Teddy

Author Unknown

As she stood in front of her 5th grade class on the very first day of school, she told the children an untruth. Like most teachers, she looked at her students and 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 named Teddy Stoddard.

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

At the school where Mrs. Thompson taught, she was required to review each child's past records and she put Teddy's off until last. However, when she reviewed his file, she was in for a surprise.

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

His second grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is an excellent student, well liked by his classmates, but he is troubled because his mother has a terminal illness and life at home must be a struggle!"

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

Teddy's fourth grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is withdrawn and doesn't show much interest in school.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 even worse when her students brought her Christmas presents, wrapped in beautiful ribbons and bright paper, except for Teddy's. His present was clumsily wrapped in the heavy, brown paper that he got from a grocery bag. Mrs. Thompson took pains to open it in the middle of the other presents. Some of the children started to laugh when she found a rhinestone bracelet with some of the stones missing, and a bottle that was one-quarter full of perfume. But she stifled the children's laughter when she exclaimed how pretty the bracelet was, putting it on, and dabbing some of the perfume on her wrist. Teddy Stoddard stayed after school that day just long enough to say, "Mrs. Thompson, today you smelled just like my Mom used to."

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

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

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

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

Then four more years passed and yet another letter came. This time he explained that after he got his bachelor's degree, he decided to go a little further. The letter 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.

The story does not end there. There was yet another letter that spring. Teddy said he had met this girl and was going to be married. He explained that his father had died a couple of years ago and he was wondering if Mrs. Thompson might agree to sit at the wedding in the place that was usually reserved for the mother 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 the perfume that Teddy remembered his mother wearing on their last Christmas together.

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

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

For you that don't know, Teddy Stoddard is the doctor at Iowa Methodist in Des Moines that has the Stoddard Cancer Wing.

The Appalachian Christmas Tree

by Laurie Hopkins

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

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

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

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

It was 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 in tow—visits were a bit tricky. On one of our rare visits, however, Ruth mentioned to me that they hadn’t been able to get a Christmas tree. Donald left home before dawn and didn’t get back until late evening. Ruth just wasn’t up to traipsing about the countryside in search of a tree.

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

I spent the rest of the evening making paper chains, popcorn strings, and, of course, a yellow star with glitter for the treetop. In the morning I hiked out onto the mountainside and searched until I found a small tree. I hacked it down and found an old can to decorate and fill with dirt for a base. The end product was more laughable than beautiful, but it looked cheery enough—if you sort of squinted your eyes.

I called to ask Ruth if I could come down, then bundled up my kids and made the hike down the mountain. I somehow managed to balance the tree and the children without major mishap and arrived safely at the cabin door. When Ruth answered my knock, she took one look at my comical little tree and burst into tears. I entered the house very much afraid that my idea had not been such a good one after all.

When Ruth regained her composure, she explained her tears. It was late the evening before 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 while three year old Michael said, “Daddy, can we say a prayer?”

Donald asked Michael if he would like to say it. Then with the simple faith of a child, Michael asked Heavenly Father to help them get a Christmas tree. After saying, “Amen,” Donald and Ruth looked at each other, knowing they would have to try harder to satisfy the longing of their little boy’s heart. They were not able to come up with a plan that night and went to bed more than a little perplexed.

So it was that when we appeared with the little tree, we were an answer to more than one prayer. As soon as the Anderson children caught a glimpse of us, they squealed with joy and made a place of honor for the funny looking tree. There could never have been a Christmas tree more loved.

The miracle of that Christmas, however, was not just the prayer that bounced from a little boy’s heart to heaven and back again to the heart of someone who could help. It was also the healing power I found in the act of giving.

From the moment the thought of finding a tree for the Andersons struck me, the spirit of Christmas began to fill my own heart. I was grateful that the Lord loved me enough to try to get through to me and teach me. And I was reminded anew that it is in losing ourselves that we find ourselves. As we serve, we find that “He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds” (Psalm 147:3).

Loading Up The Little Red Wagon

by Annette Paxman Bowen

It was the day before Christmas. Lights and ornaments gleamed from our Christmas tree in the corner window, and the pine aroma filled our home. Packages of various shapes and sizes were wrapped in bright paper and adorned with jauntily tied bows and colorful Christmas stickers. From the stereo came the refrains of Christmas carols. In my pantry, red and green canisters contained treats and goodies: divinity, fudge, iced Christmas cookies, candied pretzels, and brownies. The refrigerator had ingredients for delicious holiday meals: fresh cranberries, a turkey and a ham, mushrooms for stuffing, chestnuts for roasting. 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 husband and three boys to discover in the morning. But I was not yet ready for Christmas in the way that counted: instead of feeling joy and excitement, all I felt was heartache, homesickness, and loneliness. We had recently moved to a new state, and I acutely missed my family, old neighborhood, and dear friends.

As I stood at my window looking at the houses of my new neighbors, tears slipped down 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 can think of, and I’m still sad.”

Moments later, my oldest son came bounding up the stairs. “Hey, Mom! When are we taking treats around to the neighbors?” In our former neighborhood, we had traditionally filled baskets with homemade goodies and delivered them along with a carol on Christmas Eve.

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

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

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

He called 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 12 gifts. Within the hour, we had our little red wagon full of 12 brightly wrapped plates of the best samples from our kitchen. Since we knew no names of our neighbors, we’d added tags that said simply, “Merry Christmas! From your new neighbors, the Bowens.” Then I listed our names, address, and phone number.

I was nervous as we walked up the hill to the first house. I had the boys stand in front of me on the doorstep. They weren’t hesitant at all. As the door opened, the boys started to sing the simple lines of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” and I joined in halfheartedly. I was surprised when the attractive woman standing in the doorway started to sniffle. “Oh, thank you!” she exclaimed. “I’ve never had anyone do anything like this for me in my life! I’ve dreamed of moving into a neighborhood where people did things like this. We just moved in from Spokane.” It turned out her family had preceded us to Bellevue, Washington, by one week.

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

Next, a warmhearted, grandmotherly woman hugged my children after we sang at her door. 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 her doorway and waved to us until we were well on our way.

No one answered at the next door or the next, but we left our gifts on their porches.

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

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

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

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

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

That night, after we’d eaten our traditional dinner, made long-distance calls to the grandparents, hung the stockings, read the beautiful Christmas story from the scriptures, left out cookies and milk for Santa, said a family prayer, and tucked the boys in bed, I returned to the front room to look at the Christmas tree. Visible through the window, our neighbors’ Christmas lights gleamed like stars through the darkness.

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

One Last Carol

by Guy O. Woodward

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

One day in early summer of 1928, Dallin experienced a severe headache that quickly worsened. Doctors came to his home and later confirmed he had the dread disease spinal meningitis. There was o miracle medicine in those days for Dallin, who was just 15 years old. The local hospitals did not have adequate facilities for isolating patients with contagious diseases, so Dallin was confined to his bedroom at home, with only his father, mother, and doctor permitted to enter. It was several weeks before the fever finally broke, but even during the following month, visitors had to stay outside and visit through a window. Gradually his health improved, but the disease left him totally deaf.

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

I will never forget Christmas Eve of 1928—the first Christmas after Dallin’s illness. My brother Ivan and I walked up the snow-covered lane to see him. As we visited with him and his parents, we heard the jangling of sleigh bells and the voices of carolers in the distance. Soon the carolers stopped outside the home and began to sing. We continued talking with Dallin, thinking it would make him sad if he knew they were singing the Christmas carols he loved but couldn’t hear. The last song they sang that night was “Silent Night,” Dallin’s favorite carol. As they began to sing the words, he rose from his chair, walked to the window, and stood motionless until they finished the last verse. He then returned 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.”

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

The Christmas I Remember Best

by Inge Ettrich

As a young girl, I survived World War II in Berlin, Germany. Our country had been pretty much destroyed. I had a chance as the only member of my family to leave Germany 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 about the decision I made so long ago.

Left behind were my parents, a younger sister and brother. Saying goodbye was very difficult. Would we ever see each other again? On Mother's Day my father died. 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 keeping millions of families apart. I was extremely concerned about the safety of my family and I suggested to them, with the support of my dear husband, that they join us here in America. My sister had gotten married and so we needed to come up with four sponsorships. With the help of some very dear friends, we managed.
My family of four boarded the ocean liner "America" in Bremerhaven and 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. The calendar said December 1961. The arrival date for them had been set for a couple of days before Christmas Eve.

I don't think that I had ever been more nervous or excited and thrilled all at the 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. My husband 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 friends donated bedding and other necessary items so that we were able to provide quite comfortable accommodations for our foursome.

During the nail-biting wait period, my husband and I made a major shopping trip to THE store at the time — Grand Central. During the Christmas shopping season, Grand Central provided brown paper shopping bags that were at least four feet tall. These were simply huge! There was absolutely nothing this store did not have. We filled two of these amazing bags with many electric appliance and household goods, up to the very top.

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

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

My 17-year-old brother had learned English in school. This helped the family to at least understand a little about their predicament. It became a very serious situation. Passengers were freezing cold and many other problems kept developing. There was talk about an evacuation but some guardian angel must have done double duty. It's sort of ironic because of this major delay, the arrival time of "our" train ended up being right on Christmas Eve — Christmas morning. Even though our newcomers were utterly exhausted, we all experienced enormous joy. We were elated, ecstatic and so immensely grateful that this roving odyssey had culminated on such a high note.

Many friends and relatives had joined us at the Union Pacific Railroad Station in the middle of the night, giving up their own plans to welcome our globetrotters. Once at home, we just couldn't get enough living in during this Christmas Night. How can one possibly fit six long years of separation into one long 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 other foods 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 each gained five pounds. I would guess that we were most likely one of the very happiest families in the Salt Lake Valley on this rapturous Christmas day.

"Frohliche Weihnachten" or Merry Christmas!

~~~~~~~~~~

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

The Christmas Train

Author Unknown

In 1963, I was a ten-year-old girl living with my parents and four-year-old brother in Madrid, Spain. We were poor Cuban refugees who had left our country just a few months before.

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

That particular winter was bitterly cold in Madrid. Our hospice room was freezing during the day, so we would spend our time walking Madrid's magnificent boulevards. 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 la madre patria was a magnificent start for a new life.

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

Every storefront was a winter wonderland full of dolls, trolleys and every imaginable toy. The storefront at the Corte Inglés department store had a fabulous Christmas village full of enchanting chalets, snow-covered peaks and a shiny red train that circled the town, hooting its horn at every turn.

My younger brother, Santiago, was born during the first year of the Cuban Revolution, and he had never seen such a wondrous toy. Toys were considered a luxury then and were very hard to obtain.

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

Looking at my parents, I just wished Santiago would stop asking. But I also didn't want to destroy the innocence of a hopeful four-year-old. So the next time Santiago ran 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 Madrid for a little while, they probably don't have our address. I don't think we'll be getting any toys this year."

I also told him that once we were settled in the United States, the three wise men would find us once again. To my utter surprise, he accepted my explanation without question, and our excursions up and down the main boulevard continued without any major interruptions.

A year later, we were settled in Union City, New Jersey, the town we had moved to upon 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 school and quickly learning English.

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

On Christmas Day, I woke up early, and to my surprise and delight found several presents underneath the tree with my name on them. But even better than that was watching my brother's face as he opened a square box with a large red bow and his name on it.

Inside was a shiny, brand-new train! The locomotive and caboose resembled the one that had so enthralled my brother a year before. Santiago's face lit up like the Christmas tree. He looked at my parents and me, and his eyes shined with happiness and surprise.

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

Kaden's Fundraising Event

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.)