by Christa Holder Ocker
"I will never forget you," the old man said. A tear rolled down his leathery cheek. "I'm getting old. I can't take care of you anymore."
With his head tilted to one side, Monsieur DuPree watched his master. "Woof woof! Woof woof!" He wagged his tail back and forth, wondering, What's he up to now?
"I can't take care of myself anymore, let alone take care of you." The old man cleared his throat. He pulled a hankie from his pocket and blew his nose with a mighty blast.
"Soon, I'll move to an old age home and, I'm sorry to say, you can't come along. They don't allow dogs there, you know."
Bent over from age, the old man limped over to Monsieur DuPree and stroked his head.
"Don't worry, my friend. We'll find a home. We'll find a nice new home for you." And, as an afterthought he added, "Why, with your good looks, we'll have no trouble at all. Anyone would be proud to own such a fine dog."
Monsieur DuPree wagged his tail really hard and strutted up and down the kitchen floor. "Woof, woof, woof, woof." For a moment, the familiar musky scent of the old man mingling with the odor of greasy food gave the dog the feeling of well being. But then, a sense of dread took hold again. His tail hung between his legs and he stood very still.
"Come here." With great difficulty, the old man knelt down on the floor and lovingly pulled Monsieur Dupree close to him. He tied a ribbon around his neck with a huge red bow, and then he attached a note to it. Monsieur DuPree wondered what it said.
"It says," the old man read aloud, "Merry Christmas! My name is Monsieur DuPree. For breakfast, I like bacon and eggs – even corn flakes will do. For dinner, I prefer mashed potatoes and some meat. That's all. I eat just two meals a day. In return, I will be your most loyal friend."
"Woof woof! Woof woof!" Monsieur DuPree was confused and his eyes begged, What's going on?
The old man blew his nose into his hankie once more. Then, hanging onto a chair, he pulled himself up from the floor. Buttoning his overcoat, he reached for the dog's leash and softly said, "Come here my friend." He opened the door against a gust of cold air and stepped outside, pulling the dog behind. Dusk was beginning to fall. Monsieur DuPree pulled back. He didn't want to go.
"Don't make this any harder for me. I promise you, you'll be much better off with someone else." The street was deserted. It began to snow. Leaning into the wintry air, the old man and his dog pushed on. The pavement, trees, and houses were soon covered with a blanket of snow.
After a very long time, they came upon an old Victorian house surrounded by tall trees, which were swaying and humming in the wind. The old man stopped. Monsieur DuPree stopped, too. Shivering in the cold, they appraised the house. Glimmering lights adorned every window, and the muffled sound of a Christmas song was carried on the wind.
"This will be a nice home for you," the old man said, choking on his words. He bent down and unleashed his dog, then opened the gate slowly, so that it wouldn't creak. "Go on now. Go up the steps and scratch on the door."
Monsieur DuPree looked from the house to his master and back again to the house. He did not understand. "Woof woof! Woof woof!"
"Go on." The old man gave the dog a shove. "I have no use for you anymore," he said in a gruff voice. "Get going now!"
Monsieur DuPree was hurt. He thought his master didn't love him anymore. He didn't understand that, indeed, the old man loved him very much, yet he could no longer care for him. Slowly he straggled toward the house and up the steps. He scratched with one paw at the front door. "Woof woof! Woof woof!"
Looking back, he saw his master step behind a tree just as someone from inside turned the front doorknob. A little boy appeared, framed in the door by the light coming from behind. When he saw Monsieur DuPree, he threw both arms into the air and shouted with delight, "Oh boy! Oh boy! Mom and Dad, come and see what Santa brought!"
Through teary eyes, the old man watched from behind the tree. He saw the mother read the note, and tenderly pull the dog inside.
Smiling, the old man wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his cold, damp coat as he disappeared into the night whispering, "Merry Christmas, my friend."
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Christmas Roses
by Lenora P. Rutledge, RDH
It was the afternoon of December 24, the day before Christmas, and as the newest dental hygienist in our office, I had to work. The only thing that brightened my day was the beautifully decorated Christmas tree in our waiting room and a gift sent to me by a fellow I was dating, a dozen long-stemmed red roses.
As I was cleaning my operatory, our receptionist came and said there was a lady in the front office who urgently needed to speak with me. As I stepped out, I noticed a young, tired-looking woman with an infant in her arms. Nervously, she explained that her husband-a prisoner in a nearby correctional facility-was my next patient. The guards were scheduled to bring him to the office that afternoon.
She told me she wasn't allowed to visit her husband in prison and that he had never seen his son. Her plea was for me to let the boy's father sit in the waiting room with her as long as possible before I called him for his appointment. Since my schedule wasn't full, I agreed. After all, it was Christmas Eve.
A short time later, her husband arrived-with shackles on his feet, cuffs on his hands, and two armed guards as an escort. The woman's tired face lit up like our little Christmas tree when her husband took a seat beside her. I kept peeking out to watch them laugh, cry, and share their child.
After almost an hour, I called the prisoner back to the operatory. While I worked, the guards stood just outside my door. The patient seemed like a gentle and humble man. I wondered what he possibly could have done to be held under such conditions. I tried to make him as comfortable as possible.
At the end of the appointment, I wished him a Merry Christmas-a difficult thing to say to a man headed back to prison. He smiled and thanked me. He also said he felt saddened by the fact he hadn't been able to get his wife anything for Christmas. On hearing this, I was inspired with a wonderful idea.
I'll never forget the look on both their faces as the prisoner gave his wife the beautiful, long-stemmed roses. I'm not sure who experienced the most joy-the husband in giving, the wife in receiving, or myself in having the opportunity to share in this special moment.
It was the afternoon of December 24, the day before Christmas, and as the newest dental hygienist in our office, I had to work. The only thing that brightened my day was the beautifully decorated Christmas tree in our waiting room and a gift sent to me by a fellow I was dating, a dozen long-stemmed red roses.
As I was cleaning my operatory, our receptionist came and said there was a lady in the front office who urgently needed to speak with me. As I stepped out, I noticed a young, tired-looking woman with an infant in her arms. Nervously, she explained that her husband-a prisoner in a nearby correctional facility-was my next patient. The guards were scheduled to bring him to the office that afternoon.
She told me she wasn't allowed to visit her husband in prison and that he had never seen his son. Her plea was for me to let the boy's father sit in the waiting room with her as long as possible before I called him for his appointment. Since my schedule wasn't full, I agreed. After all, it was Christmas Eve.
A short time later, her husband arrived-with shackles on his feet, cuffs on his hands, and two armed guards as an escort. The woman's tired face lit up like our little Christmas tree when her husband took a seat beside her. I kept peeking out to watch them laugh, cry, and share their child.
After almost an hour, I called the prisoner back to the operatory. While I worked, the guards stood just outside my door. The patient seemed like a gentle and humble man. I wondered what he possibly could have done to be held under such conditions. I tried to make him as comfortable as possible.
At the end of the appointment, I wished him a Merry Christmas-a difficult thing to say to a man headed back to prison. He smiled and thanked me. He also said he felt saddened by the fact he hadn't been able to get his wife anything for Christmas. On hearing this, I was inspired with a wonderful idea.
I'll never forget the look on both their faces as the prisoner gave his wife the beautiful, long-stemmed roses. I'm not sure who experienced the most joy-the husband in giving, the wife in receiving, or myself in having the opportunity to share in this special moment.
A “Little Book” about Christmas
by Thomas J. Burns
Originally published in Reader's Digest, December 1989)
From its first publication in 1843, A Christmas Carol has charmed and inspired millions. Less well known is the fact that this little book of celebration grew out of a dark period in the author's career-and, in some ways, changed the course of his life forever.
On an early October evening in 1843, Charles Dickens stepped from the brick and stone portico of his home near Regent's Park in London. The cool air of dusk was a relief from the day's unseasonal humidity, as the author began his nightly walk through what he called “the black streets” of the city.
A handsome man with flowing brown hair and normally sparkling eyes, Dickens was deeply troubled. The 31-year-old father of four had thought he was at the peak of his career. The Pickwick Papers, Oliver Twist and Nicholas Nickleby had all been popular; and Martin Chuzzlewit, which he considered his finest novel yet, was being published in monthly installments. But now, the celebrated writer was facing serious financial problems.
Some months earlier, his publisher had revealed that sales of the new novel were not what had been expected, and it might be necessary to sharply reduce Dickens's monthly advances against future sales.
The news had stunned the author. It seemed his talent was being questioned. Memories of his childhood poverty resurfaced. Dickens was supporting a large, extended family, and his expenses were already nearly more than he could handle. His father and brothers were pleading for loans. His wife, Kate, was expecting their fifth child.
All summer long, Dickens worried about his mounting bills, especially the large mortgage that he owed on his house. He spent time at a seaside resort, where he had trouble sleeping and walked the cliffs for hours. He knew that he needed an idea that would earn him a large sum of money, and he needed the idea quickly. But in his depression, Dickens was finding it difficult to write. After returning to London, he hoped that resuming his nightly walks would help spark his imagination.
The yellow glow from the flickering gas lamps lit his way through London's better neighborhoods. Then gradually, as he neared the Thames River, only the dull light from tenement windows illuminated the streets, now litter-strewn and lined with open sewers. The elegant ladies and well-dressed gentlemen of Dickens's neighborhood were replaced by bawdy streetwalkers, pickpockets, and beggars.
The dismal scene reminded him of the nightmare that often troubled his sleep: A 12-year-old boy sits at a worktable piled high with pots of black boot paste. For 12 hours a day, six days a week, he attaches labels on the endless stream of pots to earn the six shillings that will keep him alive.
The boy in the dream looks through the rotting warehouse floor into the cellar, where swarms of rats scurry about. Then he raises his eyes to the dirt-streaked window, dripping with condensation from London's wintry weather. The light is fading now, along with the boy's young hopes. His father is in debtors' prison, and the youngster is receiving only an hour of school lessons during his dinner break at the warehouse. He feels helpless, abandoned. There may never be celebration, joy or hope again. ...
This was no scene from the author's imagination. It was a period from his early life. Fortunately, Dickens's father had inherited some money, enabling him to pay off his debts and get out of prison-and his young son escaped a dreary fate.
Now the fear of being unable to pay his own debts haunted Dickens. Wearily, he started home from his long walk, no closer to an idea for the “cheerful, glowing” tale he wanted to tell than he'd been when he started out.
However, as he neared home, he felt the sudden flash of inspiration. What about a Christmas story! He would write one for the very people he passed on the black streets of London. People who lived and struggled with the same fears and longings he had known, people who hungered for a bit of cheer and hope.
But Christmas was less than three months away! How could he manage so great a task in so brief a time? The book would have to be short, certainly not a full novel. It would have to be finished by the end of November to be printed and distributed in time for Christmas sales. For speed, he struck on the idea of adapting a Christmas-goblin story from a chapter in The Pickwick Papers.
He would fill the story with the scenes and characters his readers loved. There would be a small, sickly child; his honest but ineffectual father; and, at the center of the piece, a selfish villain, an old man with a pointed nose and shriveled cheeks.
As the mild days of October gave way to a cool November, the manuscript grew, page by page, and the story took life. The basic plot was simple enough for children to understand, but evoked themes that would conjure up warm memories and emotions in an adult's heart: After retiring alone to his cold, barren apartment on Christmas Eve, Ebenezer Scrooge, a miserly London businessman, is visited by the spirit of his dead partner, Jacob Marley. Doomed by his greed and insensitivity to his fellow man when alive, Marley's ghost wanders the world in chains forged of his own indifference. He warns Scrooge that he must change, or suffer the same fate. The ghosts of Christmas Past, Christmas Present and Christmas Yet to Come appear and show Scrooge poignant scenes from his life and what will occur if he doesn't mend his ways. Filled with remorse, Scrooge renounces his former selfishness and becomes a kind, generous, loving person who has learned the true spirit of Christmas.
Gradually, in the course of his writing, something surprising happened to Dickens. What had begun as a desperate, calculated plan to rescue himself from debt-”a little scheme,” as he described it-soon began to work a change in the author. As he wrote about the kind of Christmas he loved-joyous family parties with clusters of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling; cheerful carols, games, dances and gifts; delicious feasts of roast goose, plum pudding, fresh breads, all enjoyed in front of a blazing Yule log-the joy of the season he cherished began to alleviate his depression. A Christmas Carol captured his heart and soul. It became a labor of love. Every time he dipped his quill pen into his ink, the characters seemed magically to take life: Tiny Tim with his crutches, Scrooge cowering in fear before the ghosts, Bob Cratchit drinking Christmas cheer in the face of poverty.
Each morning, Dickens grew excited and impatient to begin the day's work. “I was very much affected by the little book,” he later wrote a newspaperman, and was “reluctant to lay it aside for a moment.” A friend and Dickens's future biographer, John Forster, took note of the “strange mastery” the story held over the author. Dickens told a professor in America how, when writing, he “wept, and laughed, and wept again.” Dickens even took charge of the design of the book, deciding on a gold-stamped cover, a red-and-green title page with colored endpapers, and four hand-colored etchings and four engraved woodcuts. To make the book affordable to the widest audience possible, he priced it at only five shillings.
At last, on December 2, he was finished, and the manuscript went to the printers. On December 17, the author's copies were delivered, and Dickens was delighted. He had never doubted that A Christmas Carol would be popular. But neither he nor his publishers were ready for the overwhelming response that came. The first edition of 6,000 copies sold out by Christmas Eve, and as the little book's heartwarming message spread, Dickens later recalled, he received “by every post, all manner of strangers writing all manner of letters about their homes and hearths, and how the Carol is read aloud there, and kept on a very little shelf by itself.” Novelist William Makepeace Thackeray said of the Carol: “It seems to me a national benefit, and to every man or woman who reads it a personal kindness.”
Despite the book's public acclaim, it did not turn into the immediate financial success that Dickens had hoped for, because of the quality production he demanded and the low price he placed on the book. Nevertheless, he made enough money from it to scrape by, and A Christmas Carol's enormous popularity revived his audience for subsequent novels, while giving a fresh, new direction to his life and career.
Although Dickens would write many other well-received and financially profitable books-David Copperfield, A Tale of Two Cities, Great Expectations-nothing would ever quite equal the soul-satisfying joy he derived from his universally loved little novel.
In a very real sense, Dickens popularized many aspects of the Christmas we celebrate today, including great family gatherings, seasonal drinks and dishes and gift giving. Even our language has been enriched by the tale. Who has not known a “Scrooge,” or uttered “Bah! Humbug!” when feeling irritated or disbelieving. And the phrase “Merry Christmas!” gained wider usage after the story appeared.
In the midst of self-doubt and confusion, a man sometimes does his best work. From the storm of tribulation comes a gift. For Charles Dickens, a little Christmas novel brought newfound faith in himself and in the redemptive joy of the season.
Originally published in Reader's Digest, December 1989)
From its first publication in 1843, A Christmas Carol has charmed and inspired millions. Less well known is the fact that this little book of celebration grew out of a dark period in the author's career-and, in some ways, changed the course of his life forever.
On an early October evening in 1843, Charles Dickens stepped from the brick and stone portico of his home near Regent's Park in London. The cool air of dusk was a relief from the day's unseasonal humidity, as the author began his nightly walk through what he called “the black streets” of the city.
A handsome man with flowing brown hair and normally sparkling eyes, Dickens was deeply troubled. The 31-year-old father of four had thought he was at the peak of his career. The Pickwick Papers, Oliver Twist and Nicholas Nickleby had all been popular; and Martin Chuzzlewit, which he considered his finest novel yet, was being published in monthly installments. But now, the celebrated writer was facing serious financial problems.
Some months earlier, his publisher had revealed that sales of the new novel were not what had been expected, and it might be necessary to sharply reduce Dickens's monthly advances against future sales.
The news had stunned the author. It seemed his talent was being questioned. Memories of his childhood poverty resurfaced. Dickens was supporting a large, extended family, and his expenses were already nearly more than he could handle. His father and brothers were pleading for loans. His wife, Kate, was expecting their fifth child.
All summer long, Dickens worried about his mounting bills, especially the large mortgage that he owed on his house. He spent time at a seaside resort, where he had trouble sleeping and walked the cliffs for hours. He knew that he needed an idea that would earn him a large sum of money, and he needed the idea quickly. But in his depression, Dickens was finding it difficult to write. After returning to London, he hoped that resuming his nightly walks would help spark his imagination.
The yellow glow from the flickering gas lamps lit his way through London's better neighborhoods. Then gradually, as he neared the Thames River, only the dull light from tenement windows illuminated the streets, now litter-strewn and lined with open sewers. The elegant ladies and well-dressed gentlemen of Dickens's neighborhood were replaced by bawdy streetwalkers, pickpockets, and beggars.
The dismal scene reminded him of the nightmare that often troubled his sleep: A 12-year-old boy sits at a worktable piled high with pots of black boot paste. For 12 hours a day, six days a week, he attaches labels on the endless stream of pots to earn the six shillings that will keep him alive.
The boy in the dream looks through the rotting warehouse floor into the cellar, where swarms of rats scurry about. Then he raises his eyes to the dirt-streaked window, dripping with condensation from London's wintry weather. The light is fading now, along with the boy's young hopes. His father is in debtors' prison, and the youngster is receiving only an hour of school lessons during his dinner break at the warehouse. He feels helpless, abandoned. There may never be celebration, joy or hope again. ...
This was no scene from the author's imagination. It was a period from his early life. Fortunately, Dickens's father had inherited some money, enabling him to pay off his debts and get out of prison-and his young son escaped a dreary fate.
Now the fear of being unable to pay his own debts haunted Dickens. Wearily, he started home from his long walk, no closer to an idea for the “cheerful, glowing” tale he wanted to tell than he'd been when he started out.
However, as he neared home, he felt the sudden flash of inspiration. What about a Christmas story! He would write one for the very people he passed on the black streets of London. People who lived and struggled with the same fears and longings he had known, people who hungered for a bit of cheer and hope.
But Christmas was less than three months away! How could he manage so great a task in so brief a time? The book would have to be short, certainly not a full novel. It would have to be finished by the end of November to be printed and distributed in time for Christmas sales. For speed, he struck on the idea of adapting a Christmas-goblin story from a chapter in The Pickwick Papers.
He would fill the story with the scenes and characters his readers loved. There would be a small, sickly child; his honest but ineffectual father; and, at the center of the piece, a selfish villain, an old man with a pointed nose and shriveled cheeks.
As the mild days of October gave way to a cool November, the manuscript grew, page by page, and the story took life. The basic plot was simple enough for children to understand, but evoked themes that would conjure up warm memories and emotions in an adult's heart: After retiring alone to his cold, barren apartment on Christmas Eve, Ebenezer Scrooge, a miserly London businessman, is visited by the spirit of his dead partner, Jacob Marley. Doomed by his greed and insensitivity to his fellow man when alive, Marley's ghost wanders the world in chains forged of his own indifference. He warns Scrooge that he must change, or suffer the same fate. The ghosts of Christmas Past, Christmas Present and Christmas Yet to Come appear and show Scrooge poignant scenes from his life and what will occur if he doesn't mend his ways. Filled with remorse, Scrooge renounces his former selfishness and becomes a kind, generous, loving person who has learned the true spirit of Christmas.
Gradually, in the course of his writing, something surprising happened to Dickens. What had begun as a desperate, calculated plan to rescue himself from debt-”a little scheme,” as he described it-soon began to work a change in the author. As he wrote about the kind of Christmas he loved-joyous family parties with clusters of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling; cheerful carols, games, dances and gifts; delicious feasts of roast goose, plum pudding, fresh breads, all enjoyed in front of a blazing Yule log-the joy of the season he cherished began to alleviate his depression. A Christmas Carol captured his heart and soul. It became a labor of love. Every time he dipped his quill pen into his ink, the characters seemed magically to take life: Tiny Tim with his crutches, Scrooge cowering in fear before the ghosts, Bob Cratchit drinking Christmas cheer in the face of poverty.
Each morning, Dickens grew excited and impatient to begin the day's work. “I was very much affected by the little book,” he later wrote a newspaperman, and was “reluctant to lay it aside for a moment.” A friend and Dickens's future biographer, John Forster, took note of the “strange mastery” the story held over the author. Dickens told a professor in America how, when writing, he “wept, and laughed, and wept again.” Dickens even took charge of the design of the book, deciding on a gold-stamped cover, a red-and-green title page with colored endpapers, and four hand-colored etchings and four engraved woodcuts. To make the book affordable to the widest audience possible, he priced it at only five shillings.
At last, on December 2, he was finished, and the manuscript went to the printers. On December 17, the author's copies were delivered, and Dickens was delighted. He had never doubted that A Christmas Carol would be popular. But neither he nor his publishers were ready for the overwhelming response that came. The first edition of 6,000 copies sold out by Christmas Eve, and as the little book's heartwarming message spread, Dickens later recalled, he received “by every post, all manner of strangers writing all manner of letters about their homes and hearths, and how the Carol is read aloud there, and kept on a very little shelf by itself.” Novelist William Makepeace Thackeray said of the Carol: “It seems to me a national benefit, and to every man or woman who reads it a personal kindness.”
Despite the book's public acclaim, it did not turn into the immediate financial success that Dickens had hoped for, because of the quality production he demanded and the low price he placed on the book. Nevertheless, he made enough money from it to scrape by, and A Christmas Carol's enormous popularity revived his audience for subsequent novels, while giving a fresh, new direction to his life and career.
Although Dickens would write many other well-received and financially profitable books-David Copperfield, A Tale of Two Cities, Great Expectations-nothing would ever quite equal the soul-satisfying joy he derived from his universally loved little novel.
In a very real sense, Dickens popularized many aspects of the Christmas we celebrate today, including great family gatherings, seasonal drinks and dishes and gift giving. Even our language has been enriched by the tale. Who has not known a “Scrooge,” or uttered “Bah! Humbug!” when feeling irritated or disbelieving. And the phrase “Merry Christmas!” gained wider usage after the story appeared.
In the midst of self-doubt and confusion, a man sometimes does his best work. From the storm of tribulation comes a gift. For Charles Dickens, a little Christmas novel brought newfound faith in himself and in the redemptive joy of the season.
Mattie Chitzmats
by Glenn A. Hascall
My next door neighbor was a prune.
I don't mean any disrespect, but she really looked like a four-and-a-half foot prune. I don't have a picture of her but the two closest descriptions of her I can give is either a prune or ET's grandmother. I am really not trying to be disrespectful! I remember her in the fondest of terms.
We called her Granny. If she went by any other name, I never knew it or have long since forgotten it. She kept mostly to herself and would often be seen with a walking stick in hand carrying her wrinkled body through neighborhood alleys.
Her granddaughter (in her 70's) spoke a little English and told us that Granny had come from Mexico in her late 70's after her husband passed away and had stopped celebrating her birthday at 97 (which had been some years before I knew her).
Most people stayed away from Granny. Not only was she very old, but she didn't speak English and wore a variety of tattered clothes. This grandmother, several times over, helped raise several generations of young 'uns.
There would come a time when Granny would find herself alone. And when she was, my mother would make a little extra at suppertime, and my sister I would take it over to Granny's house.
Granny would never come to the door, although she might, occasionally, pull back a curtain and peer through the window at us, her eyes partially hidden by the flowing wrinkles on her face.
So we learned to leave the meal on her doorstep and knock. Once we were a safe distance away, we would see her hand reach outside the door, and the plate and its contents would disappear inside.
The next morning we would hear a knock on our front door, by the time we got there Granny was gone, but she left behind a clean plate with a stack of homemade tortillas still warm from the pan.
Soon it became a neighborly ritual; we would supply her supper and she made sure we were never without fresh tortillas. Granny would never let us actually thank her or even talk to her, but she understood what my family was doing. She appreciated it, and even without words, she let us know of her gratitude.
One Christmas, after we had read Luke chapter two, opened presents, and were enjoying the holiday, I heard the doorbell ring. I didn't suspect Granny because she always knocked.
When I reached the front door I had to look down and I saw a short, toothless, wrinkled lady grinning from ear to ear. She held out a plate of Christmas Tamales and said, "Mattie Chitzmats".
I was so startled to hear Granny speak that her very broken English words didn't register right away. By the time I realized that she had personally wished my family a Merry Christmas she was backing away, waving and grinning. This beautiful, wonderful, toothless prune of a granny had shared Christmas cheer with my family.
As I recall, those were the only two words I ever heard Granny say, but her life spoke volumes. And in that moment of Christmas cheer I came to realize the arrival of our Savior Jesus Christ continues to leave a lasting impression on regular people.
He didn't come just for those of us who speak English. He didn't come just for those who attend church in their very best clothing. He didn't come just for those who had a particular color of skin. He didn't even come just for those who were wrinkle-free.
He came for me. He came for you. And He came for Granny.
A smooth skinned baby and a wrinkled old woman. This, my friends, is the story of a Christmas past and the best Christmas present.
Mattie Chitzmats.
My next door neighbor was a prune.
I don't mean any disrespect, but she really looked like a four-and-a-half foot prune. I don't have a picture of her but the two closest descriptions of her I can give is either a prune or ET's grandmother. I am really not trying to be disrespectful! I remember her in the fondest of terms.
We called her Granny. If she went by any other name, I never knew it or have long since forgotten it. She kept mostly to herself and would often be seen with a walking stick in hand carrying her wrinkled body through neighborhood alleys.
Her granddaughter (in her 70's) spoke a little English and told us that Granny had come from Mexico in her late 70's after her husband passed away and had stopped celebrating her birthday at 97 (which had been some years before I knew her).
Most people stayed away from Granny. Not only was she very old, but she didn't speak English and wore a variety of tattered clothes. This grandmother, several times over, helped raise several generations of young 'uns.
There would come a time when Granny would find herself alone. And when she was, my mother would make a little extra at suppertime, and my sister I would take it over to Granny's house.
Granny would never come to the door, although she might, occasionally, pull back a curtain and peer through the window at us, her eyes partially hidden by the flowing wrinkles on her face.
So we learned to leave the meal on her doorstep and knock. Once we were a safe distance away, we would see her hand reach outside the door, and the plate and its contents would disappear inside.
The next morning we would hear a knock on our front door, by the time we got there Granny was gone, but she left behind a clean plate with a stack of homemade tortillas still warm from the pan.
Soon it became a neighborly ritual; we would supply her supper and she made sure we were never without fresh tortillas. Granny would never let us actually thank her or even talk to her, but she understood what my family was doing. She appreciated it, and even without words, she let us know of her gratitude.
One Christmas, after we had read Luke chapter two, opened presents, and were enjoying the holiday, I heard the doorbell ring. I didn't suspect Granny because she always knocked.
When I reached the front door I had to look down and I saw a short, toothless, wrinkled lady grinning from ear to ear. She held out a plate of Christmas Tamales and said, "Mattie Chitzmats".
I was so startled to hear Granny speak that her very broken English words didn't register right away. By the time I realized that she had personally wished my family a Merry Christmas she was backing away, waving and grinning. This beautiful, wonderful, toothless prune of a granny had shared Christmas cheer with my family.
As I recall, those were the only two words I ever heard Granny say, but her life spoke volumes. And in that moment of Christmas cheer I came to realize the arrival of our Savior Jesus Christ continues to leave a lasting impression on regular people.
He didn't come just for those of us who speak English. He didn't come just for those who attend church in their very best clothing. He didn't come just for those who had a particular color of skin. He didn't even come just for those who were wrinkle-free.
He came for me. He came for you. And He came for Granny.
A smooth skinned baby and a wrinkled old woman. This, my friends, is the story of a Christmas past and the best Christmas present.
Mattie Chitzmats.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Egg Nog
I made this recipe for the first time last night. It is to die for! This homemade egg nog is sooooo much better than egg nog in a carton, and the recipe was easy to prepare.
2 eggs, well beaten
1 can sweetened condensed milk
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 quart whole milk
1 c. heavy whipping cream, whipped
nutmeg
Combine eggs, sweetened condensed milk, vanilla, and salt. Gradually beat in milk. Gently fold in whipped cream. Sprinkle with nutmeg. Chill 2 hours before serving.
2 eggs, well beaten
1 can sweetened condensed milk
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 quart whole milk
1 c. heavy whipping cream, whipped
nutmeg
Combine eggs, sweetened condensed milk, vanilla, and salt. Gradually beat in milk. Gently fold in whipped cream. Sprinkle with nutmeg. Chill 2 hours before serving.
Baked Sausage and Eggs
Here is a recipe for a breakfast casserole that my family eats each Christmas morning.
6 breakfast sausage links or 1/2 pound bulk sausage
8 ounces sharp cheddar cheese, shredded
1 tablespoon flour
4 ounces Monterey Jack cheese, shredded
6 eggs
1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce
1/2. cup half and half
Cook sausage according to package instructions. Drain off fat; set aside. In a medium bowl, toss cheddar cheese and flour. Place in ungreased 1 1/2 quart shallow round baking dish. Evenly sprinkle with Monterey Jack cheese. In a medium bowl, beat eggs, Worcestershire sauce, and half and half until well blended. Pour over cheese. Arrange sausages in spoke fashion on top. Cover and refrigerate up to 24 hours. About 1 1/4 hours before serving, uncover dish and let stand at room temperature for 30 minutes. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Bake for 35 - 40 minutes or until egg custard is set when dish is shaken. When using bulk sausage, spread evenly on top. Use a 9x13 dish when the recipe is doubled.
6 breakfast sausage links or 1/2 pound bulk sausage
8 ounces sharp cheddar cheese, shredded
1 tablespoon flour
4 ounces Monterey Jack cheese, shredded
6 eggs
1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce
1/2. cup half and half
Cook sausage according to package instructions. Drain off fat; set aside. In a medium bowl, toss cheddar cheese and flour. Place in ungreased 1 1/2 quart shallow round baking dish. Evenly sprinkle with Monterey Jack cheese. In a medium bowl, beat eggs, Worcestershire sauce, and half and half until well blended. Pour over cheese. Arrange sausages in spoke fashion on top. Cover and refrigerate up to 24 hours. About 1 1/4 hours before serving, uncover dish and let stand at room temperature for 30 minutes. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Bake for 35 - 40 minutes or until egg custard is set when dish is shaken. When using bulk sausage, spread evenly on top. Use a 9x13 dish when the recipe is doubled.
The Gift
Author Unknown
Sometimes, life throws us a helping hand when we least expect it.
A few weeks ago, I was rushing around trying to do some last minute Christmas shopping. I was stressed out and not thinking very fondly of the weather right then. It was dark, cold, and wet in the parking lot as I was loading my car. I noticed that I was missing a receipt that I might need later. So mumbling under my breath, I retraced my steps to the mall entrance. As I was searching the wet pavement for the lost receipt, I heard a quiet sobbing. The crying was coming from a poorly dressed boy of about 12 years old. He was short and thin. He had no coat. He was just wearing a ragged flannel shirt to protect him from the cold night's chill.
Oddly enough, he was holding a hundred dollar bill in his hand. Thinking that he had gotten lost from his parents, I asked him what was wrong. He told me his sad story. He said that he came from a large family. He had three brothers and four sisters. His father had died when he was nine years old. His mother was poorly educated and worked two full time jobs. She made very little to support her large family. Nevertheless, she had managed to skimp and save two hundred dollars to buy her children some Christmas presents. The young boy had been dropped off by his mother, on the way to her second job. He was to use the money to buy presents for all his siblings and save just enough to take the bus home. He had not even entered the mall, when an older boy grabbed one of the hundred dollar bills and disappeared into the night.
"Why didn't you scream for help?" I asked.
The boy said, "I did."
"And nobody came to help you?" I queried.
The boy stared at the sidewalk and sadly shook his head.
"How loud did you scream?" I inquired.
The soft-spoken boy looked up and meekly whispered, "Help me!"
It was then that I realized that absolutely no one could hear that poor boy cry for help.
So I grabbed his other hundred and made a run to my car.
Merry Christmas!!
Contributed by my husband who truly has a twisted sense of humor! ;)
Sometimes, life throws us a helping hand when we least expect it.
A few weeks ago, I was rushing around trying to do some last minute Christmas shopping. I was stressed out and not thinking very fondly of the weather right then. It was dark, cold, and wet in the parking lot as I was loading my car. I noticed that I was missing a receipt that I might need later. So mumbling under my breath, I retraced my steps to the mall entrance. As I was searching the wet pavement for the lost receipt, I heard a quiet sobbing. The crying was coming from a poorly dressed boy of about 12 years old. He was short and thin. He had no coat. He was just wearing a ragged flannel shirt to protect him from the cold night's chill.
Oddly enough, he was holding a hundred dollar bill in his hand. Thinking that he had gotten lost from his parents, I asked him what was wrong. He told me his sad story. He said that he came from a large family. He had three brothers and four sisters. His father had died when he was nine years old. His mother was poorly educated and worked two full time jobs. She made very little to support her large family. Nevertheless, she had managed to skimp and save two hundred dollars to buy her children some Christmas presents. The young boy had been dropped off by his mother, on the way to her second job. He was to use the money to buy presents for all his siblings and save just enough to take the bus home. He had not even entered the mall, when an older boy grabbed one of the hundred dollar bills and disappeared into the night.
"Why didn't you scream for help?" I asked.
The boy said, "I did."
"And nobody came to help you?" I queried.
The boy stared at the sidewalk and sadly shook his head.
"How loud did you scream?" I inquired.
The soft-spoken boy looked up and meekly whispered, "Help me!"
It was then that I realized that absolutely no one could hear that poor boy cry for help.
So I grabbed his other hundred and made a run to my car.
Merry Christmas!!
Contributed by my husband who truly has a twisted sense of humor! ;)
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Giving IS Better
by Will Wright
Joan spent last summer working at a dude ranch in the rugged and beautiful mountains of Idaho’s Sawtooth National Forest just north of Sun Valley. She still had three hundred dollars she had saved from the summer’s work. Not bad for a sixteen year old.
As Christmas approached, Joan spent several hours thinking of the exciting ways she could spend her savings. It was awkward having so much money to spend when her parents had so little for Christmas. Joan’s dad was still recovering from an expensive operation. Medical expenses had wiped out the family savings. So it was going to be a low budget Christmas this year. Joan told her parents they could use her money, but they wouldn’t consider the idea. “It’s your money, dear. You earned it; you spend it,” they said.
Joan’s father and her brothers loved snowmobiling. They did not own a snowmobile, but friends occasionally asked them to go along with them. For days after their snowmobiling trips, they would recount with laughter and delight the things they did and the scenes they saw. Whether it was flying at full speed across a snow-covered meadow or watching a herd of elk moving through the timber, their eyes sparkled, and their voices spoke in excited tones as they shared their snowmobiling experiences with the rest of the family.
About two weeks before Christmas, Joan heard her parents talking in low, serious tones in their bedroom. Joan did not want to eavesdrop, but she sensed something was wrong–she slipped closer to the door. Joan’s father was explaining that one of his friends needed to sell one of his snowmobiles. He was willing to let it go for less than half of its value–only three hundred dollars. Joan heard her mother say, “That is such a great deal; isn’t there some way we can spare the money for it?” They discussed things they could do, but it came down to the fact that if they bought the snowmobile, the children would not have Christmas presents. Finally, Joan’s father, in a disappointed voice said, “We just can’t do it; we will have to wait for another opportunity.”
Joan slipped back to her room. She could do it! She would be broke, but it was exciting to think she could make her parents’ dream come true. But what about the things she planned to buy for herself? Then think of the look on her parents’ and brothers’ faces when they saw the snowmobile in their front yard! What fun the family could have together on their own snowmobile! Joan tossed and turned in her bed that night. This was one of the hardest decisions she ever faced, and she could not discuss it with anyone. What to do?
When she woke up the next morning, Joan felt clam. All doubt was gone. She knew exactly what she wanted to do. Her spine tingled with excitement as she planned her strategy. She called her dad’s friend who wanted to sell the snowmobile. Yes, he would sell it to her for the same price – three hundred dollars. No, he would not tell anyone, so it would be a surprise. He said he and his sons would shine it up and place it in Joan’s front yard about midnight on Christmas Eve.
Joan’s thoughts of how she planned to spend her three hundred dollars on herself were quickly overshadowed by the continuous delight she enjoyed as Christmas Day drew nearer. It was terrible, she thought, being so happy and excited and not being able to tell anyone why you felt that way.
Finally! Christmas Day arrived. That morning the children ran downstairs to open their presents. Joan had peeked outside earlier, and there the snowmobile sat in the middle of the front yard in eight inches of fresh snow. Their friends had polished the snowmobile until it gleamed. A big red ribbon went all the way around it, and a large red bow was on the seat. Joan was never happier!
The snowmobile was still hidden from the family by the living room drapes which Joan had drawn before she went to bed. Everyone, but Joan, had their full attention focused on opening the presents under the tree. Finally, Joan’s oldest brother parted the drapes to see how much snow had fallen that night. “Hey Dad, there is a snowmobile on our lawn,” he said. Dad looked puzzled. They pulled the living room drapes open. They saw the ribbon and the bow – ribbons and bows belonged on gifts, not on snowmobiles left by chance in your yard! Joan’s father glanced at his wife, but her puzzled look said she was not the key to the mystery. Dad and the boys flew out the front door and leapt on the seat of the snowmobile while hollering in wild delight. They started the motor and sped off with Dad giggling like a teenager.
Mother looked at Joan’s sheepish grin and thought to herself: It cost three hundred dollars; Joan has three hundred dollars!
“Joan!” she exclaimed as Joan broke into an ear to ear grin. “I’m so proud of you. I just don’t know what to say.”
Joan’s mother did not have to say anything. On that beautiful, snowy Christmas morning, Joan learned for herself what we have all been told: It IS better to give than to receive.
Joan spent last summer working at a dude ranch in the rugged and beautiful mountains of Idaho’s Sawtooth National Forest just north of Sun Valley. She still had three hundred dollars she had saved from the summer’s work. Not bad for a sixteen year old.
As Christmas approached, Joan spent several hours thinking of the exciting ways she could spend her savings. It was awkward having so much money to spend when her parents had so little for Christmas. Joan’s dad was still recovering from an expensive operation. Medical expenses had wiped out the family savings. So it was going to be a low budget Christmas this year. Joan told her parents they could use her money, but they wouldn’t consider the idea. “It’s your money, dear. You earned it; you spend it,” they said.
Joan’s father and her brothers loved snowmobiling. They did not own a snowmobile, but friends occasionally asked them to go along with them. For days after their snowmobiling trips, they would recount with laughter and delight the things they did and the scenes they saw. Whether it was flying at full speed across a snow-covered meadow or watching a herd of elk moving through the timber, their eyes sparkled, and their voices spoke in excited tones as they shared their snowmobiling experiences with the rest of the family.
About two weeks before Christmas, Joan heard her parents talking in low, serious tones in their bedroom. Joan did not want to eavesdrop, but she sensed something was wrong–she slipped closer to the door. Joan’s father was explaining that one of his friends needed to sell one of his snowmobiles. He was willing to let it go for less than half of its value–only three hundred dollars. Joan heard her mother say, “That is such a great deal; isn’t there some way we can spare the money for it?” They discussed things they could do, but it came down to the fact that if they bought the snowmobile, the children would not have Christmas presents. Finally, Joan’s father, in a disappointed voice said, “We just can’t do it; we will have to wait for another opportunity.”
Joan slipped back to her room. She could do it! She would be broke, but it was exciting to think she could make her parents’ dream come true. But what about the things she planned to buy for herself? Then think of the look on her parents’ and brothers’ faces when they saw the snowmobile in their front yard! What fun the family could have together on their own snowmobile! Joan tossed and turned in her bed that night. This was one of the hardest decisions she ever faced, and she could not discuss it with anyone. What to do?
When she woke up the next morning, Joan felt clam. All doubt was gone. She knew exactly what she wanted to do. Her spine tingled with excitement as she planned her strategy. She called her dad’s friend who wanted to sell the snowmobile. Yes, he would sell it to her for the same price – three hundred dollars. No, he would not tell anyone, so it would be a surprise. He said he and his sons would shine it up and place it in Joan’s front yard about midnight on Christmas Eve.
Joan’s thoughts of how she planned to spend her three hundred dollars on herself were quickly overshadowed by the continuous delight she enjoyed as Christmas Day drew nearer. It was terrible, she thought, being so happy and excited and not being able to tell anyone why you felt that way.
Finally! Christmas Day arrived. That morning the children ran downstairs to open their presents. Joan had peeked outside earlier, and there the snowmobile sat in the middle of the front yard in eight inches of fresh snow. Their friends had polished the snowmobile until it gleamed. A big red ribbon went all the way around it, and a large red bow was on the seat. Joan was never happier!
The snowmobile was still hidden from the family by the living room drapes which Joan had drawn before she went to bed. Everyone, but Joan, had their full attention focused on opening the presents under the tree. Finally, Joan’s oldest brother parted the drapes to see how much snow had fallen that night. “Hey Dad, there is a snowmobile on our lawn,” he said. Dad looked puzzled. They pulled the living room drapes open. They saw the ribbon and the bow – ribbons and bows belonged on gifts, not on snowmobiles left by chance in your yard! Joan’s father glanced at his wife, but her puzzled look said she was not the key to the mystery. Dad and the boys flew out the front door and leapt on the seat of the snowmobile while hollering in wild delight. They started the motor and sped off with Dad giggling like a teenager.
Mother looked at Joan’s sheepish grin and thought to herself: It cost three hundred dollars; Joan has three hundred dollars!
“Joan!” she exclaimed as Joan broke into an ear to ear grin. “I’m so proud of you. I just don’t know what to say.”
Joan’s mother did not have to say anything. On that beautiful, snowy Christmas morning, Joan learned for herself what we have all been told: It IS better to give than to receive.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Fifteen-Cent Surprise
by Jean Matthew Hall
It was December 1963. Jack and I wanted to give each other something special on our first Christmas together, but we had no extra money for gifts. We had dated, fallen in love, and married all in the span of three months. We were young, in love, and broke--flat broke.
Jack was a private in the Marine Corps. He was stationed at the Naval Weapons Station, Charleston, South Carolina. The nicest house we could afford on Jack’s ninety-dollar-a-month salary was half of a rickety old duplex. It sat smack-dab in the middle of a cow pasture on the backside of Goose Creek. It was drafty, the roof leaked, and it had no hot water. But we were together, and that was what mattered most to us.
Unknown to me, as December rolled along, Jack was determined to surprise me with something on our first Christmas together. On December 19, he hid a small hatchet under his field jacket. He slid his hands into his work gloves, pulled his cap down to keep his ears warm, and took a moonlit stroll to the back side of the cow pasture. About an hour later he returned with a pathetic little pine tree and a huge grin. That little tree’s scrawny branches spread out like angels’ wings to me. I welcomed the surprise with childish delight.
“Here’s an empty coffee can, Jack. We can stand the tree in it,” I said. Jack filled the coffee can with South Carolina clay and jammed the tree’s tiny trunk into it. I draped one of my scarves around the can. Then I decorated the pitiful tree with my earrings, necklaces, and bracelets. The rhinestones glittered like tinsel. “It’s not the biggest tree in the world, but it’s the most beautiful Christmas tree I’ve ever had,” I said as I planted a kiss on Jack’s cheek. I leaned on his strong shoulder and sighed with happiness.
But Jack wasn’t satisfied. He wanted a gift to place under that tree. On Christmas Eve he stopped at the PX on his way home from duty. He had a grand total of twenty-one cents in his pocket. For an hour he walked up and down the aisles searching for something—anything—he could buy for the love of his life with such meager savings. He had almost given up when his eyes locked onto a small sign that read “15 cents” He grabbed one, paid for it, and headed home with his treasure tucked inside the pocket of his field jacket.
That night Jack and I ate bologna sandwiches in front of our Christmas tree. We sang Christmas carols and snuggled near the gas space heater. Around midnight Jack disappeared into the bedroom. He reappeared with his right hand hidden behind his back. His mouth went dry and his hands shook as he announced, “Close your eyes now. It’s a surprise.”
“Oh, Jack, you shouldn’t have spent money on a gift. We can’t afford it.”
“I couldn’t let Christmas come and go without doing something special for the most beautiful girl in the world. Close your eyes, and hold out your hand.”
I must admit I was excited. I giggled like a kid. Jack placed his treasure in my open palm. “I know it isn’t much. But, well, it’s your favorite and you’re my favorite.” He exhaled loudly. “Merry Christmas!”
I opened my eyes. Resting in my palm was a miniature box containing four chocolate-covered confections. I pulled the little treasure close to my heart, then wrapped both arms around my hero’s neck.
“This is the most wonderful gift I’ve ever received. It’s so good to be loved by you, Jack. I can’t believe that you’re all mine. You’re the best thing about my life.”
In the years that followed, our finances improved. Each Christmas the trees got fancier. Each year the presents got bigger and more expensive. But for thirty-four Christmases one gift occupied a place of honor under our Christmas tree. Every year until his death, Jack gave me his love--wrapped in a box of chocolate. And every year he became more and more my hero.
It was December 1963. Jack and I wanted to give each other something special on our first Christmas together, but we had no extra money for gifts. We had dated, fallen in love, and married all in the span of three months. We were young, in love, and broke--flat broke.
Jack was a private in the Marine Corps. He was stationed at the Naval Weapons Station, Charleston, South Carolina. The nicest house we could afford on Jack’s ninety-dollar-a-month salary was half of a rickety old duplex. It sat smack-dab in the middle of a cow pasture on the backside of Goose Creek. It was drafty, the roof leaked, and it had no hot water. But we were together, and that was what mattered most to us.
Unknown to me, as December rolled along, Jack was determined to surprise me with something on our first Christmas together. On December 19, he hid a small hatchet under his field jacket. He slid his hands into his work gloves, pulled his cap down to keep his ears warm, and took a moonlit stroll to the back side of the cow pasture. About an hour later he returned with a pathetic little pine tree and a huge grin. That little tree’s scrawny branches spread out like angels’ wings to me. I welcomed the surprise with childish delight.
“Here’s an empty coffee can, Jack. We can stand the tree in it,” I said. Jack filled the coffee can with South Carolina clay and jammed the tree’s tiny trunk into it. I draped one of my scarves around the can. Then I decorated the pitiful tree with my earrings, necklaces, and bracelets. The rhinestones glittered like tinsel. “It’s not the biggest tree in the world, but it’s the most beautiful Christmas tree I’ve ever had,” I said as I planted a kiss on Jack’s cheek. I leaned on his strong shoulder and sighed with happiness.
But Jack wasn’t satisfied. He wanted a gift to place under that tree. On Christmas Eve he stopped at the PX on his way home from duty. He had a grand total of twenty-one cents in his pocket. For an hour he walked up and down the aisles searching for something—anything—he could buy for the love of his life with such meager savings. He had almost given up when his eyes locked onto a small sign that read “15 cents” He grabbed one, paid for it, and headed home with his treasure tucked inside the pocket of his field jacket.
That night Jack and I ate bologna sandwiches in front of our Christmas tree. We sang Christmas carols and snuggled near the gas space heater. Around midnight Jack disappeared into the bedroom. He reappeared with his right hand hidden behind his back. His mouth went dry and his hands shook as he announced, “Close your eyes now. It’s a surprise.”
“Oh, Jack, you shouldn’t have spent money on a gift. We can’t afford it.”
“I couldn’t let Christmas come and go without doing something special for the most beautiful girl in the world. Close your eyes, and hold out your hand.”
I must admit I was excited. I giggled like a kid. Jack placed his treasure in my open palm. “I know it isn’t much. But, well, it’s your favorite and you’re my favorite.” He exhaled loudly. “Merry Christmas!”
I opened my eyes. Resting in my palm was a miniature box containing four chocolate-covered confections. I pulled the little treasure close to my heart, then wrapped both arms around my hero’s neck.
“This is the most wonderful gift I’ve ever received. It’s so good to be loved by you, Jack. I can’t believe that you’re all mine. You’re the best thing about my life.”
In the years that followed, our finances improved. Each Christmas the trees got fancier. Each year the presents got bigger and more expensive. But for thirty-four Christmases one gift occupied a place of honor under our Christmas tree. Every year until his death, Jack gave me his love--wrapped in a box of chocolate. And every year he became more and more my hero.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
The Christmas Man
by Rachel Dyer Montross
Last Christmas was a very difficult time for me. My family and all of my close friends were back home in Florida, and I was all alone in a rather cold California. I was working too many hours and became very sick.
I was working a double shift at the Southwest Airlines ticket counter. It was about 9:00 p.m. on Christmas Eve, and I was feeling really miserable inside. There were a few of us working and very few customers waiting to be helped. When it was time for me to call the next person to the counter, I looked out to see the sweetest looking old man standing with a cane. He walked very slowly over to the counter and in the faintest voice told me that he had to go to New Orleans. I tried to explain to him that there were no more flights that night and that he would have to go in the morning. He looked so confused and very worried. I tried to find out more information by asking if he had a reservation or if he remembered when he was supposed to travel, but he seemed to become more confused with each question. He just kept saying, “She said I have to go to New Orleans.”
After much time, I was able to at least find out that this old man was dropped off at the curb on Christmas Eve by his sister-in-law and told to go to New Orleans, where he had family. She had given him some cash and told him just to go inside and buy a ticket. When I asked if he could come back tomorrow, he said that she was gone and that he had no place to stay. He then said he would wait at the airport until tomorrow. Naturally, I felt a little ashamed. Here I was feeling very sorry for myself about being alone on Christmas, when this angel named Clarence MacDonald was sent to me to remind me of what being alone really meant. It broke my heart.
Immediately, I told him we would get it all straightened out, and our Customer Service agent helped to book him a seat for the earliest flight the next morning. We gave him the senior citizens’ fare, which gave him some extra money for traveling. About this time he started to look very tired, and when I stepped around the counter to ask him if he was all right, I saw that his leg was wrapped in a bandage. He had been standing on it that whole time, holding a plastic bag full of clothes.
I called for a wheelchair. When the wheelchair came, we all stepped around to help him in, and I noticed a small amount of blood on his bandage. I asked how he hurt his leg, and he said that he had just had bypass surgery and an artery was taken from his leg. Can you imagine? This man had had heart surgery, and then shortly afterward, was dropped off at the curb to buy a ticket with no reservation to fly to New Orleans, alone!
I never really had a situation like this, and I wasn’t sure what I could do. I went back to ask my supervisors if we could find a place for him to stay. They both said yes, and they obtained a hotel voucher for Mr. MacDonald for one night and a meal ticket for dinner and breakfast. When I came back out, we got his plastic bag of clothes and cane together and gave the porter a tip to take him downstairs to wait for the airport shuttle. I bent down to explain the hotel, food and itinerary again to Mr. MacDonald, and then patted him on the arm and told him everything would be just fine.
As he left, he said, “Thank you,” bent his head and started to cry. I cried too. When I went back to thank my supervisor, she just smiled and said, “I love stories like that. He is your Christmas Man.”
Last Christmas was a very difficult time for me. My family and all of my close friends were back home in Florida, and I was all alone in a rather cold California. I was working too many hours and became very sick.
I was working a double shift at the Southwest Airlines ticket counter. It was about 9:00 p.m. on Christmas Eve, and I was feeling really miserable inside. There were a few of us working and very few customers waiting to be helped. When it was time for me to call the next person to the counter, I looked out to see the sweetest looking old man standing with a cane. He walked very slowly over to the counter and in the faintest voice told me that he had to go to New Orleans. I tried to explain to him that there were no more flights that night and that he would have to go in the morning. He looked so confused and very worried. I tried to find out more information by asking if he had a reservation or if he remembered when he was supposed to travel, but he seemed to become more confused with each question. He just kept saying, “She said I have to go to New Orleans.”
After much time, I was able to at least find out that this old man was dropped off at the curb on Christmas Eve by his sister-in-law and told to go to New Orleans, where he had family. She had given him some cash and told him just to go inside and buy a ticket. When I asked if he could come back tomorrow, he said that she was gone and that he had no place to stay. He then said he would wait at the airport until tomorrow. Naturally, I felt a little ashamed. Here I was feeling very sorry for myself about being alone on Christmas, when this angel named Clarence MacDonald was sent to me to remind me of what being alone really meant. It broke my heart.
Immediately, I told him we would get it all straightened out, and our Customer Service agent helped to book him a seat for the earliest flight the next morning. We gave him the senior citizens’ fare, which gave him some extra money for traveling. About this time he started to look very tired, and when I stepped around the counter to ask him if he was all right, I saw that his leg was wrapped in a bandage. He had been standing on it that whole time, holding a plastic bag full of clothes.
I called for a wheelchair. When the wheelchair came, we all stepped around to help him in, and I noticed a small amount of blood on his bandage. I asked how he hurt his leg, and he said that he had just had bypass surgery and an artery was taken from his leg. Can you imagine? This man had had heart surgery, and then shortly afterward, was dropped off at the curb to buy a ticket with no reservation to fly to New Orleans, alone!
I never really had a situation like this, and I wasn’t sure what I could do. I went back to ask my supervisors if we could find a place for him to stay. They both said yes, and they obtained a hotel voucher for Mr. MacDonald for one night and a meal ticket for dinner and breakfast. When I came back out, we got his plastic bag of clothes and cane together and gave the porter a tip to take him downstairs to wait for the airport shuttle. I bent down to explain the hotel, food and itinerary again to Mr. MacDonald, and then patted him on the arm and told him everything would be just fine.
As he left, he said, “Thank you,” bent his head and started to cry. I cried too. When I went back to thank my supervisor, she just smiled and said, “I love stories like that. He is your Christmas Man.”
Monday, December 21, 2009
Amy Angel
Author Unknown
There are advantages and disadvantages to living in a small town. One advantage is that everyone knows everyone else. One disadvantage is that everyone knows everyone else. Everyone knew Amy Williams, only child. She had been born seventeen years ago, crippled in body if not in spirit. No one expected her to live, but she had. Everyone knew Amy Williams. Her hunched back and twisted spine were recognizable at a distance. Here she sat outside the choral room door, agonizing.
What am I doing here? She thought to herself. I'll never be chosen for a part. One advantage to small towns is that they develop traditions. A Christmas tradition in Marysvale was the annual pageant performed in the school auditorium. It had been performed for so many years that no one could remember when it had begun or even who had written it. But it had become the focal point of the Christmas season for many of the townspeople.
I don't want to go through the rejection again, thought Amy. I try not to care, but I do. I don't want to be hurt anymore. More people tried out each year for parts in the pageant than could possibly be used. Young children hoped to be shepherd boys, older ones the shepherds or the Wise Men. Those who sang hoped to be part of the angelic choir; a chosen few the innkeeper, the angel of the Lord, Joseph, and Mary. Many were turned away, for the stage in the old schoolhouse was small. The choir was a dozen or so voices. There was room for only a half dozen shepherds and three wise men.
Mr. Simons will never choose me for a part. I just don't fit. But at least I don't have to audition in front of Mrs. Prendergast, mused Amy.
Mrs. Prendergast had been the music teacher at Marysvale High School for more than thirty years. She had cast, coached, directed and accompanied the pageant all those years. When Amy had been a freshman three years ago, she had tried out for the pageant. Mrs. Prendergast had taken one look at Amy's misshapen body and in her dragon voice said, "Child, you just don't fit. I don't remember anywhere in the script where it calls for a crippled girl. Everyone would stare at you and that would make you uncomfortable. It would make them uncomfortable, too."
Without singing a single note, Amy had been thrust back through the choral room door. She shuffled home, hurt and humiliated, and vowed never to try out again. Then Mrs. Prendergast retired.
This year they had a new choral teacher, Mr. Simons. He was the opposite of Mrs. Prendergast. She had ruled with fear and force. He led with love and compassion. Amy liked him from the first. He demanded perfection, but understood when it was not reached. He coached and corrected with kindness.
And he sang himself with such power. It was he who had asked Amy to see him after class and had suggested she audition for the pageant. I ought to leave now and avoid the pain. There's no place for a girl like me in the pageant. I don't want to be rejected again. Still, Mr. Simons asked me to try out. I owe it to him. But he'll never choose me. I'm going to leave before it's my turn. As Amy struggled to her feet, the door was pushed open and Mr. Simons called out, "Amy, you're next." He sat at the piano, waiting to accompany her.
When she finished singing, Mr. Simons said, "Thank you, Amy. The list will be posted tomorrow."
She struggled all night long. Back and forth her mind went between the reality of knowing she didn't fit and the great need to be accepted. By morning she had a knot in the pit of her stomach and could not bring herself to look at the list on the choral room door. But as her third-period music class approached, she knew that avoiding it would not change the outcome.
Timidly, fearfully, she looked at the list. At the bottom of the page was listed the heavenly choir. As she suspected, her name was not among those listed. Rejected again! She turned to enter the class when her eye caught her name posted at the top of the page. She, Amy Williams, had been chosen to sing the only solo part in the whole pageant. She was to be the angel of the Lord. She was to sing to the Christ child, the Son of God.
There had to be a mistake. Certainly Mr. Simons would not put her in that part. It was so visible. "Amy," called Mr. Simons from the piano, "we need to talk about your part after class."
Class seemed to last forever. Finally it ended, and she made her way to Mr. Simon's side. "You wanted to talk to me?"
"Amy, I hope this doesn't upset you, but I need to stage your part a little differently this year." Hidden offstage, she thought.
Mr. Simons continued, "I would like to have a pyramid built, place the other angels on it, and put you at the very top. I know in the past they've put the angel just a bit above the shepherds, but I think the message you sing is the central part of the pageant."
The years of hurt exploded. "You don't want me in the middle of the stage! Won't the way I look ruin the whole thing? You don't want me where everybody will stare at me!" Amy said.
"Amy, I chose you because you deserve the part. What you think of yourself, I cannot change. That is something only you can deal with. I have no problem with you singing this part, and in this pageant the angel of the Lord is center stage. You must come to peace with yourself or you must tell me to choose someone else for the part. It is your decision."
That night Amy made her decision. The rehearsals were exhausting. Her body ached after struggling to the top of the pyramid, but great joy filled her heart. One advantage to living in a small town is that when there is a community event, everyone attends. And so it was the Sunday before Christmas when the whole town of Marysvale attended the Christmas pageant. Amy Williams, only child, misshapen of body if not of spirit, stood on the top of a silver-white pyramid and sang her heart out to the Christ child and to his brother.
“Fear not; for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord."
“What Child is this, who, laid to rest, On Mary's lap is sleeping?”
Never had the angel sung more sweetly.
No one had realized how sick Amy really was, I suppose, because they were so used to seeing her broken body. So it was a shock when she died that next Tuesday. Her mother conveyed a last request from Amy to Mr. Simons. Would he please sing at her funeral? "I've never been in your church. It would be very difficult." The excuses continued, but in the end he agreed.
And so that Christmas Eve, two of Amy's classmates, two boys from the bass section, helped Mr. Simons from his wheelchair and supported him as he sang for a daughter of God, as she has sung for his Son. There are advantages to living in a small town.
There are advantages and disadvantages to living in a small town. One advantage is that everyone knows everyone else. One disadvantage is that everyone knows everyone else. Everyone knew Amy Williams, only child. She had been born seventeen years ago, crippled in body if not in spirit. No one expected her to live, but she had. Everyone knew Amy Williams. Her hunched back and twisted spine were recognizable at a distance. Here she sat outside the choral room door, agonizing.
What am I doing here? She thought to herself. I'll never be chosen for a part. One advantage to small towns is that they develop traditions. A Christmas tradition in Marysvale was the annual pageant performed in the school auditorium. It had been performed for so many years that no one could remember when it had begun or even who had written it. But it had become the focal point of the Christmas season for many of the townspeople.
I don't want to go through the rejection again, thought Amy. I try not to care, but I do. I don't want to be hurt anymore. More people tried out each year for parts in the pageant than could possibly be used. Young children hoped to be shepherd boys, older ones the shepherds or the Wise Men. Those who sang hoped to be part of the angelic choir; a chosen few the innkeeper, the angel of the Lord, Joseph, and Mary. Many were turned away, for the stage in the old schoolhouse was small. The choir was a dozen or so voices. There was room for only a half dozen shepherds and three wise men.
Mr. Simons will never choose me for a part. I just don't fit. But at least I don't have to audition in front of Mrs. Prendergast, mused Amy.
Mrs. Prendergast had been the music teacher at Marysvale High School for more than thirty years. She had cast, coached, directed and accompanied the pageant all those years. When Amy had been a freshman three years ago, she had tried out for the pageant. Mrs. Prendergast had taken one look at Amy's misshapen body and in her dragon voice said, "Child, you just don't fit. I don't remember anywhere in the script where it calls for a crippled girl. Everyone would stare at you and that would make you uncomfortable. It would make them uncomfortable, too."
Without singing a single note, Amy had been thrust back through the choral room door. She shuffled home, hurt and humiliated, and vowed never to try out again. Then Mrs. Prendergast retired.
This year they had a new choral teacher, Mr. Simons. He was the opposite of Mrs. Prendergast. She had ruled with fear and force. He led with love and compassion. Amy liked him from the first. He demanded perfection, but understood when it was not reached. He coached and corrected with kindness.
And he sang himself with such power. It was he who had asked Amy to see him after class and had suggested she audition for the pageant. I ought to leave now and avoid the pain. There's no place for a girl like me in the pageant. I don't want to be rejected again. Still, Mr. Simons asked me to try out. I owe it to him. But he'll never choose me. I'm going to leave before it's my turn. As Amy struggled to her feet, the door was pushed open and Mr. Simons called out, "Amy, you're next." He sat at the piano, waiting to accompany her.
When she finished singing, Mr. Simons said, "Thank you, Amy. The list will be posted tomorrow."
She struggled all night long. Back and forth her mind went between the reality of knowing she didn't fit and the great need to be accepted. By morning she had a knot in the pit of her stomach and could not bring herself to look at the list on the choral room door. But as her third-period music class approached, she knew that avoiding it would not change the outcome.
Timidly, fearfully, she looked at the list. At the bottom of the page was listed the heavenly choir. As she suspected, her name was not among those listed. Rejected again! She turned to enter the class when her eye caught her name posted at the top of the page. She, Amy Williams, had been chosen to sing the only solo part in the whole pageant. She was to be the angel of the Lord. She was to sing to the Christ child, the Son of God.
There had to be a mistake. Certainly Mr. Simons would not put her in that part. It was so visible. "Amy," called Mr. Simons from the piano, "we need to talk about your part after class."
Class seemed to last forever. Finally it ended, and she made her way to Mr. Simon's side. "You wanted to talk to me?"
"Amy, I hope this doesn't upset you, but I need to stage your part a little differently this year." Hidden offstage, she thought.
Mr. Simons continued, "I would like to have a pyramid built, place the other angels on it, and put you at the very top. I know in the past they've put the angel just a bit above the shepherds, but I think the message you sing is the central part of the pageant."
The years of hurt exploded. "You don't want me in the middle of the stage! Won't the way I look ruin the whole thing? You don't want me where everybody will stare at me!" Amy said.
"Amy, I chose you because you deserve the part. What you think of yourself, I cannot change. That is something only you can deal with. I have no problem with you singing this part, and in this pageant the angel of the Lord is center stage. You must come to peace with yourself or you must tell me to choose someone else for the part. It is your decision."
That night Amy made her decision. The rehearsals were exhausting. Her body ached after struggling to the top of the pyramid, but great joy filled her heart. One advantage to living in a small town is that when there is a community event, everyone attends. And so it was the Sunday before Christmas when the whole town of Marysvale attended the Christmas pageant. Amy Williams, only child, misshapen of body if not of spirit, stood on the top of a silver-white pyramid and sang her heart out to the Christ child and to his brother.
“Fear not; for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord."
“What Child is this, who, laid to rest, On Mary's lap is sleeping?”
Never had the angel sung more sweetly.
No one had realized how sick Amy really was, I suppose, because they were so used to seeing her broken body. So it was a shock when she died that next Tuesday. Her mother conveyed a last request from Amy to Mr. Simons. Would he please sing at her funeral? "I've never been in your church. It would be very difficult." The excuses continued, but in the end he agreed.
And so that Christmas Eve, two of Amy's classmates, two boys from the bass section, helped Mr. Simons from his wheelchair and supported him as he sang for a daughter of God, as she has sung for his Son. There are advantages to living in a small town.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
A Christmas Tale
by Christine Walker
For most people, Christmas is a time of rejoicing and of goodwill to all men, but as Christmas of 1952 approached, I was feeling the lowest I had ever felt. My marriage had just fallen apart and I was left a single mother with two kids: Jason, nine years old, and little Francis, who was just five. My ex-husband wasn't faithful with his alimony and child support payments, so I was forced to find work and get a babysitter to help with the children after school. I missed them a lot, as I had always been there for them before, but in this situation we found ourselves in, there wasn't much else we could do.
At the time we also had to move into a poorer neighborhood, because we couldn't afford to continue paying the high rent for our previous apartment in the nicer part of town. It felt like one bad thing after another was happening to me, and I couldn't see a way out.
I would come back from work and pick up the kids, arrive home late with just enough time to cook them a meal, tuck them into bed, and say their prayers with them. In our prayers, we always held onto the hope that things would get better.
Christmas was just around the corner. With the small salary I made, I had saved up enough to get presents for the children, and a few of the special treats that make Christmas what it is. Or so I thought!
We had already set up the Christmas tree in our house, and the decorations and lights, sparse though they were, would still get oohs and aahs of admiration from my children. Now all that was left was for the presents to be placed under the tree, and the children were looking forward to this with great anticipation.
On the morning of the 23rd, the last day of work before the Christmas holidays, I left home early, dropped the children off at my parents', and went on my way. With all that was on my mind, I was a bit oblivious to the world around me, and I hadn't noticed the car in front of me had slowed down and was signaling his intent to make a left turn. Before I had time to slam on the brakes, I'd rear-ended him.
Great! I thought. Just what I needed! It wasn't such a bad accident, and my insurance would pay for the damage to his car, but it wouldn't cover the cost of repairs for my car and my rates would go up. I was mad at myself! Now I probably wouldn't be able to afford to get any extras that I knew the children were hoping for. So much for my Christmas shopping! I murmured.
The day passed slowly, and by the time work had ended, it was all I could do to drag myself out of the office and pick up the children. That night Jason offered to say the prayers. "Jesus, we pray for Your blessings on us at this time of Christmas" and then he went on into the Lord's Prayer. Just when he finished, as if he'd had an afterthought, he added, "And Lord, we know that You will supply all of our needs, and I would really want that sled that I saw in the store window today, so if You could do that for me, I would be very happy. And please supply all of the rest of the things that we need too. Amen!"
Francis, not wanting to miss out on the opportunity of adding his request, chimed in. "And I would really like one of those toy trucks, like my friend Richard has. Amen."
As I got into bed, I questioned the Lord. I was beginning to feel bitter about the hand in life He had dealt me. Why? I began to brood. Why now? Why at this time of Christmas, which is meant to be a joyful season and one of remembering when You came to Earth for us? "Lord," I whispered, "please don't disappoint Your children's faith in You."
I awoke with the sunrise, feeling much more refreshed because of the restful sleep I'd had. I went about my work of fixing the children breakfast. I opened the front door to let the dog out, and noticed several boxes on my doorstep that hadn't been there before. Surprised, I quickly opened one, and to my surprise found a sled just like the one Jason had prayed for. In one box were clothes and warm jackets, and in another were food staples, groceries, and even a few special treats.
I felt overjoyed, and so grateful for whoever the angel was that had brought these here. I opened the last box and found toys and playthings for the children including a truck that was almost exactly identical to my son's friend Richard's model.
Tears came to my eyes. Not knowing who the angel who had done this was, all I could say was, "Thank You! Thank You!" I still found it odd that someone could have known exactly what we needed and when we needed it. The children excitedly joined me in looking through the boxes. Jason was beside himself with delight to get the sled and also for the recent snowfall, so he wanted to go to the park to try the sled out right away. So we all went together with hearts overwhelmed by joy!
My sons were having the time of their lives as they took turns sledding down the hill, building jump ramps, and playing around in the snow, while I watched and cheered. Then I noticed a man sitting on the bench beside mine. He looked friendly, so I introduced myself, and found out that his name was Melvin Brown.
"I came here to take my son to the park," he said, "as he wanted to try out the new sled he got for Christmas. It was quite the amazing thing that happened last night, but he was hoping for a sled and I wasn't able to get him one. But this morning when I opened my door, I found a box containing the sled he had hoped for!" We eventually realized that a local church charity had gone around to the schools in this poorer area of town, and had asked the children what they wanted for Christmas, and then had delivered the gifts.
"But how did they know about the other things we needed?" I asked. "I found boxes with groceries and food and clothes in them!"
"I don't know," said Melvin. "Maybe that part was from somebody else?"
"But who?" I asked.
"I have no idea. Probably the Christmas Angel!" he said half-jokingly.
My son Jason's prayer rang through in my mind, And please supply all of the rest of things that we need. Amen! A smile broke out on my face. "Of course. The Christmas Angel! Who else?" Then I started thinking about how Jesus came down on the first Christmas and was our Angel of mercy and love. My mind continued on in this train of thought as we watched our boys play together, each of them so happy and joyful. It was the best Christmas I could remember, because each of us carried the spirit of Christmas.
Times got better and I was able to find a well-paying job and move back into a better neighborhood. Also, Melvin and I had taken a liking to each other. I found out that he was a widower and single father, and my heart went out to him. One thing led to another, and in the fall of 1953 we were engaged and then married. Melvin's business took an upward turn, and things were starting to look up for us in more ways than one.
Looking back now, I always crack a smile, and think about how perfectly the Lord set everything up how He made me get to the end of my rope so that I had to cry out to Him to save me. And how He healed the bitterness I had in my heart towards Him and replaced it with gratitude and thankfulness.
Each Christmas, as I look at the angel atop the tree, I think back about the "miracle of the Christmas Angel," as we affectionately termed it, and it makes me remember how Jesus, the first "Christmas Angel," came to give His life for us, and to save us from our sins and teach us how to live in love. And with each passing Christmas, the angel on top of the tree continues to shine down on us, reminding us of Jesus' love and the miracles He does for each one of us, His children.
For most people, Christmas is a time of rejoicing and of goodwill to all men, but as Christmas of 1952 approached, I was feeling the lowest I had ever felt. My marriage had just fallen apart and I was left a single mother with two kids: Jason, nine years old, and little Francis, who was just five. My ex-husband wasn't faithful with his alimony and child support payments, so I was forced to find work and get a babysitter to help with the children after school. I missed them a lot, as I had always been there for them before, but in this situation we found ourselves in, there wasn't much else we could do.
At the time we also had to move into a poorer neighborhood, because we couldn't afford to continue paying the high rent for our previous apartment in the nicer part of town. It felt like one bad thing after another was happening to me, and I couldn't see a way out.
I would come back from work and pick up the kids, arrive home late with just enough time to cook them a meal, tuck them into bed, and say their prayers with them. In our prayers, we always held onto the hope that things would get better.
Christmas was just around the corner. With the small salary I made, I had saved up enough to get presents for the children, and a few of the special treats that make Christmas what it is. Or so I thought!
We had already set up the Christmas tree in our house, and the decorations and lights, sparse though they were, would still get oohs and aahs of admiration from my children. Now all that was left was for the presents to be placed under the tree, and the children were looking forward to this with great anticipation.
On the morning of the 23rd, the last day of work before the Christmas holidays, I left home early, dropped the children off at my parents', and went on my way. With all that was on my mind, I was a bit oblivious to the world around me, and I hadn't noticed the car in front of me had slowed down and was signaling his intent to make a left turn. Before I had time to slam on the brakes, I'd rear-ended him.
Great! I thought. Just what I needed! It wasn't such a bad accident, and my insurance would pay for the damage to his car, but it wouldn't cover the cost of repairs for my car and my rates would go up. I was mad at myself! Now I probably wouldn't be able to afford to get any extras that I knew the children were hoping for. So much for my Christmas shopping! I murmured.
The day passed slowly, and by the time work had ended, it was all I could do to drag myself out of the office and pick up the children. That night Jason offered to say the prayers. "Jesus, we pray for Your blessings on us at this time of Christmas" and then he went on into the Lord's Prayer. Just when he finished, as if he'd had an afterthought, he added, "And Lord, we know that You will supply all of our needs, and I would really want that sled that I saw in the store window today, so if You could do that for me, I would be very happy. And please supply all of the rest of the things that we need too. Amen!"
Francis, not wanting to miss out on the opportunity of adding his request, chimed in. "And I would really like one of those toy trucks, like my friend Richard has. Amen."
As I got into bed, I questioned the Lord. I was beginning to feel bitter about the hand in life He had dealt me. Why? I began to brood. Why now? Why at this time of Christmas, which is meant to be a joyful season and one of remembering when You came to Earth for us? "Lord," I whispered, "please don't disappoint Your children's faith in You."
I awoke with the sunrise, feeling much more refreshed because of the restful sleep I'd had. I went about my work of fixing the children breakfast. I opened the front door to let the dog out, and noticed several boxes on my doorstep that hadn't been there before. Surprised, I quickly opened one, and to my surprise found a sled just like the one Jason had prayed for. In one box were clothes and warm jackets, and in another were food staples, groceries, and even a few special treats.
I felt overjoyed, and so grateful for whoever the angel was that had brought these here. I opened the last box and found toys and playthings for the children including a truck that was almost exactly identical to my son's friend Richard's model.
Tears came to my eyes. Not knowing who the angel who had done this was, all I could say was, "Thank You! Thank You!" I still found it odd that someone could have known exactly what we needed and when we needed it. The children excitedly joined me in looking through the boxes. Jason was beside himself with delight to get the sled and also for the recent snowfall, so he wanted to go to the park to try the sled out right away. So we all went together with hearts overwhelmed by joy!
My sons were having the time of their lives as they took turns sledding down the hill, building jump ramps, and playing around in the snow, while I watched and cheered. Then I noticed a man sitting on the bench beside mine. He looked friendly, so I introduced myself, and found out that his name was Melvin Brown.
"I came here to take my son to the park," he said, "as he wanted to try out the new sled he got for Christmas. It was quite the amazing thing that happened last night, but he was hoping for a sled and I wasn't able to get him one. But this morning when I opened my door, I found a box containing the sled he had hoped for!" We eventually realized that a local church charity had gone around to the schools in this poorer area of town, and had asked the children what they wanted for Christmas, and then had delivered the gifts.
"But how did they know about the other things we needed?" I asked. "I found boxes with groceries and food and clothes in them!"
"I don't know," said Melvin. "Maybe that part was from somebody else?"
"But who?" I asked.
"I have no idea. Probably the Christmas Angel!" he said half-jokingly.
My son Jason's prayer rang through in my mind, And please supply all of the rest of things that we need. Amen! A smile broke out on my face. "Of course. The Christmas Angel! Who else?" Then I started thinking about how Jesus came down on the first Christmas and was our Angel of mercy and love. My mind continued on in this train of thought as we watched our boys play together, each of them so happy and joyful. It was the best Christmas I could remember, because each of us carried the spirit of Christmas.
Times got better and I was able to find a well-paying job and move back into a better neighborhood. Also, Melvin and I had taken a liking to each other. I found out that he was a widower and single father, and my heart went out to him. One thing led to another, and in the fall of 1953 we were engaged and then married. Melvin's business took an upward turn, and things were starting to look up for us in more ways than one.
Looking back now, I always crack a smile, and think about how perfectly the Lord set everything up how He made me get to the end of my rope so that I had to cry out to Him to save me. And how He healed the bitterness I had in my heart towards Him and replaced it with gratitude and thankfulness.
Each Christmas, as I look at the angel atop the tree, I think back about the "miracle of the Christmas Angel," as we affectionately termed it, and it makes me remember how Jesus, the first "Christmas Angel," came to give His life for us, and to save us from our sins and teach us how to live in love. And with each passing Christmas, the angel on top of the tree continues to shine down on us, reminding us of Jesus' love and the miracles He does for each one of us, His children.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Reptiles Reconciled
by Linda C. Raybern
I will never forget the Christmas of my seventh year. I was going to sing several carols with my classmates in the Christmas pageant at school. We had been practicing for about a month. A week before the pageant, my mother’s family had their Christmas celebration. Mother had been bragging about how I was to sing at school and I was cajoled into singing one of the carols for the Coulter clan gathered there.
Telling my aunt which carol to play, I sang out as sweetly and sincerely as only a seven-year-old can . . .
“Hark! Old Harold’s angel sings,
glory to the newborn King.
Peace on earth so mercy smiles’
cause God and reptiles reconciled . . .”
That is as far as I got because my aunt could no longer play the piano, she was laughing so hard. My uncle laughed so hard he spilled his drink on his lap and when he tried to mop it up; he lost his balance and slid out of his chair.
I was mortified. I had no idea why everyone was laughing at me. I burst into tears and ran upstairs to my bedroom crying. I really was surprised when my oldest and most straitlaced aunt came into my room. (I had always been a little afraid of her.) She tenderly took me in her arms and with loving words told me not to cry. Everyone was laughing because of the wonderful new words I had sung for that Christmas carol. And even though everyone else had learned it a different way, mine was so much better.
She kissed me and then washed my face and told me to come downstairs with her because there was a surprise waiting for me. Hand in hand we took the stairs down to the living room. Just as we got there, the music began to play and the whole Coulter clan began to sing my own words. As I stood listening to them sing my misconstrued version of “Hark the Herald Angels Sing,” I felt more loved than I ever had in my life.
My lips were still trembling as I stepped forward and began to sing. As my extended family sang carol after carol and arms slipped around each other in a warm familial glow, I realized Christmas wasn’t about festive decorations or the Christmas tree or even the gifts under it. Christmas was about love given freely and with joy.
As one of my older cousins gave me a squeeze and a smile, I was sure Hark, old Harold’s angel, was singing with us, and I had gotten the words right after all.
I will never forget the Christmas of my seventh year. I was going to sing several carols with my classmates in the Christmas pageant at school. We had been practicing for about a month. A week before the pageant, my mother’s family had their Christmas celebration. Mother had been bragging about how I was to sing at school and I was cajoled into singing one of the carols for the Coulter clan gathered there.
Telling my aunt which carol to play, I sang out as sweetly and sincerely as only a seven-year-old can . . .
“Hark! Old Harold’s angel sings,
glory to the newborn King.
Peace on earth so mercy smiles’
cause God and reptiles reconciled . . .”
That is as far as I got because my aunt could no longer play the piano, she was laughing so hard. My uncle laughed so hard he spilled his drink on his lap and when he tried to mop it up; he lost his balance and slid out of his chair.
I was mortified. I had no idea why everyone was laughing at me. I burst into tears and ran upstairs to my bedroom crying. I really was surprised when my oldest and most straitlaced aunt came into my room. (I had always been a little afraid of her.) She tenderly took me in her arms and with loving words told me not to cry. Everyone was laughing because of the wonderful new words I had sung for that Christmas carol. And even though everyone else had learned it a different way, mine was so much better.
She kissed me and then washed my face and told me to come downstairs with her because there was a surprise waiting for me. Hand in hand we took the stairs down to the living room. Just as we got there, the music began to play and the whole Coulter clan began to sing my own words. As I stood listening to them sing my misconstrued version of “Hark the Herald Angels Sing,” I felt more loved than I ever had in my life.
My lips were still trembling as I stepped forward and began to sing. As my extended family sang carol after carol and arms slipped around each other in a warm familial glow, I realized Christmas wasn’t about festive decorations or the Christmas tree or even the gifts under it. Christmas was about love given freely and with joy.
As one of my older cousins gave me a squeeze and a smile, I was sure Hark, old Harold’s angel, was singing with us, and I had gotten the words right after all.
Friday, December 18, 2009
The Best Christmas Eve
told by James E. Faust
A few years ago, Bill Lederer wrote to the Chief of Naval Operations in Washington, D.C. about a sailor who emulated the Christ, reaching out one Christmas Eve as one who would be Santa. He recalled:
Last year at Christmas time my wife, our three boys and I were in France, on our way from Paris to Nice in a rented car. For five wretched days everything had gone wrong. On Christmas Eve, when we checked into our hotel in Nice, there was no Christmas spirit in our hearts.
It was raining and cold when we went out to eat. We found a drab little restaurant shoddily decorated for the holiday. Only five tables were occupied. There were two German couples, two French families, and an American sailor. While eating, he was writing a letter.
My wife ordered our meal in French. The waiter brought us the wrong thing. I scolded my wife for being stupid.
Then, at the table with the French family on our left, the father slapped one of his children for some minor infraction and the boy began to cry.
On our right, the German wife began berating her husband.
All of us were interrupted by an unpleasant blast of cold air. Through the front door came an old flower woman. She wore a dripping, tattered overcoat, and shuffled in on wet, rundown shoes. She went from one table to the other.
"Flowers, Monsieur? Only one franc." No one bought any.
Wearily she sat down at a table between the sailor and us. To the waiter she said, "A bowl of soup. I haven't sold a flower all afternoon." To the piano player she said hoarsely, "Can you imagine, Joseph, soup on Christmas Eve?"
He pointed to his empty "tipping plate."
The young sailor finished his meal and got up. Putting on his coat, he walked over to the flower woman's table.
"Happy Christmas," he said, smiling and picking out two corsages. "How much are they?"
"Two francs, Monsieur."
Pressing one of the small corsages flat, he put it into the letter he had written, then handed the woman a 20-franc note.
"I don't have change, Monsieur," she said. "I'll get some from the waiter."
"No, Ma'am," said the sailor, leaning over and kissing the ancient cheek. "This is my Christmas present to you."
Then he came to our table, holding the other corsage in front of him. "Sir," he said to me, "may I have permission to present these flowers to your beautiful daughter?"
In one quick motion he gave my wife the corsage, wished us a Merry Christmas and departed. Everyone had stopped eating. Everyone had been watching the sailor.
A few seconds later Christmas exploded throughout the restaurant like a bomb.
The old flower woman jumped up, waving the 20-franc note, shouted to the piano player, "Joseph, my Christmas present! And you shall have half so you can have a feast too."
The piano player began to belt out Good King Wenceslaus.
My wife waved her corsage in time to the music. She appeared 20 years younger. She began to sing, and our three sons joined her, bellowing with enthusiasm.
"Gut! Gut!" shouted the Germans. They began singing in German.
The waiter embraced the flower woman. Waving their arms, they sang in French.
The Frenchman who had slapped the boy beat in rhythm with his fork against a glass. The lad, now on his lap, sang in a youthful soprano.
A few hours earlier 18 persons had been spending a miserable evening. It ended up being the happiest, the very best Christmas Eve they had ever experienced.
A few years ago, Bill Lederer wrote to the Chief of Naval Operations in Washington, D.C. about a sailor who emulated the Christ, reaching out one Christmas Eve as one who would be Santa. He recalled:
Last year at Christmas time my wife, our three boys and I were in France, on our way from Paris to Nice in a rented car. For five wretched days everything had gone wrong. On Christmas Eve, when we checked into our hotel in Nice, there was no Christmas spirit in our hearts.
It was raining and cold when we went out to eat. We found a drab little restaurant shoddily decorated for the holiday. Only five tables were occupied. There were two German couples, two French families, and an American sailor. While eating, he was writing a letter.
My wife ordered our meal in French. The waiter brought us the wrong thing. I scolded my wife for being stupid.
Then, at the table with the French family on our left, the father slapped one of his children for some minor infraction and the boy began to cry.
On our right, the German wife began berating her husband.
All of us were interrupted by an unpleasant blast of cold air. Through the front door came an old flower woman. She wore a dripping, tattered overcoat, and shuffled in on wet, rundown shoes. She went from one table to the other.
"Flowers, Monsieur? Only one franc." No one bought any.
Wearily she sat down at a table between the sailor and us. To the waiter she said, "A bowl of soup. I haven't sold a flower all afternoon." To the piano player she said hoarsely, "Can you imagine, Joseph, soup on Christmas Eve?"
He pointed to his empty "tipping plate."
The young sailor finished his meal and got up. Putting on his coat, he walked over to the flower woman's table.
"Happy Christmas," he said, smiling and picking out two corsages. "How much are they?"
"Two francs, Monsieur."
Pressing one of the small corsages flat, he put it into the letter he had written, then handed the woman a 20-franc note.
"I don't have change, Monsieur," she said. "I'll get some from the waiter."
"No, Ma'am," said the sailor, leaning over and kissing the ancient cheek. "This is my Christmas present to you."
Then he came to our table, holding the other corsage in front of him. "Sir," he said to me, "may I have permission to present these flowers to your beautiful daughter?"
In one quick motion he gave my wife the corsage, wished us a Merry Christmas and departed. Everyone had stopped eating. Everyone had been watching the sailor.
A few seconds later Christmas exploded throughout the restaurant like a bomb.
The old flower woman jumped up, waving the 20-franc note, shouted to the piano player, "Joseph, my Christmas present! And you shall have half so you can have a feast too."
The piano player began to belt out Good King Wenceslaus.
My wife waved her corsage in time to the music. She appeared 20 years younger. She began to sing, and our three sons joined her, bellowing with enthusiasm.
"Gut! Gut!" shouted the Germans. They began singing in German.
The waiter embraced the flower woman. Waving their arms, they sang in French.
The Frenchman who had slapped the boy beat in rhythm with his fork against a glass. The lad, now on his lap, sang in a youthful soprano.
A few hours earlier 18 persons had been spending a miserable evening. It ended up being the happiest, the very best Christmas Eve they had ever experienced.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
A Horse Trader's Christmas
Author Unknown
It was two days before Christmas and Sven Nickelson hoped he could make a few more good horse sales for Christmas because he knew business would be slim after that. Sven, locally known as, "Nick," was a horse trader who was known for his shrewd trades and high-priced horses. He always got all a horse was worth and more. He never traded without a bout, even if he was getting the best horse. He had a way of making his clients feel like they had to have the horse he was selling and they would have to pay the asking price.
Nick was sitting by his stove in the tack room when he heard a car pull up. He got up and watched as a young woman got out of an older car that looked like it was ready for the junk yard.
"She's not going to buy anything unless it is the old mare in the back," he thought to himself. It was obvious she didn't have the kind of money to buy the good stock in his corrals.
"Mr. Nickelson, I'm Mrs. Jackson and my son Jeff wants a horse for Christmas. He has been wanting that pretty little paint in your corral for a few months."
"We'll he must be a pretty good judge of horses because that little pony is registered and well broke," Nick informed her.
If she must have the pony, he thought he could surely jack up the price. So he told her it would the horse was $1,000. He told her in the right place, that horse would bring twice that much. She told him that all she had was $250 and she would need a saddle as well.
Nick was almost insulted that she would offer that price for such a fine animal. He chuckled and told her that wouldn't even buy the old mare out back.
Frustrated, Mrs. Jackson told him she had to get that horse for her ten year old son. She said he had wanted a horse all of his life and had fallen in love with this horse. Tears streamed down her face as she pleaded with him to consider selling the horse to her. He told her that he makes a living selling horses, not giving them away. He told her when she could afford more to come back and talk to him.
Slowly she walked back to her car as she brushed the tears off her cheeks with her coat sleeve. Nick shook his head as he watched her drive off. The nerve of some people thinking they could get the best of him!
Nick had to pick up some feed, so he climbed into his pickup and drove to town. He kept thinking about the lady and her reaction to his position. He wondered, what business do people with only $250 to spend, have buying horses? Her money would be better spent for groceries and shoes for her kids.
At the feed store, he ran into a fellow horse trader named Jack who asked him how business was going. Nick told him about the woman who wanted to buy his horse for $250. "Why that horse is worth at least $750," Jack replied. Then he asked Nick who had offered that for such a fine horse.
Nick told him it was Mrs. Jackson - the new family that moved into the Olsen home. "Well that explains it," Jack said. Then he added, "Their boy has a terminal illness and I heard they don't expect him to live more than a few months. Her husband has been out of work since early fall and when he was cutting wood for spending money, a tree fell and broke his leg."
That explained why she had reacted the way she had, Nick thought. She had about as much as one woman could handle. "If only I would have known, I sure wouldn't have talked to her the way I did," Nick said.
After getting his feed, Nick drove home. The whole way he kept thinking about the lady's problems and the hope she had for a horse to make her sick boy happy during his last Christmas.
That night and the next day were really tough for Nick. All he could think about was that lady and her sick son. Then he had an idea.
Christmas Eve night, Nick found himself cleaning up an old saddle that had been in the back room. Then he found a bridle and a blanket. With a halter in his hands, he walked out into the corral and caught the paint. After washing and trimming the pony, he put her in a box stall for the night.
"You are going to make a little boy real happy tomorrow," Nick said as he brushed her mane. All night he had a warm feeling. He couldn't sleep for the excitement he felt as he anticipated the events of the next morning.
Finally, when he couldn't stand to lay in bed any longer, he got up and hitched up his trailer to the back of his truck. The saddle and other tack were lifted up into the pick up along with three bales of hay and a sack of grain.
"It's time, let's go girl," Nick said as he put a halter on and led her out to the trailer.
The sun was just peaking over the ridge as he pulled into the Jackson's yard. The horse was unloaded and saddled before anyone heard him. As he was tying her up to the fence post, Tom Jackson came hobbling out to meet him.
"We can't afford your kind of horses Mr. Nickelson," he said.
"Call me Nick, Tom. I came as a friend. I heard about your son and I know you've come upon hard times. If you will let me, I will leave this horse for your boy as long as he needs him," replied Nick.
Tom started to argue with Nick that he couldn't let him do that because he knew he could sell the horse with no problem when he heard his son yell, "My horse! I knew the Lord wouldn't let me down!" Jeff ran over to the pony and threw his arms around her neck. The gentle horse just stood there as if she knew this little boy needed her more than anything right now.
Nick helped him up into the saddle and then watched as the paint walked him around the yard. Jeff was beaming and laughing as he sat proudly in the saddle.
This had been the best Christmas Nick had ever had and he knew he would never regret his decision to help a little boy on Christmas day.
It was two days before Christmas and Sven Nickelson hoped he could make a few more good horse sales for Christmas because he knew business would be slim after that. Sven, locally known as, "Nick," was a horse trader who was known for his shrewd trades and high-priced horses. He always got all a horse was worth and more. He never traded without a bout, even if he was getting the best horse. He had a way of making his clients feel like they had to have the horse he was selling and they would have to pay the asking price.
Nick was sitting by his stove in the tack room when he heard a car pull up. He got up and watched as a young woman got out of an older car that looked like it was ready for the junk yard.
"She's not going to buy anything unless it is the old mare in the back," he thought to himself. It was obvious she didn't have the kind of money to buy the good stock in his corrals.
"Mr. Nickelson, I'm Mrs. Jackson and my son Jeff wants a horse for Christmas. He has been wanting that pretty little paint in your corral for a few months."
"We'll he must be a pretty good judge of horses because that little pony is registered and well broke," Nick informed her.
If she must have the pony, he thought he could surely jack up the price. So he told her it would the horse was $1,000. He told her in the right place, that horse would bring twice that much. She told him that all she had was $250 and she would need a saddle as well.
Nick was almost insulted that she would offer that price for such a fine animal. He chuckled and told her that wouldn't even buy the old mare out back.
Frustrated, Mrs. Jackson told him she had to get that horse for her ten year old son. She said he had wanted a horse all of his life and had fallen in love with this horse. Tears streamed down her face as she pleaded with him to consider selling the horse to her. He told her that he makes a living selling horses, not giving them away. He told her when she could afford more to come back and talk to him.
Slowly she walked back to her car as she brushed the tears off her cheeks with her coat sleeve. Nick shook his head as he watched her drive off. The nerve of some people thinking they could get the best of him!
Nick had to pick up some feed, so he climbed into his pickup and drove to town. He kept thinking about the lady and her reaction to his position. He wondered, what business do people with only $250 to spend, have buying horses? Her money would be better spent for groceries and shoes for her kids.
At the feed store, he ran into a fellow horse trader named Jack who asked him how business was going. Nick told him about the woman who wanted to buy his horse for $250. "Why that horse is worth at least $750," Jack replied. Then he asked Nick who had offered that for such a fine horse.
Nick told him it was Mrs. Jackson - the new family that moved into the Olsen home. "Well that explains it," Jack said. Then he added, "Their boy has a terminal illness and I heard they don't expect him to live more than a few months. Her husband has been out of work since early fall and when he was cutting wood for spending money, a tree fell and broke his leg."
That explained why she had reacted the way she had, Nick thought. She had about as much as one woman could handle. "If only I would have known, I sure wouldn't have talked to her the way I did," Nick said.
After getting his feed, Nick drove home. The whole way he kept thinking about the lady's problems and the hope she had for a horse to make her sick boy happy during his last Christmas.
That night and the next day were really tough for Nick. All he could think about was that lady and her sick son. Then he had an idea.
Christmas Eve night, Nick found himself cleaning up an old saddle that had been in the back room. Then he found a bridle and a blanket. With a halter in his hands, he walked out into the corral and caught the paint. After washing and trimming the pony, he put her in a box stall for the night.
"You are going to make a little boy real happy tomorrow," Nick said as he brushed her mane. All night he had a warm feeling. He couldn't sleep for the excitement he felt as he anticipated the events of the next morning.
Finally, when he couldn't stand to lay in bed any longer, he got up and hitched up his trailer to the back of his truck. The saddle and other tack were lifted up into the pick up along with three bales of hay and a sack of grain.
"It's time, let's go girl," Nick said as he put a halter on and led her out to the trailer.
The sun was just peaking over the ridge as he pulled into the Jackson's yard. The horse was unloaded and saddled before anyone heard him. As he was tying her up to the fence post, Tom Jackson came hobbling out to meet him.
"We can't afford your kind of horses Mr. Nickelson," he said.
"Call me Nick, Tom. I came as a friend. I heard about your son and I know you've come upon hard times. If you will let me, I will leave this horse for your boy as long as he needs him," replied Nick.
Tom started to argue with Nick that he couldn't let him do that because he knew he could sell the horse with no problem when he heard his son yell, "My horse! I knew the Lord wouldn't let me down!" Jeff ran over to the pony and threw his arms around her neck. The gentle horse just stood there as if she knew this little boy needed her more than anything right now.
Nick helped him up into the saddle and then watched as the paint walked him around the yard. Jeff was beaming and laughing as he sat proudly in the saddle.
This had been the best Christmas Nick had ever had and he knew he would never regret his decision to help a little boy on Christmas day.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Finding the Christmas Spirit
by Sandi Schureman
Time was running out. It was December 24, Christmas Eve, and I still hadn’t found that magical feeling, the spirit of Christmas. I had done the things that I thought would bring it—attended my children’s school performance of Christmas carols, decorated our tree, baked, shopped, wrapped. Yet nothing seemed to spark the Christmas spirit within me. I had resigned myself to the fact that this just might not be a very good Christmas.
My husband, Steve, a firefighter, was on his routine 24-hour shift at the firehouse, which meant he would not be home for either Christmas Eve or Christmas morning. Our four children and I were eager to spend what time we could with him, so we all drove down to the station.
As we arrived, the firefighters had just returned from a first-aid call to a nearby motel, where they had rendered care to a young boy with a fever and other symptoms. My husband expressed to us his feelings of concern and his desire to do something more for the boy and his brother and their mother. They had fled an abusive, alcoholic situation and were now hundreds of miles from home, with one change of clothes each, very little money, and now an ill child on Christmas Eve.
Steve looked at me and at each of our children and asked, “What else can we do to help them? We picked up a small tree on the way back to the station that we want to decorate for them, but what more can we do this late?” It was 9:25 P.M. Our children began a clamor of ideas. My daughter was sure a toy store somewhere was still open.
My oldest son, then fifteen years old, offered a prayer and asked Heavenly Father to guide us to a place where we would find the gifts we needed. This filled the children with hope that we could find a toy store still open. I didn’t share their hope, largely because even if we did find a store open, I didn’t know how we would pay for anything we found. I wanted to share, as much as my children did, but this Christmas was already our leanest ever.
Our own children were receiving only two gifts each. Still, we drove eagerly around looking for anything open, planning to meet Steve and the other firefighters back at the motel room before the little family returned from the hospital, where they’d gone for medicine.
Every store we saw was closed. Then one of my sons said, “Hey, I know somewhere that’s open.”
“Yeah, and they’ve got presents already wrapped!” declared the other son.
Wondering what they were talking about, I pulled the car to the side of the street, and in frustration I turned to the kids and asked, “Oh, yeah, just where is this great place?”
Their answer was so enthusiastic and genuine that it instantly ignited within me the flame of the Christmas spirit. “We can go to our house,” they chimed together. “The presents are already wrapped and under the tree.”
I asked them each if they really wanted to do this, and their eager response was, “Yes! Yes! Now hurry!” Once we were home, I watched with wonder as each pulled name tags off of their presents and each picked certain ornaments from our tree. At first, I was surprised to see that the ornaments they picked were the ones they themselves had made over the years. Then I realized that they were giving of themselves, and these had special value.
Two of my boys came out of their bedroom with their baseball gloves, their “pride and joy” mitts. We loaded the presents, some tree lights, and candy and goodies that were our family’s stocking stuffers, and we were off to the motel. The manager let us into the austere little room, and we set right to work with the firefighters, who had also brought things. We set the tree on the tabletop and adorned it with lights and the ornaments. Some of the firefighters hung candy bars and twenty-dollar bills on it with paper clips. Presents were in place under the tree, canned goods stacked in the corner, and clothes for the mother and children folded neatly on the night stand. The room had been transformed.
On each of the bed pillows lay a somewhat used baseball glove from our boys, and I saw my fifteen year old place between the mitts one of his most prized possessions. It was his home run baseball. I doubted that the little boys receiving this prize could possibly know what a sacrifice this was or what a revered spot it had held in my son’s room for the past six months. But that moment I knew that in my son’s heart, the spirit of Christmas flamed brightly, lighting that little room even after we turned off all the lights except the diamond-like ones on the tree.
I had almost given up on finding that precious spirit of Christmas. But it was given to me by my dear husband who recognized a need when he saw it, my children who so eagerly responded, and my Savior, whose love for all mankind serves to remind me that I’ll never need to be without the Christmas spirit again. I realized as never before that the Christmas spirit comes to us as we give of ourselves to others.
Time was running out. It was December 24, Christmas Eve, and I still hadn’t found that magical feeling, the spirit of Christmas. I had done the things that I thought would bring it—attended my children’s school performance of Christmas carols, decorated our tree, baked, shopped, wrapped. Yet nothing seemed to spark the Christmas spirit within me. I had resigned myself to the fact that this just might not be a very good Christmas.
My husband, Steve, a firefighter, was on his routine 24-hour shift at the firehouse, which meant he would not be home for either Christmas Eve or Christmas morning. Our four children and I were eager to spend what time we could with him, so we all drove down to the station.
As we arrived, the firefighters had just returned from a first-aid call to a nearby motel, where they had rendered care to a young boy with a fever and other symptoms. My husband expressed to us his feelings of concern and his desire to do something more for the boy and his brother and their mother. They had fled an abusive, alcoholic situation and were now hundreds of miles from home, with one change of clothes each, very little money, and now an ill child on Christmas Eve.
Steve looked at me and at each of our children and asked, “What else can we do to help them? We picked up a small tree on the way back to the station that we want to decorate for them, but what more can we do this late?” It was 9:25 P.M. Our children began a clamor of ideas. My daughter was sure a toy store somewhere was still open.
My oldest son, then fifteen years old, offered a prayer and asked Heavenly Father to guide us to a place where we would find the gifts we needed. This filled the children with hope that we could find a toy store still open. I didn’t share their hope, largely because even if we did find a store open, I didn’t know how we would pay for anything we found. I wanted to share, as much as my children did, but this Christmas was already our leanest ever.
Our own children were receiving only two gifts each. Still, we drove eagerly around looking for anything open, planning to meet Steve and the other firefighters back at the motel room before the little family returned from the hospital, where they’d gone for medicine.
Every store we saw was closed. Then one of my sons said, “Hey, I know somewhere that’s open.”
“Yeah, and they’ve got presents already wrapped!” declared the other son.
Wondering what they were talking about, I pulled the car to the side of the street, and in frustration I turned to the kids and asked, “Oh, yeah, just where is this great place?”
Their answer was so enthusiastic and genuine that it instantly ignited within me the flame of the Christmas spirit. “We can go to our house,” they chimed together. “The presents are already wrapped and under the tree.”
I asked them each if they really wanted to do this, and their eager response was, “Yes! Yes! Now hurry!” Once we were home, I watched with wonder as each pulled name tags off of their presents and each picked certain ornaments from our tree. At first, I was surprised to see that the ornaments they picked were the ones they themselves had made over the years. Then I realized that they were giving of themselves, and these had special value.
Two of my boys came out of their bedroom with their baseball gloves, their “pride and joy” mitts. We loaded the presents, some tree lights, and candy and goodies that were our family’s stocking stuffers, and we were off to the motel. The manager let us into the austere little room, and we set right to work with the firefighters, who had also brought things. We set the tree on the tabletop and adorned it with lights and the ornaments. Some of the firefighters hung candy bars and twenty-dollar bills on it with paper clips. Presents were in place under the tree, canned goods stacked in the corner, and clothes for the mother and children folded neatly on the night stand. The room had been transformed.
On each of the bed pillows lay a somewhat used baseball glove from our boys, and I saw my fifteen year old place between the mitts one of his most prized possessions. It was his home run baseball. I doubted that the little boys receiving this prize could possibly know what a sacrifice this was or what a revered spot it had held in my son’s room for the past six months. But that moment I knew that in my son’s heart, the spirit of Christmas flamed brightly, lighting that little room even after we turned off all the lights except the diamond-like ones on the tree.
I had almost given up on finding that precious spirit of Christmas. But it was given to me by my dear husband who recognized a need when he saw it, my children who so eagerly responded, and my Savior, whose love for all mankind serves to remind me that I’ll never need to be without the Christmas spirit again. I realized as never before that the Christmas spirit comes to us as we give of ourselves to others.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Trees for the Troops
by Gary Sledge
Readers Digest
December 2005
Little miracles. That's what Jim Adelis thinks Christmas is all about. One day last November, he wandered over to Dees' Nursery in Oceanside, New York, and Tom Dee told him about a woman who had just been by asking if there was some way to send a Christmas tree to her son who was serving in Iraq.
Jim had a son in Iraq too: 20-year-old Jim Jr., a convoy machine gunner stationed at Camp Anaconda in Balad, Iraq. He'd had a narrow miss with a roadside bomb earlier in the year. Tom told Jim he'd be happy to donate 75 trees, if there was any way to get them there in time. But no one knew how it could be done on such short notice. Jim said, "Let me see what I can do.”
First he figured he'd better get the Army brass to sign on. He called Maj. Gen. Richard Colt, commander of the 77th Regional Readiness Command at nearby Fort Totten.
"Great!" Colt said. "How are we going to do it?"
Jim figured the ball was still in his court. As the owner of a security company at Kennedy Airport, he knew where to turn next. He called the international shipping company DHL. Officials there readily agreed to fly the trees all the way to Camp Anaconda for free.
But what good are trees without decorations? Jim talked to friends who were in the Port Authority police; they knew where there were some special lights. Lights that had been intended for the World Trade Center during the Christmas season 2001 -- and had been in storage for three long years. Now they could shine.
On November 19, a huge DHL tractor-trailer pulled into Dees' Nursery, loaded up carefully boxed trees and headed for the airport. A DC-8 carried them to Iraq, and they arrived at Camp Anaconda on November 22.
No way to ship Christmas to Iraq? No problem! Hey, it's miracle time.
And there were more to come -- on December 16, another 50 trees were sent, along with menorahs for Jewish soldiers. In addition there were steaks, lobsters and lamb chops.
This Christmas, Jim's son is home. But other people's sons and daughters are in harm's way. So the plan is to up the order to 400 trees.
Oh, yes. And that woman who came to the nursery and first floated the idea of sending a Christmas tree to Iraq in the middle of a war? Well, she never appeared again. And Jim Adelis thinks he knows why. "She was an angel," he says.
Readers Digest
December 2005
Little miracles. That's what Jim Adelis thinks Christmas is all about. One day last November, he wandered over to Dees' Nursery in Oceanside, New York, and Tom Dee told him about a woman who had just been by asking if there was some way to send a Christmas tree to her son who was serving in Iraq.
Jim had a son in Iraq too: 20-year-old Jim Jr., a convoy machine gunner stationed at Camp Anaconda in Balad, Iraq. He'd had a narrow miss with a roadside bomb earlier in the year. Tom told Jim he'd be happy to donate 75 trees, if there was any way to get them there in time. But no one knew how it could be done on such short notice. Jim said, "Let me see what I can do.”
First he figured he'd better get the Army brass to sign on. He called Maj. Gen. Richard Colt, commander of the 77th Regional Readiness Command at nearby Fort Totten.
"Great!" Colt said. "How are we going to do it?"
Jim figured the ball was still in his court. As the owner of a security company at Kennedy Airport, he knew where to turn next. He called the international shipping company DHL. Officials there readily agreed to fly the trees all the way to Camp Anaconda for free.
But what good are trees without decorations? Jim talked to friends who were in the Port Authority police; they knew where there were some special lights. Lights that had been intended for the World Trade Center during the Christmas season 2001 -- and had been in storage for three long years. Now they could shine.
On November 19, a huge DHL tractor-trailer pulled into Dees' Nursery, loaded up carefully boxed trees and headed for the airport. A DC-8 carried them to Iraq, and they arrived at Camp Anaconda on November 22.
No way to ship Christmas to Iraq? No problem! Hey, it's miracle time.
And there were more to come -- on December 16, another 50 trees were sent, along with menorahs for Jewish soldiers. In addition there were steaks, lobsters and lamb chops.
This Christmas, Jim's son is home. But other people's sons and daughters are in harm's way. So the plan is to up the order to 400 trees.
Oh, yes. And that woman who came to the nursery and first floated the idea of sending a Christmas tree to Iraq in the middle of a war? Well, she never appeared again. And Jim Adelis thinks he knows why. "She was an angel," he says.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Christmas Eve Miracle
by Alda McDonald Strebel
I can still hear my mother’s soft voice as she related this Christmas Eve miracle. The experience was sacred to Mama; she told it only on special occasions, such as the evening my sweetheart asked for my hand in marriage.
The story began on a crisp autumn day in October 1928. The huge barn behind our home in Heber City, in northern Utah, was heaped to the rafters with fresh hay, and the loft was filled with the happy laughter and shouting of romping children. I was among them, unaware of the tragedy about to strike. I found myself an inviting hay hill, and got ready to slide down. Suddenly I was falling headfirst through a chute. Down I shot to a cement floor into a feeding manger at the bottom of the barn.
I still remember the startling sensation of regaining consciousness, and the horrible frustration of not being able to cry. My brothers ran for Papa. How comforting and secure his sturdy, strong arms felt as he lifted me out of the hay manger and carried me into the house. Gently he placed me on my bed.
Several days later my headache had not subsided. The condition became even more complicated when I contracted a severe cold; to this day I remember the nightmare of the accompanying high fever. Later one afternoon when the doctor made his routine call, he shook his head as he read the thermometer, and Mama knew it was time to take action. She sent for Papa, and we prepared to leave for Provo, forty miles away, where I could be hospitalized. Neighbors and relatives gathered to offer their assistance and assure us that my four small brothers would be well cared for.
The journey through the winding roads in Provo Canyon was long and hard, as Papa pushed his Model T Ford through herds of sheep on the roadway. We arrived at the hospital late that night.
The pain was severe behind my left ear and after two more days of high fever, the doctors operated and discovered a deep-seated mastoid infection. By this time it had entered my blood stream. The next week the surgeons were compelled to lance my left arm, and the next week my right leg. For seven long weeks I endured the grueling ordeal of many operations.
Three days before Christmas the doctors called my father into the office and told him they could offer little hope for my recovery. Knowing of my intense longing for my brothers and home, my parents decided to take me home for Christmas. They located a truck to take me to the train (there were only a few trucks in the entire town) and lifted me onto a cot. In the hallway the hospital personnel gave me a lovely doll dressed in a pink hand-knit sweater and cap. I clutched the doll close to my body under the blankets, and when we came out into the refreshing night air, I was hysterically happy. I thought I was leaving the whole ordeal behind me in that hospital.
Slowly the truck made its way to the depot. We boarded the train, the conductor shoveled a huge lump of coal into the potbellied stove in the caboose, and the train began its three-hour journey home. The sleeping powder the doctor had administered before we left the hospital soon took effect, and I slept most of the way. When the train stopped, Papa stepped to the door of the car, then bent over me chuckling.
“You would never believe the crowd that is out there to welcome us,” he said. “My goodness, you would think a celebrity was getting off this train.” He chuckled again as he pulled a warm cap over my head. Mama tucked the covers under my chin, and my cot was lifted to Uncle Dode’s bobsled. Sleigh bells tinkled as the horses pranced down Center Street over the smooth, icy roads.
When we reached the tabernacle corner, the sleigh stopped with a merry “Whoa.” In the middle of the main street was a large Christmas tree, adorned with electric tree lights, the first I had ever seen. How colorful and sparkly they were! The children of my primary class stood beneath the tree, welcoming me with the sacred strains of “Silent Night, Holy Night.” With all the faith and meekness of a child, I felt the love of our Savior in the hearts of many gentle people. Mama’s tears were mingled with the soft snowflakes that fell on my face.
A short time later, at our own front door, Mama laughed and cried as she hugged her four little sons. Seven weeks without a mother had seemed an eternity to them. Then, with hushed excitement, they led the way into my bedroom which they had adorned with red and green paper chains. A large, deep red tissue bell hung from the single light globe. “Oh, see! The Christmas elves have been here!” Mama exclaimed, hugging the boys again.
But as the exertion of the trip took its toll, I realized the pain and suffering had not ended. By Christmas Eve my situation was critical, and the doctors told my parents that my chances of surviving the night were small. The elders administered to me, and for the first time my parents had the courage to say, “Thy will be done.”
After the blessing, a special peace descended over the household. Papa and Mama went into the living room with the four boys and helped them hang their Christmas stockings. Then they tucked each one into bed, assuring them that Santa was on his way.
Knowing that she was going to need strength for what lay ahead, Mama was persuaded to retire to an upstairs bedroom. I loved to hear her tell of lying in the stillness of the night and of the peace that came over her as she fell into a sound sleep. She awakened, startled, just as dawn was breaking Christmas morning. She turned to my bedroom door, a silent prayer on her lips. Papa was just coming out, his tired face bathed in a relieved smile. A miracle had happened. I had been given strength to survive the night, and Mama could even see a slight sparkle in my tired eyes.
“Has Santa been here yet?” I asked.
“You bet he has,” she cried, tears streaming from her eyes. “It looks like Santa just stumbled into our living room and all the toys fell out of his bag.”
“But the most precious gift of all,” Mama would say whenever she retold the story, “was the Savior’s gift to us that hallowed Christmas Eve.”
Although the illness left me with a physical handicap—one leg was much shorter than the other—I have been privileged to lead an active life. In 1977, before he passed away, my husband, Dr. George L. Strebel, and I served in Europe, where he was the coordinator of English-speaking seminaries and institutes. I now have four happily married children and fifteen beautiful grandchildren.
Four years ago I had total hip surgery—three and a half inches were added to my leg. I am now walking without crutches and with just a slight limp. My leg is getting better all the time—a modern installment to the miracle that began that Christmas Eve.
I can still hear my mother’s soft voice as she related this Christmas Eve miracle. The experience was sacred to Mama; she told it only on special occasions, such as the evening my sweetheart asked for my hand in marriage.
The story began on a crisp autumn day in October 1928. The huge barn behind our home in Heber City, in northern Utah, was heaped to the rafters with fresh hay, and the loft was filled with the happy laughter and shouting of romping children. I was among them, unaware of the tragedy about to strike. I found myself an inviting hay hill, and got ready to slide down. Suddenly I was falling headfirst through a chute. Down I shot to a cement floor into a feeding manger at the bottom of the barn.
I still remember the startling sensation of regaining consciousness, and the horrible frustration of not being able to cry. My brothers ran for Papa. How comforting and secure his sturdy, strong arms felt as he lifted me out of the hay manger and carried me into the house. Gently he placed me on my bed.
Several days later my headache had not subsided. The condition became even more complicated when I contracted a severe cold; to this day I remember the nightmare of the accompanying high fever. Later one afternoon when the doctor made his routine call, he shook his head as he read the thermometer, and Mama knew it was time to take action. She sent for Papa, and we prepared to leave for Provo, forty miles away, where I could be hospitalized. Neighbors and relatives gathered to offer their assistance and assure us that my four small brothers would be well cared for.
The journey through the winding roads in Provo Canyon was long and hard, as Papa pushed his Model T Ford through herds of sheep on the roadway. We arrived at the hospital late that night.
The pain was severe behind my left ear and after two more days of high fever, the doctors operated and discovered a deep-seated mastoid infection. By this time it had entered my blood stream. The next week the surgeons were compelled to lance my left arm, and the next week my right leg. For seven long weeks I endured the grueling ordeal of many operations.
Three days before Christmas the doctors called my father into the office and told him they could offer little hope for my recovery. Knowing of my intense longing for my brothers and home, my parents decided to take me home for Christmas. They located a truck to take me to the train (there were only a few trucks in the entire town) and lifted me onto a cot. In the hallway the hospital personnel gave me a lovely doll dressed in a pink hand-knit sweater and cap. I clutched the doll close to my body under the blankets, and when we came out into the refreshing night air, I was hysterically happy. I thought I was leaving the whole ordeal behind me in that hospital.
Slowly the truck made its way to the depot. We boarded the train, the conductor shoveled a huge lump of coal into the potbellied stove in the caboose, and the train began its three-hour journey home. The sleeping powder the doctor had administered before we left the hospital soon took effect, and I slept most of the way. When the train stopped, Papa stepped to the door of the car, then bent over me chuckling.
“You would never believe the crowd that is out there to welcome us,” he said. “My goodness, you would think a celebrity was getting off this train.” He chuckled again as he pulled a warm cap over my head. Mama tucked the covers under my chin, and my cot was lifted to Uncle Dode’s bobsled. Sleigh bells tinkled as the horses pranced down Center Street over the smooth, icy roads.
When we reached the tabernacle corner, the sleigh stopped with a merry “Whoa.” In the middle of the main street was a large Christmas tree, adorned with electric tree lights, the first I had ever seen. How colorful and sparkly they were! The children of my primary class stood beneath the tree, welcoming me with the sacred strains of “Silent Night, Holy Night.” With all the faith and meekness of a child, I felt the love of our Savior in the hearts of many gentle people. Mama’s tears were mingled with the soft snowflakes that fell on my face.
A short time later, at our own front door, Mama laughed and cried as she hugged her four little sons. Seven weeks without a mother had seemed an eternity to them. Then, with hushed excitement, they led the way into my bedroom which they had adorned with red and green paper chains. A large, deep red tissue bell hung from the single light globe. “Oh, see! The Christmas elves have been here!” Mama exclaimed, hugging the boys again.
But as the exertion of the trip took its toll, I realized the pain and suffering had not ended. By Christmas Eve my situation was critical, and the doctors told my parents that my chances of surviving the night were small. The elders administered to me, and for the first time my parents had the courage to say, “Thy will be done.”
After the blessing, a special peace descended over the household. Papa and Mama went into the living room with the four boys and helped them hang their Christmas stockings. Then they tucked each one into bed, assuring them that Santa was on his way.
Knowing that she was going to need strength for what lay ahead, Mama was persuaded to retire to an upstairs bedroom. I loved to hear her tell of lying in the stillness of the night and of the peace that came over her as she fell into a sound sleep. She awakened, startled, just as dawn was breaking Christmas morning. She turned to my bedroom door, a silent prayer on her lips. Papa was just coming out, his tired face bathed in a relieved smile. A miracle had happened. I had been given strength to survive the night, and Mama could even see a slight sparkle in my tired eyes.
“Has Santa been here yet?” I asked.
“You bet he has,” she cried, tears streaming from her eyes. “It looks like Santa just stumbled into our living room and all the toys fell out of his bag.”
“But the most precious gift of all,” Mama would say whenever she retold the story, “was the Savior’s gift to us that hallowed Christmas Eve.”
Although the illness left me with a physical handicap—one leg was much shorter than the other—I have been privileged to lead an active life. In 1977, before he passed away, my husband, Dr. George L. Strebel, and I served in Europe, where he was the coordinator of English-speaking seminaries and institutes. I now have four happily married children and fifteen beautiful grandchildren.
Four years ago I had total hip surgery—three and a half inches were added to my leg. I am now walking without crutches and with just a slight limp. My leg is getting better all the time—a modern installment to the miracle that began that Christmas Eve.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
The Christmas We Gave Away
Anonymous
What a year we had had! A new baby daughter, a job promotion for my husband, and a brand new home were among many blessings we had received and for which my husband and I were grateful.
We wanted no gifts for Christmas, because our cups were running over. But we knew our children still anticipated Christmas morning and gifts from Santa. We were concerned about giving the children too much. How could they learn to appreciate what they had if they just kept receiving more?
At family home evening, we talked about doing something special for someone else at Christmas. Our oldest son said, “Why don’t we find a family who needs help and give them presents?”
Soon all of us were excited about the idea. We decided to do our project anonymously. We didn’t know exactly how we would find our “Christmas family,” but we did know we wanted to help. The next morning I made calls to friends who might know of someone in need. That evening at dinner I described the family I had found. The father was a carpenter and out of work.
They had three children, one the same age as our new baby. Their baby had been undergoing many tests as doctors tried to determine why she wasn’t developing properly. Because the family had no insurance, their savings were gone, and with those savings had gone the prospect of having gifts at Christmas.
“Can we give them some of our clothes?” asked our daughter. We all agreed that her idea was good, and so the children ran to their bedrooms and began sorting out the clothes they had outgrown. But my husband and I knew that clothes were not enough.
The following day my husband asked the children if they would like to buy a special present for each member of our Christmas family. Excitement reigned as we departed for an evening of holiday shopping.
By family home evening the following week, we were ready to deliver gifts, clothing, and oranges to our Christmas family. But before we left, my husband gathered the children and said, “It sure is great to see all of you so excited to share your Christmas. Do you realize that by buying these gifts and this food, you are giving up part of your own Christmas?”
The children had not thought of their project that way before. Their eyes widened as their father took out a crisp, 100-dollar bill.
“Do you think we should give this money to the parents so they can buy other things they need?” he asked. “And do you understand that your Christmas will be very small this year because you are sharing it?”
Each of the children grinned and nodded. We tucked the money into a Christmas card and addressed the envelope to “Our Friends.” Then we were off to deliver Christmas to our special family.
We parked the car up the street from the house and planned our delivery strategy. Within seconds, it was all accomplished. We pulled away just as the door opened.
That evening, as we said our family prayer, our minds and hearts were truly one. Christmas was still a week away, but we felt we had just had ours.
The next morning the phone rang. “Just thought you’d like to know about a family that received a special gift last night,” my friend said. “They had been wondering if they should use their last twenty dollars to pay their tithing, or if they should keep it, because Christmas was nearing and they had no more money. They decided to pay their tithing. Last night their doorbell rang, and when the husband opened the door he found packages of clothes, gifts, and food. The next morning they noticed a white envelope on the floor, and when they opened it, a 100-dollar bill fell out. They know it was the Lord’s way of blessing them for paying their tithing, and their hearts are full of gratitude.”
I tearfully related the message to my husband and children. We felt we had already been blessed just by giving. To know that we had been the Lord’s instruments for a moment that special evening made us realize the true value of our Christmas project. Though the gifts under our tree were few, we had never been blessed with such abundance at Christmas.
What a year we had had! A new baby daughter, a job promotion for my husband, and a brand new home were among many blessings we had received and for which my husband and I were grateful.
We wanted no gifts for Christmas, because our cups were running over. But we knew our children still anticipated Christmas morning and gifts from Santa. We were concerned about giving the children too much. How could they learn to appreciate what they had if they just kept receiving more?
At family home evening, we talked about doing something special for someone else at Christmas. Our oldest son said, “Why don’t we find a family who needs help and give them presents?”
Soon all of us were excited about the idea. We decided to do our project anonymously. We didn’t know exactly how we would find our “Christmas family,” but we did know we wanted to help. The next morning I made calls to friends who might know of someone in need. That evening at dinner I described the family I had found. The father was a carpenter and out of work.
They had three children, one the same age as our new baby. Their baby had been undergoing many tests as doctors tried to determine why she wasn’t developing properly. Because the family had no insurance, their savings were gone, and with those savings had gone the prospect of having gifts at Christmas.
“Can we give them some of our clothes?” asked our daughter. We all agreed that her idea was good, and so the children ran to their bedrooms and began sorting out the clothes they had outgrown. But my husband and I knew that clothes were not enough.
The following day my husband asked the children if they would like to buy a special present for each member of our Christmas family. Excitement reigned as we departed for an evening of holiday shopping.
By family home evening the following week, we were ready to deliver gifts, clothing, and oranges to our Christmas family. But before we left, my husband gathered the children and said, “It sure is great to see all of you so excited to share your Christmas. Do you realize that by buying these gifts and this food, you are giving up part of your own Christmas?”
The children had not thought of their project that way before. Their eyes widened as their father took out a crisp, 100-dollar bill.
“Do you think we should give this money to the parents so they can buy other things they need?” he asked. “And do you understand that your Christmas will be very small this year because you are sharing it?”
Each of the children grinned and nodded. We tucked the money into a Christmas card and addressed the envelope to “Our Friends.” Then we were off to deliver Christmas to our special family.
We parked the car up the street from the house and planned our delivery strategy. Within seconds, it was all accomplished. We pulled away just as the door opened.
That evening, as we said our family prayer, our minds and hearts were truly one. Christmas was still a week away, but we felt we had just had ours.
The next morning the phone rang. “Just thought you’d like to know about a family that received a special gift last night,” my friend said. “They had been wondering if they should use their last twenty dollars to pay their tithing, or if they should keep it, because Christmas was nearing and they had no more money. They decided to pay their tithing. Last night their doorbell rang, and when the husband opened the door he found packages of clothes, gifts, and food. The next morning they noticed a white envelope on the floor, and when they opened it, a 100-dollar bill fell out. They know it was the Lord’s way of blessing them for paying their tithing, and their hearts are full of gratitude.”
I tearfully related the message to my husband and children. We felt we had already been blessed just by giving. To know that we had been the Lord’s instruments for a moment that special evening made us realize the true value of our Christmas project. Though the gifts under our tree were few, we had never been blessed with such abundance at Christmas.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Christmas Is Christmas
by Sherrie Johnson
Francoise watched quietly as her friend Hilda marched in the St. Nicholas parade. Hilda wore a large miter-shaped hat with a design of stars and snowflakes cut out in it. She carried a big horn that she blew often and loud. Hilda waved as she passed Francoise, but Francoise did not wave back. Instead she frowned at Hilda and the other children in the parade. Unhappy thoughts tumbled through Francoise’s mind as the St. Nicholas parade came to an end. Why did my father have to come here to Switzerland? Why didn’t he stay in France? They don’t celebrate Christmas here in this country the way they should! Hilda ran to meet Francoise. “Didn’t I tell you it would be fun?” she exclaimed, speaking very fast in German. “You should have worn the hat I made for you and marched in the parade with us.”
Francoise didn’t say anything.
“Well,” Hilda asked after a few silent moments had passed, “didn’t you like the parade?”
“It is not how we celebrate Christmas in France,” Francoise mumbled.
“I know. But I wanted you to see how we celebrate here in Switzerland.”
Silently the two girls walked to the bus stop. Hilda put her big hat and her horn on the bench and sat down. “You know,” Hilda said at last in French, trying to make Francoise feel better, “I’m glad there are so many ways to celebrate Christmas. In our country we have many customs from Germany, Italy, and France.”
Francoise sat down beside Hilda. “I think there should be only one way to celebrate Christmas, and I like our way best,” she insisted. “All of this about St. Nicholas is wrong. It is Christkindli who brings gifts.”
“He may bring gifts to your house, but it is St. Nicholas who comes to my house,” Hilda replied. “Anyway it doesn’t really matter. Christmas is Christmas!”
A big gray bus soon sputtered to a stop and the girls climbed into it. Neither of them spoke during the ride home, but mixed-up thoughts kept turning around in Francoise’s mind. What did Hilda mean by “Christmas is Christmas”? Of course Christmas is Christmas, and that is exactly why it should be celebrated in the right way as we’ve always done.
When Francoise arrived home, she sat in front of the Christmas tree and stared at Christkindli on top. “Now this is how Christmas should be,” she said out loud.
“What do you mean?” a voice asked.
“Oh, Mama,” Francoise gasped as she turned and saw her mother in the doorway. “You frightened me. I thought I was alone.”
“What were you talking about when you said, ‘This is how Christmas should be?'”
“I was talking to myself about Christmas. Hilda has a star on top of her tree, and St. Nicholas comes to her house instead of Christkindli. They don’t recite Christmas poems when they open their presents. And—well, they just do everything wrong.”
“Wrong?” Mother questioned.
“Yes. Everyone should celebrate Christmas the way we did when we were home in France,” Francoise insisted.
“But Francoise,” her mother explained, “although we still speak French, our home is here now. We are Swiss people. And besides, from the stories my father used to tell me, we do not celebrate Christmas at all as they used to do in France. Christkindli isn’t even a French word, you know. Many Swiss people have Christkindli in their homes at Christmas.”
Francoise felt bewildered. She stared at the tree for a moment and then spoke, “Well, maybe our way of celebrating is different from the old French way, but still I think it’s the right way.”
“Why should our way be right and Hilda’s way be wrong?”
Francoise started to answer, but she couldn’t think of anything to say. A big lump formed in her throat. She felt there must be some reason for her beliefs, but she couldn’t think of a single one. “Well, we all celebrate the birth of Jesus; so shouldn’t we celebrate it in the same way?” Francoise asked.
“Why?”
Again Francoise couldn’t answer. She only shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. “Christmas should be a time of love, and love can be shown in many different ways,” Mother said gently as she patted Francoise and left her alone to think about the events of the day. Maybe it is I who have been wrong and not Hilda, Francoise decided. Just then the doorbell rang, and Francoise went to answer it. But when Francoise opened the door, no one was there. Instead, on the step was a colorful box filled with tirggel, a delicious Christmas cookie. A tiny blue card tucked between the tirggel said, “Froehliche Weihnachten! (Merry Christmas!) From whoever brings presents!”
Francoise looked all around, but she could not see who had left the cookies. “Who is it?” Mother called.
“Only a box of tirggel,” Francoise answered.
“That is my favorite Christmas treat,” Mother said as she entered the room. “Do you know who left it?”
“It must have been Hilda.”
“How nice!” Mother smiled as she tasted the cookie.
Francoise wanted to smile, but she couldn’t. She thought about the way she had acted at the parade and on the way home. She must have made her friend sad by not marching in the parade with the hat Hilda had made for her.
Then Francoise remembered what her mother had said about Christmas being a time to show love. And that was just what Hilda had been trying to do. Slowly Francoise tasted a cookie. It was delicious.
“These are good,” she said.
“If we were still in France, we might never have tasted tirggel. And you’d never have had a friend like Hilda either,” Mother replied.
Francoise thought very hard. She had been selfish and she felt awful. “Christmas is Christmas,” Hilda had said, and looking at the cookies, Francoise knew exactly what she could do. “I’m going to celebrate Christmas the right way,” Francoise decided, and she hurried to her room. She took colored pencils and paper and wrote out her favorite Christmas poem. Then she drew pictures around the edges of the poem and framed it neatly in heavy colored paper. Her legs couldn’t carry her fast enough to Hilda’s house, but soon she found herself knocking at the front door. When Hilda answered the door, Francoise handed her the poem.
“Thank you for the tirggel,” Francoise said. “And now here is something from our Christmas tradition. We always read our favorite Christmas poems when we exchange gifts. I guess if we put the tirggel, Christkindli, St. Nicholas, poems, and parades all together, we’d have a lot of Swiss Christmas traditions.”
Hilda laughed. “Yes, after all, Christmas is Christmas!”
“I know what that means now,” Francoise said softly. “Christmas isn’t German or French or Italian or English or even Swiss. Christmas is Christmas, and Christmas is love no matter where you are.”
Francoise watched quietly as her friend Hilda marched in the St. Nicholas parade. Hilda wore a large miter-shaped hat with a design of stars and snowflakes cut out in it. She carried a big horn that she blew often and loud. Hilda waved as she passed Francoise, but Francoise did not wave back. Instead she frowned at Hilda and the other children in the parade. Unhappy thoughts tumbled through Francoise’s mind as the St. Nicholas parade came to an end. Why did my father have to come here to Switzerland? Why didn’t he stay in France? They don’t celebrate Christmas here in this country the way they should! Hilda ran to meet Francoise. “Didn’t I tell you it would be fun?” she exclaimed, speaking very fast in German. “You should have worn the hat I made for you and marched in the parade with us.”
Francoise didn’t say anything.
“Well,” Hilda asked after a few silent moments had passed, “didn’t you like the parade?”
“It is not how we celebrate Christmas in France,” Francoise mumbled.
“I know. But I wanted you to see how we celebrate here in Switzerland.”
Silently the two girls walked to the bus stop. Hilda put her big hat and her horn on the bench and sat down. “You know,” Hilda said at last in French, trying to make Francoise feel better, “I’m glad there are so many ways to celebrate Christmas. In our country we have many customs from Germany, Italy, and France.”
Francoise sat down beside Hilda. “I think there should be only one way to celebrate Christmas, and I like our way best,” she insisted. “All of this about St. Nicholas is wrong. It is Christkindli who brings gifts.”
“He may bring gifts to your house, but it is St. Nicholas who comes to my house,” Hilda replied. “Anyway it doesn’t really matter. Christmas is Christmas!”
A big gray bus soon sputtered to a stop and the girls climbed into it. Neither of them spoke during the ride home, but mixed-up thoughts kept turning around in Francoise’s mind. What did Hilda mean by “Christmas is Christmas”? Of course Christmas is Christmas, and that is exactly why it should be celebrated in the right way as we’ve always done.
When Francoise arrived home, she sat in front of the Christmas tree and stared at Christkindli on top. “Now this is how Christmas should be,” she said out loud.
“What do you mean?” a voice asked.
“Oh, Mama,” Francoise gasped as she turned and saw her mother in the doorway. “You frightened me. I thought I was alone.”
“What were you talking about when you said, ‘This is how Christmas should be?'”
“I was talking to myself about Christmas. Hilda has a star on top of her tree, and St. Nicholas comes to her house instead of Christkindli. They don’t recite Christmas poems when they open their presents. And—well, they just do everything wrong.”
“Wrong?” Mother questioned.
“Yes. Everyone should celebrate Christmas the way we did when we were home in France,” Francoise insisted.
“But Francoise,” her mother explained, “although we still speak French, our home is here now. We are Swiss people. And besides, from the stories my father used to tell me, we do not celebrate Christmas at all as they used to do in France. Christkindli isn’t even a French word, you know. Many Swiss people have Christkindli in their homes at Christmas.”
Francoise felt bewildered. She stared at the tree for a moment and then spoke, “Well, maybe our way of celebrating is different from the old French way, but still I think it’s the right way.”
“Why should our way be right and Hilda’s way be wrong?”
Francoise started to answer, but she couldn’t think of anything to say. A big lump formed in her throat. She felt there must be some reason for her beliefs, but she couldn’t think of a single one. “Well, we all celebrate the birth of Jesus; so shouldn’t we celebrate it in the same way?” Francoise asked.
“Why?”
Again Francoise couldn’t answer. She only shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. “Christmas should be a time of love, and love can be shown in many different ways,” Mother said gently as she patted Francoise and left her alone to think about the events of the day. Maybe it is I who have been wrong and not Hilda, Francoise decided. Just then the doorbell rang, and Francoise went to answer it. But when Francoise opened the door, no one was there. Instead, on the step was a colorful box filled with tirggel, a delicious Christmas cookie. A tiny blue card tucked between the tirggel said, “Froehliche Weihnachten! (Merry Christmas!) From whoever brings presents!”
Francoise looked all around, but she could not see who had left the cookies. “Who is it?” Mother called.
“Only a box of tirggel,” Francoise answered.
“That is my favorite Christmas treat,” Mother said as she entered the room. “Do you know who left it?”
“It must have been Hilda.”
“How nice!” Mother smiled as she tasted the cookie.
Francoise wanted to smile, but she couldn’t. She thought about the way she had acted at the parade and on the way home. She must have made her friend sad by not marching in the parade with the hat Hilda had made for her.
Then Francoise remembered what her mother had said about Christmas being a time to show love. And that was just what Hilda had been trying to do. Slowly Francoise tasted a cookie. It was delicious.
“These are good,” she said.
“If we were still in France, we might never have tasted tirggel. And you’d never have had a friend like Hilda either,” Mother replied.
Francoise thought very hard. She had been selfish and she felt awful. “Christmas is Christmas,” Hilda had said, and looking at the cookies, Francoise knew exactly what she could do. “I’m going to celebrate Christmas the right way,” Francoise decided, and she hurried to her room. She took colored pencils and paper and wrote out her favorite Christmas poem. Then she drew pictures around the edges of the poem and framed it neatly in heavy colored paper. Her legs couldn’t carry her fast enough to Hilda’s house, but soon she found herself knocking at the front door. When Hilda answered the door, Francoise handed her the poem.
“Thank you for the tirggel,” Francoise said. “And now here is something from our Christmas tradition. We always read our favorite Christmas poems when we exchange gifts. I guess if we put the tirggel, Christkindli, St. Nicholas, poems, and parades all together, we’d have a lot of Swiss Christmas traditions.”
Hilda laughed. “Yes, after all, Christmas is Christmas!”
“I know what that means now,” Francoise said softly. “Christmas isn’t German or French or Italian or English or even Swiss. Christmas is Christmas, and Christmas is love no matter where you are.”
Friday, December 11, 2009
We Didn’t Have a Tree, Until...
by Janet W. Sorensen
The Christmas Eve I remember best began with a glorious snowstorm that filled the streets so that even the streetcars had a hard time making it over the icy rails. It was great sledding weather, and when Mother asked my teenage brother to run an errand for her, I gladly accompanied him. I was nine, and sledding at that time was a life of ease for me, for Grant either had to pull me on the sled or run along behind while pushing me, hoping to jump on for a ride while we coasted.
The happy years of my childhood came during the Great Depression. For me, it was a time of learning and sharing. I was even encouraged to accompany Grant on his daily rounds after school while he sold cottage cheese from door to door to supplement the family income. You see, Dad was having a rough time of it. Our new store, which had been doing well right up to 1929, was closed now, and Dad found it difficult to keep a job as store after store and factories, too, closed their doors. We were gliding now, laughing as we went, to deliver some reports to the Relief Society president from our mother, who was her secretary. We were welcomed into a festively decorated, warm house, and before we left, we were each rewarded with a lovely big orange. What a treat! Before the age of transportation as we know it today, oranges were scarce where we lived, and to receive one in your Christmas stocking was something special. But to get one for doing practically nothing was an unexpected joy, and we traveled home with light hearts. Christmas was already a success!
Yet, at home, it was a bit hard to tell it was Christmas. For the first time in our lives no brightly lighted Christmas tree stood in the corner between the piano and the colonnades. Our family had talked it over and decided we could dispense with a tree this year. The tiny gifts I had made for Mom and Dad in school, wrapped in white tissue paper, rested uncomfortably on the sewing machine, alongside the small packages my brothers had managed to acquire with carefully hoarded pennies.
After a supper of hot soup and crusty bread, we lingered at the table a while, then washed up the supper dishes. And then we sat. What do you do on Christmas Eve when there are no presents to be wrapped, no pies to be made, no tree in the front room? We played a game. And then we sat some more. Finally Dad could stand it no longer. Jumping to his feet, he almost shouted, “I’ve got 50 cents in my pocket. Let’s go see if we can get a tree!” Fifty cents! And no payday in sight. What love and devotion must have determined that sudden decision!
Yet, at the very moment, before we could say anything, the doorbell rang. My brother and I ran to the door, and to our surprise no one was there. We looked around in disappointment, and then we saw it—a glorious tree! We looked in every direction but could find no one to claim the tree. It had to be ours!
I can still feel the thrill, the excitement. I can still see the tears on my dad’s cheeks as he helped us decorate it. We hadn’t told anyone that we didn’t have a tree, and we had been very careful not to invite friends to our home for them to discover it. Later the bishop of our ward disclaimed any knowledge of it; the Relief Society thought it was a wonderful gesture but refused any credit for it; the neighbors were no more friendly than usual—so, we never knew where the tree came from. But the road seemed brighter for us as a family because some good soul had brought us a Christmas tree—and love—on our darkest Christmas Eve.
The Christmas Eve I remember best began with a glorious snowstorm that filled the streets so that even the streetcars had a hard time making it over the icy rails. It was great sledding weather, and when Mother asked my teenage brother to run an errand for her, I gladly accompanied him. I was nine, and sledding at that time was a life of ease for me, for Grant either had to pull me on the sled or run along behind while pushing me, hoping to jump on for a ride while we coasted.
The happy years of my childhood came during the Great Depression. For me, it was a time of learning and sharing. I was even encouraged to accompany Grant on his daily rounds after school while he sold cottage cheese from door to door to supplement the family income. You see, Dad was having a rough time of it. Our new store, which had been doing well right up to 1929, was closed now, and Dad found it difficult to keep a job as store after store and factories, too, closed their doors. We were gliding now, laughing as we went, to deliver some reports to the Relief Society president from our mother, who was her secretary. We were welcomed into a festively decorated, warm house, and before we left, we were each rewarded with a lovely big orange. What a treat! Before the age of transportation as we know it today, oranges were scarce where we lived, and to receive one in your Christmas stocking was something special. But to get one for doing practically nothing was an unexpected joy, and we traveled home with light hearts. Christmas was already a success!
Yet, at home, it was a bit hard to tell it was Christmas. For the first time in our lives no brightly lighted Christmas tree stood in the corner between the piano and the colonnades. Our family had talked it over and decided we could dispense with a tree this year. The tiny gifts I had made for Mom and Dad in school, wrapped in white tissue paper, rested uncomfortably on the sewing machine, alongside the small packages my brothers had managed to acquire with carefully hoarded pennies.
After a supper of hot soup and crusty bread, we lingered at the table a while, then washed up the supper dishes. And then we sat. What do you do on Christmas Eve when there are no presents to be wrapped, no pies to be made, no tree in the front room? We played a game. And then we sat some more. Finally Dad could stand it no longer. Jumping to his feet, he almost shouted, “I’ve got 50 cents in my pocket. Let’s go see if we can get a tree!” Fifty cents! And no payday in sight. What love and devotion must have determined that sudden decision!
Yet, at the very moment, before we could say anything, the doorbell rang. My brother and I ran to the door, and to our surprise no one was there. We looked around in disappointment, and then we saw it—a glorious tree! We looked in every direction but could find no one to claim the tree. It had to be ours!
I can still feel the thrill, the excitement. I can still see the tears on my dad’s cheeks as he helped us decorate it. We hadn’t told anyone that we didn’t have a tree, and we had been very careful not to invite friends to our home for them to discover it. Later the bishop of our ward disclaimed any knowledge of it; the Relief Society thought it was a wonderful gesture but refused any credit for it; the neighbors were no more friendly than usual—so, we never knew where the tree came from. But the road seemed brighter for us as a family because some good soul had brought us a Christmas tree—and love—on our darkest Christmas Eve.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
A Doll from Santa
by Alice Ferguson
Alice's mother died when she was five years old. Although her nine brothers and sisters were loving and caring, they were no replacement for a mother's love.
The year was 1925, and life was hard. Alice, who grew up to be my mother, told me that her family was too poor to even afford to give her a doll.
In the aftermath of her loss, Alice vowed to care for others. First her father, then her husband, later her three children, and then her grandchildren were the main focus of her life. She felt that she could make up for her sad childhood through her dedication to her own family, but an unfilled void seemed to remain.
In December 1982, I had a job at a local bank. One afternoon, we were decorating the tree in the bank lobby and singing carols, getting ready for the Christmas season. One of my customers approached me with a sample of her handiwork: beautiful handmade dolls. She was taking orders for Christmas. I decided to get one for my daughter, Katie, who was almost five years old. Then I had an idea. I asked my customer if she could make me a special doll for my mother - one with gray hair and spectacles, a grandmother doll.
The doll maker felt that this idea was certainly unique and took it on as a creative challenge. So I placed my Christmas order: two dolls, one blonde and one gray-haired for Christmas morning!
Things really started to fall into place when a friend had told me that his dad - who played Santa Claus at various charitable functions in my area - would be willing to make a visit on Christmas morning to our home to deliver my Katie her presents! Knowing that my parents would be there as well, I began to get ready for what would turn out to be one of the most memorable days of my mother's life.
Christmas Day arrived and at the planned time, so did Santa Claus. I had prepared the presents for Santa to deliver, along with one for my mother tucked into the bottom of Santa's bag. Katie was surprised and elated that Santa had come to see her at her own house. It was the happiest I had ever seen her in her young life.
My mother was enjoying watching her granddaughter's reaction to the visit from this special guest. As Santa turned to leave, he looked once more into his knapsack and retrieved one more gift. As he asked who Alice was, my mother, taken aback by her name being called, indicated that she in fact was Alice. Santa handed her the gift, which was accompanied by a message card that read:
For Alice:
I was cleaning out my sleigh before my trip this year and came across this package that was supposed to be delivered on December 25, 1925. The present inside has aged, but I felt that you might still wish to have it. Many apologies for the lateness of the gift.
Love,
Santa Claus
My mother's reaction was one of the most profound and deeply emotional scenes I have ever witnessed. She couldn't speak but only clasped the doll she had waited fifty-seven years to receive as tears of joy coursed down her cheeks. That doll, given by "Santa," made my mother the happiest "child" alive.
Alice's mother died when she was five years old. Although her nine brothers and sisters were loving and caring, they were no replacement for a mother's love.
The year was 1925, and life was hard. Alice, who grew up to be my mother, told me that her family was too poor to even afford to give her a doll.
In the aftermath of her loss, Alice vowed to care for others. First her father, then her husband, later her three children, and then her grandchildren were the main focus of her life. She felt that she could make up for her sad childhood through her dedication to her own family, but an unfilled void seemed to remain.
In December 1982, I had a job at a local bank. One afternoon, we were decorating the tree in the bank lobby and singing carols, getting ready for the Christmas season. One of my customers approached me with a sample of her handiwork: beautiful handmade dolls. She was taking orders for Christmas. I decided to get one for my daughter, Katie, who was almost five years old. Then I had an idea. I asked my customer if she could make me a special doll for my mother - one with gray hair and spectacles, a grandmother doll.
The doll maker felt that this idea was certainly unique and took it on as a creative challenge. So I placed my Christmas order: two dolls, one blonde and one gray-haired for Christmas morning!
Things really started to fall into place when a friend had told me that his dad - who played Santa Claus at various charitable functions in my area - would be willing to make a visit on Christmas morning to our home to deliver my Katie her presents! Knowing that my parents would be there as well, I began to get ready for what would turn out to be one of the most memorable days of my mother's life.
Christmas Day arrived and at the planned time, so did Santa Claus. I had prepared the presents for Santa to deliver, along with one for my mother tucked into the bottom of Santa's bag. Katie was surprised and elated that Santa had come to see her at her own house. It was the happiest I had ever seen her in her young life.
My mother was enjoying watching her granddaughter's reaction to the visit from this special guest. As Santa turned to leave, he looked once more into his knapsack and retrieved one more gift. As he asked who Alice was, my mother, taken aback by her name being called, indicated that she in fact was Alice. Santa handed her the gift, which was accompanied by a message card that read:
For Alice:
I was cleaning out my sleigh before my trip this year and came across this package that was supposed to be delivered on December 25, 1925. The present inside has aged, but I felt that you might still wish to have it. Many apologies for the lateness of the gift.
Love,
Santa Claus
My mother's reaction was one of the most profound and deeply emotional scenes I have ever witnessed. She couldn't speak but only clasped the doll she had waited fifty-seven years to receive as tears of joy coursed down her cheeks. That doll, given by "Santa," made my mother the happiest "child" alive.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Father of Fortune
by Ted Bosley
Once again, the Christmas season was upon us. And once again, my daughter Tania was asking, "What do you want for Christmas, Dad?"
"The usual," I replied. After twenty-three years, she knew that this meant boxer shorts and some happy socks, the kind that help that tender old bunion. These were Christmas rituals for me.
In the small town of Peterborough, Ontario, where we lived, life had a certain rhythm, and the festive season was full of ritual. After living in Calgary for many years, I had returned to my hometown to be near my own aging dad, and life took on a fairly predictable sort of rhythm. But this particular year, my daughter, Tania, and her young husband, Barry, changed all that.
Every day for two weeks prior to Christmas, unable to contain her excitement, she repeatedly said, "You'll never guess, but you're going to love what we got you for Christmas!" The girl was relentless in her teasing and her quest for my reaction. She was determined that I should be impressed.
Now, I'm no Scrooge, so please don't get me wrong. I'm simply one of those individuals who's been around for some time and who's gotten a bit cynical and hard to impress. I must admit, however, that it was fun to watch and listen to her excitement and enthusiastic teasing day after day. Her joy and anticipation of my reaction to this special gift were contagious. By the morning of Christmas Eve, I had become more than a little curious.
At 11:00 a.m. on the 24th, my wife and I were asked to join the kids for some last-minute shopping. We elected to opt out. My wife wanted to finish up her own festive preparations, and old Dad, well, I just wanted a cold beer and a snooze. Four hours later, the kids were back at the door, shopping mission completed.
"We have your gift out in the car, Dad," Tania exclaimed, "and it's getting cold!"
We were then not asked, but ordered to vacate the premises. No, not just to another room, but upstairs and out of sight with an emphatic, "No peeking!" command. Heck, my old army sergeant was gentler. "Get out! Get out!" Tania ordered.
So, obediently, we retreated upstairs.
The minutes passed in that odd kind of anxious, wondering, quiet anticipation that makes butterflies in your stomach. We strained our ears but couldn't hear anything. "Big deal," I grumped to myself. "I'm still not impressed, but I'll play their silly game."
Then we heard them hollering, "Okay, you can come down now!"
Descending the stairs, we were directed into the front room where the surprise Christmas gift was waiting to be opened. Immediately, my excited daughter said, "No waiting until Christmas morning. Open it now!"
"Okay," I said. "This is highly irregular, this is breaking the ritual . . . but what the heck is it?" I wondered out loud. The three-foot-square, irregularly shaped lump over by the tree was smothered under blankets. Out came Tania's camera, and the guessing game started in earnest.
"Maybe it's a pinball machine," my wife offered.
"No, no," I said. "It's gotta be something perishable, otherwise they wouldn't have been so anxious to bring it in out of the cold. Maybe it's a crate of Florida oranges, or maybe it's a puppy!"
By now, my daughter was about to explode with excitement, and I had passed the stage of mildly curiosity, feeling somewhere between inquisitive and demanding.
"What on earth can it be?" I asked as I felt the lumpy object, looking for a clue. My daughter sharply rapped my knuckles with a classic, "Da-ad!"
Finally, we arrived at the unveiling. "Okay," Tania instructed us, "on the count of three both of you grab a corner of the blanket." She stood by with the camera, and even though I was trying my best to remain unimpressed, I'd by now reached an emotional state ranging from paranoia to frustration. My heartbeat sped. My wife and I lifted the blanket in one fell swoop, and the gift was exposed.
The next few minutes were a blur. My heart pounded. The blood rushed to my head. My stomach contracted. My mind was jumbled. Overwhelmed with astonishment, I thought, I can't believe my eyes! Perhaps I am delusional! This is just not possible!
The flash of my daughter's camera went off when, rising up out of that heap of blankets and wrapping me in an enormous bear hug was none other than my six-foot-two, one hundred and seventy-five-pound firstborn son Greg, home for Christmas for the first time in nineteen years!
Once again, the Christmas season was upon us. And once again, my daughter Tania was asking, "What do you want for Christmas, Dad?"
"The usual," I replied. After twenty-three years, she knew that this meant boxer shorts and some happy socks, the kind that help that tender old bunion. These were Christmas rituals for me.
In the small town of Peterborough, Ontario, where we lived, life had a certain rhythm, and the festive season was full of ritual. After living in Calgary for many years, I had returned to my hometown to be near my own aging dad, and life took on a fairly predictable sort of rhythm. But this particular year, my daughter, Tania, and her young husband, Barry, changed all that.
Every day for two weeks prior to Christmas, unable to contain her excitement, she repeatedly said, "You'll never guess, but you're going to love what we got you for Christmas!" The girl was relentless in her teasing and her quest for my reaction. She was determined that I should be impressed.
Now, I'm no Scrooge, so please don't get me wrong. I'm simply one of those individuals who's been around for some time and who's gotten a bit cynical and hard to impress. I must admit, however, that it was fun to watch and listen to her excitement and enthusiastic teasing day after day. Her joy and anticipation of my reaction to this special gift were contagious. By the morning of Christmas Eve, I had become more than a little curious.
At 11:00 a.m. on the 24th, my wife and I were asked to join the kids for some last-minute shopping. We elected to opt out. My wife wanted to finish up her own festive preparations, and old Dad, well, I just wanted a cold beer and a snooze. Four hours later, the kids were back at the door, shopping mission completed.
"We have your gift out in the car, Dad," Tania exclaimed, "and it's getting cold!"
We were then not asked, but ordered to vacate the premises. No, not just to another room, but upstairs and out of sight with an emphatic, "No peeking!" command. Heck, my old army sergeant was gentler. "Get out! Get out!" Tania ordered.
So, obediently, we retreated upstairs.
The minutes passed in that odd kind of anxious, wondering, quiet anticipation that makes butterflies in your stomach. We strained our ears but couldn't hear anything. "Big deal," I grumped to myself. "I'm still not impressed, but I'll play their silly game."
Then we heard them hollering, "Okay, you can come down now!"
Descending the stairs, we were directed into the front room where the surprise Christmas gift was waiting to be opened. Immediately, my excited daughter said, "No waiting until Christmas morning. Open it now!"
"Okay," I said. "This is highly irregular, this is breaking the ritual . . . but what the heck is it?" I wondered out loud. The three-foot-square, irregularly shaped lump over by the tree was smothered under blankets. Out came Tania's camera, and the guessing game started in earnest.
"Maybe it's a pinball machine," my wife offered.
"No, no," I said. "It's gotta be something perishable, otherwise they wouldn't have been so anxious to bring it in out of the cold. Maybe it's a crate of Florida oranges, or maybe it's a puppy!"
By now, my daughter was about to explode with excitement, and I had passed the stage of mildly curiosity, feeling somewhere between inquisitive and demanding.
"What on earth can it be?" I asked as I felt the lumpy object, looking for a clue. My daughter sharply rapped my knuckles with a classic, "Da-ad!"
Finally, we arrived at the unveiling. "Okay," Tania instructed us, "on the count of three both of you grab a corner of the blanket." She stood by with the camera, and even though I was trying my best to remain unimpressed, I'd by now reached an emotional state ranging from paranoia to frustration. My heartbeat sped. My wife and I lifted the blanket in one fell swoop, and the gift was exposed.
The next few minutes were a blur. My heart pounded. The blood rushed to my head. My stomach contracted. My mind was jumbled. Overwhelmed with astonishment, I thought, I can't believe my eyes! Perhaps I am delusional! This is just not possible!
The flash of my daughter's camera went off when, rising up out of that heap of blankets and wrapping me in an enormous bear hug was none other than my six-foot-two, one hundred and seventy-five-pound firstborn son Greg, home for Christmas for the first time in nineteen years!
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