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.”
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Monday, December 13, 2010
An Angel Among Us
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.
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.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Our New Holiday Tradition
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.
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.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
A Pocketful of Memories
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.
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.
Friday, December 10, 2010
A Coat For Mother
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.
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.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Yearlong Gift Dazzles A Dad
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
The Christmas Star
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.
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.
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