by Per Ola and Emily D'Aulaire
Snow fell softly onto the wooden and stone houses of Oberndorf, an Austrian village near Salzburg. Inside, villagers decorated freshly hewn spruce trees with candles, fruit and nuts as they prepared for the holiest of nights. Soon bells would peal from Oberndorf's modest church to announce midnight Mass, and the faithful would celebrate the birth of Christ with prayer and song.
Within the Church of St. Nicholas, however, the mood was hardly one of joy that Christmas Eve afternoon in 1818. Curate Joseph Mohr, 26, had just discovered that the organ was badly damaged. No matter how hard the pedals were pumped, he could coax only a scratchy wheeze from the ancient instrument. Mohr was desperate. By the time a repairman could reach the parish, Christmas would be long over. To the young curate, a Christmas without music was unthinkable.
Mohr had a natural instinct for music. As a boy, the illegitimate son of a seamstress and a soldier, he had earned money singing and playing the violin and guitar in public. At school, and then at the university, he lived on money he earned as a performer. His hard work and talent caught the attention of a clergyman who persuaded Mohr to enter the seminary. Ordained a priest in 1815, Mohr was posted to Oberndorf in 1817. There, he not only preached the Psalms, but surprised some of his congregation by strumming a guitar, switching easily from folk music to hymns.
Now, faced with a Christmas crisis, the young cleric withdrew to the quiet of his study. Realizing that the traditional Christmas carols would not sound right on a guitar, he decided to produce a new song. Bending over a sheet of blank paper, his quill pen poised, he thought about a parish family he had recently visited to bless their newborn child. The memory of that mother holding her infant wrapped snugly against the winter cold took Mohr's thoughts to another modest birth almost two thousand years earlier.
Tentatively, he began writing. His pen moved as if guided by an invisible hand. A haunting refrain, "Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht!" appeared on the paper: "Silent night, holy night." In phrases as simple as a children's poem, the young curate told of the Christmas miracle in six stanzas. It was as if the words flowed directly from heaven.
Time was growing short when he finished. The verses still had to be set to music in time for midnight Mass. Mohr decided to seek out his good friend Franz Xaver Gruber, 31, the schoolmaster at nearby Arnsdorf, and a more skilled composer than he was.
Unlike Mohr, Gruber had had to hide his passion for music. To his strict father, a weaver, music was not a suitable profession for putting bread on the table. So in the evening, Franz would creep out of the house to take music lessons from the local schoolmaster. He did so well that when his father heard him playing the organ one day, the elder Gruber relented and let his son study music.
Franz decided to become a teacher as well. In those days a schoolmaster was expected to serve as organist and choirmaster at a local church. Sent to Arnsdorf to teach, Gruber had been welcomed at neighboring St. Nicholas.
That Christmas Eve, according to historians who pieced together the story, Mohr visited Gruber and his large family at their modest living quarters above the school. Mohr told his friend of his dilemma. Handing over his newly written words, Mohr asked Gruber whether he could compose a tune to fit them, suitable for two voices, chorus and guitar, and in time for midnight Mass.
As Gruber read Father Mohr's words, he was surely struck by their beauty and innocence. He went to his piano to begin work while Mohr returned to his church.
Drawing on three of the most basic harmonies in the musical repertoire, the organist wove a plain, hauntingly evocative melody. Then he took it to Father Mohr late that evening. With barely time for a rehearsal, the two men agreed that Mohr would play his guitar and sing tenor while Gruber sang bass. Following each stanza, the church chorus would chime in on the refrain.
At midnight, parishioners filed in, probably expecting the organ to fill the church with the resounding notes of Christmas hymns. Instead, the building was silent as they crowded into the narrow wooden pews.
Father Mohr stepped into the nave and beckoned the schoolmaster to stand by his side. Holding his guitar, the curate must have explained to the assembled flock that, although the organ was broken, the midnight Mass would include music nonetheless: he and Gruber had prepared a special Christmas song for the congregation.
With Mohr strumming the guitar, two mellow voices soon filled the church. The choir joined in four-part harmony at each refrain. The parishioners listened in awe to a carol that was as pure and fresh as an Alpine stream. Then Mohr proceeded with the celebration of the Mass, and the congregation knelt in prayer. Christmas Eve at St. Nicholas had been a success.
The story almost ended there. Mohr and Gruber had created their carol as a stopgap for a temporary problem and probably had no thoughts of performing the song again. The following spring, a repairman patched up the organ. Soon Mohr was transferred to a different parish. For a few years, the carol fell as silent as the night it had glorified in 1818.
But luckily for the world, the organ at St. Nicholas remained cantankerous. In 1824 or '25, the parish hired a master organ builder by the name of Carl Mauracher to reconstruct it. During his time in the loft, Mauracher happened upon the song that Mohr and Gruber had composed. Its universal simplicity must have appealed to the old organ master. Overseeing work on the St. Nicholas organ, Gruber gladly gave his consent when Mauracher requested a copy of "Silent Night."
On leaving Oberndorf, Mauracher carried the song with him. People who heard it through him were enchanted with the words and melody. Soon troupes of Tyrolean folk singers, who regularly fanned out over Europe, added "Silent Night" to their repertoires.
Among those who did were the Strasser Family. These four brothers and sisters with angelic voices performed at trade fairs while peddling gloves made by the family. In 1831 or '32, the Strassers sang "Silent Night" at a fair in Leipzig, Germany. Audiences loved it. Not long after, a local publisher printed it for the first time, identifying it only as Tirolerlied, or a Tyrolean song. There was no mention of Joseph Mohr or Franz Gruber.
The words and tune now spread rapidly. Soon "Silent Night" crossed the Atlantic with the Rainers, a family of folk singers performing and traveling in the United States. In New York City in 1839 or '40, the Rainers introduced the English-speaking world to the song.
Audiences everywhere began to believe that "Silent Night" was more than a simple folk song. Some listeners attributed it to one of the Haydns. But in their villages, Gruber and Mohr remained unaware of the stir their song was creating. Father Mohr died of pneumonia, penniless, in 1848 at the age of 55. He never learned that his song had reached some of Earth's farthest corners. Gruber heard of the song's success only in 1854, when the concertmaster for King Frederick William IV of Prussia began searching for its source. When word reached Gruber, then 67, he sent a letter to Berlin telling the origins of the song.
At first, few scholars believed that two humble men could have dreamed up such a popular Christmas carol. When Gruber died in 1863, his authorship was still challenged. That same year, the Rev. John Freeman Young, who later became Episcopal Bishop of Florida, translated three stanzas of the carol into the English verses we still sing today.
There is no longer any controversy over the authorship of the original song. Memorials in Austria pay tribute to Mohr and Gruber, and their legacy has become an essential part of Christmas everywhere. Says William E. Studwell of Northern Illinois University, an expert on Christmas carols, " 'Silent Night' is the musical symbol of Christmas."
Indeed, the carol is now sung on every continent in the world in scores of languages, from the original German to Welsh, from Swahili to Afrikaans, from Japanese to Russian--all expressing the same deep feelings of peace and joy. It has been recorded by singers from Bing Crosby to Elvis Presley.
Over the years, the simple carol has shown a profound power to create heavenly peace. During the Christmas truce of 1914, for example, German soldiers in the trenches along the Western Front began singing "Silent Night." From the other side of no man's land, British soldiers joined in.
During the same war, at a Siberian prison camp, German, Austrian and Hungarian prisoners broke into a chorus of "Silent Night." With tears in his eyes, the Russian commandant told his prisoners in broken German, "Tonight is the first time in more than a year of war that I have been able to forget you and I are supposed to be enemies."
In Nazi-occupied Czechoslovakia in 1944, a German officer visiting an orphanage asked if any of the children knew "Silent Night" in German. A boy and a girl walked hesitatingly forward, then began to sing "Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht." The officer smiled, but then the children stopped singing, as if suddenly remembering something, and looked terrified. In that part of the country, it was primarily Jews who knew German. Seeing their fear, the officer comforted them. "Don't be afraid," he said. He, too, had been touched by the magic of the song.
Seven years later, on a Christmas Eve during the Korean War, a young American soldier named John Thorsness was on guard duty when he thought he heard the enemy approach. Finger on the trigger, he watched a crowd of Koreans emerge from the darkness. They were smiling. As the young soldier stood in amazement, the group sang "Silent Night"--in Korean--just for him. Then they melted back into the darkness.
We have our own "Silent Night" memory, dating back to the first Christmas Eve we celebrated in our Congregational church in Redding, Conn. When we entered, a deacon handed us each a small white candle.
At the end of an hour of carols and Bible readings, the church lights were dimmed. The minister lit a taper from an altar candle, and walked to two people in the front pew. They, in turn, lit the candles next to them.
Seated in the rear, we watched as a wave of flickering light spread from pew to pew. Then the organ began to play, and the congregation joined in the song born Christmas Eve so many miles and so many years ago: "Silent night, holy night, All is calm, all is bright...."
When the last verse had ended, everyone stood absolutely still in the glow of candlelight. The haunting words and simple melody lingered in our hearts, just as they have lingered in the hearts of people throughout the world since a young priest and his schoolmaster friend first sang it 175 years ago.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Gideon's Gift
by Karen Kingsbury
The red gloves were all that mattered. If living on the streets of Portland was a prison, the red gloves were the key. The key that freed him to relive the life he'd once had. A life he could never have again. When he wore the gloves, he remembered their voices, their touch, and their warmth as they sat with him around the dinner table each night. He remembered their love.
Earl woke the next morning with rain on his face and he felt colder than usual. He cried out, "No!" He had been robbed during the night. His tarp and blanket were gone. But the worse of all so were his beloved red gloves...
Brian Mercer held tightly to Gideon's small hand as they left the hospital. His little girl had great news to share with her mother. She was in remission from leukemia. It was three weeks before Christmas.
On the way home Brian asked Gideon what would be her perfect Christmas. She smiled and said, "We would have a real tree, a tall one that almost touches the ceiling. One with twinkling little lights, decorations and a star on top. A big turkey and a fire truck for Dustin, her little brother. Brian could feel his heart breaking. Gideon's perfect Christmas was the kind all kids expected. But money was tight with doctor bills and a slow economy.
Brian then asked, "Didn't you forget someone? What would you like?"
"A new doll with pretty hair and eyes that blink and a soft lacy dress. A doll never gets sad when you're sick. Sometimes a friend like that would be nice."
They would have a four-foot plastic green tree. Toys would be second hand and maybe missing parts. Dinner would be chicken and mashed potatoes. But they would be grateful. They had more than some people.
Unfortunately they did not have the money for that kind of a doll. It would have to be a second hand doll. Brian felt a little sad that he could not give her the perfect Christmas. Gideon seeing his sad face said, "Daddy, it's just pretend. No big deal." She then asked, "What would be your perfect Christmas?" and he said, "Not having to come back to the hospital again."
Gideon said my teacher told me something special. She said Christmas miracles happen to those who believe. Gideon and her daddy decided to pray for a Christmas miracle.
Right before Gideon got sick, her parents had talked about serving dinner at the mission. She hoped now that since she was better she would be able to go to the mission. She asked her parents if she could serve dinner at the mission and they said yes as long as she didn't get too tired.
They planned to go to the mission the next night. Her dad warned her about the mission that some of the people might look scary. He explained they did not have homes and lived on the streets.
Gideon's heart felt like a wet towel: heavy and full of tears. Then she got an idea. "They probably aren't very happy people. Maybe we can make them smile." Her father smiled and said: "Yes, let's try to get the whole place smiling."
Gideon walked up to Earl, the homeless man, and asked, "Sir, is there anything I can get for you?" He replied that he only got one roll. She slowly walked back to the line and picked up two rolls and brought them back for him.
She asked his name and what would be his perfect Christmas. He only gave her his name, Earl. She told him about her perfect Christmas with a real tree, turkey, and fire truck for her brother and a doll for herself.
For a moment Earl thought back to memories of his family Christmas, but then a burning anger rose up and stopped the memory short. Earl then stared at the little girl and told her to get lost.
The child blinked, but her eyes remained the same. She then told Earl that she and her daddy had prayed for a Christmas miracle. Her teacher had said Christmas miracles happen to those who believe.
Earl then said, "I eat my meals alone, kid."
"Oh," the child pushed her chair back and stood. "I'll leave." There was sorrow in her expression that had not been there before. Something about it gave Earl a pinprick of guilt, like he owed the child an apology. The feeling passed as quickly as it came.
As she turned to leave, the girl tried one last time. "Maybe if you believed, God would give you a Christmas miracle, too."
This time Earl raised his voice. "I don't believe in anything. Now leave me alone!"
Brian had watched what happened from a short distance away. He had to fight back his own anger. What type of miserable man could do that to a child, a child who is only trying to help?
Gideon came back to her Daddy and the mission director and said, "I tried Daddy. But I can't make Earl smile."
The director said, "We have all tried to reach old Earl. He's not a happy man, honey. Believe me. It would take a miracle to make him smile."
Gideon eyes’ lit up and she turned to look for Earl but he had left the mission.
That night Gideon knelt to say her prayers. "Dear God. Hi. It's me, Gideon. Daddy and I asked you for something so big it could be a Christmas miracle. You, see there's a man at the mission named Earl. He's old and mad and he doesn't remember how to smile. Worse than that, he forgot how to believe. God, please help Earl believe again. That's something very big, but I know you can do it. And when you do, it will really be the best Christmas miracle of all."
For the next two weeks, Gideon worked for the neighbors and earned $5.15 so she could buy a Christmas present for Earl. She and her dad went to the second hand store so she could find just the right gift for Earl. Two hours later they left the store with the gift for Earl. With her mother's help they sewed something inside the gift.
Gideon then spent another half hour coloring a picture for Earl. She slipped the gift into a brown paper bag, dropped the picture inside, and tied it shut with a piece of string. She wrote his name on the outside and decorated it with Christmas trees and angels.
The next night they went back to the mission and Gideon carried her gift over to Earl. He stared at the gift. Then the old man turned and said, "I hate Christmas. Didn't I tell you that?"
"Yes." Gideon's eyes were fixed on his. "You told me you didn't believe. But believing is the best gift of all and I thought maybe if I gave you a. . ."
"You thought wrong!" Earl voice boomed across the table.
She leaned forward and clasped her hands on the table. "Aren't you going to open it?"
Earl dropped his gaze. "I'll probably throw it away." Brian's muscles tensed. How dare he? Even from across the room he could see tears building in Gideon's eyes.
"You can't throw it away. It's a Christmas gift I bought for you."
Something in Gideon's voice must have caused the old man to look up. When he saw her sad face, he huffed hard. "Fine." He jerked the chair back from the table and stuffed the sack into his coat pocket and left the mission.
Earl must have passed a dozen trash cans since leaving the mission. Each time he told himself he'd take the kid's bag and throw it out. But each time he couldn't do it. Instead---against every bit of his will-- the gift had come to mean something to him. Maybe it was the child's drawings, the crooked way she'd colored a Christmas tree on the bag, or his name scrawled across the middle.
Somehow it reminded him of the life he used to lead. Without the red gloves, it was over. Dead. There was no hope, no history, no family to conjure up in the cold of the night.
Memories played out before him of his wife, Anne, and their little girl, Molly, the women who had been everything to him. A dozen Christmas Eves during which Anne had wanted only one thing from Earl, to join them at the annual church service.
But Earl wouldn't hear of it. "I won't be a hypocrite, Anne. You know how I feel about church. I wasn't raised that way."
Anne would sigh. "Okay, Earl. She'd plant a kiss on his cheek. But, one of these days, God's going to blow the roof off your safe little box and you won't have any choice but to believe."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the brown bag. He reached inside and felt a piece of paper and unfolded it. It was a picture of an old wooden stable and a manger that glowed like the sun. Scrawled across the bottom of the page were the words: Christmas miracles happen to those who believe. Love Gideon.
Something strange and unfamiliar stirred his soul. Hadn't his daughter Molly drawn a picture like that the Christmas before she and her mother died in an automobile accident? He reached into the sack and felt something soft and pulled it out. He couldn't believe his eyes.
She couldn't possibly have known. Besides how had she found them? They'd been stolen weeks ago. The child had given him a pair of handmade red wool gloves. Gloves that looked exactly the same as those he lost. The gloves his sweet wife Anne had made for him.
Inside the cuff of one of the gloves was stitched a message. Believe.
A sudden downpour of memories overtook him as he buried his face into the red wool. That's exactly what Anne had prayed for all those years ago. God had blown the roof off. Somehow this God he hadn't wanted to believe in had done the one thing that left him no choice but to believe.
God? He opened his eyes and stared toward heaven. No matter that the sky above Portland was flat and utterly dark. In that moment he could see beyond it to a place that wasn't a figment of other people's imagination. It was real, as real as God and miracles and life itself.
The more he felt the gloves the cold layers of his heart melted away. He believed. God is real. The red gloves proved it. No matter how badly he had messed things up, God wasn't finished with him yet. He wanted to live and to make his life good and wonderful and true, something Anne and Molly would be proud of. Earl was smiling.
Because of a child's generosity, Earl was no longer a hopeless street person. He was a believer whose life was about to change.
Christmas miracles really do happen if we believe.
A hundred ideas raced through his mind. Things he wanted to do. Things he needed to do... now that he believed. But there was one thing he had to do before leaving. Tomorrow he would find DJ, the mission director, and ask him about the child. He owed her his life. Her gift had given him more than he could ever repay. But at least he could apologize and certainly he could thank her.
The next morning Earl headed for a gas station where for two dollars a man could shower, shave, and run a clean comb through his hair. He felt like a new man. Then he headed for the mission. DJ did not recognize him. DJ had a dozen questions in his eyes. Earl told him about the girl and the gift of the gloves and what they meant to him. How he believed now. He wanted to find the girl and thank her.
Earl asked DJ how to contact Gideon, the little girl at the mission, to thank her. DJ told him Gideon had leukemia and was back in the hospital again. He also told him that Gideon needed a transplant or she would die. Earl asked how much it cost and was told more than they had, $25,000.
Earl told DJ the story of his life and how he had lost Anne and his daughter Molly in a car accident a few days before Christmas and how this loss had changed his life. He had received a large check from the lawsuit brought against the driver's company and had put the money in the bank and never spent it. To him the two million dollars were blood money.
A wonderful idea came into Earl's mind. DJ helped Earl find clean clothes and shoes. Before lunchtime they set out with two activities in mind: banking and shopping.
At the hospital the doctors told Gideon's parents they could take her home for Christmas Eve, but she would have to back after Christmas for more treatments.
When they opened the door to their apartment, they could not believe their eyes. In the middle of the living room stood a towering Christmas tree laden with twinkling lights and dozens of colorful ornaments. Beneath the tree were wrapped presents piled high. A brand new toy fire track was parked against one wall and leaning against the other were four stockings with gifts and labeled with each of their names.
"Who could have done this?" they all asked. Their little boy answered, "It must have been Santa."
Lined along the kitchen floor were bags of food and inside the fridge they found a large turkey. On the kitchen table was a golden bag with Gideon's name on it. She opened up the bag and inside she found a brand new doll with shiny hair and eyes that open and close in a beautiful dress with tiny lace trim. In the doll’s hand was an envelope.
Brian opened the envelope hoping the person had signed the card. He pulled out a folded piece of paper and opened it to find it was a cashier's check for fifty thousand dollars. "It's a miracle" Brian said to his family. Now Gideon could have the transplant and he felt she would be okay. Another piece of paper fell out of the envelope. On the paper were the words: Dear Gideon, Christmas miracles happen to those who believe.
When Gideon heard the message she gasped, "It's from Earl. Earl at the mission." She had told him the same message at the mission. "God did it, Mommy. He really did it." Gideon sat back in her chair. "This is exactly what I prayed for."
Brian sat down next to Gideon. "A tree, turkey, presents, it is the perfect Christmas."
"No," Gideon looked up. "That's not what I prayed for. I prayed God would do something really amazing, a Christmas miracle. I prayed he would make Earl believe again." Her smile took up most of her face. "And that's just what happened."
Christmas miracles really do happen to those who believe.
The red gloves were all that mattered. If living on the streets of Portland was a prison, the red gloves were the key. The key that freed him to relive the life he'd once had. A life he could never have again. When he wore the gloves, he remembered their voices, their touch, and their warmth as they sat with him around the dinner table each night. He remembered their love.
Earl woke the next morning with rain on his face and he felt colder than usual. He cried out, "No!" He had been robbed during the night. His tarp and blanket were gone. But the worse of all so were his beloved red gloves...
Brian Mercer held tightly to Gideon's small hand as they left the hospital. His little girl had great news to share with her mother. She was in remission from leukemia. It was three weeks before Christmas.
On the way home Brian asked Gideon what would be her perfect Christmas. She smiled and said, "We would have a real tree, a tall one that almost touches the ceiling. One with twinkling little lights, decorations and a star on top. A big turkey and a fire truck for Dustin, her little brother. Brian could feel his heart breaking. Gideon's perfect Christmas was the kind all kids expected. But money was tight with doctor bills and a slow economy.
Brian then asked, "Didn't you forget someone? What would you like?"
"A new doll with pretty hair and eyes that blink and a soft lacy dress. A doll never gets sad when you're sick. Sometimes a friend like that would be nice."
They would have a four-foot plastic green tree. Toys would be second hand and maybe missing parts. Dinner would be chicken and mashed potatoes. But they would be grateful. They had more than some people.
Unfortunately they did not have the money for that kind of a doll. It would have to be a second hand doll. Brian felt a little sad that he could not give her the perfect Christmas. Gideon seeing his sad face said, "Daddy, it's just pretend. No big deal." She then asked, "What would be your perfect Christmas?" and he said, "Not having to come back to the hospital again."
Gideon said my teacher told me something special. She said Christmas miracles happen to those who believe. Gideon and her daddy decided to pray for a Christmas miracle.
Right before Gideon got sick, her parents had talked about serving dinner at the mission. She hoped now that since she was better she would be able to go to the mission. She asked her parents if she could serve dinner at the mission and they said yes as long as she didn't get too tired.
They planned to go to the mission the next night. Her dad warned her about the mission that some of the people might look scary. He explained they did not have homes and lived on the streets.
Gideon's heart felt like a wet towel: heavy and full of tears. Then she got an idea. "They probably aren't very happy people. Maybe we can make them smile." Her father smiled and said: "Yes, let's try to get the whole place smiling."
Gideon walked up to Earl, the homeless man, and asked, "Sir, is there anything I can get for you?" He replied that he only got one roll. She slowly walked back to the line and picked up two rolls and brought them back for him.
She asked his name and what would be his perfect Christmas. He only gave her his name, Earl. She told him about her perfect Christmas with a real tree, turkey, and fire truck for her brother and a doll for herself.
For a moment Earl thought back to memories of his family Christmas, but then a burning anger rose up and stopped the memory short. Earl then stared at the little girl and told her to get lost.
The child blinked, but her eyes remained the same. She then told Earl that she and her daddy had prayed for a Christmas miracle. Her teacher had said Christmas miracles happen to those who believe.
Earl then said, "I eat my meals alone, kid."
"Oh," the child pushed her chair back and stood. "I'll leave." There was sorrow in her expression that had not been there before. Something about it gave Earl a pinprick of guilt, like he owed the child an apology. The feeling passed as quickly as it came.
As she turned to leave, the girl tried one last time. "Maybe if you believed, God would give you a Christmas miracle, too."
This time Earl raised his voice. "I don't believe in anything. Now leave me alone!"
Brian had watched what happened from a short distance away. He had to fight back his own anger. What type of miserable man could do that to a child, a child who is only trying to help?
Gideon came back to her Daddy and the mission director and said, "I tried Daddy. But I can't make Earl smile."
The director said, "We have all tried to reach old Earl. He's not a happy man, honey. Believe me. It would take a miracle to make him smile."
Gideon eyes’ lit up and she turned to look for Earl but he had left the mission.
That night Gideon knelt to say her prayers. "Dear God. Hi. It's me, Gideon. Daddy and I asked you for something so big it could be a Christmas miracle. You, see there's a man at the mission named Earl. He's old and mad and he doesn't remember how to smile. Worse than that, he forgot how to believe. God, please help Earl believe again. That's something very big, but I know you can do it. And when you do, it will really be the best Christmas miracle of all."
For the next two weeks, Gideon worked for the neighbors and earned $5.15 so she could buy a Christmas present for Earl. She and her dad went to the second hand store so she could find just the right gift for Earl. Two hours later they left the store with the gift for Earl. With her mother's help they sewed something inside the gift.
Gideon then spent another half hour coloring a picture for Earl. She slipped the gift into a brown paper bag, dropped the picture inside, and tied it shut with a piece of string. She wrote his name on the outside and decorated it with Christmas trees and angels.
The next night they went back to the mission and Gideon carried her gift over to Earl. He stared at the gift. Then the old man turned and said, "I hate Christmas. Didn't I tell you that?"
"Yes." Gideon's eyes were fixed on his. "You told me you didn't believe. But believing is the best gift of all and I thought maybe if I gave you a. . ."
"You thought wrong!" Earl voice boomed across the table.
She leaned forward and clasped her hands on the table. "Aren't you going to open it?"
Earl dropped his gaze. "I'll probably throw it away." Brian's muscles tensed. How dare he? Even from across the room he could see tears building in Gideon's eyes.
"You can't throw it away. It's a Christmas gift I bought for you."
Something in Gideon's voice must have caused the old man to look up. When he saw her sad face, he huffed hard. "Fine." He jerked the chair back from the table and stuffed the sack into his coat pocket and left the mission.
Earl must have passed a dozen trash cans since leaving the mission. Each time he told himself he'd take the kid's bag and throw it out. But each time he couldn't do it. Instead---against every bit of his will-- the gift had come to mean something to him. Maybe it was the child's drawings, the crooked way she'd colored a Christmas tree on the bag, or his name scrawled across the middle.
Somehow it reminded him of the life he used to lead. Without the red gloves, it was over. Dead. There was no hope, no history, no family to conjure up in the cold of the night.
Memories played out before him of his wife, Anne, and their little girl, Molly, the women who had been everything to him. A dozen Christmas Eves during which Anne had wanted only one thing from Earl, to join them at the annual church service.
But Earl wouldn't hear of it. "I won't be a hypocrite, Anne. You know how I feel about church. I wasn't raised that way."
Anne would sigh. "Okay, Earl. She'd plant a kiss on his cheek. But, one of these days, God's going to blow the roof off your safe little box and you won't have any choice but to believe."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the brown bag. He reached inside and felt a piece of paper and unfolded it. It was a picture of an old wooden stable and a manger that glowed like the sun. Scrawled across the bottom of the page were the words: Christmas miracles happen to those who believe. Love Gideon.
Something strange and unfamiliar stirred his soul. Hadn't his daughter Molly drawn a picture like that the Christmas before she and her mother died in an automobile accident? He reached into the sack and felt something soft and pulled it out. He couldn't believe his eyes.
She couldn't possibly have known. Besides how had she found them? They'd been stolen weeks ago. The child had given him a pair of handmade red wool gloves. Gloves that looked exactly the same as those he lost. The gloves his sweet wife Anne had made for him.
Inside the cuff of one of the gloves was stitched a message. Believe.
A sudden downpour of memories overtook him as he buried his face into the red wool. That's exactly what Anne had prayed for all those years ago. God had blown the roof off. Somehow this God he hadn't wanted to believe in had done the one thing that left him no choice but to believe.
God? He opened his eyes and stared toward heaven. No matter that the sky above Portland was flat and utterly dark. In that moment he could see beyond it to a place that wasn't a figment of other people's imagination. It was real, as real as God and miracles and life itself.
The more he felt the gloves the cold layers of his heart melted away. He believed. God is real. The red gloves proved it. No matter how badly he had messed things up, God wasn't finished with him yet. He wanted to live and to make his life good and wonderful and true, something Anne and Molly would be proud of. Earl was smiling.
Because of a child's generosity, Earl was no longer a hopeless street person. He was a believer whose life was about to change.
Christmas miracles really do happen if we believe.
A hundred ideas raced through his mind. Things he wanted to do. Things he needed to do... now that he believed. But there was one thing he had to do before leaving. Tomorrow he would find DJ, the mission director, and ask him about the child. He owed her his life. Her gift had given him more than he could ever repay. But at least he could apologize and certainly he could thank her.
The next morning Earl headed for a gas station where for two dollars a man could shower, shave, and run a clean comb through his hair. He felt like a new man. Then he headed for the mission. DJ did not recognize him. DJ had a dozen questions in his eyes. Earl told him about the girl and the gift of the gloves and what they meant to him. How he believed now. He wanted to find the girl and thank her.
Earl asked DJ how to contact Gideon, the little girl at the mission, to thank her. DJ told him Gideon had leukemia and was back in the hospital again. He also told him that Gideon needed a transplant or she would die. Earl asked how much it cost and was told more than they had, $25,000.
Earl told DJ the story of his life and how he had lost Anne and his daughter Molly in a car accident a few days before Christmas and how this loss had changed his life. He had received a large check from the lawsuit brought against the driver's company and had put the money in the bank and never spent it. To him the two million dollars were blood money.
A wonderful idea came into Earl's mind. DJ helped Earl find clean clothes and shoes. Before lunchtime they set out with two activities in mind: banking and shopping.
At the hospital the doctors told Gideon's parents they could take her home for Christmas Eve, but she would have to back after Christmas for more treatments.
When they opened the door to their apartment, they could not believe their eyes. In the middle of the living room stood a towering Christmas tree laden with twinkling lights and dozens of colorful ornaments. Beneath the tree were wrapped presents piled high. A brand new toy fire track was parked against one wall and leaning against the other were four stockings with gifts and labeled with each of their names.
"Who could have done this?" they all asked. Their little boy answered, "It must have been Santa."
Lined along the kitchen floor were bags of food and inside the fridge they found a large turkey. On the kitchen table was a golden bag with Gideon's name on it. She opened up the bag and inside she found a brand new doll with shiny hair and eyes that open and close in a beautiful dress with tiny lace trim. In the doll’s hand was an envelope.
Brian opened the envelope hoping the person had signed the card. He pulled out a folded piece of paper and opened it to find it was a cashier's check for fifty thousand dollars. "It's a miracle" Brian said to his family. Now Gideon could have the transplant and he felt she would be okay. Another piece of paper fell out of the envelope. On the paper were the words: Dear Gideon, Christmas miracles happen to those who believe.
When Gideon heard the message she gasped, "It's from Earl. Earl at the mission." She had told him the same message at the mission. "God did it, Mommy. He really did it." Gideon sat back in her chair. "This is exactly what I prayed for."
Brian sat down next to Gideon. "A tree, turkey, presents, it is the perfect Christmas."
"No," Gideon looked up. "That's not what I prayed for. I prayed God would do something really amazing, a Christmas miracle. I prayed he would make Earl believe again." Her smile took up most of her face. "And that's just what happened."
Christmas miracles really do happen to those who believe.
The Envelope
Author Unknown
It's just a small, white envelope stuck among the branches of our Christmas tree. No name, no identification, no inscription. It has peeked through the branches of our tree for the past 10 years or so.
It all began because my husband Mike hated Christmas. Oh, not the true meaning of Christmas, but the commercial aspects of it, overspending, the frantic running around at the last minute to get a tie for Uncle Harry and the dusting powder for Grandma, the gifts given in desperation because you couldn't think of anything else.
Knowing he felt this way, I decided one year to bypass the usual shirts, sweaters, ties and so forth. I reached for something special just for Mike. The inspiration came in an unusual way. Our son, Kevin, who was 12 that year, was wrestling at the junior level at the school he attended, and shortly before Christmas, there was a non league match against a team sponsored by an inner-city church.
These youngsters, dressed in sneakers so ragged that shoestrings seemed to be the only thing holding them together, presented a sharp contrast to our boys in the spiffy blue and gold uniforms and sparkling new wrestling shoes. As the match began I was alarmed to see that the other team was wrestling without headgear, a kind of light helmet designed to protect a wrestler's ears. It was a luxury the ragtag team obviously could not afford. Well, we ended up walloping them. We took every weight class. And as each of their boys got up from the mat, he swaggered around in his tatters with false bravado, a kind of street pride that couldn't acknowledge defeat. Mike, seated beside me, shook his head sadly, "I wish one of them could have won," he said. "They have a lot of potential, but losing like this could take the heart right out of them." Mike loved kids, all kids, and he knew them, having coached little league football, baseball and lacrosse.
That's when the idea of his present came. That afternoon, I went to a local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes and sent them anonymously to the inner-city church. On Christmas Eve, I placed the envelope on the tree, the note inside telling Mike what I had done and that this was his gift from me. His smile was the brightest thing about Christmas that year and in succeeding years.
For each Christmas, I followed the tradition, one year sending a group of mentally handicapped youngsters to a hockey game, another year a check to a pair of elderly brothers whose home had burned to the ground the week before Christmas, and on and on. The envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always the last thing opened on Christmas morning and our children, ignoring their new toys, would stand with wide-eyed anticipation as their dad lifted the envelope from the tree to reveal its contents. As the children grew, the toys gave way to more practical presents, but the envelope never lost its allure.
The story doesn't end there. You see, we lost Mike last year due to dreaded cancer. When Christmas rolled around, I was still so wrapped in grief that I barely got the tree up. But Christmas Eve found me placing an envelope on the tree, and in the morning, it was joined by three more.
Each of our children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed an envelope on the tree for their dad. The tradition has grown and someday will expand even further with our grandchildren standing around the tree with wide-eyed anticipation watching as their fathers take down the envelope. Mike's spirit, like the Christmas spirit, will always be with us.
It's just a small, white envelope stuck among the branches of our Christmas tree. No name, no identification, no inscription. It has peeked through the branches of our tree for the past 10 years or so.
It all began because my husband Mike hated Christmas. Oh, not the true meaning of Christmas, but the commercial aspects of it, overspending, the frantic running around at the last minute to get a tie for Uncle Harry and the dusting powder for Grandma, the gifts given in desperation because you couldn't think of anything else.
Knowing he felt this way, I decided one year to bypass the usual shirts, sweaters, ties and so forth. I reached for something special just for Mike. The inspiration came in an unusual way. Our son, Kevin, who was 12 that year, was wrestling at the junior level at the school he attended, and shortly before Christmas, there was a non league match against a team sponsored by an inner-city church.
These youngsters, dressed in sneakers so ragged that shoestrings seemed to be the only thing holding them together, presented a sharp contrast to our boys in the spiffy blue and gold uniforms and sparkling new wrestling shoes. As the match began I was alarmed to see that the other team was wrestling without headgear, a kind of light helmet designed to protect a wrestler's ears. It was a luxury the ragtag team obviously could not afford. Well, we ended up walloping them. We took every weight class. And as each of their boys got up from the mat, he swaggered around in his tatters with false bravado, a kind of street pride that couldn't acknowledge defeat. Mike, seated beside me, shook his head sadly, "I wish one of them could have won," he said. "They have a lot of potential, but losing like this could take the heart right out of them." Mike loved kids, all kids, and he knew them, having coached little league football, baseball and lacrosse.
That's when the idea of his present came. That afternoon, I went to a local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes and sent them anonymously to the inner-city church. On Christmas Eve, I placed the envelope on the tree, the note inside telling Mike what I had done and that this was his gift from me. His smile was the brightest thing about Christmas that year and in succeeding years.
For each Christmas, I followed the tradition, one year sending a group of mentally handicapped youngsters to a hockey game, another year a check to a pair of elderly brothers whose home had burned to the ground the week before Christmas, and on and on. The envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always the last thing opened on Christmas morning and our children, ignoring their new toys, would stand with wide-eyed anticipation as their dad lifted the envelope from the tree to reveal its contents. As the children grew, the toys gave way to more practical presents, but the envelope never lost its allure.
The story doesn't end there. You see, we lost Mike last year due to dreaded cancer. When Christmas rolled around, I was still so wrapped in grief that I barely got the tree up. But Christmas Eve found me placing an envelope on the tree, and in the morning, it was joined by three more.
Each of our children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed an envelope on the tree for their dad. The tradition has grown and someday will expand even further with our grandchildren standing around the tree with wide-eyed anticipation watching as their fathers take down the envelope. Mike's spirit, like the Christmas spirit, will always be with us.
Christmas Orange
Author Unknown
Sometimes it is easy to forget the true meaning of Christmas. The busy traditions of the season and the appealing advertisements for material goods can leave the pure and simple truths far, far behind.
Jake was nine years old with tousled brown hair with blue eyes as bright as a heavenly angel. For as long as Jake could remember he had lived within the walls of a poor orphanage. He was just one of ten children supported by what meager contributions the orphan home could obtain in a continuous struggle seeking donations from townsfolk.
There was very little to eat, but at Christmas time there always seemed to be a little more than usual to eat, the orphanage seemed a little warmer, and it was time for a little holiday enjoyment. But more than this, there was the Christmas orange!
Christmas was the only time of year that such a rare treat was provided and it was treasured by each child like no other food admiring it, feeling it, prizing it and slowly enjoying each juicy section. Truly, it was the light of each orphan's Christmas and their best gift of the season. How joyful would be the moment when Jake received his orange!
Unknown to him, Jake had somehow managed to track a small amount of mud on his shoes through the front door of the orphanage, muddying the new carpet. He hadn't even noticed. Now it was too late and there was nothing he could do to avoid punishment. The punishment was swift and unrelenting. Jake would not be allowed his Christmas orange! It was the only gift he would receive from the harsh world he lived in, yet after a year of waiting for his Christmas orange, is was to be denied him.
Tearfully, Jake pleaded that he be forgiven and promised never to track mud into the orphanage again, but to no avail. He felt hopeless and totally rejected. Jake cried into his pillow all that night and spent Christmas Day feeling empty and alone. He felt that the other children didn't want to be with a boy who had been punished with such a cruel punishment. Perhaps they feared he would ruin their only day of happiness. Maybe, he reasoned, the gulf between him and his friends existed because they feared he would ask for a little of their oranges. Jake spent the day upstairs, alone, in the unheated dormitory. Huddled under his only blanket, he read about a family marooned on an island. Jake wouldn't mind spending the rest of his life on an isolated island, if he could only have a real family that cared about him.
Bedtime came, and worst of all, Jake couldn't sleep. How could he say his prayers? How could there be a God in Heaven that would allow a little soul such as his, to suffer so much all by himself? Silently, he sobbed for the future of mankind that God might end the suffering in the world, both for himself and all others like him.
As he climbed back into bed from the cold, hard floor, a soft hand touched Jake's shoulder, startling him momentarily and an object was silently placed in his hands. The giver disappeared into the darkness, leaving Jake with what, he did not immediately know!
Looking closely at it in the dim light, he saw that it looked like an orange! Not a regular orange, smooth and shiny, but a special orange, very special. Inside a patched together peel were the segments of nine other oranges, making one whole orange for Jake! The nine other children in the orphanage had each donated one segment of their own precious oranges to make a whole orange as a gift for Jake.
Sharing what we truly value is the true spirit of Christmas. Our Heavenly Father gave us His beloved Son. May we, like the children in the orphanage, find ways to share His love with others less blessed.
Sometimes it is easy to forget the true meaning of Christmas. The busy traditions of the season and the appealing advertisements for material goods can leave the pure and simple truths far, far behind.
Jake was nine years old with tousled brown hair with blue eyes as bright as a heavenly angel. For as long as Jake could remember he had lived within the walls of a poor orphanage. He was just one of ten children supported by what meager contributions the orphan home could obtain in a continuous struggle seeking donations from townsfolk.
There was very little to eat, but at Christmas time there always seemed to be a little more than usual to eat, the orphanage seemed a little warmer, and it was time for a little holiday enjoyment. But more than this, there was the Christmas orange!
Christmas was the only time of year that such a rare treat was provided and it was treasured by each child like no other food admiring it, feeling it, prizing it and slowly enjoying each juicy section. Truly, it was the light of each orphan's Christmas and their best gift of the season. How joyful would be the moment when Jake received his orange!
Unknown to him, Jake had somehow managed to track a small amount of mud on his shoes through the front door of the orphanage, muddying the new carpet. He hadn't even noticed. Now it was too late and there was nothing he could do to avoid punishment. The punishment was swift and unrelenting. Jake would not be allowed his Christmas orange! It was the only gift he would receive from the harsh world he lived in, yet after a year of waiting for his Christmas orange, is was to be denied him.
Tearfully, Jake pleaded that he be forgiven and promised never to track mud into the orphanage again, but to no avail. He felt hopeless and totally rejected. Jake cried into his pillow all that night and spent Christmas Day feeling empty and alone. He felt that the other children didn't want to be with a boy who had been punished with such a cruel punishment. Perhaps they feared he would ruin their only day of happiness. Maybe, he reasoned, the gulf between him and his friends existed because they feared he would ask for a little of their oranges. Jake spent the day upstairs, alone, in the unheated dormitory. Huddled under his only blanket, he read about a family marooned on an island. Jake wouldn't mind spending the rest of his life on an isolated island, if he could only have a real family that cared about him.
Bedtime came, and worst of all, Jake couldn't sleep. How could he say his prayers? How could there be a God in Heaven that would allow a little soul such as his, to suffer so much all by himself? Silently, he sobbed for the future of mankind that God might end the suffering in the world, both for himself and all others like him.
As he climbed back into bed from the cold, hard floor, a soft hand touched Jake's shoulder, startling him momentarily and an object was silently placed in his hands. The giver disappeared into the darkness, leaving Jake with what, he did not immediately know!
Looking closely at it in the dim light, he saw that it looked like an orange! Not a regular orange, smooth and shiny, but a special orange, very special. Inside a patched together peel were the segments of nine other oranges, making one whole orange for Jake! The nine other children in the orphanage had each donated one segment of their own precious oranges to make a whole orange as a gift for Jake.
Sharing what we truly value is the true spirit of Christmas. Our Heavenly Father gave us His beloved Son. May we, like the children in the orphanage, find ways to share His love with others less blessed.
An Unlikely Angel
by Crystal Ward Kent
It was just before Christmas. An angry middle-aged man stood at the counter of the animal shelter, gripping the leash of an aging German shepherd. "Why won't you take him?" he shouted. "I need to get him off my hands!"
The adoption counselor tried once more to explain. "At fourteen, Samson is too old to be a good adoption candidate," she said.
"Well, then just take him and put him down," the man yelled. "I want to be rid of him."
"We don't take animals just to put them down," the counselor explained. "May I ask why you no longer wish to keep the dog?"
"I just can't stand the sight of him," the man hissed, "and if you won't put him down, I'll shoot him myself."
Trying not to show her horror, the counselor pointed out that shooting an animal was illegal. She urged the man to consult with his veterinarian for other options.
"I'm not spending any more money on this animal," the man grumbled and, yanking the leash, he stalked out.
Concerned, the counselor wrote down the license plate of the man's truck and offered up a quick prayer for Samson.
A few days later, a German shepherd was found abandoned. He was brought to the shelter, and the staff recognized him as Samson. The town where he had been abandoned was where his owner lived. The man was contacted by the police and, under questioning, admitted that he was distraught over his recent divorce. He had sought revenge through the shepherd. He hadn't even wanted the dog, but he fought to keep him to spite his wife. Once his wife was gone, he couldn't bear to see the animal. The man was charged with abandonment, and Samson came to stay at the shelter.
The wife and the couple's son were located in Pennsylvania. They were horrified to hear what had happened to their dog and agreed immediately to have him come live with them. There was just one problem: The wife was nearly broke after the divorce and their initial move. She could take no time off from work to drive to New Hampshire and get the dog, and she couldn't afford any other method of getting him to her. She hated to have Samson in the shelter any longer but didn't know what to do. "We'll come up with something," the staff assured her, but in their hearts they didn't know what. They were concerned, as well. Samson had lived with his family all his life. Within a few weeks, his whole world had been turned upside down. He was beginning to mope, and the staff could tell by his eyes that if he wasn't back with his family soon, he would give up.
Christmas was only two weeks away when the angel arrived. He came by pickup truck in the form of a man in his mid-thirties. Through a friend of a shelter staffer, he had heard about Samson's plight. He was willing to drive Samson to Pennsylvania, and he would do it before Christmas.
The staff was thrilled with the offer, but cautious. Why would a stranger drive hundreds of miles out of his way to deliver a dog to people he didn't know? They had to make sure he was legitimate and that Samson wouldn't be sold to meat dealers or dumped along the interstate. The man understood their concerns and, thankfully, checked out to be an upstanding citizen. In the course of the conversation, he explained why he had come forward.
"Last year, I left my dog in my van while I went to do some grocery shopping," he explained. "While I was inside, the van caught fire. I heard people hollering and rushed out to see my van engulfed in flames. My dog meant everything to me, and he was trapped. I tried to get to the van, but people restrained me. Then I heard someone shouting, 'The dog is safe! The dog is safe!' I looked over, and there was this man I'd never seen before, holding my dog. He had risked his own life to get my dog out. I'll forever be in his debt. Just when you don't think there are heroes anymore, one comes along.
"I vowed then and there that if I ever had the chance to do someone a good turn when it came to a beloved pet that I would. When I heard about Samson and his family, I knew this was my chance, so here I am."
The shelter staff was amazed. They all knew about the van rescue story. It had been in all the papers, and the shelter had even given the rescuer a reward, but they had never dreamed that Samson's angel was connected to this earlier good deed.
A few days later, Samson and his angel were on their way. The dog seemed to know he was going home, because his ears perked up and his eyes were brighter than they had been in some time.
Just before Christmas, the mail brought one of the best cards the shelter had ever received. Along with a thank-you note were photos of a deliriously happy Samson romping with his family in the snow and snuggling with them by their Christmas tree. Samson was truly where he belonged, and the staff knew he would live out his days happily there.
They also knew that Samson's journey home was a true Christmas miracle, and that angels - and heroes - may still appear when you need them, even in the most unlikely forms.
It was just before Christmas. An angry middle-aged man stood at the counter of the animal shelter, gripping the leash of an aging German shepherd. "Why won't you take him?" he shouted. "I need to get him off my hands!"
The adoption counselor tried once more to explain. "At fourteen, Samson is too old to be a good adoption candidate," she said.
"Well, then just take him and put him down," the man yelled. "I want to be rid of him."
"We don't take animals just to put them down," the counselor explained. "May I ask why you no longer wish to keep the dog?"
"I just can't stand the sight of him," the man hissed, "and if you won't put him down, I'll shoot him myself."
Trying not to show her horror, the counselor pointed out that shooting an animal was illegal. She urged the man to consult with his veterinarian for other options.
"I'm not spending any more money on this animal," the man grumbled and, yanking the leash, he stalked out.
Concerned, the counselor wrote down the license plate of the man's truck and offered up a quick prayer for Samson.
A few days later, a German shepherd was found abandoned. He was brought to the shelter, and the staff recognized him as Samson. The town where he had been abandoned was where his owner lived. The man was contacted by the police and, under questioning, admitted that he was distraught over his recent divorce. He had sought revenge through the shepherd. He hadn't even wanted the dog, but he fought to keep him to spite his wife. Once his wife was gone, he couldn't bear to see the animal. The man was charged with abandonment, and Samson came to stay at the shelter.
The wife and the couple's son were located in Pennsylvania. They were horrified to hear what had happened to their dog and agreed immediately to have him come live with them. There was just one problem: The wife was nearly broke after the divorce and their initial move. She could take no time off from work to drive to New Hampshire and get the dog, and she couldn't afford any other method of getting him to her. She hated to have Samson in the shelter any longer but didn't know what to do. "We'll come up with something," the staff assured her, but in their hearts they didn't know what. They were concerned, as well. Samson had lived with his family all his life. Within a few weeks, his whole world had been turned upside down. He was beginning to mope, and the staff could tell by his eyes that if he wasn't back with his family soon, he would give up.
Christmas was only two weeks away when the angel arrived. He came by pickup truck in the form of a man in his mid-thirties. Through a friend of a shelter staffer, he had heard about Samson's plight. He was willing to drive Samson to Pennsylvania, and he would do it before Christmas.
The staff was thrilled with the offer, but cautious. Why would a stranger drive hundreds of miles out of his way to deliver a dog to people he didn't know? They had to make sure he was legitimate and that Samson wouldn't be sold to meat dealers or dumped along the interstate. The man understood their concerns and, thankfully, checked out to be an upstanding citizen. In the course of the conversation, he explained why he had come forward.
"Last year, I left my dog in my van while I went to do some grocery shopping," he explained. "While I was inside, the van caught fire. I heard people hollering and rushed out to see my van engulfed in flames. My dog meant everything to me, and he was trapped. I tried to get to the van, but people restrained me. Then I heard someone shouting, 'The dog is safe! The dog is safe!' I looked over, and there was this man I'd never seen before, holding my dog. He had risked his own life to get my dog out. I'll forever be in his debt. Just when you don't think there are heroes anymore, one comes along.
"I vowed then and there that if I ever had the chance to do someone a good turn when it came to a beloved pet that I would. When I heard about Samson and his family, I knew this was my chance, so here I am."
The shelter staff was amazed. They all knew about the van rescue story. It had been in all the papers, and the shelter had even given the rescuer a reward, but they had never dreamed that Samson's angel was connected to this earlier good deed.
A few days later, Samson and his angel were on their way. The dog seemed to know he was going home, because his ears perked up and his eyes were brighter than they had been in some time.
Just before Christmas, the mail brought one of the best cards the shelter had ever received. Along with a thank-you note were photos of a deliriously happy Samson romping with his family in the snow and snuggling with them by their Christmas tree. Samson was truly where he belonged, and the staff knew he would live out his days happily there.
They also knew that Samson's journey home was a true Christmas miracle, and that angels - and heroes - may still appear when you need them, even in the most unlikely forms.
Santa’s Team
Author Unknown
I remember an important Christmas with my Grandma. I was just a kid. I remember tearing across town on my bike to visit her on the day my big sister dropped the bomb: "There is no Santa Claus," she jeered. "Even dummies know that!"
My grandma is not the gushy kind, never was. I fled to her that day because I knew she would be straight with me. I knew Grandma always told the truth, and I knew that the truth always went down a whole lot easier when swallowed with one of her world-famous cinnamon buns. Grandma was home, and the buns were still warm. Between bites, I told her everything. She was ready for me.
"No, Santa Claus!" she snorted. "Ridiculous! Don't believe it. That rumor has been going around for years, and it makes me mad, plain mad. Now, put on your coat, and let's go."
"Go? Go where, Grandma?" I asked. I hadn't even finished my second cinnamon bun.
"Where" turned out to be Kerby's General Store, the one store in town that had a little bit of just about everything.
As we walked through its doors, Grandma handed me ten dollars. That was a bundle in those days.
"Take this money," she said, "and buy something for someone who needs it. I'll wait for you in the car." Then she turned and walked out of Kerby's.
I was only eight years old. I'd often gone shopping with my mother, but never had I shopped for anything all by myself.
The store seemed big and crowded, full of people scrambling to finish their Christmas shopping. For a few moments I just stood there, confused, clutching that ten-dollar bill, wondering what to buy, and who on earth to buy it for.
I thought of everybody I knew: my family, my friends, my neighbors, the kids at school, and the people who went to my church. I was just about thought out, when I suddenly thought of Bobbie Decker. He was a kid with bad breath and messy hair, and he sat right behind me in Mrs. Pollock's grade-two class.
Bobbie Decker didn't have a coat. I knew that because he never went out for recess during the winter. His mother always wrote a note, telling the teacher that he had a cough, but all we kids knew that Bobbie Decker didn't have a cough, and he didn't have a coat. I fingered the ten-dollar bill with growing excitement. I would buy Bobbie Decker a coat.
I settled on red corduroy, one that had a hood to it. It looked real warm, and he would like that.
"Is this a Christmas present for someone?" the lady behind the counter asked kindly, as I laid my ten dollars down.
"Yes," I replied shyly. "It's ... for Bobbie."
The nice lady smiled at me. I didn't get any change, and I'm not sure if the ten dollars were enough, but she put the coat in a bag and wished me a Merry Christmas.
That evening, Grandma helped me wrap the coat in Christmas paper and ribbons, and write, "To Bobbie, From Santa Claus" on it. Grandma said that Santa always insisted on secrecy. Then she drove me over to Bobbie Decker's house, explaining as we went that I was now and forever officially one of Santa's helpers.
Grandma parked down the street from Bobbie's house, and she and I crept noiselessly and hid in the bushes by his front walk then Grandma gave me a nudge. "All right, Santa Claus," she whispered, "get going."
I took a deep breath, dashed for his front door, threw the present down on his step, pounded his doorbell and flew back to the safety of the bushes and Grandma. Together we waited breathlessly in the darkness for the front door to open. Finally it did, and there stood Bobbie.
Forty years haven't dimmed the thrill of those moments spent shivering, beside my grandma, in Bobbie Decker's bushes. That night, I realized that those awful rumors about Santa Claus were just what Grandma said they were: ridiculous. Santa was alive and well, and we were on his team.
I remember an important Christmas with my Grandma. I was just a kid. I remember tearing across town on my bike to visit her on the day my big sister dropped the bomb: "There is no Santa Claus," she jeered. "Even dummies know that!"
My grandma is not the gushy kind, never was. I fled to her that day because I knew she would be straight with me. I knew Grandma always told the truth, and I knew that the truth always went down a whole lot easier when swallowed with one of her world-famous cinnamon buns. Grandma was home, and the buns were still warm. Between bites, I told her everything. She was ready for me.
"No, Santa Claus!" she snorted. "Ridiculous! Don't believe it. That rumor has been going around for years, and it makes me mad, plain mad. Now, put on your coat, and let's go."
"Go? Go where, Grandma?" I asked. I hadn't even finished my second cinnamon bun.
"Where" turned out to be Kerby's General Store, the one store in town that had a little bit of just about everything.
As we walked through its doors, Grandma handed me ten dollars. That was a bundle in those days.
"Take this money," she said, "and buy something for someone who needs it. I'll wait for you in the car." Then she turned and walked out of Kerby's.
I was only eight years old. I'd often gone shopping with my mother, but never had I shopped for anything all by myself.
The store seemed big and crowded, full of people scrambling to finish their Christmas shopping. For a few moments I just stood there, confused, clutching that ten-dollar bill, wondering what to buy, and who on earth to buy it for.
I thought of everybody I knew: my family, my friends, my neighbors, the kids at school, and the people who went to my church. I was just about thought out, when I suddenly thought of Bobbie Decker. He was a kid with bad breath and messy hair, and he sat right behind me in Mrs. Pollock's grade-two class.
Bobbie Decker didn't have a coat. I knew that because he never went out for recess during the winter. His mother always wrote a note, telling the teacher that he had a cough, but all we kids knew that Bobbie Decker didn't have a cough, and he didn't have a coat. I fingered the ten-dollar bill with growing excitement. I would buy Bobbie Decker a coat.
I settled on red corduroy, one that had a hood to it. It looked real warm, and he would like that.
"Is this a Christmas present for someone?" the lady behind the counter asked kindly, as I laid my ten dollars down.
"Yes," I replied shyly. "It's ... for Bobbie."
The nice lady smiled at me. I didn't get any change, and I'm not sure if the ten dollars were enough, but she put the coat in a bag and wished me a Merry Christmas.
That evening, Grandma helped me wrap the coat in Christmas paper and ribbons, and write, "To Bobbie, From Santa Claus" on it. Grandma said that Santa always insisted on secrecy. Then she drove me over to Bobbie Decker's house, explaining as we went that I was now and forever officially one of Santa's helpers.
Grandma parked down the street from Bobbie's house, and she and I crept noiselessly and hid in the bushes by his front walk then Grandma gave me a nudge. "All right, Santa Claus," she whispered, "get going."
I took a deep breath, dashed for his front door, threw the present down on his step, pounded his doorbell and flew back to the safety of the bushes and Grandma. Together we waited breathlessly in the darkness for the front door to open. Finally it did, and there stood Bobbie.
Forty years haven't dimmed the thrill of those moments spent shivering, beside my grandma, in Bobbie Decker's bushes. That night, I realized that those awful rumors about Santa Claus were just what Grandma said they were: ridiculous. Santa was alive and well, and we were on his team.
Secret of the Christmas Box
Author Unknown
Why did Mom keep the red-and-green paper chain with the star?
It is the new year, and our family has spent another glorious holiday together. A fresh cover of snow lightly blankets the tracks of yesterday, where my children have made snow angels and rolled down Grandpa's back yard hill, spreading winter's magical frosting from head to toe.
Once breakfast is finished, Mom begins putting away the Christmas tree, an annual task she prefers to do alone. She removes the ornaments one by one, gazing momentarily at the handmade decorations crafted by the children in early years. Then, humming her favorite carols, she wraps each in tissue paper and gently places them in an old cardboard box.
Like a child eating cake smothered in her favorite icing, Mother saves the top of the yuletide tree for last. Secured atop the tallest branch, reaching heavenward, is a simple, precious star, reminding all that Christmas in our home is illuminated with the light of Christ, represented by the new star. This will be the last ornament packed, then placed at the top of the box, where next year it will be the first light of the Christmas season to fill the home.
But there is one more item: a small red-and-green chain with links cut from construction paper, then pasted together at the ends. It is long enough to circle the top of the tree. Its crinkled, faded links display years of wear, along with tape, staples and paste.
Mom still does not know that many years ago I was watching from the other room as she delicately removed the chain from the tree, one link at a time. After pausing for a moment, she lowered the handmade ornament into a small white box, secured the lid with tape, and reverently said, "I can't wait to see you again."
She placed the white box in the larger box, with room enough only for the star that soon would be nestled next to it. The larger carton was then sealed and slid to the side of the tree to be carried to the basement. At this moment I entered the room and offered to bring things downstairs.
"Certainly," my mother replied. "This box is ready, but be very careful not to drop it." I could see that my mom's eyes had tried to hold back tears, and a simple smile still lit her face.
I carried the carton down to the storage room, where I quickly went to work. Curious about the event I had witnessed, I removed the tape from the top of the carton, and before I could be discovered, lifted the small white box up to the light.
There it was: the answer to my curiosity, the reason for the care, the reserved spot next to the star and, more than anything else, the purpose for Christmas. Written on the side of the box in crayon, with five-year-old hands, in letters that did not match and leaned to one side, was the name "EriCK."
My younger brother, Erick, never lived to see his sixth Christmas or his ornament on the tree, but Mom has saved a spot for it each year, next to the star. She keeps it in repair, much like our entire family. And with weary hands and only a mother's love, keeps the chain together.
Now, as an adult and a father, I finally understand what together really means.
Why did Mom keep the red-and-green paper chain with the star?
It is the new year, and our family has spent another glorious holiday together. A fresh cover of snow lightly blankets the tracks of yesterday, where my children have made snow angels and rolled down Grandpa's back yard hill, spreading winter's magical frosting from head to toe.
Once breakfast is finished, Mom begins putting away the Christmas tree, an annual task she prefers to do alone. She removes the ornaments one by one, gazing momentarily at the handmade decorations crafted by the children in early years. Then, humming her favorite carols, she wraps each in tissue paper and gently places them in an old cardboard box.
Like a child eating cake smothered in her favorite icing, Mother saves the top of the yuletide tree for last. Secured atop the tallest branch, reaching heavenward, is a simple, precious star, reminding all that Christmas in our home is illuminated with the light of Christ, represented by the new star. This will be the last ornament packed, then placed at the top of the box, where next year it will be the first light of the Christmas season to fill the home.
But there is one more item: a small red-and-green chain with links cut from construction paper, then pasted together at the ends. It is long enough to circle the top of the tree. Its crinkled, faded links display years of wear, along with tape, staples and paste.
Mom still does not know that many years ago I was watching from the other room as she delicately removed the chain from the tree, one link at a time. After pausing for a moment, she lowered the handmade ornament into a small white box, secured the lid with tape, and reverently said, "I can't wait to see you again."
She placed the white box in the larger box, with room enough only for the star that soon would be nestled next to it. The larger carton was then sealed and slid to the side of the tree to be carried to the basement. At this moment I entered the room and offered to bring things downstairs.
"Certainly," my mother replied. "This box is ready, but be very careful not to drop it." I could see that my mom's eyes had tried to hold back tears, and a simple smile still lit her face.
I carried the carton down to the storage room, where I quickly went to work. Curious about the event I had witnessed, I removed the tape from the top of the carton, and before I could be discovered, lifted the small white box up to the light.
There it was: the answer to my curiosity, the reason for the care, the reserved spot next to the star and, more than anything else, the purpose for Christmas. Written on the side of the box in crayon, with five-year-old hands, in letters that did not match and leaned to one side, was the name "EriCK."
My younger brother, Erick, never lived to see his sixth Christmas or his ornament on the tree, but Mom has saved a spot for it each year, next to the star. She keeps it in repair, much like our entire family. And with weary hands and only a mother's love, keeps the chain together.
Now, as an adult and a father, I finally understand what together really means.
The Rifle
Author Unknown
Pa never had much compassion for the lazy or those who squandered their means and then never had enough for the necessities. But for those who were genuinely in need, his heart was as big as all outdoors. It was from him that I learned the greatest joy in life comes from giving, not from receiving.
It was Christmas Eve 1881. I was fifteen years old and feeling like the world had caved in on me because there just hadn't been enough money to buy me the rifle that I'd wanted so bad that year for Christmas. We did the chores early that night for some reason. I just figured Pa wanted a little extra time so we could read in the Bible. So after supper was over I took my boots off and stretched out in front of the fireplace and waited for Pa to get down the old Bible.
I was still feeling sorry for myself and, to be honest, I wasn't in much of a mood to read Scriptures. But Pa didn't get the Bible, instead he bundled up and went outside. I couldn't figure it out because we had already done all the chores. I didn't worry about it long though, I was too busy wallowing in self-pity.
Soon Pa came back in. It was a cold clear night out and there was ice in his beard. "Come on, Matt," he said. "Bundle up good. It’s cold out tonight."
I was really upset then. Not only wasn't I getting the rifle for Christmas, now Pa was dragging me out in the cold, and for no earthly reason that I could see. We'd already done all the chores, and I couldn't think of anything else that needed doing, especially not on a night like this. But I knew Pa was not very patient at one dragging one's feet when he'd told them to do something, so I got up and put my boots back on and got my cap, coat, and mittens. Ma gave me a mysterious smile as I opened the door to leave the house. Something was up, but I didn't know what.
Outside, I became even more dismayed. There in front of the house was the work team, already hitched to the big sled. Whatever it was we were going to do wasn't going to be a short, quick, little job. I could tell.
We never hitched up the big sled unless we were going to haul a big load. Pa was already up on the seat, reins in hand. I reluctantly climbed up beside him. The cold was already biting at me. I wasn't happy.
When I was on, Pa pulled the sled around the house and stopped in front of the woodshed. He got off and I followed. "I think we'll put on the high sideboards," he said. "Here, help me."
The high sideboards! It had been a bigger job than I wanted to do with just the low sideboards on, but whatever it was we were going to do would be a lot bigger with the high sideboards on. When we had exchanged the sideboards Pa went into the woodshed and came out with an armload of wood--the wood I'd spent all summer hauling down from the mountain, and then all fall sawing into blocks and splitting. What was he doing? Finally I said something. "Pa," I asked, "what are you doing?"
"You been by the Widow Jensen's lately?" he asked. The Widow Jensen lived about two miles down the road. Her husband had died a year or so before and left her with three children, the oldest being eight. Sure, I'd been by, but so what? "Yeah," I said, "why?"
"I rode by just today," Pa said. "Little Jakey was out digging around in the woodpile trying to find a few chips. They're out of wood, Matt." That was all he said and then he turned and went back into the woodshed for another armload of wood. I followed him.
We loaded the sled so high that I began to wonder if the horses would be able to pull it. Finally, Pa called a halt to our loading, then we went to the smoke house and Pa took down a big ham and a side of bacon. He handed them to me and told me to put them in the sled and wait. When he returned, he was carrying a sack of flour over his right shoulder and a smaller sack of something in his left hand. "What's in the little sack?" I asked. "Shoes. They're out of shoes. Little Jakey just had gunny sacks wrapped around his feet when he was out in the woodpile this morning. I got the children a little candy too. It just wouldn't be Christmas without a little candy."
We rode the two miles to Widow Jensen's pretty much in silence. I tried to think through what Pa was doing. We didn't have much by worldly standards. Of course, we did have a big woodpile, though most of what was left now was still in the form of logs that I would have to saw into blocks and split before we could use it. We also had meat and flour, so we could spare that, but I knew we didn't have any money, so why was Pa buying them shoes and candy? Really, why was he doing any of this? Widow Jensen had closer neighbors than us. It shouldn't have been our concern.
We came in from the blind side of the Jensen house and unloaded the wood as quietly as possible, then we took the meat and flour and shoes to the door. We knocked. The door opened a crack and a timid voice said, "Who is it?"
"Lucas Miles, Ma'am, and my son, Matt. Could we come in for a bit?"
Widow Jensen opened the door and let us in. She had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The children were wrapped in another and were sitting in front of the fireplace by a very small fire that hardly gave off any heat at all. Widow Jensen fumbled with a match and finally lit the lamp.
"We brought you a few things, Ma'am," Pa said and set down the sack of flour. I put the meat on the table. Then Pa handed her the sack that had the shoes in it. She opened it hesitantly and took the shoes out one pair at a time. There was a pair for her and one for each of the children--sturdy shoes, the best shoes that would last. I watched her carefully. She bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling and then tears filled her eyes and started running down her cheeks. She looked up at Pa like she wanted to say something, but it wouldn't come out. "We brought a load of wood too, Ma'am," Pa said, then he turned to me and said, "Matt, go bring enough in to last for a while. Let's get that fire up to size and heat this place up."
I wasn't the same person when I went back out to bring in the wood. I had a big lump in my throat and, much as I hate to admit it, there were tears in my eyes too. In my mind I kept seeing those three kids huddled around the fireplace and their mother standing there with tears running down her cheeks and so much gratitude in her heart that she couldn't speak. My heart swelled within me and a joy filled my soul that I'd never known before. I had given at Christmas many times before, but never when it had made so much difference. I could see we were literally saving the lives of these people.
I soon had the fire blazing and everyone's spirits soared. The kids started giggling when Pa handed them each a piece of candy and Widow Jensen looked on with a smile that probably hadn't crossed her face for a long time. She finally turned to us. "God bless you," she said. "I know the Lord himself has sent you. The children and I have been praying that he would send one of his angels to spare us."
In spite of myself, the lump returned to my throat and the tears welled up in my eyes again. I'd never thought of Pa in those exact terms before, but after Widow Jensen mentioned it I could see that it was probably true. I was sure that a better man than Pa had never walked the earth. I started remembering all the times he had gone out of his way for Ma and me, and many others. The list seemed endless as I thought on it. Pa insisted that everyone try on the shoes before we left. I was amazed when they all fit and I wondered how he had known what sizes to get. Then I guessed that if he was on an errand for the Lord that the Lord would make sure he got the right sizes.
Tears were running down Widow Jensen's face again when we stood up to leave. Pa took each of the kids in his big arms and gave them a hug. They clung to him and didn't want us to go. I could see that they missed their pa, and I was glad that I still had mine. At the door Pa turned to Widow Jensen and said, "The Mrs. wanted me to invite you and the children over for Christmas dinner tomorrow. The turkey will be more than the three of us can eat, and a man can get cantankerous if he has to eat turkey for too many meals. We'll be by to get you about eleven. It'll be nice to have some little ones around again. Matt, here, hasn't been little for quite a spell." I was the youngest. My two older brothers and two older sisters were all married and had moved away.
Widow Jensen nodded and said, "Thank you, Brother Miles. I don't have to say, "'May the Lord bless you,' I know for certain that He will."
Out on the sled I felt a warmth that came from deep within and I didn't even notice the cold. When we had gone a ways, Pa turned to me and said, "Matt, I want you to know something. Your ma and me have been tucking a little money away here and there all year so we could buy that rifle for you, but we didn't have quite enough. Then yesterday a man who owed me a little money from years back came by to make things square. Your ma and me were real excited, thinking that now we could get you that rifle, and I started into town this morning to do just that. But on the way I saw little Jakey out scratching in the woodpile with his feet wrapped in those gunny sacks and I knew what I had to do. So, Son, I spent the money for shoes and a little candy for those children. I hope you understand."
I understood, and my eyes became wet with tears again. I understood very well, and I was so glad Pa had done it. Just then the rifle seemed very low on my list of priorities. Pa had given me a lot more. He had given me the look on Widow Jensen's face and the radiant smiles of her three children. For the rest of my life, whenever I saw any of the Jensens, or split a block of wood, I remembered, and remembering brought back that same joy I felt riding home beside Pa that night. Pa had given me much more than a rifle that night, he had given me the best Christmas of my life.
Pa never had much compassion for the lazy or those who squandered their means and then never had enough for the necessities. But for those who were genuinely in need, his heart was as big as all outdoors. It was from him that I learned the greatest joy in life comes from giving, not from receiving.
It was Christmas Eve 1881. I was fifteen years old and feeling like the world had caved in on me because there just hadn't been enough money to buy me the rifle that I'd wanted so bad that year for Christmas. We did the chores early that night for some reason. I just figured Pa wanted a little extra time so we could read in the Bible. So after supper was over I took my boots off and stretched out in front of the fireplace and waited for Pa to get down the old Bible.
I was still feeling sorry for myself and, to be honest, I wasn't in much of a mood to read Scriptures. But Pa didn't get the Bible, instead he bundled up and went outside. I couldn't figure it out because we had already done all the chores. I didn't worry about it long though, I was too busy wallowing in self-pity.
Soon Pa came back in. It was a cold clear night out and there was ice in his beard. "Come on, Matt," he said. "Bundle up good. It’s cold out tonight."
I was really upset then. Not only wasn't I getting the rifle for Christmas, now Pa was dragging me out in the cold, and for no earthly reason that I could see. We'd already done all the chores, and I couldn't think of anything else that needed doing, especially not on a night like this. But I knew Pa was not very patient at one dragging one's feet when he'd told them to do something, so I got up and put my boots back on and got my cap, coat, and mittens. Ma gave me a mysterious smile as I opened the door to leave the house. Something was up, but I didn't know what.
Outside, I became even more dismayed. There in front of the house was the work team, already hitched to the big sled. Whatever it was we were going to do wasn't going to be a short, quick, little job. I could tell.
We never hitched up the big sled unless we were going to haul a big load. Pa was already up on the seat, reins in hand. I reluctantly climbed up beside him. The cold was already biting at me. I wasn't happy.
When I was on, Pa pulled the sled around the house and stopped in front of the woodshed. He got off and I followed. "I think we'll put on the high sideboards," he said. "Here, help me."
The high sideboards! It had been a bigger job than I wanted to do with just the low sideboards on, but whatever it was we were going to do would be a lot bigger with the high sideboards on. When we had exchanged the sideboards Pa went into the woodshed and came out with an armload of wood--the wood I'd spent all summer hauling down from the mountain, and then all fall sawing into blocks and splitting. What was he doing? Finally I said something. "Pa," I asked, "what are you doing?"
"You been by the Widow Jensen's lately?" he asked. The Widow Jensen lived about two miles down the road. Her husband had died a year or so before and left her with three children, the oldest being eight. Sure, I'd been by, but so what? "Yeah," I said, "why?"
"I rode by just today," Pa said. "Little Jakey was out digging around in the woodpile trying to find a few chips. They're out of wood, Matt." That was all he said and then he turned and went back into the woodshed for another armload of wood. I followed him.
We loaded the sled so high that I began to wonder if the horses would be able to pull it. Finally, Pa called a halt to our loading, then we went to the smoke house and Pa took down a big ham and a side of bacon. He handed them to me and told me to put them in the sled and wait. When he returned, he was carrying a sack of flour over his right shoulder and a smaller sack of something in his left hand. "What's in the little sack?" I asked. "Shoes. They're out of shoes. Little Jakey just had gunny sacks wrapped around his feet when he was out in the woodpile this morning. I got the children a little candy too. It just wouldn't be Christmas without a little candy."
We rode the two miles to Widow Jensen's pretty much in silence. I tried to think through what Pa was doing. We didn't have much by worldly standards. Of course, we did have a big woodpile, though most of what was left now was still in the form of logs that I would have to saw into blocks and split before we could use it. We also had meat and flour, so we could spare that, but I knew we didn't have any money, so why was Pa buying them shoes and candy? Really, why was he doing any of this? Widow Jensen had closer neighbors than us. It shouldn't have been our concern.
We came in from the blind side of the Jensen house and unloaded the wood as quietly as possible, then we took the meat and flour and shoes to the door. We knocked. The door opened a crack and a timid voice said, "Who is it?"
"Lucas Miles, Ma'am, and my son, Matt. Could we come in for a bit?"
Widow Jensen opened the door and let us in. She had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The children were wrapped in another and were sitting in front of the fireplace by a very small fire that hardly gave off any heat at all. Widow Jensen fumbled with a match and finally lit the lamp.
"We brought you a few things, Ma'am," Pa said and set down the sack of flour. I put the meat on the table. Then Pa handed her the sack that had the shoes in it. She opened it hesitantly and took the shoes out one pair at a time. There was a pair for her and one for each of the children--sturdy shoes, the best shoes that would last. I watched her carefully. She bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling and then tears filled her eyes and started running down her cheeks. She looked up at Pa like she wanted to say something, but it wouldn't come out. "We brought a load of wood too, Ma'am," Pa said, then he turned to me and said, "Matt, go bring enough in to last for a while. Let's get that fire up to size and heat this place up."
I wasn't the same person when I went back out to bring in the wood. I had a big lump in my throat and, much as I hate to admit it, there were tears in my eyes too. In my mind I kept seeing those three kids huddled around the fireplace and their mother standing there with tears running down her cheeks and so much gratitude in her heart that she couldn't speak. My heart swelled within me and a joy filled my soul that I'd never known before. I had given at Christmas many times before, but never when it had made so much difference. I could see we were literally saving the lives of these people.
I soon had the fire blazing and everyone's spirits soared. The kids started giggling when Pa handed them each a piece of candy and Widow Jensen looked on with a smile that probably hadn't crossed her face for a long time. She finally turned to us. "God bless you," she said. "I know the Lord himself has sent you. The children and I have been praying that he would send one of his angels to spare us."
In spite of myself, the lump returned to my throat and the tears welled up in my eyes again. I'd never thought of Pa in those exact terms before, but after Widow Jensen mentioned it I could see that it was probably true. I was sure that a better man than Pa had never walked the earth. I started remembering all the times he had gone out of his way for Ma and me, and many others. The list seemed endless as I thought on it. Pa insisted that everyone try on the shoes before we left. I was amazed when they all fit and I wondered how he had known what sizes to get. Then I guessed that if he was on an errand for the Lord that the Lord would make sure he got the right sizes.
Tears were running down Widow Jensen's face again when we stood up to leave. Pa took each of the kids in his big arms and gave them a hug. They clung to him and didn't want us to go. I could see that they missed their pa, and I was glad that I still had mine. At the door Pa turned to Widow Jensen and said, "The Mrs. wanted me to invite you and the children over for Christmas dinner tomorrow. The turkey will be more than the three of us can eat, and a man can get cantankerous if he has to eat turkey for too many meals. We'll be by to get you about eleven. It'll be nice to have some little ones around again. Matt, here, hasn't been little for quite a spell." I was the youngest. My two older brothers and two older sisters were all married and had moved away.
Widow Jensen nodded and said, "Thank you, Brother Miles. I don't have to say, "'May the Lord bless you,' I know for certain that He will."
Out on the sled I felt a warmth that came from deep within and I didn't even notice the cold. When we had gone a ways, Pa turned to me and said, "Matt, I want you to know something. Your ma and me have been tucking a little money away here and there all year so we could buy that rifle for you, but we didn't have quite enough. Then yesterday a man who owed me a little money from years back came by to make things square. Your ma and me were real excited, thinking that now we could get you that rifle, and I started into town this morning to do just that. But on the way I saw little Jakey out scratching in the woodpile with his feet wrapped in those gunny sacks and I knew what I had to do. So, Son, I spent the money for shoes and a little candy for those children. I hope you understand."
I understood, and my eyes became wet with tears again. I understood very well, and I was so glad Pa had done it. Just then the rifle seemed very low on my list of priorities. Pa had given me a lot more. He had given me the look on Widow Jensen's face and the radiant smiles of her three children. For the rest of my life, whenever I saw any of the Jensens, or split a block of wood, I remembered, and remembering brought back that same joy I felt riding home beside Pa that night. Pa had given me much more than a rifle that night, he had given me the best Christmas of my life.
Christmas at a Frontier Pastor's House
Author Unknown
I remember a day one winter that stands out like a boulder in my life. The weather was unusually cold, our salary had not been regularly paid, and it did not most our needs when it was.
My husband was away much or the time, traveling from one district to another. Our boys were well, but my little Ruth was ailing, and none of us were decently clothed. I patched and repatched, with spirits sinking to the lowest ebb. The water gave out in the well and the wind blew through the cracks in the floor.
The people in the parish were kind and generous. But the settlement was new, and each family was struggling for itself. Little by little, at the time I needed it most my faith began to waver. Early in life I was taught to take God at His word, and I thought my lesson was well learned. I had leaned upon the promises in dark times, until I knew as David did, "who was my fortress and my deliverer." Now a daily prayer for forgiveness was all that I could offer. My husband's coat was hardly thick enough for October, and he was often obliged to ride miles to attend some meeting or funeral. Many times, our breakfast was Indian cake (corn bread) and a cup of tea without sugar.
Christmas was coming, and the children always expected their presents. I remember the ice was thick and smooth, and the boys were wanting ice skates. Ruth, in some unaccountable way, had taken a fancy that the dolls I had made were no longer suitable. She wanted a nice large one, and insisted on praying for it.
I knew it seemed impossible, but I wanted to give each child a present. It seemed as if God had deserted us, but I did not tell my husband all this. He worked so earnestly and heartily. I supposed him to be as hopeful as ever. I kept the sitting room cheerful with an open fire, and I tried to serve our scanty meals as invitingly as I could. On the morning before Christmas, James was called to see a sick man.
I sent a piece of bread for his lunch - it was the best I could do. I wrapped my plaid shawl around his neck and then tried to whisper a promise as I often had, but the words died away upon my lips. I let him go without it.
That was a dark, hopeless day. I coaxed the children to bed early for I could not bear their talk. When Ruth went to bed, I listened to her prayer. She asked for the last time most explicitly for her doll and for skates for her brothers. Her bright face looked so lively when she whispered to me, "You know, I think they'll be here early in the morning, Mamma." I sat down alone, and gave way to the bitterest tears.
Before long James returned, chilled and exhausted. He drew off his boots. The thin stockings slipped off with them, and his feet were red with cold. "I wouldn't treat a dog that way let alone a faithful servant," I said. Then as I glanced up and saw the hard lines in his face, and the look of despair, it flashed across to me - James had let go, too. I brought him a cup of tea, feeling sick and dizzy at the very thought. He took my hand and we sat for an hour without a word. I wanted to die and to meet God, and tell Him his promises were not true; my soul was so full of rebellious despair.
There came a sound of bells, a quick stop, and a loud knock at the door. James sprang up to open it. There stood Deacon White. "A box came by express just before dark. I brought it around as soon as I could get away. I reckoned it might be for Christmas. At any rate, I said they shall have it tonight. Here is a turkey my wife asked me to fetch along, and these other things I believe belong to you."
There was a basket of potatoes, and a bag of flour. Talking all the time, he hurried in with the box and then with a hearty good night, he rode away. Still without speaking, James found a chisel and opened the box. First, he drew out a red blanket, and then we saw beneath it. The box was full of clothing. It seemed at that moment as if Christ fastened upon me a look of reproach. James sat down and covered his face with his hands, "I can't touch them," he exclaimed, "I haven't been true, just when God was trying me to see if I could hold out. Do you think I could not see how you were suffering? I had no word of comfort to offer. I know now how to preach the awfulness of turning away from God."
"James," I said clinging to him, "don't take it to heart like this. I am to blame. I ought to have helped you. We will ask him together to forgive us."
"Wait a moment, dear," he said. "I can't talk now." Then he went into another room.
I knelt down, and my heart broke. In an instant, all the darkness, all the stubbornness rolled away. Jesus came again and stood before me, with the loving word, "Daughter!" and sweet promises of tenderness and joy of soul. I was so lost in praise and gratitude that I forgot anything else.
I don't know how long it was before James came back, but he too had found peace. "Now my dear wife," he said, "let us thank God together." and he then poured out words of praise, Bible words, for nothing else could express our thanksgiving.
It was 11 o'clock. The fire was low, and there was the great box with nothing touched but the warm blanket we needed. We piled on some fresh logs, lighted two candles, and began to examine our treasure. We drew out an overcoat. I made James put it on. It was just the right size, and I danced around him. Then there was a cloak, and he insisted in seeing me in it. My spirits always affected him, and we both laughed like foolish children.
There was a warm suit of clothes and three pairs of woolen hose. There was a dress for me, yards of flannel, and a pair of arctic overshoes for each of us. In mine was a slip of paper. I have it now and mean to hand it down to my children. It was Jacob's blessing to Asher, "Thy shoes shall be iron and brass and as the days so shall thy strength be." In the gloves, evidently for James, the same dear hand had written, "I the Lord thy God, will hold thy right hand, saying unto thee, Fear not I will help thee."
It was a wonderful box, packed with thoughtful care. There was a suit of clothes for each of the boys and a little red gown for Ruth. There were mittens, scarves, and hoods. Down in the center of the box was another box. We opened it and there was a great wax doll. I burst into tears again.
James wept with for joy. It was too much. Close behind it came two pairs of skates. There were books for us to read, some of them I had wished to see, stories for the children to read, aprons and underclothing, knots of ribbon, a lovely photograph, needles, buttons, thread and actually a muff, and an envelope containing a ten-dollar gold piece. At last we cried over everything we took up.
It was past midnight, and we were faint and exhausted even with happiness. I made a cup of tea and cut a fresh loaf of bread and James boiled some eggs. We drew up the table before the fire; how we enjoyed our supper!
And then we sat talking over our life and how sure a help God always proved.
You should have seen the children the next morning, the boys raised a shout at the sight of their skates. Ruth caught her doll and hugged it tightly without a word then she went to her room and knelt by her bed. When she came back, she whispered to me, "I knew they would be there, Mamma, but I wanted to thank God just the same." We went to the window and there were the boys out of the house already skating on the ice with all their might.
My husband and I tried to return thanks to the church in the east that sent us the box and have tried to give thanks to God every day since. Hard times have come again and again, but we have trusted Him, dreading nothing so much as a doubt of His protecting care. Over and over again we have proved that, "They that seek the Lord shall not want anything."
I remember a day one winter that stands out like a boulder in my life. The weather was unusually cold, our salary had not been regularly paid, and it did not most our needs when it was.
My husband was away much or the time, traveling from one district to another. Our boys were well, but my little Ruth was ailing, and none of us were decently clothed. I patched and repatched, with spirits sinking to the lowest ebb. The water gave out in the well and the wind blew through the cracks in the floor.
The people in the parish were kind and generous. But the settlement was new, and each family was struggling for itself. Little by little, at the time I needed it most my faith began to waver. Early in life I was taught to take God at His word, and I thought my lesson was well learned. I had leaned upon the promises in dark times, until I knew as David did, "who was my fortress and my deliverer." Now a daily prayer for forgiveness was all that I could offer. My husband's coat was hardly thick enough for October, and he was often obliged to ride miles to attend some meeting or funeral. Many times, our breakfast was Indian cake (corn bread) and a cup of tea without sugar.
Christmas was coming, and the children always expected their presents. I remember the ice was thick and smooth, and the boys were wanting ice skates. Ruth, in some unaccountable way, had taken a fancy that the dolls I had made were no longer suitable. She wanted a nice large one, and insisted on praying for it.
I knew it seemed impossible, but I wanted to give each child a present. It seemed as if God had deserted us, but I did not tell my husband all this. He worked so earnestly and heartily. I supposed him to be as hopeful as ever. I kept the sitting room cheerful with an open fire, and I tried to serve our scanty meals as invitingly as I could. On the morning before Christmas, James was called to see a sick man.
I sent a piece of bread for his lunch - it was the best I could do. I wrapped my plaid shawl around his neck and then tried to whisper a promise as I often had, but the words died away upon my lips. I let him go without it.
That was a dark, hopeless day. I coaxed the children to bed early for I could not bear their talk. When Ruth went to bed, I listened to her prayer. She asked for the last time most explicitly for her doll and for skates for her brothers. Her bright face looked so lively when she whispered to me, "You know, I think they'll be here early in the morning, Mamma." I sat down alone, and gave way to the bitterest tears.
Before long James returned, chilled and exhausted. He drew off his boots. The thin stockings slipped off with them, and his feet were red with cold. "I wouldn't treat a dog that way let alone a faithful servant," I said. Then as I glanced up and saw the hard lines in his face, and the look of despair, it flashed across to me - James had let go, too. I brought him a cup of tea, feeling sick and dizzy at the very thought. He took my hand and we sat for an hour without a word. I wanted to die and to meet God, and tell Him his promises were not true; my soul was so full of rebellious despair.
There came a sound of bells, a quick stop, and a loud knock at the door. James sprang up to open it. There stood Deacon White. "A box came by express just before dark. I brought it around as soon as I could get away. I reckoned it might be for Christmas. At any rate, I said they shall have it tonight. Here is a turkey my wife asked me to fetch along, and these other things I believe belong to you."
There was a basket of potatoes, and a bag of flour. Talking all the time, he hurried in with the box and then with a hearty good night, he rode away. Still without speaking, James found a chisel and opened the box. First, he drew out a red blanket, and then we saw beneath it. The box was full of clothing. It seemed at that moment as if Christ fastened upon me a look of reproach. James sat down and covered his face with his hands, "I can't touch them," he exclaimed, "I haven't been true, just when God was trying me to see if I could hold out. Do you think I could not see how you were suffering? I had no word of comfort to offer. I know now how to preach the awfulness of turning away from God."
"James," I said clinging to him, "don't take it to heart like this. I am to blame. I ought to have helped you. We will ask him together to forgive us."
"Wait a moment, dear," he said. "I can't talk now." Then he went into another room.
I knelt down, and my heart broke. In an instant, all the darkness, all the stubbornness rolled away. Jesus came again and stood before me, with the loving word, "Daughter!" and sweet promises of tenderness and joy of soul. I was so lost in praise and gratitude that I forgot anything else.
I don't know how long it was before James came back, but he too had found peace. "Now my dear wife," he said, "let us thank God together." and he then poured out words of praise, Bible words, for nothing else could express our thanksgiving.
It was 11 o'clock. The fire was low, and there was the great box with nothing touched but the warm blanket we needed. We piled on some fresh logs, lighted two candles, and began to examine our treasure. We drew out an overcoat. I made James put it on. It was just the right size, and I danced around him. Then there was a cloak, and he insisted in seeing me in it. My spirits always affected him, and we both laughed like foolish children.
There was a warm suit of clothes and three pairs of woolen hose. There was a dress for me, yards of flannel, and a pair of arctic overshoes for each of us. In mine was a slip of paper. I have it now and mean to hand it down to my children. It was Jacob's blessing to Asher, "Thy shoes shall be iron and brass and as the days so shall thy strength be." In the gloves, evidently for James, the same dear hand had written, "I the Lord thy God, will hold thy right hand, saying unto thee, Fear not I will help thee."
It was a wonderful box, packed with thoughtful care. There was a suit of clothes for each of the boys and a little red gown for Ruth. There were mittens, scarves, and hoods. Down in the center of the box was another box. We opened it and there was a great wax doll. I burst into tears again.
James wept with for joy. It was too much. Close behind it came two pairs of skates. There were books for us to read, some of them I had wished to see, stories for the children to read, aprons and underclothing, knots of ribbon, a lovely photograph, needles, buttons, thread and actually a muff, and an envelope containing a ten-dollar gold piece. At last we cried over everything we took up.
It was past midnight, and we were faint and exhausted even with happiness. I made a cup of tea and cut a fresh loaf of bread and James boiled some eggs. We drew up the table before the fire; how we enjoyed our supper!
And then we sat talking over our life and how sure a help God always proved.
You should have seen the children the next morning, the boys raised a shout at the sight of their skates. Ruth caught her doll and hugged it tightly without a word then she went to her room and knelt by her bed. When she came back, she whispered to me, "I knew they would be there, Mamma, but I wanted to thank God just the same." We went to the window and there were the boys out of the house already skating on the ice with all their might.
My husband and I tried to return thanks to the church in the east that sent us the box and have tried to give thanks to God every day since. Hard times have come again and again, but we have trusted Him, dreading nothing so much as a doubt of His protecting care. Over and over again we have proved that, "They that seek the Lord shall not want anything."
The Christmas Miracle
(Also known as "The Mayfair Mall Santa")
written by Susan Morton Leonard, as told to her by her husband, Mark Leonard aka Santa Mark
Three years ago, a little boy and his grandmother came to see Santa at Mayfair Mall in Wisconsin. The child climbed up on his lap, holding a picture of a little girl. "Who is this?" asked Santa, smiling.
"Your friend? Your sister?"
"Yes, Santa," he replied. "My sister, Sarah, who is very sick." Santa glanced over at the grandmother who was waiting nearby, and saw her dabbing her eyes with a tissue. "She wanted to come with me to see you, oh, so very much, Santa!" the child exclaimed. "She misses you," he added softly.
Santa tried to be cheerful and encouraged a smile to the boy's face, asking him what he wanted Santa to bring him for Christmas. When they finished their visit, the Grandmother came over to help the child off his lap, and started to say something to Santa, but halted. "What is it?" Santa asked warmly.
"Well, I know it's really too much to ask you, Santa, but . . . " the old woman began, shooing her grandson over to one of Santa's elves to collect the little gift which Santa gave all his young visitors. "The girl in the photograph ... my granddaughter ... well, you see ... she has leukemia and isn't expected to make it even through the holidays," she said through tear-filled eyes. "Is there any way, Santa ... any possible way that you could come see Sarah? That's all she's asked for, for Christmas, is to see Santa."
Santa blinked and swallowed hard and told the woman to leave information with his elves as to where Sarah was, and he would see what he could do. Santa thought of little else the rest of that afternoon. He knew what he had to do. "What if it were MY child lying in that hospital bed, dying," he thought with a sinking heart, "this is the least I can do."
When Santa finished visiting with all the boys and girls that evening, he retrieved from his helper the name of the hospital where Sarah was staying. He asked the assistant location manager how to get to Children's Hospital.
"Why?" Rick asked, with a puzzled look on his face. Santa relayed to him the conversation with Sarah's grandmother earlier that day. "C'mon . . . I'll take you there," Rick said softly.
Rick drove them to the hospital and came inside with Santa. They found out which room Sarah was in. A pale Rick said he would wait out in the hall.
Santa quietly peeked into the room through the half-closed door and saw little Sarah on the bed. The room was full of what appeared to be her family; there was the Grandmother and the girl's brother he had met earlier that day. A woman whom he guessed was Sarah's mother stood by the bed, gently pushing Sarah's thin hair off her forehead. And another woman whom he discovered later was Sarah's aunt, sat in a chair near the bed with a weary, sad look on her face. They were talking quietly, and Santa could sense the warmth and closeness of the family, and their love and concern for Sarah.
Taking a deep breath, and forcing a smile on his face, Santa entered the room, bellowing a hearty, "Ho, ho, ho!"
"Santa!" shrieked little Sarah weakly, as she tried to escape her bed to run to him, IV tubes in tact. Santa rushed to her side and gave her a warm hug. A child the tender age of his own son, nine years old, gazed up at him with wonder and excitement. Her skin was pale and her short tresses bore telltale bald patches from the effects of chemotherapy.
But all he saw when he looked at her was a pair of huge, blue eyes. His heart melted, and he had to force himself to choke back tears. Though his eyes were riveted upon Sarah's face, he could hear the gasps and quiet sobbing of the women in the room. As he and Sarah began talking, the family crept quietly to the bedside one by one, squeezing Santa's shoulder or his hand gratefully, whispering "thank you" as they gazed sincerely at him with shining eyes. Santa and Sarah talked and talked, and she told him excitedly all the toys she wanted for Christmas, assuring him she'd been a very good girl that year. As their time together dwindled, Santa felt led in his spirit to pray for Sarah, and asked for permission from the girl's mother. She nodded in agreement and the entire family circled around Sarah's bed, holding hands. Santa looked intensely at Sarah and asked her if she believed in angels.
"Oh, yes, Santa ... I do!" she exclaimed.
"Well, I'm going to ask that angels watch over you," he said. Laying one hand on the child's head, Santa closed his eyes and prayed. He asked that God touch little Sarah, and heal her body from this disease. He asked that angels minister to her, watch and keep her. And when he finished praying, still with eyes closed, he started singing softly, "Silent Night, Holy Night . . . all is calm, all is bright." The family joined in, still holding hands, smiling at Sarah, and crying tears of hope, tears of joy for this moment, as Sarah beamed at them all.
When the song ended, Santa sat on the side of the bed again and held Sarah's frail, small hands in his own.
"Now, Sarah," he said authoritatively, "you have a job to do, and that is to concentrate on getting well. I want you to have fun playing with your friends this summer, and I expect to see you at my house at Mayfair Mall this time next year!"
He knew it was risky proclaiming that, to this little girl who had terminal cancer, but he "had" to. He had to give her the greatest gift he could -- not dolls or games or toys -- but the gift of HOPE.
"Yes, Santa!" Sarah exclaimed, her eyes bright. He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead and left the room.
Out in the hall, the minute Santa's eyes met Rick's, a look passed between them and they wept unashamed. Sarah's mother and grandmother slipped out of the room quickly and rushed to Santa's side to thank him.
"My only child is the same age as Sarah," he explained quietly. "This is the least I could do." They nodded with understanding and hugged him.
One year later, Santa Mark was again back on the set in Milwaukee for his six-week seasonal job, which he so loves to do. Several weeks went by and then one day a child came up to sit on his lap. "Hi, Santa! Remember me?!"
"Of course, I do," Santa proclaimed (as he always does), smiling down at her. After all, the secret to being a "good" Santa is to always make each child feel as if they are the "only" child in the world at that moment.
"You came to see me in the hospital last year!"
Santa's jaw dropped. Tears immediately sprang in his eyes, and he grabbed this little miracle and held her to his chest.
"Sarah!" he exclaimed. He scarcely recognized her, for her hair was long and silky and her cheeks were rosy -- much different from the little girl he had visited just a year before. He looked over and saw Sarah's mother and grandmother in the sidelines smiling and waving and wiping their eyes. That was the best Christmas ever for Santa Claus. He had witnessed and been blessed to be instrumental in bringing about this miracle of hope. This precious little child was healed. Cancer-free. Alive and well. He silently looked up to Heaven and humbly whispered, "Thank you, Father. 'Tis a very, Merry Christmas!"
Ornament
by Mike Marshall
Anyone who knew Kelly Paries wasn't surprised by what she did on Christmas Eve morning, hours after she learned her 16-year-old son, Kory, had died in a one-car wreck on Jeff Road.
Sitting in the waiting room of the Neurological Intensive Care Unit at Huntsville Hospital, where another son, Kris, lay unconscious with head injuries from the same accident, Paries turned to longtime friend Mary Howard.
"I've got to turn this around," Paries said. "I'm concerned that all of this has happened at this time of year."
This was a time when Paries and her family usually spent Christmas Eve in matching pajamas, a holiday tradition. At the family's home on Shoalford Drive in Monrovia were 15 unopened presents for Kory, scattered under a tree in the den.
Kory and Kris had bought a cheese grater for their mom on December 23, the night of the wreck. They had driven to Parkway Place Mall to shop, then to Hollywood Stadium 18 cinemas for a late showing of "The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers."
Around 11:30 p.m., Kory, Kris and Ryse Anderson, a friend from Sparkman High School, were riding home when Kory lost control of his 1992 Mazda. He hydroplaned on the rain-slick road and slammed into a tree. The impact killed him instantly.
The next morning, Kelly Paries became consumed with the grief on the faces of family and friends in the Neurological ICU. How could she lift them out of this tragedy?
She also wondered what she could do to prevent her family's future Christmases from being ruined. Around 11:00 a.m. on Christmas Eve, she told Howard, one of her best friends, of her desire to salvage the holiday spirit.
"I want Christmas to be wonderful, like it always is," Paries said. "I've got to turn it into an uplifting experience."
Ultimately, Paries began to focus on Christmas ornaments. When friends asked what they could do for her, the answer was always the same: Bring an ornament to the visitation or funeral. Her plan was to put the ornaments on a tree that would be displayed at Spry Funeral Home and at the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints on Slaughter Road, where Kory's funeral was to be held the morning of December 28.
She also wanted those ornaments to be among her primary, holiday decorations for as long as her family celebrates Christmas.
"Next year," she said, "I won't take out any of our old, traditional ones."
Howard wasn't surprised by Paries' response. She considered Paries, a friend and fellow church member for 14 years, one of the spiritually strongest people she has known.
"How do you think of these things when you've lost a child?" Howard asked. "It's only through inspiration."
The result of Paries' inspiration now covers her dining room table: 233 ornaments, all carefully arranged by Paries and Kris, home from the hospital since Christmas Day.
Christmas balls and glass ornaments are on the left side of the table. Ice skates and hockey players are in the middle. Angels are on the right.
"Each of them has a story behind them," Paries said.
One of her favorite stories is about the grade school daughter of her lawn-care man. After learning of Paries' request for ornaments, the girl gave Paries a cluster of gold bells. The girl's choice of ornaments came from a line from "It's a Wonderful Life," the classic holiday movie: Every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings.
Another favorite story: the strangers who ring her door bell, hand her an ornament and leave without identifying themselves.
"I've learned how good people are," she said. "It was amazing. I had no idea about the depth people felt in our loss."
Early on the morning of December 26, Paries bought a 5-foot tree, a tangle of fiber optics that cost $39 at Target.
The next afternoon, she placed the tree in the north foyer of Spry Funeral Home. One by one, Kory's classmates, students and hockey teammates passed by the tree and hung their ornaments.
Members of the Sparkman basketball team brought an orange Christmas ball. Members of the Bob Jones High School hockey team hung a red ball.
Mary Howard's 15-year-old daughter, Cardin, hung a crystal snowflake - a tribute to a Christmas story Paries had written two years ago for her family and friends. The story, "Teddy Bears from the Kingdom of Light," is about a little girl who hears a bedside story from her father. It's a story about eternal life and the strength of a dying parent. The little girl's father had been severely injured during the holidays, when chemicals exploded in a factory. Paries' own father had died in a chemical explosion when she was a little girl.
At the end of the story, the little girl learns of her father's death.
"It will be OK, mommy," she whispers to her mother. "Daddy is in the Kingdom of Light."
Paries knows that's where Kory is, too. That's why she had the strength to come up with the idea about the ornaments and why she was able to buy the tree the day after Christmas.
But a 5-foot tree wasn't big enough to hold the ornaments brought to the funeral home. On the day of the funeral, Paries' aunt exchanged the 5-foot tree for a 6-foot tree.
Next Christmas, the Parieses will place the 6-foot tree in front of the window in the den and hang the 233 ornaments. One of those will be a silver heart with tiny cracks. The heart was purchased the same day Paries bought the tree.
"That's my ornament," she said. "It's my broken heart. I thought that was appropriate."
Anyone who knew Kelly Paries wasn't surprised by what she did on Christmas Eve morning, hours after she learned her 16-year-old son, Kory, had died in a one-car wreck on Jeff Road.
Sitting in the waiting room of the Neurological Intensive Care Unit at Huntsville Hospital, where another son, Kris, lay unconscious with head injuries from the same accident, Paries turned to longtime friend Mary Howard.
"I've got to turn this around," Paries said. "I'm concerned that all of this has happened at this time of year."
This was a time when Paries and her family usually spent Christmas Eve in matching pajamas, a holiday tradition. At the family's home on Shoalford Drive in Monrovia were 15 unopened presents for Kory, scattered under a tree in the den.
Kory and Kris had bought a cheese grater for their mom on December 23, the night of the wreck. They had driven to Parkway Place Mall to shop, then to Hollywood Stadium 18 cinemas for a late showing of "The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers."
Around 11:30 p.m., Kory, Kris and Ryse Anderson, a friend from Sparkman High School, were riding home when Kory lost control of his 1992 Mazda. He hydroplaned on the rain-slick road and slammed into a tree. The impact killed him instantly.
The next morning, Kelly Paries became consumed with the grief on the faces of family and friends in the Neurological ICU. How could she lift them out of this tragedy?
She also wondered what she could do to prevent her family's future Christmases from being ruined. Around 11:00 a.m. on Christmas Eve, she told Howard, one of her best friends, of her desire to salvage the holiday spirit.
"I want Christmas to be wonderful, like it always is," Paries said. "I've got to turn it into an uplifting experience."
Ultimately, Paries began to focus on Christmas ornaments. When friends asked what they could do for her, the answer was always the same: Bring an ornament to the visitation or funeral. Her plan was to put the ornaments on a tree that would be displayed at Spry Funeral Home and at the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints on Slaughter Road, where Kory's funeral was to be held the morning of December 28.
She also wanted those ornaments to be among her primary, holiday decorations for as long as her family celebrates Christmas.
"Next year," she said, "I won't take out any of our old, traditional ones."
Howard wasn't surprised by Paries' response. She considered Paries, a friend and fellow church member for 14 years, one of the spiritually strongest people she has known.
"How do you think of these things when you've lost a child?" Howard asked. "It's only through inspiration."
The result of Paries' inspiration now covers her dining room table: 233 ornaments, all carefully arranged by Paries and Kris, home from the hospital since Christmas Day.
Christmas balls and glass ornaments are on the left side of the table. Ice skates and hockey players are in the middle. Angels are on the right.
"Each of them has a story behind them," Paries said.
One of her favorite stories is about the grade school daughter of her lawn-care man. After learning of Paries' request for ornaments, the girl gave Paries a cluster of gold bells. The girl's choice of ornaments came from a line from "It's a Wonderful Life," the classic holiday movie: Every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings.
Another favorite story: the strangers who ring her door bell, hand her an ornament and leave without identifying themselves.
"I've learned how good people are," she said. "It was amazing. I had no idea about the depth people felt in our loss."
Early on the morning of December 26, Paries bought a 5-foot tree, a tangle of fiber optics that cost $39 at Target.
The next afternoon, she placed the tree in the north foyer of Spry Funeral Home. One by one, Kory's classmates, students and hockey teammates passed by the tree and hung their ornaments.
Members of the Sparkman basketball team brought an orange Christmas ball. Members of the Bob Jones High School hockey team hung a red ball.
Mary Howard's 15-year-old daughter, Cardin, hung a crystal snowflake - a tribute to a Christmas story Paries had written two years ago for her family and friends. The story, "Teddy Bears from the Kingdom of Light," is about a little girl who hears a bedside story from her father. It's a story about eternal life and the strength of a dying parent. The little girl's father had been severely injured during the holidays, when chemicals exploded in a factory. Paries' own father had died in a chemical explosion when she was a little girl.
At the end of the story, the little girl learns of her father's death.
"It will be OK, mommy," she whispers to her mother. "Daddy is in the Kingdom of Light."
Paries knows that's where Kory is, too. That's why she had the strength to come up with the idea about the ornaments and why she was able to buy the tree the day after Christmas.
But a 5-foot tree wasn't big enough to hold the ornaments brought to the funeral home. On the day of the funeral, Paries' aunt exchanged the 5-foot tree for a 6-foot tree.
Next Christmas, the Parieses will place the 6-foot tree in front of the window in the den and hang the 233 ornaments. One of those will be a silver heart with tiny cracks. The heart was purchased the same day Paries bought the tree.
"That's my ornament," she said. "It's my broken heart. I thought that was appropriate."
The Big Wheel
by Barb Irwin
In September 1960, I woke up one morning with six hungry babies and just 75 cents in my pocket. Their father was gone. The boys ranged from three months to seven years; their sister was two. Their Dad had never been much more than a presence they feared. Whenever they heard his tires crunching on the gravel driveway, they would scramble to hide under their beds. He did manage to leave $15 a week to buy groceries. Now that he had decided to leave, there would be no more beatings, but no food either. If there was a welfare system in effect in southern Indiana at that time, I certainly knew nothing about it.
I scrubbed the kids until they looked brand new and then put on my best homemade dress. I loaded them into the rusty old '51 Chevy and drove off to find a job. The seven of us went to every factory, store and restaurant in our small town. No luck. The kids stayed crammed into the car and tried to be quiet while I tried to convince whomever would listen that I was willing to learn or do anything. I had to have a job. Still no luck.
The last place we went to, just a few miles out of town, was an old Root Beer Barrel drive-in that had been converted to a truck stop. It was called the Big Wheel. An old lady named Granny owned the place, and she peeked out of the window from time to time at all those kids. She needed someone on the graveyard shift, 11 at night until seven in the morning. She paid 65 cents an hour and I could start that night.
I raced home and called the teenager down the street that baby-sat for people. I bargained with her to come and sleep on my sofa for a dollar a night. She could arrive with her pajamas on and the kids would already be asleep. This seemed like a good arrangement to her, so we made a deal. That night when the little ones and I knelt to say our prayers we all thanked God for finding Mommy a job. And so I started at the Big Wheel. When I got home in the mornings, I woke the baby-sitter up and sent her home with one dollar of my tip money, fully half of what I averaged every night.
As the weeks went by, heating bills added another strain to my meager wage. The tires on the old Chevy had the consistency of penny balloons and began to leak. I had to fill them with air on the way to work and again every morning before I could go home. One bleak fall morning, I dragged myself to the car to go home and found four tires in the back seat. New tires! There was no note, no nothing, just those beautiful brand new tires. Had angels taken up residence in Indiana? I wondered. I made a deal with the owner of the local service station. In exchange for his mounting the new tires, I would clean up his office. I remember it took me a lot longer to scrub his floor than it did for him to do the tires.
I was now working six nights instead of five and it still wasn't enough. Christmas was coming and I knew there would be no money for toys for the kids. I found a can of red paint and started repairing and painting some old toys. Then I hid them in the basement so there would be something for Santa to deliver on Christmas morning. Clothes were a worry too. I was sewing patches on top of patches on the boys’ pants and soon they would be too far gone to repair.
On Christmas Eve the usual customers were drinking coffee in the Big Wheel. These were the truckers, Les, Frank, and Jim, and a state trooper named Joe. A few musicians were hanging around after a gig at the Legion and were dropping nickels in the pinball machine. The regulars all just sat around and talked through the wee hours of the morning and then left to get home before the sun came up.
When it was time for me to go home at seven o'clock on Christmas morning I hurried to the car. I was hoping the kids wouldn't wake up before I managed to get home and get the presents from the basement and place them under the tree. (We had cut down a small cedar tree by the side of the road down by the dump.)
It was still dark and I couldn't see much, but there appeared to be some dark shadows in the car; or was that just a trick of the night? Something certainly looked different, but it was hard to tell what. When I reached the car, I peered warily into one of the side windows. Then my jaw dropped in amazement. My old battered Chevy was filled full to the top with boxes of all shapes and sizes.
I quickly opened the driver's side door, scrambled inside and kneeled in the front facing the back seat. Reaching back, I pulled off the lid of the top box. Inside was a whole case of little blue jeans, sizes 2-10! I looked inside another box: It was full of shirts to go with the jeans. Then I peeked inside some of the other boxes: There were candy and nuts and bananas and bags of groceries. There was an enormous ham for baking, and canned vegetables and potatoes. There were pudding and Jell-O and cookies, pie filling and flour. There was a whole bag of laundry supplies and cleaning items. And there were five toy trucks and one beautiful little doll. As I drove back through empty streets as the sun slowly rose on the most amazing Christmas Day of my life, I was sobbing with gratitude. And I will never forget the joy on the faces of my little ones that precious morning.
Yes, there were angels in Indiana that long-ago December. And they all hung out at the Big Wheel truck stop.
In September 1960, I woke up one morning with six hungry babies and just 75 cents in my pocket. Their father was gone. The boys ranged from three months to seven years; their sister was two. Their Dad had never been much more than a presence they feared. Whenever they heard his tires crunching on the gravel driveway, they would scramble to hide under their beds. He did manage to leave $15 a week to buy groceries. Now that he had decided to leave, there would be no more beatings, but no food either. If there was a welfare system in effect in southern Indiana at that time, I certainly knew nothing about it.
I scrubbed the kids until they looked brand new and then put on my best homemade dress. I loaded them into the rusty old '51 Chevy and drove off to find a job. The seven of us went to every factory, store and restaurant in our small town. No luck. The kids stayed crammed into the car and tried to be quiet while I tried to convince whomever would listen that I was willing to learn or do anything. I had to have a job. Still no luck.
The last place we went to, just a few miles out of town, was an old Root Beer Barrel drive-in that had been converted to a truck stop. It was called the Big Wheel. An old lady named Granny owned the place, and she peeked out of the window from time to time at all those kids. She needed someone on the graveyard shift, 11 at night until seven in the morning. She paid 65 cents an hour and I could start that night.
I raced home and called the teenager down the street that baby-sat for people. I bargained with her to come and sleep on my sofa for a dollar a night. She could arrive with her pajamas on and the kids would already be asleep. This seemed like a good arrangement to her, so we made a deal. That night when the little ones and I knelt to say our prayers we all thanked God for finding Mommy a job. And so I started at the Big Wheel. When I got home in the mornings, I woke the baby-sitter up and sent her home with one dollar of my tip money, fully half of what I averaged every night.
As the weeks went by, heating bills added another strain to my meager wage. The tires on the old Chevy had the consistency of penny balloons and began to leak. I had to fill them with air on the way to work and again every morning before I could go home. One bleak fall morning, I dragged myself to the car to go home and found four tires in the back seat. New tires! There was no note, no nothing, just those beautiful brand new tires. Had angels taken up residence in Indiana? I wondered. I made a deal with the owner of the local service station. In exchange for his mounting the new tires, I would clean up his office. I remember it took me a lot longer to scrub his floor than it did for him to do the tires.
I was now working six nights instead of five and it still wasn't enough. Christmas was coming and I knew there would be no money for toys for the kids. I found a can of red paint and started repairing and painting some old toys. Then I hid them in the basement so there would be something for Santa to deliver on Christmas morning. Clothes were a worry too. I was sewing patches on top of patches on the boys’ pants and soon they would be too far gone to repair.
On Christmas Eve the usual customers were drinking coffee in the Big Wheel. These were the truckers, Les, Frank, and Jim, and a state trooper named Joe. A few musicians were hanging around after a gig at the Legion and were dropping nickels in the pinball machine. The regulars all just sat around and talked through the wee hours of the morning and then left to get home before the sun came up.
When it was time for me to go home at seven o'clock on Christmas morning I hurried to the car. I was hoping the kids wouldn't wake up before I managed to get home and get the presents from the basement and place them under the tree. (We had cut down a small cedar tree by the side of the road down by the dump.)
It was still dark and I couldn't see much, but there appeared to be some dark shadows in the car; or was that just a trick of the night? Something certainly looked different, but it was hard to tell what. When I reached the car, I peered warily into one of the side windows. Then my jaw dropped in amazement. My old battered Chevy was filled full to the top with boxes of all shapes and sizes.
I quickly opened the driver's side door, scrambled inside and kneeled in the front facing the back seat. Reaching back, I pulled off the lid of the top box. Inside was a whole case of little blue jeans, sizes 2-10! I looked inside another box: It was full of shirts to go with the jeans. Then I peeked inside some of the other boxes: There were candy and nuts and bananas and bags of groceries. There was an enormous ham for baking, and canned vegetables and potatoes. There were pudding and Jell-O and cookies, pie filling and flour. There was a whole bag of laundry supplies and cleaning items. And there were five toy trucks and one beautiful little doll. As I drove back through empty streets as the sun slowly rose on the most amazing Christmas Day of my life, I was sobbing with gratitude. And I will never forget the joy on the faces of my little ones that precious morning.
Yes, there were angels in Indiana that long-ago December. And they all hung out at the Big Wheel truck stop.
Gifts of the Heart
by Teresa F. Barrett
When I was a child of about twelve years old, we had a Christmas that I have never forgotten. We grew up in humble means to say the least, but we generally always had one or two gifts under the tree even if they were only socks and underwear.
During this particular Christmas, by good fortune, we had many gifts. For the first time in a long time, we received a lot of the things we actually wanted. I was one of seven children, so this was a very big deal. We were all so excited and could hardly wait until Christmas morning.
However, on that Christmas Eve, after careful reflection and much heated discussion, my father decided, that it was much too much, and that in this frenzy that we had lost the true meaning of Christmas.
With much trepidation, we were instructed to hand over all but one of our unopened gifts. There were some crying, some anger, some shock and disbelief. What happened next truly astounded us. My father loaded all those gifts into his truck and we all piled in. We went from house to house in our community and handed out our things. Some of the families we knew, some we didn't. All were as poor or in more object poverty than we were.
As that truck rounded corner after corner, slowly, very slowly, the anger left. The shock and disbelief vanished and were replaced with a different sort of tears. We all started to feel an overwhelming sense of joy in this service. The mark that this experience left on our lives has changed the way we look at Christmas forever.
Never before had I grasped what Christmas was truly about. It is about unselfish giving. Not of toys or gifts, but giving of ourselves. It was of Christ who would give the ultimate gift of Eternal Life.
That experience taught us that at the celebration of His birth, our "giving" should reflect his ultimate sacrifice. He gave the whole of his life in our service and for our sake showing us His love. Hence the best gift we can give to others at Christmas is our time, sharing our talents, and genuine love, as acts of kindness.
When I was a child of about twelve years old, we had a Christmas that I have never forgotten. We grew up in humble means to say the least, but we generally always had one or two gifts under the tree even if they were only socks and underwear.
During this particular Christmas, by good fortune, we had many gifts. For the first time in a long time, we received a lot of the things we actually wanted. I was one of seven children, so this was a very big deal. We were all so excited and could hardly wait until Christmas morning.
However, on that Christmas Eve, after careful reflection and much heated discussion, my father decided, that it was much too much, and that in this frenzy that we had lost the true meaning of Christmas.
With much trepidation, we were instructed to hand over all but one of our unopened gifts. There were some crying, some anger, some shock and disbelief. What happened next truly astounded us. My father loaded all those gifts into his truck and we all piled in. We went from house to house in our community and handed out our things. Some of the families we knew, some we didn't. All were as poor or in more object poverty than we were.
As that truck rounded corner after corner, slowly, very slowly, the anger left. The shock and disbelief vanished and were replaced with a different sort of tears. We all started to feel an overwhelming sense of joy in this service. The mark that this experience left on our lives has changed the way we look at Christmas forever.
Never before had I grasped what Christmas was truly about. It is about unselfish giving. Not of toys or gifts, but giving of ourselves. It was of Christ who would give the ultimate gift of Eternal Life.
That experience taught us that at the celebration of His birth, our "giving" should reflect his ultimate sacrifice. He gave the whole of his life in our service and for our sake showing us His love. Hence the best gift we can give to others at Christmas is our time, sharing our talents, and genuine love, as acts of kindness.
A Light Hearted Holiday
by Ginger Boda
Our little girl, Alisha, was intent on bringing the Christmas spirit to her little gray house on OLE Susanna Street. It seemed there was a bit of "baa humbug" in the air, since major financial burdens had pressed in on us. I tried my best to create the warmth of the holiday in our home, that year, but something was definitely missing. Alisha knew exactly what was needed.
She found our old box of Christmas lights up in the rafters of the garage. Very gingerly, she began to remove them strand by strand, recalling how her dad would check each one, ensuring that they still glowed. She plugged them into the wall, and smiled with each success. In the past, her father had displayed the Christmas lights on the outside of the house, but this year Alisha realized that he wasn't "getting around to it." There was just one week left before Christmas, she pondered, and it looked as though the holiday was going to come and go without even a slight glimmer twinkling from their homestead.
Alisha and her Dad hadn't said much to each other lately. Oh, she knew that he loved her but the words never came easy for him. Ever since she turned thirteen, last year, she and her father had drifted apart, somewhat. He seemed to enjoy talking with her brothers because they always had sports and "guy stuff" to discuss. That was just on the surface, though, and she knew her Dad felt depressed. Something in Alisha now told her that her father needed her more than he cared to admit.
I called to Alisha to come help with the cut out cookies, but she didn't answer. Glancing down the hallway toward her bedroom door, I discerned no movement. Oh, she's probably listening to her music, I presumed. All of sudden, strange noises were heard coming from outside the house. Distracted by the commotion interrupting his day, Mark went to the front door and listened for a moment. Shrugging his shoulders, he shuffled back to his spot in front of the television and let out a big sigh as he sat down.
I tiptoed, sock footed, out to the yard in the chilly afternoon. Looking up and straining to see if there might be a cat on the roof, I noticed the Christmas lights hemming the eves over our garage door, apparently still in their placement process. However, to my confusion, there was no one on the roof. Once again, I called toward the front door for Alisha. Slowly, a sweet little face emerged over the peak of the house. There she was, lights in one hand and stapler in the other, trying to do what has always been known in her home as a "man's job." She was grinning from ear to ear.
I gulped hard, then smiled and praised my little girl for her efforts. However, I did suggest that she come down immediately before she gets hurt. Goodness, she's gutsy, I thought. Hearing the rooftop conversation from the comfort of his cozy couch, Mark reluctantly came outside to assess the situation. He eyed our little rooftop elf, but said nary a word; He simply turned slowly back toward his abode. As I followed behind my grumpy husband, I shook my head in disappointment. The spirit of Christmas was difficult to feel with the tension in the air and the reason for the season seemed to have been forgotten. That simple joy of being together as a family should have been enough, I pondered. My heart ached, as well, for my daughter's efforts to bond with, and please her father.
Knowing that Alisha was determined, I retrieved my jacket from the closet and headed passed the living room to the front door to assist her. I halted mid-step, and a grin quickly replaced my frown, as I surveyed my "scrooge of a husband" putting on his shoes and jacket. Across the room, I noticed that the television had finally lost its voice. Seizing the moment, I sauntered over to the stereo, switched on some Christmas music, and turned to face my hubby. The room began to fill with warmth as our eyes met and a knowing smile was exchanged.
In no time at all, there appeared to be all kinds of activity heard from the rooftop of the little gray house on OLE Susanna Street as the little girl and her daddy laughed and worked together. Although he clearly stated that "he was pushed into the job," he DID wink as he said it. Nothing had changed monetarily for us. Christmas presents would still be scant but the hearts that lived in the little house were already richly gifted. It didn't take much to remind us that the light in our spirit can brighten our world, and the people we love, if we just take the effort to display it.
Finally, the spirit of love and joy had arrived just a week before Christmas. The outline of the homestead became illuminated, as did the heart of our little girl as she bonded with her father and tucked away a precious, and brightly lit memory in the treasure chest of her childhood.
Our little girl, Alisha, was intent on bringing the Christmas spirit to her little gray house on OLE Susanna Street. It seemed there was a bit of "baa humbug" in the air, since major financial burdens had pressed in on us. I tried my best to create the warmth of the holiday in our home, that year, but something was definitely missing. Alisha knew exactly what was needed.
She found our old box of Christmas lights up in the rafters of the garage. Very gingerly, she began to remove them strand by strand, recalling how her dad would check each one, ensuring that they still glowed. She plugged them into the wall, and smiled with each success. In the past, her father had displayed the Christmas lights on the outside of the house, but this year Alisha realized that he wasn't "getting around to it." There was just one week left before Christmas, she pondered, and it looked as though the holiday was going to come and go without even a slight glimmer twinkling from their homestead.
Alisha and her Dad hadn't said much to each other lately. Oh, she knew that he loved her but the words never came easy for him. Ever since she turned thirteen, last year, she and her father had drifted apart, somewhat. He seemed to enjoy talking with her brothers because they always had sports and "guy stuff" to discuss. That was just on the surface, though, and she knew her Dad felt depressed. Something in Alisha now told her that her father needed her more than he cared to admit.
I called to Alisha to come help with the cut out cookies, but she didn't answer. Glancing down the hallway toward her bedroom door, I discerned no movement. Oh, she's probably listening to her music, I presumed. All of sudden, strange noises were heard coming from outside the house. Distracted by the commotion interrupting his day, Mark went to the front door and listened for a moment. Shrugging his shoulders, he shuffled back to his spot in front of the television and let out a big sigh as he sat down.
I tiptoed, sock footed, out to the yard in the chilly afternoon. Looking up and straining to see if there might be a cat on the roof, I noticed the Christmas lights hemming the eves over our garage door, apparently still in their placement process. However, to my confusion, there was no one on the roof. Once again, I called toward the front door for Alisha. Slowly, a sweet little face emerged over the peak of the house. There she was, lights in one hand and stapler in the other, trying to do what has always been known in her home as a "man's job." She was grinning from ear to ear.
I gulped hard, then smiled and praised my little girl for her efforts. However, I did suggest that she come down immediately before she gets hurt. Goodness, she's gutsy, I thought. Hearing the rooftop conversation from the comfort of his cozy couch, Mark reluctantly came outside to assess the situation. He eyed our little rooftop elf, but said nary a word; He simply turned slowly back toward his abode. As I followed behind my grumpy husband, I shook my head in disappointment. The spirit of Christmas was difficult to feel with the tension in the air and the reason for the season seemed to have been forgotten. That simple joy of being together as a family should have been enough, I pondered. My heart ached, as well, for my daughter's efforts to bond with, and please her father.
Knowing that Alisha was determined, I retrieved my jacket from the closet and headed passed the living room to the front door to assist her. I halted mid-step, and a grin quickly replaced my frown, as I surveyed my "scrooge of a husband" putting on his shoes and jacket. Across the room, I noticed that the television had finally lost its voice. Seizing the moment, I sauntered over to the stereo, switched on some Christmas music, and turned to face my hubby. The room began to fill with warmth as our eyes met and a knowing smile was exchanged.
In no time at all, there appeared to be all kinds of activity heard from the rooftop of the little gray house on OLE Susanna Street as the little girl and her daddy laughed and worked together. Although he clearly stated that "he was pushed into the job," he DID wink as he said it. Nothing had changed monetarily for us. Christmas presents would still be scant but the hearts that lived in the little house were already richly gifted. It didn't take much to remind us that the light in our spirit can brighten our world, and the people we love, if we just take the effort to display it.
Finally, the spirit of love and joy had arrived just a week before Christmas. The outline of the homestead became illuminated, as did the heart of our little girl as she bonded with her father and tucked away a precious, and brightly lit memory in the treasure chest of her childhood.
Candy: The Christmas Miracle
by Fyre
Steve had little patience with people, and he didn't have much more with puppies, either. He preferred, on the whole, the adult dogs. Puppies, however, came in after the holidays, because people found out:
they were allergic
the puppy was too hard to train
the puppy was too much work
the landlord didn't allow puppies
the landlord didn't allow puppies
that were going to be BIG
the puppy barked too much
the puppy wasn't the kind of dog they wanted.
This list could have been elaborated on, over and over. But I watched Steve's face as he faced the man in the lobby, the man who was brining in the puppy for adoption eight days before Christmas.
Steve was our 'dog' person. He was the one who in general, was the 'expert', and I liked him a lot. Tall, laconic, dry witted, and incredibly intelligent, he had gotten to the point with many people where they tried what little was left of his patience. As I leaned against the counter, I had a feeling this would be one of them.
"You see," the man holding the puppy was saying, "We just found out we can't have dogs where we are. We got the puppy from my friend, Joe, who works with me downtown. He got the puppy from this guy he knew who got it for his kid, but the kid was allergic, and he got the puppy from someone who had gotten the puppy from this lady who got it for a present from her kids, but she was too old to take care of it and figured it would be a good present for someone with kids. We figured that, too. She's a nice little puppy."
The nice little puppy was beautiful, slightly long white fur. She was obviously a mix.
She was only about nine weeks old. She was cowering in fear, with huge dark eyes, and I could see the confusion there. She looked in good shape, but emotionally, I wondered where she was. She was very young, and she had already been through more homes than many adult dogs.
Steve looked at me, and I shrugged. "I'll have the vet examine her, and if she checks out, we'll take her," he told the man, taking the puppy.
"What an idiot," Was Steve's remark as we leaned across the exam table in the clinic. The puppy sat there, quivering, obviously terrified of yet one more strange thing in her life. Dr. Morris gently gave her a once over, and gave her the thumbs up for adoption, but suggested she remain in the clinic a couple days, as she was a little underweight, probably from stress.
We told the man we'd be taking the puppy, and he looked relieved. He handed us a small leash and a box of biscuits. "Her name is Candy," he said, as we parted company.
Steve came and sat beside me at the desk. He looked gloomy and morose. "I wish people wouldn't think that getting a dog for Christmas is a great idea...it just makes the pet stores profit and the puppies wind up...if they are lucky...like that one there."
I agreed. Every year we saw a lot of the same thing. Candy's difference was that she came before Christmas, and that was at least a small change.
The next day Dr. Morris called me. "This puppy doesn't know how to eat much on her own, Fyre. I think that must have been taken away from her mother too young. Someone's going to have to watch her eat, and help urge her along. I don't think she should go to just anyone. Make sure the home she gets they have a lot of time to spend with her."
People were coming in like crazy for puppies and kittens, but it was not our policy to adopt right before the holidays, which were too stressful for most puppies and kittens. This seemed to agree with Candy, who got to know our staff, and in two days time was romping in the small back room with two of our cats who liked dogs.
That afternoon, Steve was asked to pick out a dog or a puppy to take with him to do an educational presentation at the Greenpoint Library. The lecture, to kids and their parents, was why you shouldn't get a pet for the holidays. Steve wanted to take an older dog, but being he needed a dog he could fit in the small car that belonged to our handyman, he reluctantly decided on Candy.
Steve got there, got set up, and spoke with the library staff, who were animal lovers, about the shelter, all of who admired the puppy. Candy, in her days with us, wasn't as shy as she had been, but Steve took great pains to make sure the puppy was comfortable. He put her into a large carrier to nap til they were ready for her, and he set up for the talk.
The audience that filtered in was made up of adults and kids of all ages. They took seats in the kids’ library, and Steve watched them with irony, wondering how many would really listen to him.
He was introduced by the Head Librarian and had just begun to talk when he noticed a slight disturbance in the back of the room. A man was entering, pushing a wheelchair with a child in it. Steve noticed the little girl, who looked to be about 10, had a scarf over her head and looked very pale. They took their place near the side and Steve noticed they were very attentive.
A few minutes into the presentation, Steve lifted out Candy from her box. There was a chorus of 'ooohs' and 'aaahhhs' but from the side there came a small scream. Steve turned and saw the man, his face white, clutching the girl's hand. The girl looked as if she was seeing a ghost.
"It's her, Dad!!!! It's her," the child’s voice was filled with anguish, and Steve and everyone turned to look at the man. He was white faced and obviously shaken. The little girl was crying, reaching out her arms. "Oh, please, please let me hold her. She's mine! She’s mine!"
There was dead silence in the room. Steve looked at the man and held up his hand to the group. He went over to the man, and settled the puppy in the little girl’s lap. She buried her face in the puppy's fur and Candy turned and began to lick her ear. Her scarf slipped and Steve could see she had no hair. The man reached out and squeezed her hand, then looked up at Steve. "We can discuss this when I'm done," Steve said, not knowing what else to do.
Despite his jaded nature, he felt a lump in his throat, and the rest of the lecture was delivered with a paced warmth and more acceptance than probably anything else he'd done. At the end, he let the children come up and gently pet the puppy where it sat in the little girl's lap. The little girl showed them how to pet the little animal, gently, and held some of the smaller children's hands. When the lecture was over, after Steve had fielded several questions about the shelter, he went back to the man and his daughter. The little girl smiled up at him through tear streaked lashes. "Thank you for bringing her to me! I knew I'd see her again! I just knew it!"
Steve turned to the man, who gave him a desperate look. He led him to the side of the library. "Please let us adopt this puppy. This must be a miracle."
He paused and looked at Steve. "You see, a few weeks ago we answered an ad about someone who had puppies for adoption. Ann, my daughter, she has cancer. For Christmas she asked for a puppy, and we thought it would be a good idea. My wife and I had wanted a dog too, and Ann, well, it seemed to be an incentive for her to not give up, too, you know? We picked out this puppy, and the woman said she'd hold it for us til the puppy was a little older. It was still nursing and being taken care of by its mother. We gave the woman our number, and told her to call us. We figured she would. But two weeks later when I called, she told me she had sold the whole litter. We tried to find out more, but she wouldn't tell me anything. It devastated my daughter. She's been sort of having a hard time with things. I didn't think she'd ever get over it. She prayed for that puppy . . . "
He began to cry. Steve did too. He had a lump in his throat. He shook his head. "Come back to the shelter with me. You'll have to do the paperwork to make it official."
That afternoon, Candy, renamed Holly, went home in the arms of a little girl who thanked us for being angels. Her parents, who had both come in, hugged us in tears.
A year later Steve came upstairs and handed me an envelope. There was a Christmas card inside with a pretty young blond girl sitting on a sofa, her arms around a silky snow coated dog, with a red collar around its neck.
"Merry Christmas from Anne and her sister Holly." the card read. "I feel better now, Steve, because of you. I will always take good care of Holly. Love, Ann."
It was the only time I'd ever seen Steve cry.
Steve had little patience with people, and he didn't have much more with puppies, either. He preferred, on the whole, the adult dogs. Puppies, however, came in after the holidays, because people found out:
they were allergic
the puppy was too hard to train
the puppy was too much work
the landlord didn't allow puppies
the landlord didn't allow puppies
that were going to be BIG
the puppy barked too much
the puppy wasn't the kind of dog they wanted.
This list could have been elaborated on, over and over. But I watched Steve's face as he faced the man in the lobby, the man who was brining in the puppy for adoption eight days before Christmas.
Steve was our 'dog' person. He was the one who in general, was the 'expert', and I liked him a lot. Tall, laconic, dry witted, and incredibly intelligent, he had gotten to the point with many people where they tried what little was left of his patience. As I leaned against the counter, I had a feeling this would be one of them.
"You see," the man holding the puppy was saying, "We just found out we can't have dogs where we are. We got the puppy from my friend, Joe, who works with me downtown. He got the puppy from this guy he knew who got it for his kid, but the kid was allergic, and he got the puppy from someone who had gotten the puppy from this lady who got it for a present from her kids, but she was too old to take care of it and figured it would be a good present for someone with kids. We figured that, too. She's a nice little puppy."
The nice little puppy was beautiful, slightly long white fur. She was obviously a mix.
She was only about nine weeks old. She was cowering in fear, with huge dark eyes, and I could see the confusion there. She looked in good shape, but emotionally, I wondered where she was. She was very young, and she had already been through more homes than many adult dogs.
Steve looked at me, and I shrugged. "I'll have the vet examine her, and if she checks out, we'll take her," he told the man, taking the puppy.
"What an idiot," Was Steve's remark as we leaned across the exam table in the clinic. The puppy sat there, quivering, obviously terrified of yet one more strange thing in her life. Dr. Morris gently gave her a once over, and gave her the thumbs up for adoption, but suggested she remain in the clinic a couple days, as she was a little underweight, probably from stress.
We told the man we'd be taking the puppy, and he looked relieved. He handed us a small leash and a box of biscuits. "Her name is Candy," he said, as we parted company.
Steve came and sat beside me at the desk. He looked gloomy and morose. "I wish people wouldn't think that getting a dog for Christmas is a great idea...it just makes the pet stores profit and the puppies wind up...if they are lucky...like that one there."
I agreed. Every year we saw a lot of the same thing. Candy's difference was that she came before Christmas, and that was at least a small change.
The next day Dr. Morris called me. "This puppy doesn't know how to eat much on her own, Fyre. I think that must have been taken away from her mother too young. Someone's going to have to watch her eat, and help urge her along. I don't think she should go to just anyone. Make sure the home she gets they have a lot of time to spend with her."
People were coming in like crazy for puppies and kittens, but it was not our policy to adopt right before the holidays, which were too stressful for most puppies and kittens. This seemed to agree with Candy, who got to know our staff, and in two days time was romping in the small back room with two of our cats who liked dogs.
That afternoon, Steve was asked to pick out a dog or a puppy to take with him to do an educational presentation at the Greenpoint Library. The lecture, to kids and their parents, was why you shouldn't get a pet for the holidays. Steve wanted to take an older dog, but being he needed a dog he could fit in the small car that belonged to our handyman, he reluctantly decided on Candy.
Steve got there, got set up, and spoke with the library staff, who were animal lovers, about the shelter, all of who admired the puppy. Candy, in her days with us, wasn't as shy as she had been, but Steve took great pains to make sure the puppy was comfortable. He put her into a large carrier to nap til they were ready for her, and he set up for the talk.
The audience that filtered in was made up of adults and kids of all ages. They took seats in the kids’ library, and Steve watched them with irony, wondering how many would really listen to him.
He was introduced by the Head Librarian and had just begun to talk when he noticed a slight disturbance in the back of the room. A man was entering, pushing a wheelchair with a child in it. Steve noticed the little girl, who looked to be about 10, had a scarf over her head and looked very pale. They took their place near the side and Steve noticed they were very attentive.
A few minutes into the presentation, Steve lifted out Candy from her box. There was a chorus of 'ooohs' and 'aaahhhs' but from the side there came a small scream. Steve turned and saw the man, his face white, clutching the girl's hand. The girl looked as if she was seeing a ghost.
"It's her, Dad!!!! It's her," the child’s voice was filled with anguish, and Steve and everyone turned to look at the man. He was white faced and obviously shaken. The little girl was crying, reaching out her arms. "Oh, please, please let me hold her. She's mine! She’s mine!"
There was dead silence in the room. Steve looked at the man and held up his hand to the group. He went over to the man, and settled the puppy in the little girl’s lap. She buried her face in the puppy's fur and Candy turned and began to lick her ear. Her scarf slipped and Steve could see she had no hair. The man reached out and squeezed her hand, then looked up at Steve. "We can discuss this when I'm done," Steve said, not knowing what else to do.
Despite his jaded nature, he felt a lump in his throat, and the rest of the lecture was delivered with a paced warmth and more acceptance than probably anything else he'd done. At the end, he let the children come up and gently pet the puppy where it sat in the little girl's lap. The little girl showed them how to pet the little animal, gently, and held some of the smaller children's hands. When the lecture was over, after Steve had fielded several questions about the shelter, he went back to the man and his daughter. The little girl smiled up at him through tear streaked lashes. "Thank you for bringing her to me! I knew I'd see her again! I just knew it!"
Steve turned to the man, who gave him a desperate look. He led him to the side of the library. "Please let us adopt this puppy. This must be a miracle."
He paused and looked at Steve. "You see, a few weeks ago we answered an ad about someone who had puppies for adoption. Ann, my daughter, she has cancer. For Christmas she asked for a puppy, and we thought it would be a good idea. My wife and I had wanted a dog too, and Ann, well, it seemed to be an incentive for her to not give up, too, you know? We picked out this puppy, and the woman said she'd hold it for us til the puppy was a little older. It was still nursing and being taken care of by its mother. We gave the woman our number, and told her to call us. We figured she would. But two weeks later when I called, she told me she had sold the whole litter. We tried to find out more, but she wouldn't tell me anything. It devastated my daughter. She's been sort of having a hard time with things. I didn't think she'd ever get over it. She prayed for that puppy . . . "
He began to cry. Steve did too. He had a lump in his throat. He shook his head. "Come back to the shelter with me. You'll have to do the paperwork to make it official."
That afternoon, Candy, renamed Holly, went home in the arms of a little girl who thanked us for being angels. Her parents, who had both come in, hugged us in tears.
A year later Steve came upstairs and handed me an envelope. There was a Christmas card inside with a pretty young blond girl sitting on a sofa, her arms around a silky snow coated dog, with a red collar around its neck.
"Merry Christmas from Anne and her sister Holly." the card read. "I feel better now, Steve, because of you. I will always take good care of Holly. Love, Ann."
It was the only time I'd ever seen Steve cry.
The Best Christmas
Author Unknown
The Christmas party was over. Several of the men were sitting at a table reminiscing about the Christmas days of their childhood. The conversation turned to the best Christmas of their lives. As they went around the table, they noticed one man hadn't said anything. They asked, "Come on Frank, what was your best Christmas?"
Frank said, "The best Christmas I ever had was when I didn't even get a present." The others were surprised. They had to hear the story. Frank began to talk...
"I grew up in New York. It was the Great Depression and we were poor. My Mother had died when I was just eight years old. My Dad had a job but he only worked two or three days a week and that was considered good. We lived in a walk up and we just barely had enough food and clothes. I was a kid and didn't really notice.
"My Dad was a proud man. He had one suit. He would wear that suit to work. When he came home, he would take off the jacket and sit in his chair still wearing his shirt, tie and his vest. He had this big old pocket watch that had been given to him by my mother. He would sit in his chair, the chain from watch hanging out, connected to the fob in his vest buttonhole. That watch was his proudest possession. Sometimes, I would see him, just sitting there, looking at his precious watch. I bet he was thinking of my mother.
"One year, I was about twelve, chemistry sets were the big thing. They cost two dollars. That was big money but every kid wanted a chemistry set including me. I began to pester my Dad about it a month or so before Christmas. You know, I made all the same kid promises. I would be good. I would do my chores. I wouldn't ask for anything else again. My dad would just say, 'We'll see.’
"Three days before Christmas he took me to the carts. There was this area where all the small merchants keep their street carts. They would undersell the stores and you could get a good buy. He would take me to a cart and pick out some little toy. "Son, would you like something like this?’ I, of course, would tell him, 'No, I want a chemistry set.' We tramped to nearly every cart and him showing me some toy car or toy gun, and me refusing it. I never thought that he didn't have the money to buy a chemistry set. Finally, he said, we better go home and come back the next day.
"All the way home, I pouted and whined about the chemistry set. I repeated the promises. I said I didn't care if I never got another present. I had to have that chemistry set. I know now that my Dad felt guilty about not being able to give me more. He probably thought he was a failure as a Father and I think he blamed himself for my mother's death. As we were walking up the stairs, he told me, that he would see what he could do about getting me the chemistry set. That night I couldn't even sleep. I could see myself inventing some new material. I could see the New York Times.. 'Boy wins Nobel Prize!’
"The next day after work, my Dad took me back to the carts. On the way, I remember, he bought a loaf of bread, he was carrying it under his arm. We came to the first cart, and he told me to pick out the set I wanted. They were all alike, but I went through them, like I was choosing a diamond. I found the right one and I almost yelled. 'This one, Dad!'
"I can still see him, reaching into his pant's pocket, to get the money. As he pulled the two dollars out, one fluttered to the ground, he bent over to pick it up and as he did, the chain fell out of his vest. The chain swung back and forth. No watch. In a flash, I realized that my Dad had sold his watch. He sold his most precious possession to buy me a chemistry set. He sold his watch, the last thing my mother had given him, to buy me a chemistry set.
"I grabbed his arms and I yelled, 'No.' I had never grabbed my Dad before and I certainly had never yelled at him. I can see him, looking at me, a strange look on his face. 'No, Dad, you don't have to buy me anything.' The tears were burning in my eyes. 'Dad, I know you love me.' We walked away from the cart and I remember my Dad holding my hand all the way home."
Frank looked at the men. "You know, there isn't enough money in the world to buy that moment. You see, at that moment, I knew that my Dad loved me more than anything in the world."
The Christmas party was over. Several of the men were sitting at a table reminiscing about the Christmas days of their childhood. The conversation turned to the best Christmas of their lives. As they went around the table, they noticed one man hadn't said anything. They asked, "Come on Frank, what was your best Christmas?"
Frank said, "The best Christmas I ever had was when I didn't even get a present." The others were surprised. They had to hear the story. Frank began to talk...
"I grew up in New York. It was the Great Depression and we were poor. My Mother had died when I was just eight years old. My Dad had a job but he only worked two or three days a week and that was considered good. We lived in a walk up and we just barely had enough food and clothes. I was a kid and didn't really notice.
"My Dad was a proud man. He had one suit. He would wear that suit to work. When he came home, he would take off the jacket and sit in his chair still wearing his shirt, tie and his vest. He had this big old pocket watch that had been given to him by my mother. He would sit in his chair, the chain from watch hanging out, connected to the fob in his vest buttonhole. That watch was his proudest possession. Sometimes, I would see him, just sitting there, looking at his precious watch. I bet he was thinking of my mother.
"One year, I was about twelve, chemistry sets were the big thing. They cost two dollars. That was big money but every kid wanted a chemistry set including me. I began to pester my Dad about it a month or so before Christmas. You know, I made all the same kid promises. I would be good. I would do my chores. I wouldn't ask for anything else again. My dad would just say, 'We'll see.’
"Three days before Christmas he took me to the carts. There was this area where all the small merchants keep their street carts. They would undersell the stores and you could get a good buy. He would take me to a cart and pick out some little toy. "Son, would you like something like this?’ I, of course, would tell him, 'No, I want a chemistry set.' We tramped to nearly every cart and him showing me some toy car or toy gun, and me refusing it. I never thought that he didn't have the money to buy a chemistry set. Finally, he said, we better go home and come back the next day.
"All the way home, I pouted and whined about the chemistry set. I repeated the promises. I said I didn't care if I never got another present. I had to have that chemistry set. I know now that my Dad felt guilty about not being able to give me more. He probably thought he was a failure as a Father and I think he blamed himself for my mother's death. As we were walking up the stairs, he told me, that he would see what he could do about getting me the chemistry set. That night I couldn't even sleep. I could see myself inventing some new material. I could see the New York Times.. 'Boy wins Nobel Prize!’
"The next day after work, my Dad took me back to the carts. On the way, I remember, he bought a loaf of bread, he was carrying it under his arm. We came to the first cart, and he told me to pick out the set I wanted. They were all alike, but I went through them, like I was choosing a diamond. I found the right one and I almost yelled. 'This one, Dad!'
"I can still see him, reaching into his pant's pocket, to get the money. As he pulled the two dollars out, one fluttered to the ground, he bent over to pick it up and as he did, the chain fell out of his vest. The chain swung back and forth. No watch. In a flash, I realized that my Dad had sold his watch. He sold his most precious possession to buy me a chemistry set. He sold his watch, the last thing my mother had given him, to buy me a chemistry set.
"I grabbed his arms and I yelled, 'No.' I had never grabbed my Dad before and I certainly had never yelled at him. I can see him, looking at me, a strange look on his face. 'No, Dad, you don't have to buy me anything.' The tears were burning in my eyes. 'Dad, I know you love me.' We walked away from the cart and I remember my Dad holding my hand all the way home."
Frank looked at the men. "You know, there isn't enough money in the world to buy that moment. You see, at that moment, I knew that my Dad loved me more than anything in the world."
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