Lord;
Late in time behold him come,
Offspring of the Virgin's womb.
Veiled in flesh the Godhead see;
Hail the incarnate Deity,
Pleased as man with man to dwell;
Jesus, our Emmanuel! Refrain

Mild he lays his glory by,
Born that man no more may die,
Born to raise the sons of earth,
Born to give them second birth.
Risen with healing in his wings,
Light and life to all he brings,
Hail, the Sun of Righteousness!
Hail, the heaven-born Prince of Peace! Refrain

Come, Desire of nations come,
Fix in us Thy humble home;
Rise, the Woman's conquering Seed,
Bruise in us the Serpent's head.
Adam's likeness now efface:
Stamp Thine image in its place;
Second Adam, from above,
Reinstate us in thy love. Refrain

How Brightly Beams the Morning Star

2010-03-28T17:35:00.000-07:00

Words and music: Philipp Nicolai

In 1597, a pestilence raged throughout Westphalia (a region of western Germany). Thousands of people died and few families escaped without the loss of one or more of their loved ones. Out of this tragedy sprang one of the greatest hymns, "How Brightly Beams the Morning Star."

Philipp Nicolai, author and composer of the hymn, was a pastor in the city of Unna. The pestilence had already taken its toll on several of his relatives. Early one morning, as he sat in his study, weary and downcast, he lifted up his heart to God, and found comfort in his sorrow. He forgot his cares and was seized with the inspiration to write this song.

Nicolai first published his hymn in 1599. It was used for almost all religious occasions, especially weddings, funerals, and Communion. As early as 1610, Nicolai's hymn appeared in the hymnal of Sweden, where it was used during the Christmas season.

Johann Sebastian Bach, the famous composer, apparently had a high regard for the tune, for he used it as a basic theme in one of his greatest organ preludes,35 and included it in one of his cantatas.

How Brightly Beams the Morning Star

How brightly beams the Morning Star!
What sudden radiance from afar
Doth glad us with its shining.
Thy word, Jesus, truly feeds us,
Rightly leads us, life bestowing.
Praise, O praise such love o'er flowing.

The ray of God that breaks our night
And fills the darkened souls with light,
Who long for truth were pining.
Thy word, Jesus, truly feeds us,
Rightly leads us, life bestowing.
Praise, O praise such love o'er flowing.

How Firm a Foundation

2010-03-28T17:30:00.000-07:00

Words: probably Robert Keene
Music: Samuel Webbe, Sr. (1740-1816)

"How Firm a Foundation," is sung to the same tune as "O Come, All Ye Faithful." With lyrics believed to have been written by Robert Keene, one of the musical directors of London's churches, "How Firm a Foundation" became immensely popular. This hymn was the personal choice of General Robert E. Lee, commander of the Confederate Army during the U.S. Civil War, who requested that it be sung at his funeral "as an expression of his full trust in the ways of the Heavenly Father."

How Firm a Foundation

How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord,
Is laid for your faith in His excellent Word!
What more can He say than to you He hath said,
You, who unto Jesus for refuge have fled?

In every condition, in sickness, in health;
In poverty’s vale, or abounding in wealth;
At home and abroad, on the land, on the sea,
As thy days may demand, shall thy strength ever be.

Fear not, I am with thee, O be not dismayed,
For I am thy God and will still give thee aid;
I’ll strengthen and help thee, and cause thee to stand
Upheld by My righteous, omnipotent hand.

When through the deep waters I call thee to go,
The rivers of woe shall not thee overflow;
For I will be with thee, thy troubles to bless,
And sanctify to thee thy deepest distress.

When through fiery trials thy pathways shall lie,
My grace, all sufficient, shall be thy supply;
The flame shall not hurt thee; I only design
Thy dross to consume, and thy gold to refine.

Even down to old age all My people shall prove
My sovereign, eternal, unchangeable love;
And when hoary hairs shall their temples adorn,
Like lambs they shall still in My bosom be borne.

The soul that on Jesus has leaned for repose,
I will not, I will not desert to its foes;
That soul, though all hell should endeavor to shake,
I’ll never, no never, no never forsake.

I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day

2010-03-28T17:28:00.000-07:00

Words: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)
Music: John Baptiste Calkin (1827-1905)

This carol was written on December 25, 1863, when the American Civil War (1861-1865) was at its height. The famous poet, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was saddened by the horrors of this conflict, for "hate seemed overstrong at the moment." His son, who was serving as lieutenant in the Union Army at the time, had been wounded.

When Longfellow heard the Christmas bells chiming out, he came to the realization, from the depths of his despair, that "God is not dead, nor doth He sleep!" He believed that God is powerful enough to overcome the world's strife, and to bring peace and good will to Earth. And in ending each stanza, the poet stresses this idea with the phrase, "Of peace on Earth, good will to men."

I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day

I heard the bells on Christmas day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

I thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along th’unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

And in despair I bowed my head:
“There is no peace on earth,” I said,
“For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.”

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
“God is not dead, nor doth he sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail,
With peace on earth, good will to men.”

Till, ringing, singing, on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime, a chant sublime,
Of peace on earth, good will to men!

Joy to the World

2010-03-28T17:25:00.000-07:00

Words: Isaac Watts (1674-1748)
Music: George Frederick Handel (1685-1759),
Dr. Lowell Mason (1792-1872)

Dramatic changes occurred in the 18th century in the way hymns were written and sung, largely due to the ideas and achievements of Isaac Watts. Born in Southampton, England, the son of a church deacon, and eldest of nine children, Isaac wrote his first poem when he was seven. In the seventy years that followed, he wrote some of the most beautiful hymns in the English language.

Very early in life, Isaac had a passion for hymn singing. His father was imprisoned twice for his religious views, and Isaac's mother used to carry him in her arms as she stood at the prison gate, singing hymns to cheer her husband who was inside.

At an early age, Isaac learned to play the piano, and, to the delight of his parents, often composed little songs. While still a young boy, Isaac noticed the lack of enthusiasm in congregational singing at their church, and questioned the quality of the songs. Around this time, in the late 1600s, congregational church singing was led by a song leader (called a "clerk") who stood up, faced the audience, and selected a Psalm to be sung. Only Psalms were sung in the church, as it was considered sacrilege to use any other writings from the Bible or otherwise for the lyrics of religious songs. The clerk would say or sing one line of the Psalm, and the people, in turn, would repeat what had been said or sung by the clerk. This method was called "lining-out."

Isaac's father challenged him to write new hymns for the people to sing. So Isaac, at about the age of fifteen, composed his first hymn, and it received an enthusiastic response. Soon afterward he produced several others that were readily accepted by his father's congregation.

The people enjoyed singing Watts' hymns. Watts intended his hymns to be sung as complete stanzas, rather than as disconnected lines. He urged congregations to sing Psalms and hymns as they do today, one line immediately after the other. Also, he felt that Christian congregational singing should not be confined to Psalms, but that it should include freely composed hymns on Biblical subjects. In Isaac Watts' day, these were very radical changes!

Isaac continued with his studies, and in 1702, after his ordination as a minister of the Gospel, he became pastor of a church in London, which he served for the rest of his life.

Isaac Watts was a brilliant educator (the textbooks he wrote were used for more than 100 years), a notable poet, and the best known of all London ministers in his day. Declining health compelled Watts to resign his pulpit, and he accepted the position from the Lord Mayor of London--Sir Thomas and Lady Abney--of tutoring their children. Sir Thomas made Watts the private chaplain of his household, and Watts was held in great esteem by the Abneys, who considered it an honor to have him in their home.

Watt's talents and leadership helped raise the standards of both the lyrics and the music of hymns, for which he has been rightly called by some, "the father and liberator of the English hymn."

More than four hundred of his hymns are in common use in English-speaking countries today, the two most famous of which are "When I Survey the Wondrous Cross" and "Joy to the World."

One of Watts' music projects was a volume of hymns based upon the Psalms of David. In preparing this volume, Watts read into Psalm 98 all the joy of the coming of the Messiah. Basing his hymn principally on verses 4, 6, 8 and 9, he wrote his finest Christmas hymn, beginning with the lines:

"Joy to the world,
The Lord is come,
Let Earth receive her King!
Let every heart
Prepare Him room,
And Heav'n and nature sing."

Even 70 years after this milestone publication of Watts', there were still some Christians who believed that God stopped singing when David the Psalmist died, and that for believers to sing anything other than the metrical 12 versions of the Old Testament Psalms was heresy 13 of the worst sort. They despised the works of hymn revolutionists Watts and Charles Wesley, saying they were of "human composition." Yet battles have been fought and victories won by Christians singing these great hymns of faith.

At first, "Joy to the World" was sung to music composed by Dr. Hodges (and his tune is still used at times). But later Dr. Lowell Mason set it to a musical theme from "The Messiah" by George Frederick Handel, making "Joy to the World" one of the most joyous Christmas hymns.

Joy to the World

Joy to the world! the Lord is come;
Let earth receive her King;
Let every heart prepare Him room,
and heaven and nature sing,
and heaven and nature sing,
and heaven, and heaven and nature sing.

Joy to the earth! the Savior reigns;
Let men their songs employ;
while fields and floods,
rocks, hills and plains
Repeat the sounding joy,
Repeat the sounding joy,
Repeat, repeat the sounding joy.

No more let sins and sorrows grow,
nor thorns infest the ground;
He comes to make His blessing flow
far as the curse is found,
far as the curse is found,
far as, far as the curse is found.

He rules the world with truth and grace,
and makes the nations prove
the glories of His righteousness,
and wonders of His love,
and wonders of His love,
and wonders, wonders of His love.