Christmas Devotional 2010

 By Thomas S. Monson

This joyful season brings to all of us a measure of happiness that corresponds to the degree to which we have turned our minds, feelings, and actions to the Savior, whose birth we celebrate. There's no better time than now, this very Christmas season, for all of us to rededicate ourselves to the principles taught by Jesus the Christ. Let it be a time that lights the eyes of children and puts laughter on their lips. Let it be time for lifting the lives of those who live in loneliness. Let it be a time for calling our families together, for feeling a closeness to those who are near to us and a closeness also to those who are absent. Let it be a time of prayers for peace, for the preservation of free principles, and for the protection of those who are far from us. Let it be a time of forgetting self and finding time for others. Let it be a time for discarding the meaningless and for stressing the true values. Let it be a time of peace because we have found peace in His teachings. Most of all, let it be a time to remember the birth of our Savior, Jesus Christ, that we may share in the song of the angels, the gladness of the shepherds, and the worship of the Wise Men. My brothers and sisters, may the spirit of love which comes at Christmastime fill our homes and our lives and linger there long after the tree is down and the lights are put away for another year.

Red and Green Birthday

 By Linda K. Harris

People say December birthdays get lost in the holiday rush, and for a long time that’s how I felt about being a December baby. When my first-grade teacher announced that each student would get to wear a special pin and hand out treats on her birthday, I was excited, until my mom pointed out that school would not be in session on December 24.

“You can bring cookies the day before Christmas vacation,” she said.

“But that’s not the real day!” I protested. 

No amount of coaxing could console me.

I started compiling a grievance list: My presents were always wrapped in green-and-red paper or snowy scenes with Santa Claus, not real birthday paper. Gifts were combined with Christmas presents, with the explanation, “Since it was so close to your birthday, I decided to give you one present.” And parties . . . it was almost impossible to schedule a big party for December 24.

The morning I turned 10, I rushed into the kitchen to find Mom baking cookies in the shapes of Christmas trees and stars. She looked at me in dismay. “I can’t believe I forgot!” she said. “I haven’t even baked a cake!”

That did it. I decided my birthday was an enormous inconvenience for everyone. 

Finally, when I hit college, I came up with a solution and called Mom.

“I’ve decided to pick a new month to celebrate my birthday,” I said. “How about April?”

“What in the world are you talking about?” she asked.

“Well, you know how December is such a busy month for everyone.”

There was silence, and then she said, “You have no idea how wonderful it was for us to bring you home from the hospital on Christmas Eve.” She was crying.

So, I didn’t change the month. But when I got married, I vowed I would never have a December baby. My firstborn arrived in February. His brother was born four years later in May. But then nature took its course. My third child was due . . . in December. On the tenth, I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl.

The night we brought her home the crisp winter sky shone with thousands of stars and the radio played Christmas carols. As I carried her into the house I spotted the decorated tree, and the Nativity scene beneath it. Finally, I understood what my mother had meant. What a wonderful time to have a child, with the world poised to celebrate the newness of life. What a gift it is to share a month with the greatest birthday of all! 

Secret Gift from the Great Depression

 By Ted Gup

On December 22, 1933, something wonderful and unexplained happened to Felice May. It was the night before her 4th birthday and two days before Christmas, but in the past neither day had been any different than the other chore-filled days of her Depression-era childhood. 

But on that night, Felice's parents did something they had never done before. In their rickety Model T with its torn canvas roof, they drove into town, showed Felice the dazzling Christmas lights, and led her to the five-and-dime store, where they offered her a choice of a doll or a small wooden pony on a pull string. She chose the pony. It was her only store-bought toy.

It was a night Felice would never forget. But it was also a night that left her with a mystery that lasted through the years: how could her parents have afforded such a gift when they were so down on their luck? Felice's parents had no money. It was still in the depths of the Depression.

Even today, at 81, she remembers the pleasure that wooden pony gave her and how she pulled it around the hardscrabble farm she grew up on outside Canton, Ohio. That wooden horse brought untold joy into an otherwise bleak and threadbare childhood.

Today Felice May raises miniature ponies. But how, she's always wondered, could her parents have afforded such a gift when they, like millions of other Americans, were so down on their luck.

It was I as an investigative reporter who provided, or rather stumbled, across the answer. In June 2008, my 80-year-old mother, Virginia, handed me a battered old black suitcase that had belonged to her mother and it took me a little time to figure out what I was looking at.

Here is what I pieced together from the contents of the suitcase. On December 18, 1933, a Canton resident who called himself "B. Virdot" took out a tiny ad in the local newspaper offering to help his fellow townspeople in a modest way so that they and their children might know the joy of Christmas.

He asked them to write to him and tell them what they were going through, and he pledged that just as no one would ever learn his true name, he would never reveal the names of those who wrote to him.

He was deluged with letters, all of them dated December 18, 1933. A few days later, the mysterious B. Virdot mailed out a flurry of 150 five dollar bills to families across the town. Back then, five dollars was more like 80 dollars.

I came to realize that the name, "B. Virdot," was a combination of his three names - Barbara my sister, Virginia my mother, and Dotsy my sister. Among the letters in the suitcase was one from Felice May's mother, Edith.

"If I only had five dollars, I would think I am in heaven. I would buy a pair of shoes for my oldest boy in school. His toes are all out & no way to give him a pair. He was six in October. Then I have a little girl who will be four two days before Xmas + a boy of 18 months. I could give them all something for Xmas + I would be very happy... Please do help me! My husband don't know I am writing & I haven't even a stamp, but I am going to beg the mailman to post this for me." And the postman did just that.

The girl about to turn four was Felice and a portion of the money provided by B. Virdot bought that wooden pony. When I shared the letter with Felice, she was barely able to speak. And who was this mysterious Santa named "B. Virdot?" He was my grandfather. His true name: Sam Stone.

For the past two years I have been using Ancestry.com plus a handful of genealogy tricks and tools to track down the descendants of the letter-writers. I wanted to learn what had become of them, wondering how they survived the Depression and what affect - if any - the small gift might have had on them.

I also dug into my own grandfather's past in search of an answer about why he had made the gifts. Both of these quests yielded some stunning surprises - so many that I was able to compile them into a book, A Secret Gift.

Felice May's story is but one of scores that pay tribute to the character of those who endured the hard times. It is also a testament to the power of small gestures and the need for all of us to stay connected, particularly in times of hardship.

~ The Author is Ted Gup and this is from his book "A Secret Gift" which is "How One Man's Kindness--and a Trove of Letters--Revealed the Hidden History of the Great Depression."

A Perfect Christmas

 By Carla Shows Harris

Our house looked like the holiday spread in a decorating magazine, with garland framing the front door, stockings on the mantelpiece and bowls of cinnamon spice potpourri scattered about. But was it possible for a wife and mother ever to be completely ready for Christmas? Nine days, that’s what I had—and a million things to do. How would I get our Christmas cards ready when I couldn’t even take a decent picture of the kids to put in it?

“Boys!” I snapped, on edge. “Picture time.” Jackson, four, and 19-month-old Clay came running. I’d taken 72 shots of them and wasn’t happy with a one. This warm Saturday morning I was determined to get it right, even if the boys would be hot in the outfits I’d chosen. I fussed with the presents and rearranged the porcelain Nativity with Baby Jesus front and center, animals in a neat semicircle around him. Everything had to be perfect.

I popped a roll of 36 into the camera and looked through the viewfinder. Jackson was holding his favorite stuffed animal. “Honey, we’re not gonna put Rabbit in this picture, okay?” Jackson handed him over, grudgingly. He loved Rabbit. He slept with that old thing every single night, and it showed. Rabbit’s neck flopped to one side and his button eyes were off center. He was so threadbare I had to wash him in the gentle cycle inside a pillowcase. When Rabbit was in Jackson’s arms, all was well with the world. But that didn’t mean he belonged in our Christmas card picture.

“Okay, boys, heads together. Say cheese.” Click. “Clay! Sit still.” Click. “Smile. No funny faces, Jackson.” I took the last shot as my husband, Richey, came into the living room.

“Hey, Jackson,” he said, “let’s hit the mall for some last-minute shopping.”

“Good idea,” I said. “Clay and I will get the film developed at that one-hour place by Mama and Daddy’s. Mama and I still have to iron out the Christmas menu.”

I went to my room and put on something cooler. The weather wasn’t exactly cooperating in the perfect Christmas department. Temperatures in the seventies! In December! I saw my Bible lying open on the nightstand and closed it. That book stayed as close to me nights as Jackson’s Rabbit did to him. Lord, I prayed, help me prepare for your day.

My big guys drove off. Clay and I went in the opposite direction. We dropped off the film, and I looked up to see an eerie gray bank of clouds approaching. Tornado weather. I flicked on the car radio. “Warnings are in effect for the following counties,” the announcer said. Thank heavens, South Tuscaloosa County, where we live, was in the clear.

By the time we got to Mama and Daddy’s the wind was howling. “Carla!” Daddy said. “Where are Richey and Jackson? That tornado’s a real threat.” I prayed they were safe and rushed to the TV. The forecast had changed. “If you are in South Tuscaloosa County,” the meteorologist said, “get to your safe place immediately.”

“Let’s get to the Jaggerses basement,” Daddy said. I swept Clay up in my arms. Halfway there, Daddy turned and looked behind him. His eyes said fear. I had to see for myself. I looked—

A black, undulating mass, huge as a building, bore down on us. “Run!” I screamed. Mr. Jaggers met us at the door. “Everybody’s downstairs!” he shouted. We scrambled into the basement and bolted the door. What about Richey and Jackson? Lord, keep them safe. Keep us all safe. That’s all I ask.

Finally, the wind died down. It was okay to go outside. That first step into daylight was always the worst. You never knew what would be waiting out there. A yard strewn with tree branches—or an empty hole where a house once stood. We came out of the basement to find the neighborhood unscathed. Mama and Daddy were lucky. What about my house?

“I have to get home,” I said. Richey was probably already there with Jackson.

“Daddy will go with you,” Mama said. “I’ll keep Clay here. Just in case . . . ”

All the way home traffic lights were out, water spewed from hydrants, big oaks lay uprooted. We turned into our neighborhood. Folks stood outside their houses—some with sections of roof missing. Furniture, paper, clothes, appliances and lumber lay everywhere. “Just drive, Baby,” Daddy said. 

We reached our street. My heart pounded. Houses untouched by the storm stood next to others that had been destroyed. I turned the corner. And then I saw our house—the picture-perfect house with the garland around the door. The home I had readied for Christmas.

The garage and front porch were demolished. The second story was ripped clean off. The first floor interior walls stood bare and exposed. A stray garland dangled from a pipe. Richey and Jackson walked up. I got out of the car and fell into my husband’s arms. Daddy took Jackson. “I’m sorry,” Richey said. “I’m so sorry.”

Hand in hand, we stepped over the threshold of what had been our house and picked our way through the debris to the spot where the Christmas tree had been. We’ve lost everything, I thought. Everything.

I made my way to our bedroom and wiped the tears and dust from my eyes. Then I saw it—my Bible, lying on the bedside table, exactly as I had left it that morning. I opened the cover. The inside was wet and gritty. The acrid, fishy smell of the storm permeated each page. But it was there, still there, unmoved even by a tornado. Yes, Lord, you kept me and my family safe. Thank you.

Friends showed up. They took our linens home to wash, boxed up what was salvageable, carted off furniture to storage. Somebody we didn’t know delivered sandwiches and coffee. Darkness and rain stopped our work. We camped out at Mama and Daddy’s for the night. Clay was young enough to think this was an adventure. Jackson kept up a brave front.

“There’s so much to do,” I moaned to Richey when we finally lay down to rest. “Where do we start?”

“With a good night’s sleep, Carla. Close your eyes,” he said.

The next day, December 17, dawned clear and cold. We were back at the house by 8:00 A.M., sifting through the wreckage. Jackson had begged to come with us. I watched him out in the backyard, hands clasped behind his back, head down, moving through the debris one step at a time. I knew what he was looking for. Rabbit. We’ve lost everything we owned, and all Jackson can think about is Rabbit.

Just a day before, I was worried about the packages under the tree, our Christmas cards, the dinner menu. Now there were no presents. There was no tree. No house to celebrate in. There was no Christmas. But Jackson didn’t comprehend the totality of our loss. For him, there was simply no Rabbit. And that sting distracted him from the real pain of realizing we had been completely wiped out. Maybe, in a strange way, that would be Rabbit’s final comfort for my son.

I wondered about all the people surrounding us, friends and strangers alike. Their Christmases hadn’t been ruined. What about their last-minute preparations? What were they doing here with us? Nobody talked much while we worked, but word got around about what Jackson was looking for so hard.

A coworker of Richey’s found a framed photograph of me and Richey in his yard, five miles away. I had always cherished that picture. It was taken in the early days of our marriage when we used to talk a lot about what was most important to us and what we wanted out of life. To love and be loved, we agreed, first by God and each other and the family we hoped to start. I stooped down and pulled a soaked baby sock from a pile of bricks. A lady crouched next to me. “We all put a few Santa gifts in the backseat of your car for the boys,” she whispered. The woman patted my shoulder and went back to sifting through the wreckage.

I looked up at the sky. To love and be loved, I thought. We did, and we were. The worst had happened: The tornado had blown apart my perfect Christmas. But Christmas didn’t need me to make it perfect. Wasn’t it perfect already? Made perfect by the love God sent the world 2,000 years ago. That’s where Richey and I would start to rebuild our lives: We’d start with Christmas. I never thought I’d say it, but I was truly ready for it.

“Hey, everybody!” my brother-in-law shouted. “Look over here! Look what I found!” He held something high above his head. Jackson scrambled over the rubble. 

“Rabbit! You’re alive!” Jackson grabbed him and danced around. Everyone cheered. All was well with the world. It was Christmas, all right.

I had a hard time choosing a photograph of the boys from that last roll of 36. Tree out of focus, the boys engaged in high jinks . . . every shot was a winner. Not perfect, maybe, but real.

Last night in our new house, three years after the tornado, Jackson slept soundly in his room with Rabbit. I sat in my room with my Bible open in my lap. I’ve grown accustomed to the smell, but I’m still cleaning the pages. I take my time. I slide my hand down, wiping off the grit slowly, clearing verses before I read the truth of their words. The grit in my Bible kept me real while I prepared this past Christmas. I left the perfect for the One who is. 

Bursting “The Bubble” at Christmas

 By Linda and Richard Eyre

For us there were many years of the stress of trying to fill the Christmas wish lists of nine children. I remember that one of my most stressful Christmas experiences was standing in a long line for the desire of our seven-year-old daughter Shawni's heart: A Baby Alive doll. Just as I got to the front of the line, much to my chagrin, the woman in front of me got the very last doll. I was devastated trying to figure out how to tell Shawni that Baby Alive was dead! 

Then there was the Christmas when we discovered at about 2 a.m. on Christmas morning that the main "Santa gift" for our little six-year-old Jonah which was a little robot that could actually sweep the floor (six inches at a time) and had been stored in the garage in a black garbage bag for several weeks had somehow apparently been inadvertently thrown away. Great idea to put it in a garbage bag…in the garage, right?

One year when our house was full of teenagers along with kids down to about 10, we decided that enough was enough. The last thing we needed was a bunch more "stuff"! We knew that our kids were living in a bubble with no realization of the real world or the situation that much of the world living in poverty faced every day of their lives. 

After careful deliberation we took a deep breath and told the kids that what they would be getting for Christmas that year, in lieu of all the gifts and paraphernalia that previously permeated Christmas was a ticket to Bolivia. This project, sponsored by a great humanitarian group in Salt Lake City called CHOICE Humanitarian.

On Christmas morning we loaded our rides to the airport with a ridiculous amount of "stuff" not for us but for the villagers living in a remote village called Tuni on the Altiplano (high plains of the Andes Mountains). A previous humanitarian group had built a cistern on a little hill about a half a mile from the village to catch water. It was our goal to help finish digging trenches with picks and shovels in the rock-hard soil for PVC pipe so that by New Year's Day we could turn on the spigot in the center of the village which would be the first running water in their history.

The work was hard, and we were gasping for breath at 14,000 feet but our kids fell in love with the village children. It had been a really hard decision for our youngest child, Charity to give up her Santa list! We gave her the choice to stay with Grandma where Santa would surely find her, but after careful thought, she decided to come and was overjoyed at what she experienced!

In addition to the hard work, our teenagers had the time of their lives playing with the village kids and looking into the one-room mud homes and dirt floors of these humble villagers. We had two kids who spoke some Spanish which was helpful, but for the most part, language wasn't important. The love we felt for each other was. 

One of our most fun activities after being greeted by the village band and a shower of Bolivian confetti was taking Polaroid pictures of the families. They had never seen a picture of themselves, nor did they have mirrors, so it was hard for them to even know how they looked. It was so fun to see them examine who they were in these pictures. I'm sure those pictures are still hanging in their homes all these years later! 

It would take a whole book to really explain the world of good that came to our family from that stunning experience, which became the first of many. Let us just say that the villagers were a bit dubious about the water project actually working. After all, there were places where the PVC pipe went uphill for a while, and they just didn't see how it would work. So, you can imagine the joy on the faces of the villagers when the village mayor turned on that faucet in the village on January 1st and water spewed out. But the looks on the faces of our children were…..priceless! 

Doll Brings Lesson on Christmas

 By Adrianna Cabello

"Tell Santa what you'd like," Mother urges, as I stare suspiciously up at the whiskered old man. I eye him nervously. I don't want to talk to him, I don't even want to look at him, but I can't risk ruining my own Christmas. Like Ralphy and his Red Ryder, I am resolute. My Christmas will not be complete without a perfect, beautiful, porcelain doll.

I whisper my request and leap from his lap without waiting for the candy cane he is undoubtedly trying to hand me. I never liked those anyway. I cower behind my mom as I wait for my sister, Lauren, to take her chances with the scary old imposter. And that's when I hear it. Of course, she asks for a porcelain doll. My eternal copycat. 

As I stomp through the slushy mall parking lot, I try to ignore her, but that proves to be impossible. When I try to hold Mom's hand, she grabs the other. When I fold my arms angrily in the car, Lauren does the same. Why couldn't I have been an only child? I try to ignore her for the next two weeks as I ready our room for the doll that is sure to be coming. From the corner of my eye, I can see her, folding the blankets and polishing the tea set, just like me. Can't she do anything on her own?

When the glorious morning finally arrives, we rush down the staircase to find that Santa did not disappoint. There, beneath the glittering lights of the Christmas tree, are two beautiful dolls. One with dark black hair for me, and the other adorned with bouncing blond curls like Lauren. My doll is perfect. Her bright brown eyes stare cheerfully up at me, set off by her rosy red cheeks. Her deep purple dress will match my bedroom perfectly. Surprisingly, I am so enthralled by my own perfect gift that I forget to be angry with Lauren, my copycat. We play together all morning and I even have fun with her, though I'd never admit it. 

When it's time to go to Grandma's house, we buckle our dolls into their seat belts. I am literally counting the seconds until I get to show her. Grandmas are the best at being excited about Christmas things. When the minivan finally skids to a stop on the icy driveway, I throw the sliding door open. Grandma's going to see my doll first.

I sprint through the snow-covered grass, dashing up the stairs to the front door. Almost there. Right when my fingers touch the chilly brass knob, shattering glass echoes through the quiet evening air.

Whipping around, I see my sister, planted face first on the cold cement steps, with tiny shards from the little doll's face scattered in the snow around her. My voice catches in my throat, and I'm unsure what to say as I watch her eyes well with tears. I shouldn't care. I didn't want her to copy me in the first place. But against my will, all of my excited Christmas feelings are gone. I try to smile as I trudge into Grandma's house, but I can't seem to get over those little painted pieces lying in the snow. 

Daddy carries Lauren inside, but she is inconsolable. She sobs on the couch and her crying makes me so upset I feel too guilty to even bother showing Grandma my doll. I hide it under my coat instead. It just doesn't feel right to be happy. I'd be destroyed if it were my doll that was broken. 

Lauren is still crying when we get home much later that night. As Mommy tucks us into bed I stare through the darkness at the faceless doll that lies at her bedside. After what seems like hours, Lauren finally quiets down. I tiptoe across the carpet, snagging the doll by the hem of her dress, and sneak out of our bedroom to the stairs. At the bottom of the flight, I heave a decisive breath. I know what I need to do. 

In the quiet of the Christmas night, Daddy helps me pick the sleek black hair from my own doll's head, replacing it with the curly blond locks from Lauren's broken doll. When we've finished our work, even switching the dresses, the doll is barely distinguishable from its broken counterpart. 

I place the new doll by Lauren's bed and crawl under my covers, excited for morning. Even though I no longer have my precious gift, I have something even better. This year for Christmas I learned what Christmas is really all about. 

Christmas Birth Countered Ravages of War

 By Brice J. Hallows

For unto you is born this day… 

After enduring months of fighting and day-to-day survival under grueling combat conditions with the 6th Marine Division on Okinawa, the final surrender of Japan that summer of 1945 was a dream I had never dared hope for. 

During the campaign I saw many good friends lose their lives in the struggle. There had been too many close calls for me as well — not excluding the time I had my appendix removed by a MASH surgeon, the many times I had heard the zip of bullets whistling past my helmet or the occasion my rifle was struck by a bullet and ripped from my grasp with the force of a sledgehammer. 

For me, still just 19 years old, thoughts of home that had been snuffed dim for a time now filled my soul with hope once again. Christmas always afforded me a peaceful feeling in my heart, and I greatly anticipated this one because I was battle-weary and ready for peace of heart and mind. This Christmas would be a time for reflection and healing. 

My duties now took me to Tsingtao, China. I was among a select group of Marine guards chosen to assist a ship crew in escorting a thousand Japanese civilians from China back to their homeland of Japan. This was part of the surrender treaty agreements. I boarded with a one-gallon honey tin packed full of Christmas surprises my folks had mailed to me. My thoughts drifted to home as I pondered Christmas so far away from my family. 

My heart went out to these Japanese people as I read the sorrow on their faces and their apprehension as they embarked on a new life in a homeland many had never seen. They had established China as their home, raised families and built up businesses. 

This, along with my own deep personal feelings concerning the ugliness and tragedies of the war, made me feel much compassion. Passengers shared crude facilities. They had to supply their own food and blankets for the five-day trip. Shelter on the ship's decks was very basic. The weather was poor, and the ship churned, vibrated, and rocked through the choppy Pacific waters. 

Late on the eve of Christmas we neared the once large, beautiful city of Kagoshema, Japan, our destination. People peered anxiously from the cold deck into the night to catch a glimpse of their new home and seemed overwhelmed with emotion and sadness. Even under a stormy sky and dim lights you could see signs of the devastation wreaked by Allied bombing that had preceded the surrender. 

About midnight, without much to remind us of Christmas, a medical corpsman came by and asked a few of us if we'd like to gather and do something "Christmassy." Out of sheer creativeness, we fashioned a delightful 8-inch-tall Christmas tree constructed from tongue depressors, cotton swab sticks, cotton balls and tape. We used red iodine and green disinfectant to color the festive tree creation. During that hour we shared cherished Christmas memories and tender feelings about home. 

As we sang Christmas carols, a knock came at the door. A polite Japanese gentleman stepped in and asked the assistance of the medical corpsman for a young mother who was in labor and threatening delivery. We jumped to help, gathering towels, blankets and supplies to comfort her during this frightening ordeal. With true compassion, our corpsman provided critical assistance during the delivery. Soon a healthy baby boy was born and placed whimpering into his tired mother's arms. We all experienced such a feeling of awe at the miracle of birth and life under those stark and lowly circumstances. 

Upon our return to quarters, we resumed our simple observances, closed by reading the Christ child's Nativity from Luke. Later, as we parted for the night, wishing each other a very "Merry Christmas," I looked out into the turbulent night sky and was astounded to see a bright glimmering star, a beam of hope from the heavens. My heart skipped a beat as I pondered the coincidence and strange events of this night. I repeated in my mind, "Peace on earth, good will to men; for unto you is born this day in the City of David a Savior which is Christ the Lord.“ 

That most memorable Christmas journey was completed that evening across the China Sea in Shanghai, China, where we were warmly treated to gifts and a traditional Christmas dinner at the servicemen's USO. 

Over the past 64 years and through all the wonderful Christmases I have experienced in my life, that simple miracle aboard ship, halfway around the world, still warms my heart as it conjures up one of the most unforgettable Christmases ever.