Because He Came

By Thomas S. Monsen

2011 Christmas Devotional

 

The spirit of Christmas is something I hope all of us would have within our hearts and within our lives, not only at this particular season but throughout the years. A wise Christian once urged, "Let us not spend Christmas ... but let us keep Christmas in our hearts and in our lives." This is my plea tonight, because when we keep the spirit of Christmas, we keep the Spirit of Christ, for the Christmas spirit is the Christ Spirit. It will block out all the distractions around us which could diminish Christmas and swallow up its true meaning.

 

There's no better time than now, this very Christmas season, for all of us to rededicate ourselves to the principles taught by Jesus Christ. Because He came to earth, we have a perfect example to follow. As we strive to become more like Him, we will have joy and happiness in our lives and peace each day of the year. It is His example which, if followed, stirs within us more kindness and love, more respect and concern for others.

Because He came, there's meaning to our mortal existence. Because He came, we know how to reach out to those in trouble or distress, wherever they may be. Because He came, death has lost its sting, the grave its victory. We will live again because He came. Because He came and paid for our sins, we have the opportunity to gain eternal life. Because He came, we're gathered tonight to worship Him, in bonds of brotherhood and love. May His precious Spirit be with us, and may He ever be the center of our celebrations and indeed of our very lives. I pray this prayer on behalf of all of you and through my heart and soul. 

A Christmas Eve Transformation

By Myrle Crown

On Christmas Eve, I waited at the bus station in Salt Lake City, Utah, to pick up my parents after their five-hour bus ride from Vernal, Utah, to spend Christmas with my sister’s family and me. The bus arrived very late—two hours in fact.

 

While I waited, I thought about how difficult this holiday season had been for me. I had tried to focus on my preparations for Christmas, but this year my children were traveling with their own families and my husband had passed away, and I soon discovered that no amount of shopping and wrapping or beautiful Christmas music could lighten my heavy heart. However, I pushed these thoughts from my mind when I saw my parents get off the bus.

 

Soon my mother and I were chatting, waiting in line to pick up their baggage. She casually mentioned that a grandmother on the bus had traveled all the way from Chicago, Illinois, to connect with another bus that would take her to her final destination in Pocatello, Idaho. This traveler was sad and upset, however, because she had missed her connection. Even if she boarded the next bus to Pocatello, she would still miss Christmas with her daughter and new granddaughter.

I pictured in my mind a disappointed grandma alone in a hotel room in a strange city on Christmas Eve. I felt a terrible sadness for her and wanted to do something to help her.

 

I soon found her talking on a pay phone to her daughter. I walked up to her, gently tapped her on the arm, and asked if I could speak with her. She looked startled but put her hand over the receiver and said, “Yes?”

 

“Are you the lady who missed the connection to Pocatello?” I asked.

 

She responded, “Yes.”

 

The next words out of my mouth surprised both my mother and the stranger. “Will you ask your daughter if she is familiar with Tremonton, Utah?”

 

With hesitation in her voice, she asked her daughter the question. “Yes, she knows where that is,” came the reply.

 

“Ask her if she could drive there tonight. That is about halfway from Salt Lake City to Pocatello.”

 

She again relayed my question to her daughter, and again the answer was affirmative.

 

“You two decide on a time to meet,” I said, “and I will have you there—but give her this phone number in the event that something goes wrong, and we need to communicate.”

 

I couldn’t hear any more of the conversation, but after she hung up, she looked at me in utter amazement. My mother, too, was in shock as she said to my stepfather, “Harold, make room in the back of Myrle’s car for this lady’s luggage. She is going home with us.”

 

I introduced myself and my parents to the stranger and learned that her name was Vanessa Black. My stepfather loaded Vanessa’s bags into my little car, Vanessa climbed into the only spot left, and then we all headed to my sister’s house for dinner before leaving for our destination. My heart was joyful as I kept reassuring her that she was no inconvenience (just 80 or so miles out of the way).

 

Our arrival at Tremonton was greeted by an empty town. The service stations and restaurants were closed, and everything was dark as we looked for the place where we were to meet Vanessa’s daughter. Meanwhile, the daughter, who had understood that we would be arriving a half hour earlier, was anxiously trying to contact us by phone. We pulled up to a phone booth, and as my car lights shined into the booth, there stood Vanessa’s daughter. When she saw the lights of my car, she came running, and Vanessa jumped out of the car to embrace her sobbing daughter.

 

After a short introduction, I said, “Well, we both have a drive ahead of us, so we will leave you now. I hope you have a wonderful Christmas.”

 

Her daughter threw her arms around me and in a teary voice responded, “We will, thanks to you! Merry Christmas to you too.”

 

When I look back on that Christmas, my heart warms at the memory of the most joyous, peaceful Christmas I ever had. My gift to Vanessa Black was a perfect way for me to remember the birth of the Savior, who said, “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me” (Matthew 25:40).

 

That Christmas, I received the best possible gift to brighten my Christmas—the gift of giving.

The Ultimate Gift

Author Unknown

Two True Stories:

 

Story #1 Easy Eddie

Many years ago, Al Capone virtually owned Chicago. Capone wasn't famous for anything heroic.   He was notorious for enmeshing the windy city in everything from bootlegged booze and prostitution to murder.

 

Capone had a lawyer nicknamed "Easy Eddie." He was Capone's lawyer for a good reason. Eddie was very good! In fact, Eddie's skill at legal maneuvering kept Big Al out of jail for a long time. To show his appreciation, Capone paid him very well.

 

Not only was the money big, but Eddie got special dividends, as well. For instance, he and his family occupied a fenced-in mansion with live-in help and all the conveniences of the day. The estate was so large that it filled an entire Chicago City block.

 

Eddie lived the high life of the Chicago mob and gave little consideration to the atrocity that went on around him. Eddie did have one soft spot, however. He had a son that he loved dearly. Eddie saw to it that his young son had clothes, cars, and a good education. Nothing was withheld. Price was no object.

 

And, despite his involvement with organized crime, Eddie even tried to teach him right from wrong. Eddie wanted his son to be a better man than he was.

 

Yet, with all his wealth and influence, there were two things he couldn't give his son; he couldn't pass on a good name or a good example.

 

One day, Easy Eddie reached a difficult decision. Easy Eddie wanted to rectify the wrongs he had done. He decided he would go to the authorities and tell the truth about Al "Scarface" Capone, clean up his tarnished name, and offer his son some semblance of integrity. To do this, he would have to testify against The Mob, and he knew that the cost would be great. So, he testified.

 

Within the year, Easy Eddie's life ended in a blaze of gunfire on a lonely Chicago Street. But in his eyes, he had given his son the greatest gift he had to offer, at the greatest price he would ever pay. Police removed from his pockets a rosary, a crucifix, a religious medallion, and a poem clipped from a magazine.

 

The poem read:

 

The clock of life is wound but once,

and no man has the power to tell just

when the hands will stop,

at late or early hour.

 

Now is the only time you own.

Live, love, toil with a will.

Place no faith in time.

For the clock may soon be still.

 

Story #2 Butch O’Hare

 

World War II produced many heroes. One such man was Lieutenant Commander Butch O'Hare.

 

He was a fighter pilot assigned to the aircraft carrier Lexington in the South Pacific.

 

One day his entire squadron was sent on a mission. After he was airborne, he looked at his fuel gauge and realized that someone had forgotten to top off his fuel tank.

He would not have enough fuel to complete his mission and get back to his ship.

 

His flight leader told him to return to the carrier. Reluctantly, he dropped out of formation and headed back to the fleet.

As he was returning to the mother ship, he saw something that turned his blood cold; a squadron of Japanese aircraft was speeding its way toward the American Fleet.

 

The American fighters were gone on a sortie, and the fleet was all but defenseless. He couldn't reach his squadron and bring them back in time to save the fleet. Nor could he warn the fleet of the approaching danger. There was only one thing to do. He must somehow divert them from the fleet.

 

Laying aside all thoughts of personal safety, he dove into the formation of Japanese planes. Wing-mounted 50 caliber's blazed as he charged in, attacking one surprised enemy plane and then another. Butch wove in and out of the now broken formation and fired at as many planes as possible until all his ammunition was finally spent.

Undaunted, he continued the assault. He dove at the planes, trying to clip a wing or tail in hopes of damaging as many enemy planes as possible, rendering them unfit to fly. Finally, the exasperated Japanese squadron took off in another direction.

 

Deeply relieved, Butch O'Hare and his tattered fighter limped back to the carrier.

Upon arrival, he reported in and related the events surrounding his return. The film from the gun-camera mounted on his plane told the tale. It showed the extent of Butch's daring attempt to protect his fleet. He had, in fact, destroyed five enemy aircraft. This took place on February 20, 1942, and for that action Butch became the Navy's first Ace of World War II, and the first Naval Aviator to win the Medal of honor.

 

A year later Butch was killed in aerial combat at the age of 29. His hometown would not allow the memory of this World War II hero to fade, and today, O'Hare Airport in Chicago is named in tribute to the courage of this great man.

 

So, the next time you find yourself at O'Hare International, give some thought to visiting Butch's memorial displaying his statue and his medal of Honor. It's located between Terminals 1 and 2.

 

What do these stories have to do with one another?

 

Butch O'Hare was "Easy Eddie's" son.

Though Christmas is not mentioned in either story, each of these men gave the ultimate gift – his life. 

Lucy

Author Unknown 

When a tornado touched down in a small town nearby, many families were left devastated. Afterward, all the local newspapers carried many human interest stories featuring some of the families who suffered the hardest.

 

One Sunday, a particular picture especially touched me. A young woman stood in front of a totally demolished mobile home, an anguished expression twisting her features. A young boy, seven or eight years old, stood at her side, eyes downcast. Clutching at her skirt was a tiny girl who stared into the camera, eyes wide with confusion and fear.

 

The article that accompanied the picture gave the clothing sizes of each family member. With growing interest, I noticed that their sizes closely matched ours. This would be a good opportunity to teach my children to help those less fortunate than themselves. I taped the picture of the young family to our refrigerator, explaining their plight to my seven-year-old twins, Brad and Brett, and to three-year-old Meghan.

"We have so much, and these poor people now have nothing," I said. "We'll share what we have with them."

 

I brought three large boxes down from the attic and placed them on the living room floor. Meghan watched solemnly as the boys and I filled one of the boxes with canned goods and other nonperishable foods, soap and other assorted toiletries.

While I sorted through our clothes, I encouraged the boys to go through their toys and donate some of their less favorite things. Meghan watched quietly as the boys piled up discarded toys and games.

 

"I'll help you find something for the little girl when I'm done with this," I said.

The boys placed the toys they had chosen to donate into one of the boxes while I filled the third box with clothes. Meghan walked up with Lucy, her worn, faded, frazzled, much-loved rag doll hugged tightly to her chest. She paused in front of the box that held the toys, pressed her round little face into Lucy's flat, painted-on-face, gave her a final kiss, then laid her gently on top of the other toys.

 

"Oh, honey," I said. "You don't have to give Lucy. You love her so much."

 

Meghan nodded solemnly, eyes glistening with held back tears. "Lucy makes me happy, Mommy. Maybe she'll make that other little girl happy, too."

 

Swallowing hard, I stared at Meghan for a long moment, wondering how I could teach the boys the lesson she had just taught me. For I suddenly realized that anyone can give their cast-offs away. True generosity is giving that which you cherish most.

 

Honest benevolence is a three-year-old offering a treasured, albeit shabby doll to a little girl she doesn't know with the hope that it will bring this child as much pleasure as it brought her. I, who had wanted to teach, had been taught.

 

The boys had watched, open-mouthed, as their baby sister placed her favorite doll in the box. Without a word, Brad rose and went to his room. He came back carrying one of his favorite action figures. He hesitated briefly, clutching the toy, then looked over at Meghan and placed it in the box next to Lucy.

 

A slow smile spread across Brett's face, then he jumped up, eyes twinkling as he ran to retrieve some of his prized Matchbox cars.

Amazed, I realized the boys had also recognized what little Meghan's gesture meant. Swallowing back tears, I pulled all three of them into my arms.

 

Taking the cue from my little one, I removed my old tan jacket with the frayed cuffs from the box of clothes. I replaced it with the new hunter green jacket I had found on sale last week. I hoped the young woman in the picture would love it as much as I did.

 

It's easy to give that which we don't want anymore, but harder to let go of things we cherish, isn't it? However, the true spirit of giving is to give with your heart. 

Feeling His Love Through Service

By Mishelle Wesden

It was two weeks before Christmas, and the familiar stress of the season was upon me. I had presents to buy, a tree to decorate, and gifts to deliver.

 

For several months I had felt overwhelmed by the daily tasks that face a mother of five young children. I had even felt mechanical in my Church attendance as I wrestled with my little ones on the bench. I longed for an increase of the Spirit and of spiritual experiences in my life.

 

About this time my sister purchased a new home in a neighboring state and was trying to get things settled before Christmas. That would be a lot of work for any family, but for hers it would be even more difficult. My sister was eight months pregnant, a mother of two small children, and the caregiver of her quadriplegic husband.

 

Realizing the struggle she faced, I called her to see how things were progressing. She was optimistic about the move and hopeful that members of her new ward would be supportive. After our conversation I hung up the phone, wishing her good luck and wondering how I could help from 400 miles away.

 

That evening the thought kept coming to my mind that I needed to be there to help. But as I looked at my schedule, I dismissed the thought and went to bed.

 

The next morning, I awoke with the same prompting. The feeling was so strong this time that I could not deny it. I called my husband and said, “I need to go help my sister.”

 

Without hesitation, he responded, “I’ve been thinking the same thing.”

 

I called my sister, told her my plans, and booked a flight for that afternoon. I quickly packed my suitcase, kissed my children goodbye, and headed to the airport.

 

Over the next three days I unpacked boxes, organized rooms, and helped decorate the Christmas tree. After most of the boxes were unpacked, I sat with my sister and her family, admiring their pretty tree. My five-year-old niece, pleased that her family was ready for Christmas, exclaimed, “This is going to be a great Christmas!”

 

As I flew home, I knew that by giving part of myself to this sweet family, I had felt the Spirit, which I had been yearning to feel. It came because I had served others.

 

It is easy to talk about giving service at Christmastime, as long as giving that service fits into our schedules and doesn’t cost much or take us out of our comfort zone. But to really feel the true spirit of Christmas, we need to reach beyond ourselves. Doing so helps us comprehend the love our Savior has for each of us. 

Christmas on the Rhine

By Leslie Thomas Foy 

It was the night before Christmas in Germany. Scarcely a month before, the armistice that terminated the First World War had been signed. As part of a U.S. Army unit assigned to keep watch on the Rhine River, I was stationed a little distance from the city of Koblenz.

 

The night was cool and crisp. Snow fell, seemingly sent to put the finishing touch on the first Christmas since the close of a brutal war that for four years had kept the world in turmoil.

 

After being separated for many years from those who had gone to serve their fatherlands, family members all over Europe were being reunited: sweethearts, mothers, fathers, sons, brothers, sisters, and daughters were once more to feast together. It was a time of great rejoicing.

 

But for me, a soldier stranded on the Rhine far away from loved ones, it was not so. Feeling dejected, I pulled my khaki overcoat about my throat and strode along a busy city street. My spirits lifted as I beheld the hurry and scurry of shoppers as they filed in and out of tiny shops lining the crooked avenues. I understood German, and every now and then I paused to listen to conversations as shoppers and friends wished one another a Merry Christmas.

 

I leaned up against a shop front. Two German brothers who appeared to be around ages six and eight had their noses pressed tightly against a frosty window. There were clusters of trinkets, toys, and gingerbread cakes. The boys’ restless feet tapped the frozen ground, and their hands beat a cadence on their hips to warm themselves.

 

“Well, after all,” said the older of the two to the younger, “it’s all right to wish for Santa Claus to bring us some of those things, even though Mama says that he cannot come to our house this year. We’re awfully poor, you know.”

 

I leaned closer so as to not miss a single word. “I wish I had that and that,” replied the younger boy. “I wish I had a gingerbread man, too.”

 

At this point, I engaged the little strangers in conversation and learned that their father had just returned from serving in the German army as a soldier at the German front. His pay had stopped, his job was gone, and there was no money in the house for presents. Their mother had made that clear so her four little children (the two boys and their two little sisters) would not be disappointed to awaken on Christmas morning and find that Santa Claus had passed them by.

 

Soon, they had to hurry home. It was quite a long way, so I offered to accompany them. When we arrived, they pointed out their apartment, which was four flights up in an apartment complex so large it enclosed a solid block.

 

I made a resolution: Santa Claus would come to their home that year. With the location of the house and the number and ages of the children fixed firmly in my mind, I retraced my steps to the tiny shop where the two nose prints were still visible upon the glass.

 

The shopkeeper carefully wrapped the trinkets and the gingerbread men into four tiny bundles, which he folded into one larger bundle. After I paid him, he smiled at me as I opened the door and called out, “Gute Nacht!” (Good night!)

 

Back at military quarters, I confided my secret to a friend, who agreed to accompany me to the family’s home. That night, two khaki-clad soldiers greeted a former enemy in his home. The children’s mother wept tears of joy when she opened the package. In the adjoining room, the four children slumbered in their bed, dreaming of gingerbread men and trinkets in shop windows, expecting to awaken to empty stockings. Meanwhile, three soldiers, former enemies, kindled a friendship.

 

At midnight, two Yankee soldiers sauntered homeward, their hearts full of Christmas cheer. The bells in the great cathedral pealed forth, “Peace on earth and good will to men.” In my heart echoed the words of the Master: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me” (Matthew 25:40). I knew then it was truly greater to give than to receive.

 

Two German brothers pressed their noses against a frosty window. One said, “I wish I had a gingerbread man.”

Friends are God’s Way of Taking Care of Us

Written by a Metro Denver Hospice Physician

I was driving home from a meeting this evening at about 5:00, stuck in traffic on Colorado Boulevard, and the car started to choke and splutter and die. I barely managed to coast, cursing, into a gas station, glad only that I would not be blocking traffic and would have a somewhat warm spot to wait for the tow truck. It wouldn't even turn over. Before I could make the call, I saw a woman walking out of the 'quickie mart ' building, and it looked like she slipped on some ice and fell into a gas pump, so I got out to see if she was okay.

 

When I got there, it looked more like she had been overcome by sobs than that she had fallen; she was a young woman who looked really haggard with dark circles under her eyes. She dropped something as I helped her up, and I picked it up to give it to her. It was a nickel.

 

At that moment, everything came into focus for me: the crying woman, the ancient Suburban crammed full of stuff with 3 kids in the back (1 in a car seat), and the gas pump reading $4.95.

 

I asked her if she was okay and if she needed help, and she just kept saying, “I don't want my kids to see me crying,” so we stood on the other side of the pump from her car. She said she was driving to California and that things were very hard for her right now. So I asked, “And you were praying?” That made her back away from me a little, but I assured her I was not a crazy person and said, “He heard you, and He sent me.”

 

I took out my card and swiped it through the card reader on the pump so she could fill up her truck completely, and while it was fueling, walked to the next door McDonald's and bought 2 big bags of food, some gift certificates for more, and a big cup of coffee. She gave the food to the kids in the car, who attacked it like wolves, and we stood by the pump eating fries and talking a little.

 

She told me her name, and that she lived in Kansas City. Her boyfriend left 2 months ago, and she had not been able to make ends meet. She knew she wouldn't have money to pay rent January 1, and finally in desperation had called her parents, with whom she had not spoken in about 5 years. They lived in California and said she could come live with them and try to get on her feet there.

 

She packed up everything she owned in the car. She told the kids they were going to California for Christmas, but not that they were going to live there.

 

I gave her my gloves, a little hug and said a quick prayer with her for safety on the road. As I was walking over to my car, she said, “So, are you like an angel or something?”

 

This definitely made me cry. I said, “Sweetie, at this time of year angels are really busy, so sometimes God uses regular people.”

 

It was so incredible to be a part of someone else's miracle. And of course, you guessed it, when I got in my car it started right away and got me home with no problem. I'll put it in the shop tomorrow to check, but I suspect the mechanic won't find anything wrong.

 

Sometimes the angels fly close enough to you that you can hear the flutter of their wings...

 

Psalms 55:22 “Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and He shall sustain thee. He shall never suffer the righteous to be moved.”