by Dr. Lyla Berry
The house is now quiet. The process of taking down the festive decorations, and especially the Christmas tree, always brings a wave of sadness. It marks the end of a point in my life that cannot be experienced again. A flood of memories comes rushing back, and I savor those times when my children and I experienced such joyous times. As I take down each ornament and lay it away for another year, I remember the significance of each one. There’s the little brown lion my son made for me in the third grade. Over the years, it lost one leg, but it still hangs proudly on the tree year after year. I remember the ornaments my daughter made by hand for me when she attended college and didn’t have enough money to buy a present. Sometimes, those presents are the most cherished.
I remember the good times. I remember the lean times when there wasn’t enough money to buy a tree on which to hang the ornaments. Somehow, things always turned out all right. I remember when the children were young and so excited to hang the ornaments on the tree. But I also remember the teen years when they couldn’t have cared less.
Life is made up of memories, and as I once again take down the Christmas decorations, I have yet another Christmas to put into my very special memory bank.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
A Holy Night to Remember
by Sharon Espeseth
As northern Canadians we share many memories of cold winters. At Christmas time, I often reflect upon one particular evening of a prairie winter in the early sixties. Though the frost was cruel, the reminiscence is warm.
We were students at college in Prince Albert, Saskatchewan, most of us living away from home for the first time. Hanging a few strips of tinsel in our rooms didn't relieve the feeling of homesickness that had overtaken our dorm. What could we do to bring on the Christmas spirit, stave off our longing for home, and maybe brighten someone else's life? One of my friends suggested going caroling. That was it! Every student at our small college was rousted out for the occasion. No auditions. No voice lessons. No excuses. Warmth of spirit was the only requirement. And our enthusiasm served as an electric soul-warmer for those who seemed lacking in spirit.
We divided into groups so our music would resound over most of our college town. The group I joined had nothing resembling four-part harmony, but we could collectively make a joyful noise. Bounding boisterously and carrying a tune in our hearts, we made our first call. "Deck the Halls," we tra-la-la-ed.
Soon we discovered that caroling brings a variety of responses. When you carol for people you know, you can be sure of open doors and open hearts; when you carol for strangers, you can't be sure of what kind of reception you will get. Some folks remained in the safety and coziness of their homes, watching and listening passively through living room windows. Others cautiously propped the door open enough to hear us, but not enough to let in the cold - or their unknown guests. Some flung wide their doors and sang along; others watched in silent reverie.
One of the stops on our journey was a three-story apartment building. With no intercoms or security cameras to deter us in those days, we walked right in. Starting our performance in the basement, we sang mostly to closed doors. After a couple of songs we headed for the main floor. Two doors swung open. One doorway framed a young couple, obviously expecting a child. In another doorway, two preschoolers clung to their parent's legs. Surprise? Wonder? Curiosity? Their faces seemed to ask, Who are these strange, bundled-up people? And why are they doing this?
We sang "Away in a Manger" for the young ones. We continued with "Oh, Little Town of Bethlehem" for our seemingly appreciative gathering. Mounting the stairs to the third floor, we burst into "It Came upon the Midnight Clear," a song that suited the night.
One door on the top floor creaked open. A stately gentleman, grey-haired and thin, held onto his doorknob. He became our audience of one. As we murmured about what to sing next, the elderly fellow asked, "Would you come into our apartment and sing for my wife? She's bedridden. I know she'd love to hear you. My wife used to be an opera singer," he added proudly, "and she's always loved music."
All eight of us stepped timidly into the couple's tiny, crowded bachelor suite. Books, records, china, antique furniture and mementoes whispered stories to us. I reminded myself not to stare for fear of invading their privacy. This was their home, their sanctuary and a hallowed place where the old-timer watched over his fragile partner. Her silver bed-mussed head made only a small dent in her pillow.
Without a word, he adjusted his wife's headrest so she could see and hear us better. Then he gave a nod. Our voices rose and warbled through "Hark the Herald Angels Sing." Had our voices been given extra grace and beauty for this occasion? Perhaps they had - we sang rather well for such a motley, impromptu crew.
A smile flickered on the lady's gaunt, wrinkled, yet beautiful, face. Her eyes sparkled softly. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Her husband requested "Joy to the World" and "Silent Night," two of her favorites. As we finished our performance, her eyes closed. Now the man shed his own tears. Quietly we turned to leave, closing the door softly on the housebound couple.
The winter moon and stars shone down upon us. It had become a silent night, a holy night, for we had been in the presence of love that was gentle and mild. All was calm; all was bright as we headed back to our residence. We had found, and maybe even given, the Christmas spirit.
As northern Canadians we share many memories of cold winters. At Christmas time, I often reflect upon one particular evening of a prairie winter in the early sixties. Though the frost was cruel, the reminiscence is warm.
We were students at college in Prince Albert, Saskatchewan, most of us living away from home for the first time. Hanging a few strips of tinsel in our rooms didn't relieve the feeling of homesickness that had overtaken our dorm. What could we do to bring on the Christmas spirit, stave off our longing for home, and maybe brighten someone else's life? One of my friends suggested going caroling. That was it! Every student at our small college was rousted out for the occasion. No auditions. No voice lessons. No excuses. Warmth of spirit was the only requirement. And our enthusiasm served as an electric soul-warmer for those who seemed lacking in spirit.
We divided into groups so our music would resound over most of our college town. The group I joined had nothing resembling four-part harmony, but we could collectively make a joyful noise. Bounding boisterously and carrying a tune in our hearts, we made our first call. "Deck the Halls," we tra-la-la-ed.
Soon we discovered that caroling brings a variety of responses. When you carol for people you know, you can be sure of open doors and open hearts; when you carol for strangers, you can't be sure of what kind of reception you will get. Some folks remained in the safety and coziness of their homes, watching and listening passively through living room windows. Others cautiously propped the door open enough to hear us, but not enough to let in the cold - or their unknown guests. Some flung wide their doors and sang along; others watched in silent reverie.
One of the stops on our journey was a three-story apartment building. With no intercoms or security cameras to deter us in those days, we walked right in. Starting our performance in the basement, we sang mostly to closed doors. After a couple of songs we headed for the main floor. Two doors swung open. One doorway framed a young couple, obviously expecting a child. In another doorway, two preschoolers clung to their parent's legs. Surprise? Wonder? Curiosity? Their faces seemed to ask, Who are these strange, bundled-up people? And why are they doing this?
We sang "Away in a Manger" for the young ones. We continued with "Oh, Little Town of Bethlehem" for our seemingly appreciative gathering. Mounting the stairs to the third floor, we burst into "It Came upon the Midnight Clear," a song that suited the night.
One door on the top floor creaked open. A stately gentleman, grey-haired and thin, held onto his doorknob. He became our audience of one. As we murmured about what to sing next, the elderly fellow asked, "Would you come into our apartment and sing for my wife? She's bedridden. I know she'd love to hear you. My wife used to be an opera singer," he added proudly, "and she's always loved music."
All eight of us stepped timidly into the couple's tiny, crowded bachelor suite. Books, records, china, antique furniture and mementoes whispered stories to us. I reminded myself not to stare for fear of invading their privacy. This was their home, their sanctuary and a hallowed place where the old-timer watched over his fragile partner. Her silver bed-mussed head made only a small dent in her pillow.
Without a word, he adjusted his wife's headrest so she could see and hear us better. Then he gave a nod. Our voices rose and warbled through "Hark the Herald Angels Sing." Had our voices been given extra grace and beauty for this occasion? Perhaps they had - we sang rather well for such a motley, impromptu crew.
A smile flickered on the lady's gaunt, wrinkled, yet beautiful, face. Her eyes sparkled softly. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Her husband requested "Joy to the World" and "Silent Night," two of her favorites. As we finished our performance, her eyes closed. Now the man shed his own tears. Quietly we turned to leave, closing the door softly on the housebound couple.
The winter moon and stars shone down upon us. It had become a silent night, a holy night, for we had been in the presence of love that was gentle and mild. All was calm; all was bright as we headed back to our residence. We had found, and maybe even given, the Christmas spirit.
Away In A Manger
by Laei Littke
Nathaniel arrived at our house in September with a duffel bag and a supply of put-downs. “I hate it here,” he announced immediately. He looked first at our surrounding fields, then at Laverne, me Darwin, Rula Mae, Tootie, and Max, standing there in stair-step order of age. Last, he looked at our black and white dog, Sport, who as usual was nipping at his tail. “There’s nothing here but cows and hayseeds, and fleas,” Nathaniel continued. “I wish I could go back home to New York City.”
Within two days, the rest of the kids wished the same thing. Nathaniel did nothing except complain and haunt the mailboxes out on the road, looking for a letter from his mother.
“She said she’d write soon and tell me when I can come home,” he said every day.
And every day Darwin whispered, “I hope it comes soon.”
“Well, now,” Mama soothed, “your mother never was much of a letter writer, Nathaniel. You just be patient.”
To us Mama said, “Be nice. He’ll blend in eventually.”
Nathaniel was the son of Aunt Delia, Mama’s sister, who had run away with a rock singer when she was seventeen. The only things Mama had received from her in eleven years were a couple of phone calls and Nathaniel. The last phone call was about her getting married again, her third time. Soon after that, Nathaniel arrived.
He was still with us at Christmastime, and we hoped that the season would work some kind of magic on him, like in the story about Scrooge. But Scrooge was a pushover compared to Nathaniel. When mama started her Christmas baking, Nathaniel said he preferred the smell of hot pretzels in the New York subway. He said our little Christmas tree was nothing compared to the sky-tail wonder that was put up in Rockefeller Plaza each year. And, when we went to the nearby town of Pratt to do our Christmas shopping at the J.C. Penny store, he ruined our excitement by sneering, “You could put this whole hick town inside Macy’s department store in New York City.”
We were helping Mama make cookies on the day he told us about the store windows in New York. “They have winter scenes with skaters on ponds and toy shops and whole towns right there in the windows, and everything moves.” The best our little village could do was a lighted, plastic manger scene on the church lawn.
Laverne, who was rolling out cookie dough, put her chin up. “Well, here we go caroling and put on a show on Christmas Eve.” She whacked at the dough with the rolling pin. The caroling and the show were news to the rest of us kids. We had never done anything except make popcorn and maybe sing carols around the piano on Christmas Eve. We had only three neighbors within walking distance, and the snow was always deep at Christmas. We had never thought of caroling.
“Oh?” Nathaniel said. “What kind of a show do you do?” He seemed interested, maybe because he was always saying he was going to be an actor on Broadway when he went home to New York.
“We do a big show.” Laverne’s eyes glazed over a little. “This year we’re going to have Joseph and Mary and the Christ Child and costumes, and we’ll read from the Bible. It will be the most wonderful Christmas show ever.”
Rula Mae’s face lit up. “I’ll be Mary,” she volunteered. “I can wear my long dress.” Rula Mae’s most prized possession was a tattered chiffon formal Mama had worn, before any of us were born, when she played the part of a society girl in a community play.
Laverne frowned. “That dress is red, with silver sequins all over the top. Mary wouldn’t wear a dress like that.”
“She would if she had one,” Rula Mae said.
“When we put on Christmas shows in New York,” Nathaniel said, “we always have a Mary dressed in blue robes. And a halo that’s lighted by radiant beams from heaven afar.”
“You’re making that up,” Laverne said. “You got that from ‘Silent Night’.”
“No, I didn’t,” Nathaniel said hotly. “The halo had batteries.”
Laverne sniffed. “Well, our Mary is going to wear a red dress with a wreath of holly on her head.” She jabbed at the rolled out cookie dough with a cutter, making a row of big winged angels. “Rula Mae, you can be Mary. And Darwin can be Joseph and wear his bathrobe for a costume. And Tootie can...”
“Oh, no, I can’t,” Darwin interrupted. “I’m not going no place in my bathrobe. Nathaniel can be Joseph.”
“If I have to be in this hick show,” Nathaniel said, “I’m going to be the Bible reader. I always got to be the reader in New York.”
Darwin shrugged. “Then Max can be Joseph.”
“That’s dumb, Darwin,” Laverne said, “Max is only two years old.”
“Well, the only other guy is Sport.” Darwin pointed at our dog who, on cue, sat down to nip at his tail.
Nathaniel groaned “I’m not going to be in any stupid show where Joseph is biting fleas all the time.”
Laverne scooped up angels with a spatula and slapped them onto a baking sheet. “Fine! I wanted to be the reader anyway. You can stay here and sulk.”
“Be nice,” Mama whispered.
Laverne sighed. “All right. Max will be Joseph. Jenny,” she said to me, “you and Tootie can be angels. I’ll be the shepherds watching their flocks, and Darwin can be the Three Wise Men.” She sighed again. “Nathaniel, you can be the reader.”
“Back in New York we had multitudes of angels,” Nathaniel said.
Laverne ignored him and looked down at Tootie who was yanking at her sleeve. “Can we sing the songs about Harold and Gloria?” Tootie whispered.
The Harold and Gloria carols were Tootie’s favorites. The year before she had named our two cats Harold and Gloria, and when Gloria had two kittens, she named them Hark and Excelsis Deo. Later she gave Hark to our neighbors, the Nelsons, but we still had Excelsis Deo.
Laverne nodded. “We’ll use all the good songs, Tootie.”
“You ought to see the Christmas show at Radio City Music Hall in New York,” Nathaniel said.
We didn’t have many rehearsals because Max was always napping when the rest of us were available, but by Christmas Eve, we were ready. It was a cold night, and there had been snow flurries on and off all day. Rula Mae wanted to go without a coat to show off her red dress, but Mama said absolutely not. She made us all, including Rula Mae, wear coats and mittens and stocking caps. Nathaniel said it was a relief because Mary in a red, sequined dress was really embarrassing. Laverne got mad and said that just because Mary wore blue robes in New York City there was not reason it had to be that way.
Mama whispered, “Be nice.”
Laverne gave a gusty sigh and told Rula Mae that people could still admire the bottom of her dress that showed under her coat, and Nathaniel said Mary certainly wouldn’t wear a dress as tattered as the bottom part of that red dress was. Laverne yelled that Joseph and Mary were poor, for heaven’s sake, and probably a tattered dress was no news to them.
“Be nice!” Mama said, not bothering to whisper this time.
Laverne sighed again as she pinned some tinsel along the sleeves of Tootie’s and my coats and told us to flap our arms up and down when we were supposed to be angels. For her own shepherd costume, she took a gunny sack and split it part way to make a hood. A few kernels of wheat fell out when she put it on her head. Nathaniel groaned.
Darwin insisted on wearing a pointed black hat Mama had made for Tootie when she was a witch in the second grade Halloween play. He said that’s what a wizard would wear, and he couldn’t see any difference between a wizard and a Wise Man. He also said he was taking Sport along to be a camel. He said it didn’t matter if camels had fleas. Laverne got our emergency kerosene lantern from its shelf because she said it was more appropriate for our play than a flashlight. When we were all ready to go, Nathaniel said, “We don’t have a Baby Jesus.”
“I’ll get one,” Tootie said. She brought forth Excelsis Deo and wrapped him in a blanket and laid him in an orange crate. The kitten must not have been theatrically inclined, because he jumped out and ran away to the barn. We took the orange crate along with us anyway to be a manger bed. We went first to the Blazers’ house because they were the closest, and we were anxious for our debut. But their house was dark.
“They probably turned out the lights and hid when they saw us coming,” Nathaniel muttered.
Nobody else said anything, and we went on through the deep snow to the Smiths’ house. They were having a party. Nervously, we set up our tableau by the light of the kerosene lantern. When Max saw Darwin set down the orange crate, he crawled into it.
“You can’t be in the manger bed,” Rula Mae said. “You’re supposed to be Joseph, Max.” She tried to lift him out, but Max cried.
“Let him stay,” Laverne said. “He can be Baby Jesus instead of Joseph.”
“He’s too big,” Nathaniel protested. “Baby Jesus is a little baby, just born. He can’t be sitting up like that.”
Laverne put her hands on her hips. “Well, we can’t have everything perfect. Now take your places and get ready.”
She yanked Nathaniel over beside Rula Mae who sat in the snow, the shreds of her red skirt spread around her.
“Okay,” Laverne said, “start singing. They’ll all come out to watch.” She led us in Away in a Manger, then Nathaniel read from St. Luke. “‘And suddenly there was with the angel...’”
“Flap your arm, Tootie,” Laverne said in a loud whisper.
“‘...A multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest.’”
We were half way through Hark the Herald Angels Sing when a man inside looked out through the window. We put new enthusiasm into our performance, but the man turned away. Nobody came out. None of us said anything as we completed our show.
We went to the Nelsons’ house where we set up our show outside the kitchen window. Inside we could see Mr. and Mrs. Nelson and their two teenage kids playing Monopoly.
“They don’t want to watch us,” Nathaniel said.
“Sing!” Laverne sounded cross.
“‘Away in a manger, no crib for a bed...’” Our voices crackled in the frosty air.
The kitchen door flew open. “What’s going on?” Mrs. Nelson bellowed.
Our song faltered to a stop. “We came to put on a show for you,” Laverne said.
“Well, thanks, but you’ll catch your death of cold,” Mrs. Nelson declared. “Go on home where it’s warm.”
“Ma,” somebody yelled in the background, “do you want to buy Baltic Avenue or don’t you?”
“Thanks for coming,” Mrs. Nelson said, shutting the door.
We stared at the closed door. Sport barked at a shadow, but the rest of us didn’t say a word as we gathered up the orange crate and started for home. It was snowing hard now, and the snow blew in our faces.
“Let’s stop for a while in the Nelsons’ barn,” Laverne suggested. “Maybe the snow will let up.”
Nathaniel groaned. “Wait ‘til I tell the guys in New York that I spent Christmas Eve in a barn.”
“Stay outside if you want to,” Laverne told him.
“We don’t care,” Tootie said in her gentle, little voice.
Rejection had made us all mean. Nathaniel followed us inside. Darwin, who carried the lantern, held it high. We walked into the center part of the barn where Mr. Nelson had thrown down hay from the loft above. Around us in the dim light we could see the eyes of the cows who placidly chewed their cuds. The horses in their stalls pricked their ears forward, and Hark, the kitten, came to the edge of the loft and looked down. We burrowed into the hay and huddled close to get warm, except for Nathaniel who stood apart. Darwin set the lantern down in the hay, but Laverne snatched it up and hung it on a nail.
“You dummy,” she said. “Do you want to burn the whole place down?”
“Sounds like a good idea,” Nathaniel said. “That would be the most excitement I’ve had since I left New York City.”
Laverne straightened up and moved close to Nathaniel. Something quivered in the air. “That would make a Christmas like nothing you ever had in New York, wouldn’t it?” She said softly, “You could tell your buddies about this whopper of a Christmas Eve out in the sticks when all the animals got fried just for your entertainment. You could tell them how Mr. Nelson lost all his equipment and how the neighbors came from miles around to see what they could do to help. Oh, it would be a really big party, Nathaniel. Too bad we can’t provide you that pleasure before you go home.” She paused for just a second. “But, to tell you the truth, I don’t think you’re ever going home. I think you’re stuck with us, Nathaniel, and we’re stuck with you.”
Her words kind of hung there in the air. She’d said something we had all suspected but had never laid tongue to. Nathaniel’s face kind of sagged, and he opened his mouth but didn’t say anything. We knew that he knew. There was silence in the barn, except for the munching of the animals and Hark, mewing in the loft above. Nathaniel stood like an actor who has forgotten his lines. We watched him, except for Max who sat in the orange crate, looking at the cows.
Suddenly Max began to sing, his reedy, little voice cutting through the cold air. “‘Away in a manger, no crib for a bed.’” Tootie joined in, then Darwin and I.
The cows stopped their chewing and a horse nickered in the night. We finished the song. Nobody moved. Then Nathaniel cleared his throat. Stepping close to the lantern, he opened the Bible and read. “‘And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus...’” He sounded hoarse.
Hark jumped down from the loft and purred. Sport sat down to scratch a flea, the thumping of his leg providing a background rhythm for Nathaniel’s reading. “‘And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.’”
Nathaniel’s voice was feathery, like the falling snow outside.
“‘And suddenly there was with the angel...’” Tootie and I flapped our arms, and the ears of the cows snapped forward. “‘...And a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying...’”
Now Nathaniel’s voice was big, and the way he read the words we could almost believe there was a multitude.
“‘Glo-o-o-o-oria, in excelsis deo,’” we all sang. Rula Mae’s face was serene as she sat there in the hay in her red sequined dress. Darwin gazed at the animals, and Laverne knelt beside the orange crate.
Our audience was quiet. Attentive. Their hairy faces reflected back the light of the lantern. We finished our show, and there was no applause except for the measured breathing of the patient beasts. We stayed where we were for what seemed like a long time. Then Laverne stood up and walked over to Nathaniel.
“That was good, Nathaniel,” she said. “I can see why you were always a reader in New York.”
Nathaniel looked round him. “This was the best I ever did.” He brushed a hand across his eyes. “And next year I’ll do it even better.” He straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath.
We gathered our things together, then moved in close to Nathaniel as we went out into the snowy night.
Nathaniel arrived at our house in September with a duffel bag and a supply of put-downs. “I hate it here,” he announced immediately. He looked first at our surrounding fields, then at Laverne, me Darwin, Rula Mae, Tootie, and Max, standing there in stair-step order of age. Last, he looked at our black and white dog, Sport, who as usual was nipping at his tail. “There’s nothing here but cows and hayseeds, and fleas,” Nathaniel continued. “I wish I could go back home to New York City.”
Within two days, the rest of the kids wished the same thing. Nathaniel did nothing except complain and haunt the mailboxes out on the road, looking for a letter from his mother.
“She said she’d write soon and tell me when I can come home,” he said every day.
And every day Darwin whispered, “I hope it comes soon.”
“Well, now,” Mama soothed, “your mother never was much of a letter writer, Nathaniel. You just be patient.”
To us Mama said, “Be nice. He’ll blend in eventually.”
Nathaniel was the son of Aunt Delia, Mama’s sister, who had run away with a rock singer when she was seventeen. The only things Mama had received from her in eleven years were a couple of phone calls and Nathaniel. The last phone call was about her getting married again, her third time. Soon after that, Nathaniel arrived.
He was still with us at Christmastime, and we hoped that the season would work some kind of magic on him, like in the story about Scrooge. But Scrooge was a pushover compared to Nathaniel. When mama started her Christmas baking, Nathaniel said he preferred the smell of hot pretzels in the New York subway. He said our little Christmas tree was nothing compared to the sky-tail wonder that was put up in Rockefeller Plaza each year. And, when we went to the nearby town of Pratt to do our Christmas shopping at the J.C. Penny store, he ruined our excitement by sneering, “You could put this whole hick town inside Macy’s department store in New York City.”
We were helping Mama make cookies on the day he told us about the store windows in New York. “They have winter scenes with skaters on ponds and toy shops and whole towns right there in the windows, and everything moves.” The best our little village could do was a lighted, plastic manger scene on the church lawn.
Laverne, who was rolling out cookie dough, put her chin up. “Well, here we go caroling and put on a show on Christmas Eve.” She whacked at the dough with the rolling pin. The caroling and the show were news to the rest of us kids. We had never done anything except make popcorn and maybe sing carols around the piano on Christmas Eve. We had only three neighbors within walking distance, and the snow was always deep at Christmas. We had never thought of caroling.
“Oh?” Nathaniel said. “What kind of a show do you do?” He seemed interested, maybe because he was always saying he was going to be an actor on Broadway when he went home to New York.
“We do a big show.” Laverne’s eyes glazed over a little. “This year we’re going to have Joseph and Mary and the Christ Child and costumes, and we’ll read from the Bible. It will be the most wonderful Christmas show ever.”
Rula Mae’s face lit up. “I’ll be Mary,” she volunteered. “I can wear my long dress.” Rula Mae’s most prized possession was a tattered chiffon formal Mama had worn, before any of us were born, when she played the part of a society girl in a community play.
Laverne frowned. “That dress is red, with silver sequins all over the top. Mary wouldn’t wear a dress like that.”
“She would if she had one,” Rula Mae said.
“When we put on Christmas shows in New York,” Nathaniel said, “we always have a Mary dressed in blue robes. And a halo that’s lighted by radiant beams from heaven afar.”
“You’re making that up,” Laverne said. “You got that from ‘Silent Night’.”
“No, I didn’t,” Nathaniel said hotly. “The halo had batteries.”
Laverne sniffed. “Well, our Mary is going to wear a red dress with a wreath of holly on her head.” She jabbed at the rolled out cookie dough with a cutter, making a row of big winged angels. “Rula Mae, you can be Mary. And Darwin can be Joseph and wear his bathrobe for a costume. And Tootie can...”
“Oh, no, I can’t,” Darwin interrupted. “I’m not going no place in my bathrobe. Nathaniel can be Joseph.”
“If I have to be in this hick show,” Nathaniel said, “I’m going to be the Bible reader. I always got to be the reader in New York.”
Darwin shrugged. “Then Max can be Joseph.”
“That’s dumb, Darwin,” Laverne said, “Max is only two years old.”
“Well, the only other guy is Sport.” Darwin pointed at our dog who, on cue, sat down to nip at his tail.
Nathaniel groaned “I’m not going to be in any stupid show where Joseph is biting fleas all the time.”
Laverne scooped up angels with a spatula and slapped them onto a baking sheet. “Fine! I wanted to be the reader anyway. You can stay here and sulk.”
“Be nice,” Mama whispered.
Laverne sighed. “All right. Max will be Joseph. Jenny,” she said to me, “you and Tootie can be angels. I’ll be the shepherds watching their flocks, and Darwin can be the Three Wise Men.” She sighed again. “Nathaniel, you can be the reader.”
“Back in New York we had multitudes of angels,” Nathaniel said.
Laverne ignored him and looked down at Tootie who was yanking at her sleeve. “Can we sing the songs about Harold and Gloria?” Tootie whispered.
The Harold and Gloria carols were Tootie’s favorites. The year before she had named our two cats Harold and Gloria, and when Gloria had two kittens, she named them Hark and Excelsis Deo. Later she gave Hark to our neighbors, the Nelsons, but we still had Excelsis Deo.
Laverne nodded. “We’ll use all the good songs, Tootie.”
“You ought to see the Christmas show at Radio City Music Hall in New York,” Nathaniel said.
We didn’t have many rehearsals because Max was always napping when the rest of us were available, but by Christmas Eve, we were ready. It was a cold night, and there had been snow flurries on and off all day. Rula Mae wanted to go without a coat to show off her red dress, but Mama said absolutely not. She made us all, including Rula Mae, wear coats and mittens and stocking caps. Nathaniel said it was a relief because Mary in a red, sequined dress was really embarrassing. Laverne got mad and said that just because Mary wore blue robes in New York City there was not reason it had to be that way.
Mama whispered, “Be nice.”
Laverne gave a gusty sigh and told Rula Mae that people could still admire the bottom of her dress that showed under her coat, and Nathaniel said Mary certainly wouldn’t wear a dress as tattered as the bottom part of that red dress was. Laverne yelled that Joseph and Mary were poor, for heaven’s sake, and probably a tattered dress was no news to them.
“Be nice!” Mama said, not bothering to whisper this time.
Laverne sighed again as she pinned some tinsel along the sleeves of Tootie’s and my coats and told us to flap our arms up and down when we were supposed to be angels. For her own shepherd costume, she took a gunny sack and split it part way to make a hood. A few kernels of wheat fell out when she put it on her head. Nathaniel groaned.
Darwin insisted on wearing a pointed black hat Mama had made for Tootie when she was a witch in the second grade Halloween play. He said that’s what a wizard would wear, and he couldn’t see any difference between a wizard and a Wise Man. He also said he was taking Sport along to be a camel. He said it didn’t matter if camels had fleas. Laverne got our emergency kerosene lantern from its shelf because she said it was more appropriate for our play than a flashlight. When we were all ready to go, Nathaniel said, “We don’t have a Baby Jesus.”
“I’ll get one,” Tootie said. She brought forth Excelsis Deo and wrapped him in a blanket and laid him in an orange crate. The kitten must not have been theatrically inclined, because he jumped out and ran away to the barn. We took the orange crate along with us anyway to be a manger bed. We went first to the Blazers’ house because they were the closest, and we were anxious for our debut. But their house was dark.
“They probably turned out the lights and hid when they saw us coming,” Nathaniel muttered.
Nobody else said anything, and we went on through the deep snow to the Smiths’ house. They were having a party. Nervously, we set up our tableau by the light of the kerosene lantern. When Max saw Darwin set down the orange crate, he crawled into it.
“You can’t be in the manger bed,” Rula Mae said. “You’re supposed to be Joseph, Max.” She tried to lift him out, but Max cried.
“Let him stay,” Laverne said. “He can be Baby Jesus instead of Joseph.”
“He’s too big,” Nathaniel protested. “Baby Jesus is a little baby, just born. He can’t be sitting up like that.”
Laverne put her hands on her hips. “Well, we can’t have everything perfect. Now take your places and get ready.”
She yanked Nathaniel over beside Rula Mae who sat in the snow, the shreds of her red skirt spread around her.
“Okay,” Laverne said, “start singing. They’ll all come out to watch.” She led us in Away in a Manger, then Nathaniel read from St. Luke. “‘And suddenly there was with the angel...’”
“Flap your arm, Tootie,” Laverne said in a loud whisper.
“‘...A multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest.’”
We were half way through Hark the Herald Angels Sing when a man inside looked out through the window. We put new enthusiasm into our performance, but the man turned away. Nobody came out. None of us said anything as we completed our show.
We went to the Nelsons’ house where we set up our show outside the kitchen window. Inside we could see Mr. and Mrs. Nelson and their two teenage kids playing Monopoly.
“They don’t want to watch us,” Nathaniel said.
“Sing!” Laverne sounded cross.
“‘Away in a manger, no crib for a bed...’” Our voices crackled in the frosty air.
The kitchen door flew open. “What’s going on?” Mrs. Nelson bellowed.
Our song faltered to a stop. “We came to put on a show for you,” Laverne said.
“Well, thanks, but you’ll catch your death of cold,” Mrs. Nelson declared. “Go on home where it’s warm.”
“Ma,” somebody yelled in the background, “do you want to buy Baltic Avenue or don’t you?”
“Thanks for coming,” Mrs. Nelson said, shutting the door.
We stared at the closed door. Sport barked at a shadow, but the rest of us didn’t say a word as we gathered up the orange crate and started for home. It was snowing hard now, and the snow blew in our faces.
“Let’s stop for a while in the Nelsons’ barn,” Laverne suggested. “Maybe the snow will let up.”
Nathaniel groaned. “Wait ‘til I tell the guys in New York that I spent Christmas Eve in a barn.”
“Stay outside if you want to,” Laverne told him.
“We don’t care,” Tootie said in her gentle, little voice.
Rejection had made us all mean. Nathaniel followed us inside. Darwin, who carried the lantern, held it high. We walked into the center part of the barn where Mr. Nelson had thrown down hay from the loft above. Around us in the dim light we could see the eyes of the cows who placidly chewed their cuds. The horses in their stalls pricked their ears forward, and Hark, the kitten, came to the edge of the loft and looked down. We burrowed into the hay and huddled close to get warm, except for Nathaniel who stood apart. Darwin set the lantern down in the hay, but Laverne snatched it up and hung it on a nail.
“You dummy,” she said. “Do you want to burn the whole place down?”
“Sounds like a good idea,” Nathaniel said. “That would be the most excitement I’ve had since I left New York City.”
Laverne straightened up and moved close to Nathaniel. Something quivered in the air. “That would make a Christmas like nothing you ever had in New York, wouldn’t it?” She said softly, “You could tell your buddies about this whopper of a Christmas Eve out in the sticks when all the animals got fried just for your entertainment. You could tell them how Mr. Nelson lost all his equipment and how the neighbors came from miles around to see what they could do to help. Oh, it would be a really big party, Nathaniel. Too bad we can’t provide you that pleasure before you go home.” She paused for just a second. “But, to tell you the truth, I don’t think you’re ever going home. I think you’re stuck with us, Nathaniel, and we’re stuck with you.”
Her words kind of hung there in the air. She’d said something we had all suspected but had never laid tongue to. Nathaniel’s face kind of sagged, and he opened his mouth but didn’t say anything. We knew that he knew. There was silence in the barn, except for the munching of the animals and Hark, mewing in the loft above. Nathaniel stood like an actor who has forgotten his lines. We watched him, except for Max who sat in the orange crate, looking at the cows.
Suddenly Max began to sing, his reedy, little voice cutting through the cold air. “‘Away in a manger, no crib for a bed.’” Tootie joined in, then Darwin and I.
The cows stopped their chewing and a horse nickered in the night. We finished the song. Nobody moved. Then Nathaniel cleared his throat. Stepping close to the lantern, he opened the Bible and read. “‘And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus...’” He sounded hoarse.
Hark jumped down from the loft and purred. Sport sat down to scratch a flea, the thumping of his leg providing a background rhythm for Nathaniel’s reading. “‘And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.’”
Nathaniel’s voice was feathery, like the falling snow outside.
“‘And suddenly there was with the angel...’” Tootie and I flapped our arms, and the ears of the cows snapped forward. “‘...And a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying...’”
Now Nathaniel’s voice was big, and the way he read the words we could almost believe there was a multitude.
“‘Glo-o-o-o-oria, in excelsis deo,’” we all sang. Rula Mae’s face was serene as she sat there in the hay in her red sequined dress. Darwin gazed at the animals, and Laverne knelt beside the orange crate.
Our audience was quiet. Attentive. Their hairy faces reflected back the light of the lantern. We finished our show, and there was no applause except for the measured breathing of the patient beasts. We stayed where we were for what seemed like a long time. Then Laverne stood up and walked over to Nathaniel.
“That was good, Nathaniel,” she said. “I can see why you were always a reader in New York.”
Nathaniel looked round him. “This was the best I ever did.” He brushed a hand across his eyes. “And next year I’ll do it even better.” He straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath.
We gathered our things together, then moved in close to Nathaniel as we went out into the snowy night.
Christmas in the Sticks
by Debby Mongeau
The year I moved to Alaska, I lived with my husband's family while he stayed in Montana and worked. I had never been around a huge family before, and he was the oldest of ten children, most of them married with kids of their own. They all lived within a forty-mile radius and used any excuse for a family gathering.
No one had any money. Kids were small, families were young, and many of the parents worked more than one job just to pay the bills.
But that first year, the Christmas of 1981, they showed me what giving was all about.
I had only been there for about six months and was still in awe of the strength and power that the love of a big family can generate. What they did that year was a long-standing tradition for them, but I had never seen anything like it.
Two days before Christmas, the entire family gathered at Mom's house. Each couple threw one hundred dollars into a pot; singles tossed in fifty dollars if they could; kids pitched in allowances or baby-sitting money.
Then the church assigned us a name and an address, and we got “our family”. We were all eager to help once we knew the situation: Dad's been out of work; the baby's been sick; Mom didn't want to put up a Christmas tree because she didn't want the children to be disappointed when Santa didn't come; the power company had shut the gas off once, but the church had paid the bill.
First we went to the grocery store. Ten adults, a dozen or more kids, we took the store by storm. Stomping snow off our boots and shedding hats and gloves, we worked up and down the aisles with five carts, soon full of turkey, dressing, potatoes, pies and Christmas candy. Someone thought of simple stuff, how about toilet paper? Did anyone get butter? What about orange juice and eggs for breakfast?
Then the kids got to work. I watched, amazed, as a six-year-old gave up her two-dollar allowance so another little girl could have new mittens. I saw a ten-year-old's eyes light up when he found the illuminated sword he'd wanted, and then put it in the cart for a little boy he didn't even know. A warm, fuzzy blanket for the baby was my four-year-old nephew's choice.
Back to Mom's to wrap the gifts. There were two separate boxes of hand-me-down clothes, sized, pressed and folded. Soon ten grocery store boxes, overflowing with holiday food, joined them.
The kids created an assembly line to wrap gifts: big gifts, little gifts, special mugs and warm driving gloves. Paper and ribbon were everywhere. Laughter was woven in and out of satiny bows; love was taped to every tag.
Colorful plastic sleds were shoved in the back of the Bronco and stashed in the available trunk space of warm cars idling in the sub-zero Christmas chill. The moon was out, and the trees were covered with hoar frost, glittering like a snow globe in a happy child's hand.
The favorite uncle got to play Santa. Dressed in a dapper red suit, he led the caravan to the trailer stuck back in the scrubby alder woods. Once we had to stop because the ruts in the snow got too deep, and someone's car bottomed out. We transferred gifts and people, and we carried on.
There were no other houses around the frosty mobile home, but the lights were on and a dog on a long rope barked from the wooden porch when we pulled up. Most of us stayed out on the main road, but we loaded the boxes on the sleds, tied them together and sent "Santa" and a few of the older kids to the door. We hung back and sang "Silent Night."
Santa and his helpers knocked and went right in when the door opened. The young family had, after all, decided to put up a tree, and they were stringing lights when we got there. They stood, stunned, as the Santa's helpers unloaded box after box, piled gifts upon gifts. It wasn't long before the tree was dwarfed by a mountain of presents.
Santa said the mom didn't start crying until she pulled the wool coat out of the clothing box. She only said, "Where did you come from?" and then, softly, "Thank you so much."
With the standard "ho, ho, ho" and lots of "Merry Christmases!" the delivery crew sprinted back to the car.
We sang one last verse of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas," jumped in our magic sleighs and disappeared into the night.
The year I moved to Alaska, I lived with my husband's family while he stayed in Montana and worked. I had never been around a huge family before, and he was the oldest of ten children, most of them married with kids of their own. They all lived within a forty-mile radius and used any excuse for a family gathering.
No one had any money. Kids were small, families were young, and many of the parents worked more than one job just to pay the bills.
But that first year, the Christmas of 1981, they showed me what giving was all about.
I had only been there for about six months and was still in awe of the strength and power that the love of a big family can generate. What they did that year was a long-standing tradition for them, but I had never seen anything like it.
Two days before Christmas, the entire family gathered at Mom's house. Each couple threw one hundred dollars into a pot; singles tossed in fifty dollars if they could; kids pitched in allowances or baby-sitting money.
Then the church assigned us a name and an address, and we got “our family”. We were all eager to help once we knew the situation: Dad's been out of work; the baby's been sick; Mom didn't want to put up a Christmas tree because she didn't want the children to be disappointed when Santa didn't come; the power company had shut the gas off once, but the church had paid the bill.
First we went to the grocery store. Ten adults, a dozen or more kids, we took the store by storm. Stomping snow off our boots and shedding hats and gloves, we worked up and down the aisles with five carts, soon full of turkey, dressing, potatoes, pies and Christmas candy. Someone thought of simple stuff, how about toilet paper? Did anyone get butter? What about orange juice and eggs for breakfast?
Then the kids got to work. I watched, amazed, as a six-year-old gave up her two-dollar allowance so another little girl could have new mittens. I saw a ten-year-old's eyes light up when he found the illuminated sword he'd wanted, and then put it in the cart for a little boy he didn't even know. A warm, fuzzy blanket for the baby was my four-year-old nephew's choice.
Back to Mom's to wrap the gifts. There were two separate boxes of hand-me-down clothes, sized, pressed and folded. Soon ten grocery store boxes, overflowing with holiday food, joined them.
The kids created an assembly line to wrap gifts: big gifts, little gifts, special mugs and warm driving gloves. Paper and ribbon were everywhere. Laughter was woven in and out of satiny bows; love was taped to every tag.
Colorful plastic sleds were shoved in the back of the Bronco and stashed in the available trunk space of warm cars idling in the sub-zero Christmas chill. The moon was out, and the trees were covered with hoar frost, glittering like a snow globe in a happy child's hand.
The favorite uncle got to play Santa. Dressed in a dapper red suit, he led the caravan to the trailer stuck back in the scrubby alder woods. Once we had to stop because the ruts in the snow got too deep, and someone's car bottomed out. We transferred gifts and people, and we carried on.
There were no other houses around the frosty mobile home, but the lights were on and a dog on a long rope barked from the wooden porch when we pulled up. Most of us stayed out on the main road, but we loaded the boxes on the sleds, tied them together and sent "Santa" and a few of the older kids to the door. We hung back and sang "Silent Night."
Santa and his helpers knocked and went right in when the door opened. The young family had, after all, decided to put up a tree, and they were stringing lights when we got there. They stood, stunned, as the Santa's helpers unloaded box after box, piled gifts upon gifts. It wasn't long before the tree was dwarfed by a mountain of presents.
Santa said the mom didn't start crying until she pulled the wool coat out of the clothing box. She only said, "Where did you come from?" and then, softly, "Thank you so much."
With the standard "ho, ho, ho" and lots of "Merry Christmases!" the delivery crew sprinted back to the car.
We sang one last verse of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas," jumped in our magic sleighs and disappeared into the night.
Just a Few Stamps Short
by Wanda Daines Hammond Vetterli
As the years pass and Christmas memories fade, one Christmas stands above the rest. The year was 1918. There was a terrible flu going around in Logan, Utah, and my father was stricken. As there were no antibiotics in those days, we waited for the change that would mean life or death.
Because of my father’s illness, Mother told us there would be no money for Christmas gifts that year. My brother and sisters and I secretly decided to do something special for our parents to show them how much they were loved. Oh, if only we could buy them special gifts! We decided we would each look for a job to earn money and then pool our savings. Henry, my older brother, found a job selling Christmas trees, chopping wood, and cleaning walks. Carmen did housework for others, and Luella, who was a fast knitter, made and sold her handiwork. I baby-sat for a mother down the street. Only Marie was too young to work. She just looked forward to Christmas.
The day before Christmas was a crisp, wintry day. A thick blanket of snow covered the streets, and the stores were full of shoppers. We all gathered in my sister’s bedroom and counted our money. We had just enough to buy Father a warm robe and Marie a doll buggy. But what about Mother? What could we get or do for her, and where would we get the extra money?
We needed Heavenly Father’s help, so as brother and sisters we knelt down and prayed with all the fervor we could muster. And then we remembered: there was an almost-full book of green stamps from Christensen’s Department Store, and the completed books could be redeemed for merchandise.
We hurried downtown and found the robe for Father and the wicker buggy for Marie, which we purchased at Christensen’s store. We received only a few stamps for our purchases, however, so we still lacked enough to fill the book. Carmen was walking through the store when a woman near the counter dropped her stamps. Carmen bent over, picked them up, and handed them back to her.
“I don’t save these,” the woman said. “Would you like them?”
Would we? We were overjoyed! Now we could buy a gift for our mother. We found a small table for just one book of stamps, but it was too heavy to carry home. We asked the clerk if it could be delivered that night, but she told us the delivery truck had already left. We must have looked very sad because she offered to contact the driver and see if he would deliver the table after hours. That night, for the first time in weeks, Father seemed better and even wanted to join us for the festivities. The temperature was below freezing outside, but we were blanketed with a warmth of love for each other. We made chains of popcorn, colored paper, and cranberries for our tree, and the spicy smell of baked cookies and pies filled the air. Friends and family dropped by, and we sang our favorite Christmas songs and shared our treats.
Mother gave us all small gifts of knitted mittens, hard candy, and stockings, but still her gift had not arrived. What if it did not come? Then there was a knock at the door and someone shouted, “Merry Christmas!” The delivery man was there with Mother’s table. We jumped up and down and cheered, and Mother had tears in her eyes.
That Christmas I learned that loving someone was more important than loving something. We felt the joy that comes from giving of ourselves, and that evening we knelt in prayer to thank Heavenly Father for His help and kind blessings.
As the years pass and Christmas memories fade, one Christmas stands above the rest. The year was 1918. There was a terrible flu going around in Logan, Utah, and my father was stricken. As there were no antibiotics in those days, we waited for the change that would mean life or death.
Because of my father’s illness, Mother told us there would be no money for Christmas gifts that year. My brother and sisters and I secretly decided to do something special for our parents to show them how much they were loved. Oh, if only we could buy them special gifts! We decided we would each look for a job to earn money and then pool our savings. Henry, my older brother, found a job selling Christmas trees, chopping wood, and cleaning walks. Carmen did housework for others, and Luella, who was a fast knitter, made and sold her handiwork. I baby-sat for a mother down the street. Only Marie was too young to work. She just looked forward to Christmas.
The day before Christmas was a crisp, wintry day. A thick blanket of snow covered the streets, and the stores were full of shoppers. We all gathered in my sister’s bedroom and counted our money. We had just enough to buy Father a warm robe and Marie a doll buggy. But what about Mother? What could we get or do for her, and where would we get the extra money?
We needed Heavenly Father’s help, so as brother and sisters we knelt down and prayed with all the fervor we could muster. And then we remembered: there was an almost-full book of green stamps from Christensen’s Department Store, and the completed books could be redeemed for merchandise.
We hurried downtown and found the robe for Father and the wicker buggy for Marie, which we purchased at Christensen’s store. We received only a few stamps for our purchases, however, so we still lacked enough to fill the book. Carmen was walking through the store when a woman near the counter dropped her stamps. Carmen bent over, picked them up, and handed them back to her.
“I don’t save these,” the woman said. “Would you like them?”
Would we? We were overjoyed! Now we could buy a gift for our mother. We found a small table for just one book of stamps, but it was too heavy to carry home. We asked the clerk if it could be delivered that night, but she told us the delivery truck had already left. We must have looked very sad because she offered to contact the driver and see if he would deliver the table after hours. That night, for the first time in weeks, Father seemed better and even wanted to join us for the festivities. The temperature was below freezing outside, but we were blanketed with a warmth of love for each other. We made chains of popcorn, colored paper, and cranberries for our tree, and the spicy smell of baked cookies and pies filled the air. Friends and family dropped by, and we sang our favorite Christmas songs and shared our treats.
Mother gave us all small gifts of knitted mittens, hard candy, and stockings, but still her gift had not arrived. What if it did not come? Then there was a knock at the door and someone shouted, “Merry Christmas!” The delivery man was there with Mother’s table. We jumped up and down and cheered, and Mother had tears in her eyes.
That Christmas I learned that loving someone was more important than loving something. We felt the joy that comes from giving of ourselves, and that evening we knelt in prayer to thank Heavenly Father for His help and kind blessings.
Daddy Will Be Home For Christmas
Author Unknown
John was such a sweet little boy. So it was no surprise to hear that he believed that his Daddy would be home for Christmas. Early in November he was telling his Sunday School Class that Daddy would be home. The Sunday school teacher went to Mary, his mother, and said, "Is Mac coming home for Christmas?"
"Oh, no," Mary responded " he is on shipboard through the New Year and is not expecting to be back for several months."
Now this was common during World War II and many families were separated for many months at a time not to mention the ones who lost their loved ones entirely. Mary went to John and tried to explain to him that Daddy would be gone much longer than that. But John stood his 3 year old ground and said "I know that Daddy is coming home for Christmas."
Mary tried to reason with him but he would not budge. Christmas Eve came and he went to sleep believing that Daddy would be home the next day.
Late in the night, the door bell rang. Mary went to the door. As she approached the huge glass door, she could see through the shadows the image of a man. She turned on the lights and there standing before her was Mac. He held a large Teddy bear, and several bags. Somehow his orders had changed only a short period before.
John knew something no one else knew. He had the "faith of a child."
John was such a sweet little boy. So it was no surprise to hear that he believed that his Daddy would be home for Christmas. Early in November he was telling his Sunday School Class that Daddy would be home. The Sunday school teacher went to Mary, his mother, and said, "Is Mac coming home for Christmas?"
"Oh, no," Mary responded " he is on shipboard through the New Year and is not expecting to be back for several months."
Now this was common during World War II and many families were separated for many months at a time not to mention the ones who lost their loved ones entirely. Mary went to John and tried to explain to him that Daddy would be gone much longer than that. But John stood his 3 year old ground and said "I know that Daddy is coming home for Christmas."
Mary tried to reason with him but he would not budge. Christmas Eve came and he went to sleep believing that Daddy would be home the next day.
Late in the night, the door bell rang. Mary went to the door. As she approached the huge glass door, she could see through the shadows the image of a man. She turned on the lights and there standing before her was Mac. He held a large Teddy bear, and several bags. Somehow his orders had changed only a short period before.
John knew something no one else knew. He had the "faith of a child."
Reluctant Scouts
by Sims W. Lowry
Each year the rescue mission in our town provides a Christmas Eve dinner for needy families and those who have no families with which to share a meal. I had become acquainted with the director of the mission and greatly admired his work. He was a nondenominational minister who had devoted his life to building and maintaining a shelter for transients and for local people in need.
One holiday season, as my thoughts turned to service to our fellow men, I approached this director with a plan. I was serving as Scoutmaster at the time and wanted the boys to have an opportunity to give service to the disadvantaged within our community. Perhaps, I thought, the Scouts could help prepare and serve the Christmas Eve dinner.
The director was delighted to have our help. The overworked mission staff needed a boost. For my part, I was happy that the Scouts would have an unusual opportunity to help those in need. I convinced five of them and their parents that this would be a worthwhile and rewarding activity, and a few hours before the dinner I began picking them up.
But my excitement waned as we journeyed to the mission. The materialism of the season had a perceptible hold on most of the boys; they were not overjoyed to interrupt their holiday festivities for another service project. Because I had been looking forward to spending time with my own family as well, I couldn’t really blame them.
As we approached the mission, driving past bars, abandoned railcars, and junkyards, I began to question my decision. Was it wise to expose our young boys to the company of these men, some of whom might be criminals and drug abusers? As we walked to the front door, I noticed a number of very rough looking characters hanging about, no doubt waiting for dinner to begin. Their haggard faces made me a little nervous.
When we entered the dining room, the delicious smell of roast turkey was in the air. The mission cooks, most of whom had been “down and out” themselves at one time, were busy putting the finishing touches on the dinner. The boys and I began setting tables, filling water pitchers, and assisting the cooks.
As we were busy with these chores, the director came into the room and announced that, because the dining room was large enough to serve only thirty at a time, the dinner would be served in shifts.
Families with children would be served first.
“Families with children?” I thought. “Surely there won’t be many in that category.”
But when the doors to the dining hall were opened, a little crowd of disheveled children scrambled in and raced to the tables to find seats. Most of them were accompanied only by their mothers. After the blessing, we began to serve the crowd. We were surprised to serve three or four shifts of mostly women and children before the men had their turn. The men and women, the young and old polished off their helpings almost as fast as we served them. They were obviously unaccustomed to such a well-prepared and delicious meal.
As the meal progressed, I noticed a very real change in the attitudes of my Scouts. One or two had been reluctant about participating in this project; now their hearts were noticeably softened as they served these hungry people. They seemed delighted to go out of their way to help clean up a spill, or to refill an empty water glass. They felt comfortable, even eager, in serving dinner and talking to some of the roughest-looking men there.
Then I felt the Spirit speak to my heart, and a scripture I had often heard came into mind: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” (Matt. 25:40.)
There, among a group of individuals that some of us would have preferred to avoid, I felt the Spirit as strong as I have felt in any testimony meeting. I knew that the boys felt this same spirit, too. As the mission staff expressed their gratitude for our help, we were sure that we had come away with much more than we had given.
I have a hunch that the boys’ Christmas that year was different from any other they had experienced before. “Let’s do it again next year,” they commented as we drove away. Of one thing I am certain:
Their Scoutmaster will never be the same.
Each year the rescue mission in our town provides a Christmas Eve dinner for needy families and those who have no families with which to share a meal. I had become acquainted with the director of the mission and greatly admired his work. He was a nondenominational minister who had devoted his life to building and maintaining a shelter for transients and for local people in need.
One holiday season, as my thoughts turned to service to our fellow men, I approached this director with a plan. I was serving as Scoutmaster at the time and wanted the boys to have an opportunity to give service to the disadvantaged within our community. Perhaps, I thought, the Scouts could help prepare and serve the Christmas Eve dinner.
The director was delighted to have our help. The overworked mission staff needed a boost. For my part, I was happy that the Scouts would have an unusual opportunity to help those in need. I convinced five of them and their parents that this would be a worthwhile and rewarding activity, and a few hours before the dinner I began picking them up.
But my excitement waned as we journeyed to the mission. The materialism of the season had a perceptible hold on most of the boys; they were not overjoyed to interrupt their holiday festivities for another service project. Because I had been looking forward to spending time with my own family as well, I couldn’t really blame them.
As we approached the mission, driving past bars, abandoned railcars, and junkyards, I began to question my decision. Was it wise to expose our young boys to the company of these men, some of whom might be criminals and drug abusers? As we walked to the front door, I noticed a number of very rough looking characters hanging about, no doubt waiting for dinner to begin. Their haggard faces made me a little nervous.
When we entered the dining room, the delicious smell of roast turkey was in the air. The mission cooks, most of whom had been “down and out” themselves at one time, were busy putting the finishing touches on the dinner. The boys and I began setting tables, filling water pitchers, and assisting the cooks.
As we were busy with these chores, the director came into the room and announced that, because the dining room was large enough to serve only thirty at a time, the dinner would be served in shifts.
Families with children would be served first.
“Families with children?” I thought. “Surely there won’t be many in that category.”
But when the doors to the dining hall were opened, a little crowd of disheveled children scrambled in and raced to the tables to find seats. Most of them were accompanied only by their mothers. After the blessing, we began to serve the crowd. We were surprised to serve three or four shifts of mostly women and children before the men had their turn. The men and women, the young and old polished off their helpings almost as fast as we served them. They were obviously unaccustomed to such a well-prepared and delicious meal.
As the meal progressed, I noticed a very real change in the attitudes of my Scouts. One or two had been reluctant about participating in this project; now their hearts were noticeably softened as they served these hungry people. They seemed delighted to go out of their way to help clean up a spill, or to refill an empty water glass. They felt comfortable, even eager, in serving dinner and talking to some of the roughest-looking men there.
Then I felt the Spirit speak to my heart, and a scripture I had often heard came into mind: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” (Matt. 25:40.)
There, among a group of individuals that some of us would have preferred to avoid, I felt the Spirit as strong as I have felt in any testimony meeting. I knew that the boys felt this same spirit, too. As the mission staff expressed their gratitude for our help, we were sure that we had come away with much more than we had given.
I have a hunch that the boys’ Christmas that year was different from any other they had experienced before. “Let’s do it again next year,” they commented as we drove away. Of one thing I am certain:
Their Scoutmaster will never be the same.
Carma’s Christmas
by Carma Rossi
December 1942 was bringing to a close another lean year. We were still suffering the effects of the depression, although, fortunately, Johnny had a job as a laundry supervisor at the new Bushnell Hospital. With the promise of permanent work, we had recently moved to Brigham City.
Little John, age three, and Yolanda, four, were eagerly looking forward to Santa’s visit, but they had kept me tied so close to home that I didn’t know anyone in town except the landlord. Even though I felt I would die of loneliness, I was too shy to improve my situation.
On Christmas Eve, on the way home from work, Johnny picked up a tree. They were cheaper that close to Christmas. The children had been put to bed twice already. The fragrant evergreen stood undecorated in front of the living room window of our small house, looking as forlorn as we felt. Neither of us uttered a word, trying not to infect each other with our gloominess.
Little John, in his blue pajamas, wandered into the room, ducking his head from the bright light. “When’s Santa coming?” he asked for the fourth time.
“Now you go back to bed, or he’ll never come,” Johnny threatened, as he untangled the strings of tree lights.
“Wanta hear the music,” Little John insisted in an effort to delay his exit.
“I’ll turn it up a little more, but you scoot!” Johnny barely brushed his bottom with a threatening pat. “You don’t want to wake Yolanda, do you?”
“Landa not asleep,” he said. As if to prove the point, Yolanda, in pink pajamas appeared in the doorway, too. The glint in her black eyes faded when she saw the naked tree. “Aren’t you going to trim the tree? Santa won’t find us.”
“Back to bed!” I ordered. Johnny seemed to need my reinforcement.
“I want to hear the music,” Yolanda also insisted.
“All right, all right. I’d think you would be tired of that same record.
We had played “White Christmas” at least twenty times. Johnny had brought home an inexpensive portable record player for our Christmas. After the purchase price, he had had enough money to buy only one record. His selection of “White Christmas” made us even more homesick for our families.
“Now I mean it. To bed!” Johnny ordered.
Little John and Yolanda disappeared into their bedroom at the no-nonsense tone in their father’s voice.
Johnny strung the lights on the tree while I unwrapped the ornaments, one by one, from their wrinkled tissue wrappers. By the time I had placed the last ornament on the green branches, the whispering and giggling from the bedroom had been replaced by long, even breathing. Little John and Yolanda slept at last.
Johnny brought out a doll for Yolanda - a doll with black hair to match hers. He lifted a little red wagon out of the box, ever so gently so it wouldn’t rattle, and put it under the tree. I stood on a chair, smoothing the crinkled silver icicles between my fingers and laying them on the branches. Johnny sat in his easy chair, directing me to the sparse spots. The strains of the music droned on for at least the twenty-fifth time: “I’m dreaming of a White Christmas...”
“We will have that record worn out the first night,” I mused from my perch on the chair. Absently, I glanced out the window and was suddenly aware that three young soldiers were standing on the sidewalk staring at me. Feeling extremely self-conscious, I went on straightening the icicles through my fingers. My first impulse was to draw the drapes, but that would have been rude. Well, they were rude to stand there and stare at me. They didn’t move. They just stood there as if someone had yelled, “Freeze!”
Then the lanky one “unfroze” and opened the door. “Please, sir,” he said. “I know this is out of the ordinary, but could we just step inside and look at your tree? It looks so beautiful from the street.”
Johnny cleared his throat. “Of course, come on in.” He opened the door wide and the three stepped into the warmth of the living room. They rubbed their cold hands together and stood awkwardly, breathing in the aroma of the tree.
“Nothing like a Christmas tree,” the lanky soldier said. “Looks like a fairy tree. Those icicles remind me of the old legend of the poor family who didn’t have anything to put on their tree and during the night the spiders decorated it. Remember?”
We all laughed, a little nervously. Still they stood, simply admiring the tree.
“You fellows stationed at Bushnell Hospital?” Johnny asked.
“Yeah, medical corps. You know the restrictions. No tree. No Christmas spirit over there at all,” the chubby one ventured. “We’re just on our way back from a movie in town. It’s tough being away from home at this time of the year.”
“Where do you live?” Johnny asked, trying to encourage conversation.
“Minnesota,” the chubby one said. “We always cut our own tree back home.”
I thought I detected a brighter glisten in his eyes as he said that last word. He blinked hard. “Hey, look at that black-haired doll. Reminds me of my little sister. Would you believe it? I sent one just like that for her Christmas. Hope she likes it.”
“She’ll love it,” I said, warming up to these homesick boys in uniform. That’s all they were - boys!
The eyes of the blond soldier left the star at the top of the tree and traveled down to the foot. “And that little red wagon. Guess you’ve got a boy and a girl?” He grinned. I nodded. “I haven’t seen a red wagon in years. Reminds me of the one I got one Christmas. Mind if I pull it?”
“Of course not,” Johnny replied.
The soldier laid the doll in the wagon and pulled it around the living room chuckling to himself. He was a little boy grown tall. They briefly chatted of home, then the lanky one said, “We’d better be getting back to the hospital.”
“Let me get you a drink of hot, spiced cider. I’m sure you can smell it simmering on the stove,” Johnny offered.
“Oh, no. We don’t want to inconvenience you. We just wanted to see a real live tree in a real live home.”
“I insist. It will warm you for the cold walk back to the hospital,” Johnny said. “Sit down.”
“Oh, no thanks. You’ve been real nice,” the chubby one responded.
“Here, want to help?” I offered, forgetting myself in the interest in them. The lanky one eagerly took a handful of icicles and started to straighten them as he had watched me doing. He could reach the high spots without a chair.
“I don’t want to spoil the tree, “ he said hesitantly.
“You won’t. You’ll do me a favor. You’re so tall,” I urged.
Johnny brought in mugs of hot cider. There was more talk of home and past Christmas trees while they sipped their cider and ate fruitcake. Too soon they were saying their goodbyes on the porch. “You don’t know how much it’s meant to us these few moments. Merry Christmas!” Warm smiles wreathed their faces as they trudged on up the street.
Johnny and I sat alone. Suddenly, the tree was more dazzling than any we could remember. The music became the most melodious way had ever heard. Each sock hanging from the back of a straight chair bulged with an orange, a banana, hardtack and nuts. What did it matter that there were only a doll and a red wagon under the tree? The children would be delighted. Our hearts were overflowing with gratitude as we enjoyed our quiet hour together, far away from family and friends.
Johnny broke the silence and put words to my own thoughts. “You know, those fellows have changed my whole outlook. We have each other and the kids, and that’s the most important. It took those lonely soldiers to bring the Christmas spirit into our home.”
December 1942 was bringing to a close another lean year. We were still suffering the effects of the depression, although, fortunately, Johnny had a job as a laundry supervisor at the new Bushnell Hospital. With the promise of permanent work, we had recently moved to Brigham City.
Little John, age three, and Yolanda, four, were eagerly looking forward to Santa’s visit, but they had kept me tied so close to home that I didn’t know anyone in town except the landlord. Even though I felt I would die of loneliness, I was too shy to improve my situation.
On Christmas Eve, on the way home from work, Johnny picked up a tree. They were cheaper that close to Christmas. The children had been put to bed twice already. The fragrant evergreen stood undecorated in front of the living room window of our small house, looking as forlorn as we felt. Neither of us uttered a word, trying not to infect each other with our gloominess.
Little John, in his blue pajamas, wandered into the room, ducking his head from the bright light. “When’s Santa coming?” he asked for the fourth time.
“Now you go back to bed, or he’ll never come,” Johnny threatened, as he untangled the strings of tree lights.
“Wanta hear the music,” Little John insisted in an effort to delay his exit.
“I’ll turn it up a little more, but you scoot!” Johnny barely brushed his bottom with a threatening pat. “You don’t want to wake Yolanda, do you?”
“Landa not asleep,” he said. As if to prove the point, Yolanda, in pink pajamas appeared in the doorway, too. The glint in her black eyes faded when she saw the naked tree. “Aren’t you going to trim the tree? Santa won’t find us.”
“Back to bed!” I ordered. Johnny seemed to need my reinforcement.
“I want to hear the music,” Yolanda also insisted.
“All right, all right. I’d think you would be tired of that same record.
We had played “White Christmas” at least twenty times. Johnny had brought home an inexpensive portable record player for our Christmas. After the purchase price, he had had enough money to buy only one record. His selection of “White Christmas” made us even more homesick for our families.
“Now I mean it. To bed!” Johnny ordered.
Little John and Yolanda disappeared into their bedroom at the no-nonsense tone in their father’s voice.
Johnny strung the lights on the tree while I unwrapped the ornaments, one by one, from their wrinkled tissue wrappers. By the time I had placed the last ornament on the green branches, the whispering and giggling from the bedroom had been replaced by long, even breathing. Little John and Yolanda slept at last.
Johnny brought out a doll for Yolanda - a doll with black hair to match hers. He lifted a little red wagon out of the box, ever so gently so it wouldn’t rattle, and put it under the tree. I stood on a chair, smoothing the crinkled silver icicles between my fingers and laying them on the branches. Johnny sat in his easy chair, directing me to the sparse spots. The strains of the music droned on for at least the twenty-fifth time: “I’m dreaming of a White Christmas...”
“We will have that record worn out the first night,” I mused from my perch on the chair. Absently, I glanced out the window and was suddenly aware that three young soldiers were standing on the sidewalk staring at me. Feeling extremely self-conscious, I went on straightening the icicles through my fingers. My first impulse was to draw the drapes, but that would have been rude. Well, they were rude to stand there and stare at me. They didn’t move. They just stood there as if someone had yelled, “Freeze!”
Then the lanky one “unfroze” and opened the door. “Please, sir,” he said. “I know this is out of the ordinary, but could we just step inside and look at your tree? It looks so beautiful from the street.”
Johnny cleared his throat. “Of course, come on in.” He opened the door wide and the three stepped into the warmth of the living room. They rubbed their cold hands together and stood awkwardly, breathing in the aroma of the tree.
“Nothing like a Christmas tree,” the lanky soldier said. “Looks like a fairy tree. Those icicles remind me of the old legend of the poor family who didn’t have anything to put on their tree and during the night the spiders decorated it. Remember?”
We all laughed, a little nervously. Still they stood, simply admiring the tree.
“You fellows stationed at Bushnell Hospital?” Johnny asked.
“Yeah, medical corps. You know the restrictions. No tree. No Christmas spirit over there at all,” the chubby one ventured. “We’re just on our way back from a movie in town. It’s tough being away from home at this time of the year.”
“Where do you live?” Johnny asked, trying to encourage conversation.
“Minnesota,” the chubby one said. “We always cut our own tree back home.”
I thought I detected a brighter glisten in his eyes as he said that last word. He blinked hard. “Hey, look at that black-haired doll. Reminds me of my little sister. Would you believe it? I sent one just like that for her Christmas. Hope she likes it.”
“She’ll love it,” I said, warming up to these homesick boys in uniform. That’s all they were - boys!
The eyes of the blond soldier left the star at the top of the tree and traveled down to the foot. “And that little red wagon. Guess you’ve got a boy and a girl?” He grinned. I nodded. “I haven’t seen a red wagon in years. Reminds me of the one I got one Christmas. Mind if I pull it?”
“Of course not,” Johnny replied.
The soldier laid the doll in the wagon and pulled it around the living room chuckling to himself. He was a little boy grown tall. They briefly chatted of home, then the lanky one said, “We’d better be getting back to the hospital.”
“Let me get you a drink of hot, spiced cider. I’m sure you can smell it simmering on the stove,” Johnny offered.
“Oh, no. We don’t want to inconvenience you. We just wanted to see a real live tree in a real live home.”
“I insist. It will warm you for the cold walk back to the hospital,” Johnny said. “Sit down.”
“Oh, no thanks. You’ve been real nice,” the chubby one responded.
“Here, want to help?” I offered, forgetting myself in the interest in them. The lanky one eagerly took a handful of icicles and started to straighten them as he had watched me doing. He could reach the high spots without a chair.
“I don’t want to spoil the tree, “ he said hesitantly.
“You won’t. You’ll do me a favor. You’re so tall,” I urged.
Johnny brought in mugs of hot cider. There was more talk of home and past Christmas trees while they sipped their cider and ate fruitcake. Too soon they were saying their goodbyes on the porch. “You don’t know how much it’s meant to us these few moments. Merry Christmas!” Warm smiles wreathed their faces as they trudged on up the street.
Johnny and I sat alone. Suddenly, the tree was more dazzling than any we could remember. The music became the most melodious way had ever heard. Each sock hanging from the back of a straight chair bulged with an orange, a banana, hardtack and nuts. What did it matter that there were only a doll and a red wagon under the tree? The children would be delighted. Our hearts were overflowing with gratitude as we enjoyed our quiet hour together, far away from family and friends.
Johnny broke the silence and put words to my own thoughts. “You know, those fellows have changed my whole outlook. We have each other and the kids, and that’s the most important. It took those lonely soldiers to bring the Christmas spirit into our home.”
Unexpected Star
by Margreta Spencer
In Belfast, in quieter times, I had two roommates, girls of another faith whom I had met through a mutual friend. None of us had any extra money. Carol and Anne were both midwifery students, and I was saving for a postgraduate nursing course.
Our apartment was dismal, faded, and hard to bear, but we could find no other place within our means.
Nevertheless, Carol and Anne decided to call the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children and offer to give a Christmas party for 12 needy children. Of course, I agreed to help with the work and the financing as did Carol’s sister Marian.
I had seen some of the miseries of the slums. The most appalling thing I remembered was a little girl in a torn summer dress sitting on the cold, windy sidewalk molding a lump of filthy clay because she had no other toy. I could not now find and help that child, but I could try to help some others.
Our Christmas tree was two feet high, decorated with nine small glass balls, one package of tin foil icicles, and a star we had made from the foil inside a cracker box. The room was decorated with a few streamers and a dozen balloons. The food was simple - fried potatoes and sausages, grilled tomatoes, cookies, and orangeade. Fancy food is almost unknown to ghetto children, and we were afraid they would not eat anything unfamiliar. Besides, we couldn’t afford it. The 12 gifts were small and inexpensive: a string of plastic beads, a doll’s feeding set, a young child’s picture book, small toys and games. And, remembering the girl on the sidewalk, I bought a package of clay.
The children arrived semi-clean and in their best rags. Eleven, twelve, thirteen! One of the girls had come with her toddler sister, who had refused to stay at home. This presented a problem. In those days, my annual project for the Relief Society bazaar was dressing little plastic dolls in sturdy clothes for girls to play with. Several were in my room. I quickly wrapped one of them in the last scrap of tissue paper for our extra guest and hurriedly put it under the tree.
Most of the children stood in a group at the door, but one determined boy about eight years old examined all the gifts through the paper. “If you don’t mind, Missus,” he declared, “I’ll have this game of blow football for me and my mates.”
Carol smiled but was firm. “We’re giving out the presents at the end of the party. Right now we’re going to play some games.”
We played their game; they played our games. We told stories; they related past experiences. We sang songs and grew decidedly tired of the children’s favorite, “Jingle Bells”.
“Last year,” announced the oldest girl, trying to be sophisticated in an ill-fitting sheath and high heels much too large, “I was to a party in the Linen Makers’ Hall. Hundreds of us there were, and a tree 30 feet high.”
“Was it grand?” ask a slightly envious voice.
“It wasn’t, for no one had time to talk with us like these good ladies are doing,” she replied.
We served the simple food, which first brought forth cries of delight and then the silence of serious eating.
“You’ve left food on your plate,” objected our blow football elf to his neighbor.
“I can’t eat it,” she replied, “for I’ve never had this much food on me plate at once.”
“Give it here, then, for tis a shame to waste good food.” He ate several children’s leavings and then conceded defeat. He could not prevent a few scraps from going to waste. We gave him a blow football game. We gave the 12-year-old would be sophisticate the plastic beads. We gave the doll’s feeding set to a seven-year-old Raggedy Ann.
“It’s no use to me, Missus. I ain’t got a doll.” So the Relief Society lost another plastic doll. This time it was wrapped in writing paper, and we pretended it had fallen behind the tree.
“Tis the best party I was ever at,” someone announced with satisfaction. “I felt right to go home.”
I thought then that I had learned something about giving, but I was shortly to learn more. The sophisticate, I noticed, had traded her beads for the clay, the clay for the baby’s picture book.
“Sure it’ll do,” she said, trying to rewrap it. The used cellophane tape wouldn’t stick. “And would you have a bit of string, Missus? And a pencil, please?”
I produced them wondering. She tied the parcel awkwardly, and in large uneven letters, she printed on it ”TOMMY”. She saw me looking and she explained, “Tis my wee brother, Missus. Nobody invited him to a party, and we can’t afford him no present.”
Ragged, messy, little girl in your run-over, outsized heels, I seem to remember that you are beautiful.
In Belfast, in quieter times, I had two roommates, girls of another faith whom I had met through a mutual friend. None of us had any extra money. Carol and Anne were both midwifery students, and I was saving for a postgraduate nursing course.
Our apartment was dismal, faded, and hard to bear, but we could find no other place within our means.
Nevertheless, Carol and Anne decided to call the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children and offer to give a Christmas party for 12 needy children. Of course, I agreed to help with the work and the financing as did Carol’s sister Marian.
I had seen some of the miseries of the slums. The most appalling thing I remembered was a little girl in a torn summer dress sitting on the cold, windy sidewalk molding a lump of filthy clay because she had no other toy. I could not now find and help that child, but I could try to help some others.
Our Christmas tree was two feet high, decorated with nine small glass balls, one package of tin foil icicles, and a star we had made from the foil inside a cracker box. The room was decorated with a few streamers and a dozen balloons. The food was simple - fried potatoes and sausages, grilled tomatoes, cookies, and orangeade. Fancy food is almost unknown to ghetto children, and we were afraid they would not eat anything unfamiliar. Besides, we couldn’t afford it. The 12 gifts were small and inexpensive: a string of plastic beads, a doll’s feeding set, a young child’s picture book, small toys and games. And, remembering the girl on the sidewalk, I bought a package of clay.
The children arrived semi-clean and in their best rags. Eleven, twelve, thirteen! One of the girls had come with her toddler sister, who had refused to stay at home. This presented a problem. In those days, my annual project for the Relief Society bazaar was dressing little plastic dolls in sturdy clothes for girls to play with. Several were in my room. I quickly wrapped one of them in the last scrap of tissue paper for our extra guest and hurriedly put it under the tree.
Most of the children stood in a group at the door, but one determined boy about eight years old examined all the gifts through the paper. “If you don’t mind, Missus,” he declared, “I’ll have this game of blow football for me and my mates.”
Carol smiled but was firm. “We’re giving out the presents at the end of the party. Right now we’re going to play some games.”
We played their game; they played our games. We told stories; they related past experiences. We sang songs and grew decidedly tired of the children’s favorite, “Jingle Bells”.
“Last year,” announced the oldest girl, trying to be sophisticated in an ill-fitting sheath and high heels much too large, “I was to a party in the Linen Makers’ Hall. Hundreds of us there were, and a tree 30 feet high.”
“Was it grand?” ask a slightly envious voice.
“It wasn’t, for no one had time to talk with us like these good ladies are doing,” she replied.
We served the simple food, which first brought forth cries of delight and then the silence of serious eating.
“You’ve left food on your plate,” objected our blow football elf to his neighbor.
“I can’t eat it,” she replied, “for I’ve never had this much food on me plate at once.”
“Give it here, then, for tis a shame to waste good food.” He ate several children’s leavings and then conceded defeat. He could not prevent a few scraps from going to waste. We gave him a blow football game. We gave the 12-year-old would be sophisticate the plastic beads. We gave the doll’s feeding set to a seven-year-old Raggedy Ann.
“It’s no use to me, Missus. I ain’t got a doll.” So the Relief Society lost another plastic doll. This time it was wrapped in writing paper, and we pretended it had fallen behind the tree.
“Tis the best party I was ever at,” someone announced with satisfaction. “I felt right to go home.”
I thought then that I had learned something about giving, but I was shortly to learn more. The sophisticate, I noticed, had traded her beads for the clay, the clay for the baby’s picture book.
“Sure it’ll do,” she said, trying to rewrap it. The used cellophane tape wouldn’t stick. “And would you have a bit of string, Missus? And a pencil, please?”
I produced them wondering. She tied the parcel awkwardly, and in large uneven letters, she printed on it ”TOMMY”. She saw me looking and she explained, “Tis my wee brother, Missus. Nobody invited him to a party, and we can’t afford him no present.”
Ragged, messy, little girl in your run-over, outsized heels, I seem to remember that you are beautiful.
Far, Far, Away on Judea's Plains
by Jeanne P. Lawler
I was a missionary "Far, Far Away" in Bangalore, India, for Christmas in 1993. On the first week of December, three days after I arrived, I was asked if I would help organize and direct a choir in the Bangalore Branch of our Church. I said, "Happy to." The members wanted to participate in a choir festival that was an annual event in Bangalore. I selected the above number and sixteen people attended the two enthusiastic rehearsals which were held on a rooftop of a member's home. None of them were familiar with part singing, so we sang in unison without musical accompaniment. Should there be piano, I would play it.
We were not aware what this "festival" entailed. The date of the performance arrived. As we alighted from our harrowing rickshaw ride to the location in downtown Bangalore, we stood gaping before a huge city building, draped with a large banner that read Festival of Choirs. Stunned, we walked up the broad flight of stairs and into the foyer which was milling with costumed participants. We scrambled to get a printed program. This was a BIG event! Listed were the names of several church, college and university choirs who were participating. We were listed as the "L.D.S. Choir (Mormon's Tabernacle)." We gasped! We didn't know whether to laugh or to cry.
We went aside and prayed, pleading for heavenly help. I turned to my companion and said, "You'll have to direct."
She said "I've never done that before in my life!"
I replied "Just smile, make a figure eight and look confident."
When the curtain opened for our number, my companion had our Indian "Mormon's Tabernacle Choir" arranged on risers ready to perform. All seven ladies on the front row wore beautiful saris and the nine men behind them wore suits and white shirts. The director was magnificent. She even took a bow! I took a deep breath as I sat down to accompany them on an old upright piano with missing ivories. The shock from the sound of the first chord nearly threw me off the choir, but when she raised her hand and started her figure eight, I could hardly play, and I don't know if I did.
It was as if The Choir, whose name we bore on the printed program, were singing. I knew then out prayers were heard and a choir of angels was singing with our little choir. As the last note sounded, there was silence; then, thunderous applause from the packed auditorium. The curtains closed and we wept and jumped for joy. Guess who won a prize? We did!
The fourth verse says "Hasten the time when, from ev'ry clime, Men shall unite in the strains sublime." It happened in India! My husband loved this hymn, and it was sung at his memorial service in 1986. Fred was not gifted musically while in mortality, but I like to believe that he was among those summoned to sing "Far, Far Away on Judea's Plains" with the L.D.S. Choir (Mormon's Tabernacle) in Bangalore, India.
I was a missionary "Far, Far Away" in Bangalore, India, for Christmas in 1993. On the first week of December, three days after I arrived, I was asked if I would help organize and direct a choir in the Bangalore Branch of our Church. I said, "Happy to." The members wanted to participate in a choir festival that was an annual event in Bangalore. I selected the above number and sixteen people attended the two enthusiastic rehearsals which were held on a rooftop of a member's home. None of them were familiar with part singing, so we sang in unison without musical accompaniment. Should there be piano, I would play it.
We were not aware what this "festival" entailed. The date of the performance arrived. As we alighted from our harrowing rickshaw ride to the location in downtown Bangalore, we stood gaping before a huge city building, draped with a large banner that read Festival of Choirs. Stunned, we walked up the broad flight of stairs and into the foyer which was milling with costumed participants. We scrambled to get a printed program. This was a BIG event! Listed were the names of several church, college and university choirs who were participating. We were listed as the "L.D.S. Choir (Mormon's Tabernacle)." We gasped! We didn't know whether to laugh or to cry.
We went aside and prayed, pleading for heavenly help. I turned to my companion and said, "You'll have to direct."
She said "I've never done that before in my life!"
I replied "Just smile, make a figure eight and look confident."
When the curtain opened for our number, my companion had our Indian "Mormon's Tabernacle Choir" arranged on risers ready to perform. All seven ladies on the front row wore beautiful saris and the nine men behind them wore suits and white shirts. The director was magnificent. She even took a bow! I took a deep breath as I sat down to accompany them on an old upright piano with missing ivories. The shock from the sound of the first chord nearly threw me off the choir, but when she raised her hand and started her figure eight, I could hardly play, and I don't know if I did.
It was as if The Choir, whose name we bore on the printed program, were singing. I knew then out prayers were heard and a choir of angels was singing with our little choir. As the last note sounded, there was silence; then, thunderous applause from the packed auditorium. The curtains closed and we wept and jumped for joy. Guess who won a prize? We did!
The fourth verse says "Hasten the time when, from ev'ry clime, Men shall unite in the strains sublime." It happened in India! My husband loved this hymn, and it was sung at his memorial service in 1986. Fred was not gifted musically while in mortality, but I like to believe that he was among those summoned to sing "Far, Far Away on Judea's Plains" with the L.D.S. Choir (Mormon's Tabernacle) in Bangalore, India.
The Twelve Days of Christmas
by Janet K. Brennan
It was Christmas. The snow that gently hugged the tips of the mountains and the farolitos (paper lanterns) that graced the homes and business establishments in the desert Southwest told me so. But it was not Christmas in my heart. My children were busy with their holiday parties, and simply baking the perfunctory cookies for them was a massive chore. You see, tragedy had struck our family just four months earlier by way of the untimely and sad death of my oldest daughter, Kristen.
Christmas was just two weeks away, and my parents decided to fly out and join us. They had not weathered the death of their grandchild well. It was good that we would all be together for this holiday. Little did we know what was about to happen to us on that holiday.
It was a quiet night. The lights of Albuquerque sparkled below us, and I had just finished playing Christmas songs on my piano when the front doorbell chimed. My son, Nick, was quick to see who had come to visit us this late.
“What in the world?” he exclaimed. “There is no one here.”
My daughter, Kate, ran to the door and gasped in surprise. Sitting on the front porch was a beautiful white candle covered in a glass dome. The fire of the candle danced merrily, and we quickly brought it inside. How nice! Who could have given us such a nice present? Why didn’t they stay so that we could thank them? So many questions!
The following night, after a particularly stressful day, we once again heard the sound of the doorbell. The children laughed merrily. This time, a basket of freshly baked ginger cookies was left for us. They were still warm and covered with a clean red checkered dishtowel. Nick quickly ran out onto the porch and into the driveway. No one was there.
What was going on? Who could be doing this? And how could they disappear so quickly without a trace into the night?
On the third night, we waited with anticipation. Nick had a plan that he felt would be foolproof. He would be ready this time if the doorbell rang. He camped out in the foyer, directly in front of the door. Sure enough, this time, there came a knock. Before anyone had a chance to respond, Nick swung open the door. However, much to his chagrin, he wasn’t fast enough. Nestled among delicate green foil were two crystal tree ornaments. They were filled with a fragrant, spicy potpourri. We immediately placed them in a prominent location on our Christmas tree. This was fun! My father’s eyes sparkled with life, and my mother’s face was lit with a happy smile. How wonderful! Someone was playing the “Twelve Days of Christmas” on us. But who? Who could be doing such a wonderful thing?
The fourth night arrived, accompanied by a storm. Wind and snow lapped against our windows with a fury, and we were certain we would not receive a visit from our Christmas Ghost on such a dreary and cold night. We were wrong! Right on schedule, the front door rattled with a knock, and this time, two tiny, wooden angels with starched lace wings were left behind for us to behold. The children ran to the end of the porch. Nothing could be seen, not even a footprint in the snow. Such a mystery!
On the fifth, sixth, and seventh nights, we received tall, honey wax candles, a nut bread bursting with cherries and almonds, and a tiny nutcracker carved from clothespins and held together with pipe cleaners. Now it was time to get down to serious business. Our curiosity was piqued. We simply had to know our mystery benefactor.
“No,” said my father. “Whoever it is does not want to be seen, and it is our responsibility to keep it that way. This is part of the gift. This angel is also receiving a gift, the pure and obvious joy of giving, secure in the knowledge that he or she is bringing joy to this family at a very difficult time.”
He, of course, was right.
On the eighth night, we waited. No one came. Disappointed and tired, we went to bed. We had come to look forward to our nocturnal visits and now wondered why they had stopped. Morning dawned brightly, and when my husband stepped outside to retrieve his paper, lo and behold! On our threshold were two gifts: a red poinsettia, and a lovely Christmas cactus that was preparing to bloom. Our friend had truly caught us off guard this time. Indeed, our eighth and ninth day gifts had been quietly left outside our door sometime during the night.
On the tenth night, we received an apple pie, steaming hot and carefully wrapped in red and green napkins. On the eleventh day, brown and white handmade coasters made of cardboard and lined with satin ribbon were left. So lovely!
Christmas Eve was upon us, and it had happened so quickly that we forgot our sad spirit. Our sweet angel had taken our minds from our loss and had treated us to a very different kind of Christmas. It was one that we had never anticipated. Each night, the children had run outside in a vain effort to catch a glimpse of our benevolent friends, and yet, on the twelfth night, we still had no idea who had so diligently and kindly bestowed us with its sweet blessings.
On the twelfth day - Christmas Day - we sat in the living room. All of our gifts had been exchanged, and we had enjoyed a quiet family dinner. It had been a good Christmas, after all, loving and joyous. Then, as usual, the front doorbell rang. Right on cue, our secret Santa disappeared into the night, leaving behind a small white envelope. Upon opening it, we found that our twelfth Christmas gift was a message, neatly written in a child’s hand. It read:
I am the spirit of Christmas
Which is PEACE
I am the spirit of gladness - HOPE
I am the heart of Christmas, which is LOVE
Have a Merry Christmas!
We were changed from that night on. We began to heal. Going on with our lives seemed a bit easier. We never knew who left all of those wonderful gifts. We did, however, divine the “Spirit of Christmas” and how important it is to take the time for friends. We learned how essential it is to bring a bit of sunshine into a dark place, not simply at Christmas, but all year through.
It was Christmas. The snow that gently hugged the tips of the mountains and the farolitos (paper lanterns) that graced the homes and business establishments in the desert Southwest told me so. But it was not Christmas in my heart. My children were busy with their holiday parties, and simply baking the perfunctory cookies for them was a massive chore. You see, tragedy had struck our family just four months earlier by way of the untimely and sad death of my oldest daughter, Kristen.
Christmas was just two weeks away, and my parents decided to fly out and join us. They had not weathered the death of their grandchild well. It was good that we would all be together for this holiday. Little did we know what was about to happen to us on that holiday.
It was a quiet night. The lights of Albuquerque sparkled below us, and I had just finished playing Christmas songs on my piano when the front doorbell chimed. My son, Nick, was quick to see who had come to visit us this late.
“What in the world?” he exclaimed. “There is no one here.”
My daughter, Kate, ran to the door and gasped in surprise. Sitting on the front porch was a beautiful white candle covered in a glass dome. The fire of the candle danced merrily, and we quickly brought it inside. How nice! Who could have given us such a nice present? Why didn’t they stay so that we could thank them? So many questions!
The following night, after a particularly stressful day, we once again heard the sound of the doorbell. The children laughed merrily. This time, a basket of freshly baked ginger cookies was left for us. They were still warm and covered with a clean red checkered dishtowel. Nick quickly ran out onto the porch and into the driveway. No one was there.
What was going on? Who could be doing this? And how could they disappear so quickly without a trace into the night?
On the third night, we waited with anticipation. Nick had a plan that he felt would be foolproof. He would be ready this time if the doorbell rang. He camped out in the foyer, directly in front of the door. Sure enough, this time, there came a knock. Before anyone had a chance to respond, Nick swung open the door. However, much to his chagrin, he wasn’t fast enough. Nestled among delicate green foil were two crystal tree ornaments. They were filled with a fragrant, spicy potpourri. We immediately placed them in a prominent location on our Christmas tree. This was fun! My father’s eyes sparkled with life, and my mother’s face was lit with a happy smile. How wonderful! Someone was playing the “Twelve Days of Christmas” on us. But who? Who could be doing such a wonderful thing?
The fourth night arrived, accompanied by a storm. Wind and snow lapped against our windows with a fury, and we were certain we would not receive a visit from our Christmas Ghost on such a dreary and cold night. We were wrong! Right on schedule, the front door rattled with a knock, and this time, two tiny, wooden angels with starched lace wings were left behind for us to behold. The children ran to the end of the porch. Nothing could be seen, not even a footprint in the snow. Such a mystery!
On the fifth, sixth, and seventh nights, we received tall, honey wax candles, a nut bread bursting with cherries and almonds, and a tiny nutcracker carved from clothespins and held together with pipe cleaners. Now it was time to get down to serious business. Our curiosity was piqued. We simply had to know our mystery benefactor.
“No,” said my father. “Whoever it is does not want to be seen, and it is our responsibility to keep it that way. This is part of the gift. This angel is also receiving a gift, the pure and obvious joy of giving, secure in the knowledge that he or she is bringing joy to this family at a very difficult time.”
He, of course, was right.
On the eighth night, we waited. No one came. Disappointed and tired, we went to bed. We had come to look forward to our nocturnal visits and now wondered why they had stopped. Morning dawned brightly, and when my husband stepped outside to retrieve his paper, lo and behold! On our threshold were two gifts: a red poinsettia, and a lovely Christmas cactus that was preparing to bloom. Our friend had truly caught us off guard this time. Indeed, our eighth and ninth day gifts had been quietly left outside our door sometime during the night.
On the tenth night, we received an apple pie, steaming hot and carefully wrapped in red and green napkins. On the eleventh day, brown and white handmade coasters made of cardboard and lined with satin ribbon were left. So lovely!
Christmas Eve was upon us, and it had happened so quickly that we forgot our sad spirit. Our sweet angel had taken our minds from our loss and had treated us to a very different kind of Christmas. It was one that we had never anticipated. Each night, the children had run outside in a vain effort to catch a glimpse of our benevolent friends, and yet, on the twelfth night, we still had no idea who had so diligently and kindly bestowed us with its sweet blessings.
On the twelfth day - Christmas Day - we sat in the living room. All of our gifts had been exchanged, and we had enjoyed a quiet family dinner. It had been a good Christmas, after all, loving and joyous. Then, as usual, the front doorbell rang. Right on cue, our secret Santa disappeared into the night, leaving behind a small white envelope. Upon opening it, we found that our twelfth Christmas gift was a message, neatly written in a child’s hand. It read:
I am the spirit of Christmas
Which is PEACE
I am the spirit of gladness - HOPE
I am the heart of Christmas, which is LOVE
Have a Merry Christmas!
We were changed from that night on. We began to heal. Going on with our lives seemed a bit easier. We never knew who left all of those wonderful gifts. We did, however, divine the “Spirit of Christmas” and how important it is to take the time for friends. We learned how essential it is to bring a bit of sunshine into a dark place, not simply at Christmas, but all year through.
The Sharing Session
by Marion Brenish
As a California tourist unaccustomed to single digits, the bitter cold of that December day in Washington, D.C., was dampening my holiday mood. Accounting for the windchill factor, the temperature was below zero. When I ducked into Union Station, I hoped only to get warm. What I got was a lesson in the real meaning of the season from a homeless person.
Warmth was slowly being restored to my hands and feet as I settled onto one of the public benches with a gleaming cup of coffee. Now I was ready to relax and do some serious people watching. I noticed a homeless man seated nearby and several tables of diners spilling out into the great hall from the upscale America Restaurant. Heavenly aromas from gourmet treats were tempting me to consider an early dinner. From the longing look in my neighbor's eye it was obvious that he, too, had not failed to notice the banquet taking place around us. I wondered how long it had been since he had eaten anything. Expecting he would approach me for a handout, I welcomed such a plea on his part. He never did. The more I took in this scene, the crueler his plight seemed. My head and heart were battling it out: the former telling me to mind my own business, and the latter urging me to make an immediate trip to the food court on his behalf.
While this internal debate was raging, a well-dressed young couple suddenly approached. "Excuse me, sir," began the husband. "My wife and I just finished eating and our appetite wasn't as big as we thought. We hate to waste good food. Can you help us out and put this to good use?" The kind stranger handed a large styrofoam container overflowing with goodies. "God bless you both. Merry Christmas," came the grateful reply. Feeling good about what I had seen, but dismayed by my own lack of action, I observed my neighbor's response to his sudden good fortune. First he scrutinized his newfound bounty, arranging the soup crackers, inspecting the club sandwich and stirring the salad dressing. Then he slowly lifted the lid off the soup, inhaling the aroma and cupping his hands around the steaming bowl. It was obvious that he was going to prolong the enjoyment of this miracle meal. Finally, he appeared ready for that long dreamed of first taste. Meticulously unwrapping the plastic spoon, he filled it to overflowing, lifted it towards his mouth and with a suddenness that stunned me stopped dead in his tracks.
The reason for this unexpected behavior soon became clear. Entering the hall and shuffling in our direction was a new arrival. In his seventies (or so he appeared), hatless and gloveless, he was clad in lightweight pants, a threadbare jacket and open shoes. His hands were raw and his face had a bluish tint. I wasn't alone in gasping aloud at this sad sight, but my neighbor was the only one doing anything about it. Quickly pulling aside his treasure, he leaped up and guided the elderly man to an adjacent seat. He took the old man's hands and rubbed them in his own. He tenderly draped his down jacket over the older man's shoulders. Finally, he spoke. "Pop, my name's Jack, and one of God's angels brought me this meal. I just finished eating, and I hate to waste good food. Can you help me out?" Placing the steaming cup of soup in the stranger's hands, he didn't wait for an answer. But he got one. "Sure, Son, but only if you go halfway with me on that sandwich. It's too much for a man my age."
It wasn't easy making my way to the food court with tears blurring my vision, but I soon returned with the largest containers of coffee and the biggest assortment of pastries possible. "Excuse me, gentlemen, but..."
My parents, like yours, taught me to share, but it wasn't until that day in Union Station that I truly learned the meaning of that word. I left the hall feeling warmer than I had ever thought possible.
As a California tourist unaccustomed to single digits, the bitter cold of that December day in Washington, D.C., was dampening my holiday mood. Accounting for the windchill factor, the temperature was below zero. When I ducked into Union Station, I hoped only to get warm. What I got was a lesson in the real meaning of the season from a homeless person.
Warmth was slowly being restored to my hands and feet as I settled onto one of the public benches with a gleaming cup of coffee. Now I was ready to relax and do some serious people watching. I noticed a homeless man seated nearby and several tables of diners spilling out into the great hall from the upscale America Restaurant. Heavenly aromas from gourmet treats were tempting me to consider an early dinner. From the longing look in my neighbor's eye it was obvious that he, too, had not failed to notice the banquet taking place around us. I wondered how long it had been since he had eaten anything. Expecting he would approach me for a handout, I welcomed such a plea on his part. He never did. The more I took in this scene, the crueler his plight seemed. My head and heart were battling it out: the former telling me to mind my own business, and the latter urging me to make an immediate trip to the food court on his behalf.
While this internal debate was raging, a well-dressed young couple suddenly approached. "Excuse me, sir," began the husband. "My wife and I just finished eating and our appetite wasn't as big as we thought. We hate to waste good food. Can you help us out and put this to good use?" The kind stranger handed a large styrofoam container overflowing with goodies. "God bless you both. Merry Christmas," came the grateful reply. Feeling good about what I had seen, but dismayed by my own lack of action, I observed my neighbor's response to his sudden good fortune. First he scrutinized his newfound bounty, arranging the soup crackers, inspecting the club sandwich and stirring the salad dressing. Then he slowly lifted the lid off the soup, inhaling the aroma and cupping his hands around the steaming bowl. It was obvious that he was going to prolong the enjoyment of this miracle meal. Finally, he appeared ready for that long dreamed of first taste. Meticulously unwrapping the plastic spoon, he filled it to overflowing, lifted it towards his mouth and with a suddenness that stunned me stopped dead in his tracks.
The reason for this unexpected behavior soon became clear. Entering the hall and shuffling in our direction was a new arrival. In his seventies (or so he appeared), hatless and gloveless, he was clad in lightweight pants, a threadbare jacket and open shoes. His hands were raw and his face had a bluish tint. I wasn't alone in gasping aloud at this sad sight, but my neighbor was the only one doing anything about it. Quickly pulling aside his treasure, he leaped up and guided the elderly man to an adjacent seat. He took the old man's hands and rubbed them in his own. He tenderly draped his down jacket over the older man's shoulders. Finally, he spoke. "Pop, my name's Jack, and one of God's angels brought me this meal. I just finished eating, and I hate to waste good food. Can you help me out?" Placing the steaming cup of soup in the stranger's hands, he didn't wait for an answer. But he got one. "Sure, Son, but only if you go halfway with me on that sandwich. It's too much for a man my age."
It wasn't easy making my way to the food court with tears blurring my vision, but I soon returned with the largest containers of coffee and the biggest assortment of pastries possible. "Excuse me, gentlemen, but..."
My parents, like yours, taught me to share, but it wasn't until that day in Union Station that I truly learned the meaning of that word. I left the hall feeling warmer than I had ever thought possible.
Christmas Presence
by Laura Lagana
It was the night before Christmas, and all through the evening I reminisced, fondly reliving past Christmases spent with my family. As a second year nursing student, just nineteen, this was to be my first Christmas away from home. Although I knew that someday I’d be working on Christmas, I never expected to feel this lonely.
Secluded in my room, I yearned for the mouth watering aromas of Mom’s freshly baked cookies, hot chocolate and love. The absence of the usual giggling, slamming doors and ringing telephones made the dormitory seem cold and empty. The unappetizing smell of disinfectant replaced my visions of cookies and cocoa.
Standing in front of the mirror, I conversed with my reflection. “You wanted to be a nurse, didn’t you? Well, you’re almost a nurse. Here’s your chance to find out what Christmas spirit really means.” Determined to make the best of it, I turned in early.
“I’ll be home for Christmas. You can count on me. . . .” My faithful clock radio announced reveille as I slowly dragged myself out of a toasty warm bed. I trudged across the snow filled street and grabbed a quick breakfast in the cafeteria before reporting for duty on the medical surgical unit.
As I prepared to take vital signs on my first patient, I was startled by a robust voice that came from behind. “Merry Christmas to you. Want anything from the cafeteria? I’m headed that way, Missy.”
I took the stethoscope out of my ears and turned around. From the dimly lit room, I could see a gigantic, roly-poly elderly gentleman with long, curly hair, all decked out in a bright red plaid shirt tucked haphazardly into baggy, red trousers. The trousers appeared to be held up by only two wide, fire engine red suspenders that had long since outlived their elasticity. The only thing missing was the beard. This Santa Claus facsimile was standing in the doorway waiting patiently for an answer to his query.
Looking toward the bright hallway lights from the darkened room, I thought for a moment that I was dreaming. “No, thanks,” I responded. “I just came on duty. I’ll grab something at lunch.”
Before disappearing down the hall he added, “Name’s George. Just let me know what I can do for you, Missy. I’ll be right back.”
As I cared for my patients, George was right alongside. I watched him spread holiday cheer as he became a guest to the patients who had no visitors that day. When trays arrived, he knew who needed assistance and who needed to be fed. He read letters and cards to those whose eyes could no longer see the letters on a printed page. George’s powerful body and tender hands were always ready to help, hold, turn, pull up or lift a patient. He was a “gopher” who made countless trips to the supply room for the “needs of the moment.”
George also knew when to call for help. While reading a letter to Mr. Jenkins, George noticed that the patient suddenly started to “look funny” and instantly ran to the nurse’s station to summon aid. Thanks to George’s swift action, we managed to reverse the effects of an impending diabetic coma.
Jovial George clearly enjoyed helping others while he spread cheer and told jokes - the same jokes, over and over again, all day long, one patient at a time. We all enjoyed his presence that Christmas day.
When I finally took my lunch break, I was surprised to find the cafeteria elaborately decorated for the season. I sat down next to one of the staff nurses from the unit. During lunch with Andrea, I had the chance to ask a burning question. “Who is this George fellow? And why is he here on Christmas Day?”
“About ten years ago, George’s wife became seriously ill. He spent almost every waking moment by her side. Those two lovebirds were so devoted to one another. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for her.” Andrea stopped for a few moments, sipping her coffee in silence, before continuing. “George started to visit other patients while his wife was sleeping or having treatments. He was here so much that he seemed to take naturally to helping out wherever he could.”
My natural curiosity made me ask, “Does he have any family?”
A serious look came over Andrea’s face as she continued, “They never had children, and as far as I know, there are no relatives. But you see, George watched his wife suffer for a very long time. He shared every second of her pain and anguish. On Christmas Eve, after I prepared his wife for sleep, they prayed together. During the prayer, George promised his wife that if God would take away her misery that night, by taking her ‘home,’ he would spend the rest of his life as a Christmas volunteer.”
Andrea and I finished our lunch in silence.
It was the night before Christmas, and all through the evening I reminisced, fondly reliving past Christmases spent with my family. As a second year nursing student, just nineteen, this was to be my first Christmas away from home. Although I knew that someday I’d be working on Christmas, I never expected to feel this lonely.
Secluded in my room, I yearned for the mouth watering aromas of Mom’s freshly baked cookies, hot chocolate and love. The absence of the usual giggling, slamming doors and ringing telephones made the dormitory seem cold and empty. The unappetizing smell of disinfectant replaced my visions of cookies and cocoa.
Standing in front of the mirror, I conversed with my reflection. “You wanted to be a nurse, didn’t you? Well, you’re almost a nurse. Here’s your chance to find out what Christmas spirit really means.” Determined to make the best of it, I turned in early.
“I’ll be home for Christmas. You can count on me. . . .” My faithful clock radio announced reveille as I slowly dragged myself out of a toasty warm bed. I trudged across the snow filled street and grabbed a quick breakfast in the cafeteria before reporting for duty on the medical surgical unit.
As I prepared to take vital signs on my first patient, I was startled by a robust voice that came from behind. “Merry Christmas to you. Want anything from the cafeteria? I’m headed that way, Missy.”
I took the stethoscope out of my ears and turned around. From the dimly lit room, I could see a gigantic, roly-poly elderly gentleman with long, curly hair, all decked out in a bright red plaid shirt tucked haphazardly into baggy, red trousers. The trousers appeared to be held up by only two wide, fire engine red suspenders that had long since outlived their elasticity. The only thing missing was the beard. This Santa Claus facsimile was standing in the doorway waiting patiently for an answer to his query.
Looking toward the bright hallway lights from the darkened room, I thought for a moment that I was dreaming. “No, thanks,” I responded. “I just came on duty. I’ll grab something at lunch.”
Before disappearing down the hall he added, “Name’s George. Just let me know what I can do for you, Missy. I’ll be right back.”
As I cared for my patients, George was right alongside. I watched him spread holiday cheer as he became a guest to the patients who had no visitors that day. When trays arrived, he knew who needed assistance and who needed to be fed. He read letters and cards to those whose eyes could no longer see the letters on a printed page. George’s powerful body and tender hands were always ready to help, hold, turn, pull up or lift a patient. He was a “gopher” who made countless trips to the supply room for the “needs of the moment.”
George also knew when to call for help. While reading a letter to Mr. Jenkins, George noticed that the patient suddenly started to “look funny” and instantly ran to the nurse’s station to summon aid. Thanks to George’s swift action, we managed to reverse the effects of an impending diabetic coma.
Jovial George clearly enjoyed helping others while he spread cheer and told jokes - the same jokes, over and over again, all day long, one patient at a time. We all enjoyed his presence that Christmas day.
When I finally took my lunch break, I was surprised to find the cafeteria elaborately decorated for the season. I sat down next to one of the staff nurses from the unit. During lunch with Andrea, I had the chance to ask a burning question. “Who is this George fellow? And why is he here on Christmas Day?”
“About ten years ago, George’s wife became seriously ill. He spent almost every waking moment by her side. Those two lovebirds were so devoted to one another. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for her.” Andrea stopped for a few moments, sipping her coffee in silence, before continuing. “George started to visit other patients while his wife was sleeping or having treatments. He was here so much that he seemed to take naturally to helping out wherever he could.”
My natural curiosity made me ask, “Does he have any family?”
A serious look came over Andrea’s face as she continued, “They never had children, and as far as I know, there are no relatives. But you see, George watched his wife suffer for a very long time. He shared every second of her pain and anguish. On Christmas Eve, after I prepared his wife for sleep, they prayed together. During the prayer, George promised his wife that if God would take away her misery that night, by taking her ‘home,’ he would spend the rest of his life as a Christmas volunteer.”
Andrea and I finished our lunch in silence.
Redeeming The Christmas Villain
by Joseph Walker
He's the great villain of Christmas. Check any Christmas pageant -- you'll see.
He's the one played by the big, intimidating-looking kid. I know this because that big, intimidating looking kid used to be me. And I played this guy so often I had the part down cold.
Which is exactly what the part calls for: coldness. Aloofness. Indifference. Apathy.
You stand there with your arms crossed, looking ornery. (And who wouldn't be ornery? You're standing there wearing your dad's bathrobe and a towel on your head). It's like you're just waiting to bark at someone (especially if anyone makes any cracks about the towel). Sure enough, along comes the handsome boy (why couldn't I ever play the handsome boy?) and the cute girl with long dark hair (WHY COULDN'T I EVER PLAY THE HANDSOME BOY!!??) with the pillow stuffed under her robe to make her look . . . you know . . . "great with child."
You are the Innkeeper, and they are coming to you for lodging. Your job in the pageant is to turn them away rudely, and to send them out into the stable to have their child. This I used to do with great flair, fixing the young couple with a steely glare, waving my arms wildly ("It's the middle of the tourist season, and you think you can just walk in here and get a room? What do you think this is, Inn 6?") and then pointing them toward the stable while the children's chorus behind us sang "Away in a Manger."
And then I would disappear. End of story. At least, it's the end of the Innkeeper's story.
Or is it?
Perhaps I grew too fond of the old boy by playing him for so many years, but I like to think of the Innkeeper wandering into the stable that first Christmas night. I see him hiding in the shadows, watching in wonder and awe as angels herald the birth of a king. I think of him joining the shepherds at the side of the manger, falling to his knees to worship and adore. And I imagine him leaving his stable Christmas morning a changed man -- still big and intimidating-looking, but somehow kinder, gentler and more compassionate.
And why not? One of things I've learned through 44 Christmases is that the spirit of Christmas is a spirit of redemption. And not just in a theological sense. Look at our favorite Christmas stories:
-- an English miser is redeemed when ghostly visitors show him scenes from Christmases past, present and future (or at least the future that will surely come if he doesn't change his ways);
-- a bankrupt building and loan owner is redeemed when an angel (second class) shows him how terrible life would have been for the people he loves most if he hadn't been born;
-- a green Grinch is redeemed (and his heart grows three sizes) when Whos refuse to lose the Christmas spirit despite the disappearance of all of their gifts (including the roast beast);
-- a red-nosed reindeer is redeemed when inclement weather forces a toy cartel to seek an alternate lighting source for its annual overnight distribution run.
Clearly, the anecdotal evidence suggests that Christmas is about redemption through change: changing ideas, changing perceptions, changing relationships, changing values. But mostly, it's about changing self. And if that can apply to English misers, building and loan owners, green Grinches and red-nosed reindeer, then surely it can apply to big, intimidating-looking Innkeepers.
And the people who play them.
He's the great villain of Christmas. Check any Christmas pageant -- you'll see.
He's the one played by the big, intimidating-looking kid. I know this because that big, intimidating looking kid used to be me. And I played this guy so often I had the part down cold.
Which is exactly what the part calls for: coldness. Aloofness. Indifference. Apathy.
You stand there with your arms crossed, looking ornery. (And who wouldn't be ornery? You're standing there wearing your dad's bathrobe and a towel on your head). It's like you're just waiting to bark at someone (especially if anyone makes any cracks about the towel). Sure enough, along comes the handsome boy (why couldn't I ever play the handsome boy?) and the cute girl with long dark hair (WHY COULDN'T I EVER PLAY THE HANDSOME BOY!!??) with the pillow stuffed under her robe to make her look . . . you know . . . "great with child."
You are the Innkeeper, and they are coming to you for lodging. Your job in the pageant is to turn them away rudely, and to send them out into the stable to have their child. This I used to do with great flair, fixing the young couple with a steely glare, waving my arms wildly ("It's the middle of the tourist season, and you think you can just walk in here and get a room? What do you think this is, Inn 6?") and then pointing them toward the stable while the children's chorus behind us sang "Away in a Manger."
And then I would disappear. End of story. At least, it's the end of the Innkeeper's story.
Or is it?
Perhaps I grew too fond of the old boy by playing him for so many years, but I like to think of the Innkeeper wandering into the stable that first Christmas night. I see him hiding in the shadows, watching in wonder and awe as angels herald the birth of a king. I think of him joining the shepherds at the side of the manger, falling to his knees to worship and adore. And I imagine him leaving his stable Christmas morning a changed man -- still big and intimidating-looking, but somehow kinder, gentler and more compassionate.
And why not? One of things I've learned through 44 Christmases is that the spirit of Christmas is a spirit of redemption. And not just in a theological sense. Look at our favorite Christmas stories:
-- an English miser is redeemed when ghostly visitors show him scenes from Christmases past, present and future (or at least the future that will surely come if he doesn't change his ways);
-- a bankrupt building and loan owner is redeemed when an angel (second class) shows him how terrible life would have been for the people he loves most if he hadn't been born;
-- a green Grinch is redeemed (and his heart grows three sizes) when Whos refuse to lose the Christmas spirit despite the disappearance of all of their gifts (including the roast beast);
-- a red-nosed reindeer is redeemed when inclement weather forces a toy cartel to seek an alternate lighting source for its annual overnight distribution run.
Clearly, the anecdotal evidence suggests that Christmas is about redemption through change: changing ideas, changing perceptions, changing relationships, changing values. But mostly, it's about changing self. And if that can apply to English misers, building and loan owners, green Grinches and red-nosed reindeer, then surely it can apply to big, intimidating-looking Innkeepers.
And the people who play them.
Mary’s Christmas Miracle
by Mary Thomas Jeppson
(as told to Marian Jeppson Walker)
This Christmas Story has been compiled by Marian Jeppson Walker from memories of hearing the story told by her mother, Mary Thomas Jeppson. It has been over twenty years (in 1985) since anyone has heard the story from her lips, so memories of details have grown dim. However, the spirit of the story remains strong.
For many of her last years, Mary Jeppson was asked by many Ward Relief Societies to come and retell her beautiful true Christmas Story. The retelling of this story was always an emotional drain on her but an emotional uplift for all of those who were privileged to hear her tell the story.
It was December of 1927 in the remote prairie town of Hillspring, Alberta, Canada. A young mother by the name of Mary was getting her six small children ready for bed. Her heart was so full of sorrow and concern that she felt it would surely break-and yet, she felt it was too laden down with grief to even have a chance to break. It was Christmas Eve, and all the children except for the oldest, Ellen, age ten, were dancing around excited to hang their socks for Santa to come.
Ellen sat very subdued and sullen over in the corner of the cold, small, two-room house. She felt her mother was cruel and wrong to let the children build up their hopes and excitement for Santa to come, because actually there would be no Santa. There was nothing to fill the socks. There would only be a little mush for breakfast. There was very little wheat and corn left. The winter had just started and already it was cold and harsh. The milk cow had died last week from starvation and harsh weather conditions. The last two or three chickens had stopped laying eggs about a month ago.
Times were hard, and Ellen, being the oldest, had too much responsibility put on her thin young shoulders. She had become very cynical, and childhood hopes and dreams and excitements had to be put out of mind much too early.
Mary helped each one of her children hang a little darned and mended sock. She couldn't persuade Ellen to hang one, however. All Ellen could say was "Mom, don't do this. Don't pretend."
After the socks had been hung, Mary had read the Christmas story from the Bible to the children and then recited a few Christmas poems to them from memory - memories of her own happy childhood living in the United States. She was next to the youngest of a very large and loving family. Her mother and father, although pioneers in a remote area of Idaho, made life - and especially Christmas - very happy, loving and warm times.
As the children went to bed, everyone except Ellen had visions of sugarplums dancing through their heads. Ellen turned to her mother with one last plea, "Mom, tell them tonight. Let them know tonight that there's not going to be anything there in the morning for them. Don't let them go to bed thinking that they are going to be able to get up and have some surprises. They'll just be disappointed."
But Mary turned to her daughter, kissed her goodnight and whispered, "I can't Ellen. Don't ask me why. I just can't tell them that." It was midnight now. The children had been asleep for hours, and Mary's husband Leland had gone to bed-feeling like a broken man, like he had failed his family completely.
Mary sat by the dying fire reading from the Bible, the story of Christmas over and over again. Her mind drifted off to think about her plight here in this God-forsaken land of ice and snow. It was the beginning of the depression, and her husband had heard wondrous stories about opportunities in Canada. He'd heard that anyone could come to Canada, homestead some land, and if he had a good team of horses, could hire out to clear other people's land. There would be good money to be made. He'd heard that the opportunities where unlimited.
After two years of not being able to find work in the United States and after a flood had destroyed their small home in Willard, Utah, he had moved his family to Canada. But when they arrived they found that they were five or six years too late to cash in on the great opportunities that they had heard about. They did homestead a small piece of land, however. But spring had come very late for the last two years and winter had come very early. They had been left with only part of July and part of August for a growing season, and all of their crops had frozen and failed for two years in a row.
In October, Mary had received a letter from her family in Idaho. Her sisters living in Malad and Pleasant View had written to her and told her that they knew times were very hard for her and although the depression was causing many hardships for themselves, they wanted to know what they could do to help and what they could send their family for Christmas.
Mary hadn't written back to them real soon. In fact, it was quite a long time before she did write back. She had too much pride to tell them how poor and destitute the family really was. Finally, in November, seeing that things were not going to get any better, in desperation she had written.
Mary had requested only necessities. She had told them how desperately they needed food, especially wheat, yeast, flour and some cornmeal. She related to them how long it had been since she had been able to bake a cake or cookies because they had no molasses or honey and of course no sugar. It had been a year since they'd had any salt to use on their food. She also added that if they could ship just a little bit of coal, it would help because it was so cold there, and their fuel was almost down to nothing. She requested some old used quilts. All of her own had worn thin and were full of holes, and they could not keep their children warm. Also she requested some old worn out pants that she could use to cut up for patches to re-patch the pants that her boys were wearing. She told them of their desperate need for socks and shoes and gloves and warm hats and coats.
At the very end of her letter she stated, "If you could just find a dress that someone has outgrown that I could make over to fit Ellen, please send that too. She is such a little old lady for such a young girl. She worries about the family and about our needs and she carries the worries for the family on her shoulders. She has only one dress that she wears all the time, and it is patched and faded. She's outgrown it, and I would like to fix-up something that is nicer for her.”
The week before Christmas had found LeLand hitching up the horse to the sleigh and making the three-hour round trip from Hillspring into the town of Cardston every day to check at the train station and at the post office to see if a package had come for the family from Idaho. Each day he would receive the same disappointing answer.
Finally, on the day of Christmas Eve, he left early in the morning from Hillspring and went into Cardston and sat around waiting for the one daily train and checking at the post office to see if the box had come from Idaho. He left at noon, however, to return home to Hillspring before dark, and he left without a package. He had to go home and tell Mary that maybe it would arrive the day after Christmas or some time next week, but it hadn't made it before Christmas.
Mary woke up out of her reminiscing sleep with a chill. The old clock on the wall showed that it was 3:30 a.m. The fire in the old stove was all but out. She decided to put a little more fuel into the stove so that it wouldn't take so long to start in the morning so that she would be able to cook the last little bit of wheat that she had for breakfast. She looked up at the sad little mended socks till hanging empty and felt her heart was hanging just as empty.
Outside the wind was blowing about seventy miles per hour and the snowstorm had intensified. After she had added a few lumps of coal to the fire, she was about to put out the lantern and go to bed for a few hours when suddenly there was a knock on the door.
Mary opened the door to find a man standing there, and for all the world he looked exactly like what she would expect Santa himself to look like. He was covered with frozen snow and ice. He had a long beard and it was white from the snow. His hat, his gloves, his boots were all white, and for a moment she was startled into believing that Santa had really come and knocked on the door.
It was the mailman from Cardston. He belonged to the Church, and knew the plight of the family. He told her he knew of their waiting for the package from Idaho and he knew there would be no Christmas without it. That evening as he was finishing up a long day of delivering mail all around the area of Cardston, he was glad to be in. His horse was exhausted and cold. It was one of the worst days they had so far that year with the blizzard and the cold wind and he was very anxious to put his horse in the barn, park his sleigh and go home and spend Christmas Eve with his family.
Just after he got in and put the horse away, someone from the train station came up to him and told him that ten large crates had arrived from the States for a Jeppson family. It was only about four in the afternoon, but it was already dark. The storm was getting worse. The mailman told the man from the train station it was just too late. There wasn't anything he could do about it. He did say that the day after Christmas, though, he would see that those crates did get to the Jeppson's.
He went home and was very disturbed. He talked to his wife about it, and together they decided that the only thing he could do was to take the crates out to the Jeppson's little isolated farmhouse in Hillspring. He would find someone that would let him borrow a fresh horse and also borrow a sleigh with sharp running edges on it.
After he finished telling Mary about his decision to come, he brought the crates into the house. Mary told him to go over by the stove to get warm and thaw out. She took his horse to the barn and when she looked at the poor animal, she knew there was no way that horse could make the trip back to Cardston that night. She went back into the house and asked him if he wouldn't just stay until morning to let himself and the horse have a chance to rest.
He told her no, that it had taken him about eight hours to make the trip that could usually be made in about an hour and a half, and he said that if he were to leave now and go back, he would still be able to spend Christmas afternoon with his family.
Mary reminded him of the condition of the horse. She said that it had icicles hanging from its nose, mouth and ears, and that there was no way that the horse could make it back. But he still insisted on going, so Mary told him that she would harness up their horse because it was in a lot better condition to make the trip back.
Then she went in and got some of Leland's clothes and had the mailman take off his wet frozen clothes and put dry ones on. While he was doing that she went back out to the barn and harnessed up their horse. Back in the house again she fed him what warm food she could muster up.
The mailman then headed back to town. It had taken him eight hours to get there because of the severity of the storm. By this time it was about 4:30 and going on 5:00 in the morning. He probably wouldn't get back till noon or after if he left now. Mary had thanked him as best she could, but she always said there just were not words enough to express her thanks. After all, how do you thank a miracle, and a Christmas miracle at that?
As soon as he left, Mary began to unpack the crates. She had only an hour to get ready before the children would wake up. At the top of one of the crates she found a letter from her sisters. They told her that quilting bees had been held all over Malad Valley, and from these, six thick, warm, beautiful quilts had been made to send up to them. They told her of the many women who had sewn shirts for the boys and dresses for the girls, and of the others who had knitted the warm gloves and hats.
The donation of socks and shoes had come from people from miles around. The Relief Society had even held a bizarre to raise the money to buy the coats, and all the sisters and nieces and cousins and aunts and uncles from all around got together to bake the breads and make the candy to send. There was even a crate half full of beef that had been cured and packed so that it could be shipped, and low and behold there were three slabs of bacon and also two hams.
The closing of the letters had said, "We hope you have a Merry Christmas, and thank you so much for making our Christmas the best one we've ever had!"
When Mary's family awoke that Christmas morning, they awoke to what to them was a miracle. Bacon was sizzling on the stove; hot muffins were ready to come out of the oven. There were bottles and jars of jams and jelly and canned fruit the younger children had never seen before in their lives, and they weren't even sure what it was. But oh, was it good!
Every sock that was hanging was stuffed full! Homemade taffy, fudge, divinity and dried fruit of every kind were in the socks, as well as cookies like the children had never seen. They weren't even sure what to call them.
Later, Mary and LeLand were to find tucked in each toe of socks that had been sent for them, a dollar or two with a little note that the money was to be used to buy coal and fuel for the rest of the winter and to buy oats and wheat to feed the animals.
For each boy, there was a bag of marbles, and each girl had a little rag doll made just for her. But best of all and the most wonderful miracle occurred when Ellen, the very last to get up, rubbed her eyes in disbelief as she looked at the spot where her sock was supposed to have been hung the night before. Hanging there was a beautiful red Christmas dress, trimmed with white and green satin ribbons.
Ellen turned around, walked back to her bed and laid back down, thinking it had to be a dream. But in only a moment she opened her eyes again and came back out to the joy of the most wonderful Christmas ever, for that morning with the Christmas dress for Ellen, a childhood had been brought back, a childhood of hopes and dreams and Santa and the miracle of Christmas.
(as told to Marian Jeppson Walker)
This Christmas Story has been compiled by Marian Jeppson Walker from memories of hearing the story told by her mother, Mary Thomas Jeppson. It has been over twenty years (in 1985) since anyone has heard the story from her lips, so memories of details have grown dim. However, the spirit of the story remains strong.
For many of her last years, Mary Jeppson was asked by many Ward Relief Societies to come and retell her beautiful true Christmas Story. The retelling of this story was always an emotional drain on her but an emotional uplift for all of those who were privileged to hear her tell the story.
It was December of 1927 in the remote prairie town of Hillspring, Alberta, Canada. A young mother by the name of Mary was getting her six small children ready for bed. Her heart was so full of sorrow and concern that she felt it would surely break-and yet, she felt it was too laden down with grief to even have a chance to break. It was Christmas Eve, and all the children except for the oldest, Ellen, age ten, were dancing around excited to hang their socks for Santa to come.
Ellen sat very subdued and sullen over in the corner of the cold, small, two-room house. She felt her mother was cruel and wrong to let the children build up their hopes and excitement for Santa to come, because actually there would be no Santa. There was nothing to fill the socks. There would only be a little mush for breakfast. There was very little wheat and corn left. The winter had just started and already it was cold and harsh. The milk cow had died last week from starvation and harsh weather conditions. The last two or three chickens had stopped laying eggs about a month ago.
Times were hard, and Ellen, being the oldest, had too much responsibility put on her thin young shoulders. She had become very cynical, and childhood hopes and dreams and excitements had to be put out of mind much too early.
Mary helped each one of her children hang a little darned and mended sock. She couldn't persuade Ellen to hang one, however. All Ellen could say was "Mom, don't do this. Don't pretend."
After the socks had been hung, Mary had read the Christmas story from the Bible to the children and then recited a few Christmas poems to them from memory - memories of her own happy childhood living in the United States. She was next to the youngest of a very large and loving family. Her mother and father, although pioneers in a remote area of Idaho, made life - and especially Christmas - very happy, loving and warm times.
As the children went to bed, everyone except Ellen had visions of sugarplums dancing through their heads. Ellen turned to her mother with one last plea, "Mom, tell them tonight. Let them know tonight that there's not going to be anything there in the morning for them. Don't let them go to bed thinking that they are going to be able to get up and have some surprises. They'll just be disappointed."
But Mary turned to her daughter, kissed her goodnight and whispered, "I can't Ellen. Don't ask me why. I just can't tell them that." It was midnight now. The children had been asleep for hours, and Mary's husband Leland had gone to bed-feeling like a broken man, like he had failed his family completely.
Mary sat by the dying fire reading from the Bible, the story of Christmas over and over again. Her mind drifted off to think about her plight here in this God-forsaken land of ice and snow. It was the beginning of the depression, and her husband had heard wondrous stories about opportunities in Canada. He'd heard that anyone could come to Canada, homestead some land, and if he had a good team of horses, could hire out to clear other people's land. There would be good money to be made. He'd heard that the opportunities where unlimited.
After two years of not being able to find work in the United States and after a flood had destroyed their small home in Willard, Utah, he had moved his family to Canada. But when they arrived they found that they were five or six years too late to cash in on the great opportunities that they had heard about. They did homestead a small piece of land, however. But spring had come very late for the last two years and winter had come very early. They had been left with only part of July and part of August for a growing season, and all of their crops had frozen and failed for two years in a row.
In October, Mary had received a letter from her family in Idaho. Her sisters living in Malad and Pleasant View had written to her and told her that they knew times were very hard for her and although the depression was causing many hardships for themselves, they wanted to know what they could do to help and what they could send their family for Christmas.
Mary hadn't written back to them real soon. In fact, it was quite a long time before she did write back. She had too much pride to tell them how poor and destitute the family really was. Finally, in November, seeing that things were not going to get any better, in desperation she had written.
Mary had requested only necessities. She had told them how desperately they needed food, especially wheat, yeast, flour and some cornmeal. She related to them how long it had been since she had been able to bake a cake or cookies because they had no molasses or honey and of course no sugar. It had been a year since they'd had any salt to use on their food. She also added that if they could ship just a little bit of coal, it would help because it was so cold there, and their fuel was almost down to nothing. She requested some old used quilts. All of her own had worn thin and were full of holes, and they could not keep their children warm. Also she requested some old worn out pants that she could use to cut up for patches to re-patch the pants that her boys were wearing. She told them of their desperate need for socks and shoes and gloves and warm hats and coats.
At the very end of her letter she stated, "If you could just find a dress that someone has outgrown that I could make over to fit Ellen, please send that too. She is such a little old lady for such a young girl. She worries about the family and about our needs and she carries the worries for the family on her shoulders. She has only one dress that she wears all the time, and it is patched and faded. She's outgrown it, and I would like to fix-up something that is nicer for her.”
The week before Christmas had found LeLand hitching up the horse to the sleigh and making the three-hour round trip from Hillspring into the town of Cardston every day to check at the train station and at the post office to see if a package had come for the family from Idaho. Each day he would receive the same disappointing answer.
Finally, on the day of Christmas Eve, he left early in the morning from Hillspring and went into Cardston and sat around waiting for the one daily train and checking at the post office to see if the box had come from Idaho. He left at noon, however, to return home to Hillspring before dark, and he left without a package. He had to go home and tell Mary that maybe it would arrive the day after Christmas or some time next week, but it hadn't made it before Christmas.
Mary woke up out of her reminiscing sleep with a chill. The old clock on the wall showed that it was 3:30 a.m. The fire in the old stove was all but out. She decided to put a little more fuel into the stove so that it wouldn't take so long to start in the morning so that she would be able to cook the last little bit of wheat that she had for breakfast. She looked up at the sad little mended socks till hanging empty and felt her heart was hanging just as empty.
Outside the wind was blowing about seventy miles per hour and the snowstorm had intensified. After she had added a few lumps of coal to the fire, she was about to put out the lantern and go to bed for a few hours when suddenly there was a knock on the door.
Mary opened the door to find a man standing there, and for all the world he looked exactly like what she would expect Santa himself to look like. He was covered with frozen snow and ice. He had a long beard and it was white from the snow. His hat, his gloves, his boots were all white, and for a moment she was startled into believing that Santa had really come and knocked on the door.
It was the mailman from Cardston. He belonged to the Church, and knew the plight of the family. He told her he knew of their waiting for the package from Idaho and he knew there would be no Christmas without it. That evening as he was finishing up a long day of delivering mail all around the area of Cardston, he was glad to be in. His horse was exhausted and cold. It was one of the worst days they had so far that year with the blizzard and the cold wind and he was very anxious to put his horse in the barn, park his sleigh and go home and spend Christmas Eve with his family.
Just after he got in and put the horse away, someone from the train station came up to him and told him that ten large crates had arrived from the States for a Jeppson family. It was only about four in the afternoon, but it was already dark. The storm was getting worse. The mailman told the man from the train station it was just too late. There wasn't anything he could do about it. He did say that the day after Christmas, though, he would see that those crates did get to the Jeppson's.
He went home and was very disturbed. He talked to his wife about it, and together they decided that the only thing he could do was to take the crates out to the Jeppson's little isolated farmhouse in Hillspring. He would find someone that would let him borrow a fresh horse and also borrow a sleigh with sharp running edges on it.
After he finished telling Mary about his decision to come, he brought the crates into the house. Mary told him to go over by the stove to get warm and thaw out. She took his horse to the barn and when she looked at the poor animal, she knew there was no way that horse could make the trip back to Cardston that night. She went back into the house and asked him if he wouldn't just stay until morning to let himself and the horse have a chance to rest.
He told her no, that it had taken him about eight hours to make the trip that could usually be made in about an hour and a half, and he said that if he were to leave now and go back, he would still be able to spend Christmas afternoon with his family.
Mary reminded him of the condition of the horse. She said that it had icicles hanging from its nose, mouth and ears, and that there was no way that the horse could make it back. But he still insisted on going, so Mary told him that she would harness up their horse because it was in a lot better condition to make the trip back.
Then she went in and got some of Leland's clothes and had the mailman take off his wet frozen clothes and put dry ones on. While he was doing that she went back out to the barn and harnessed up their horse. Back in the house again she fed him what warm food she could muster up.
The mailman then headed back to town. It had taken him eight hours to get there because of the severity of the storm. By this time it was about 4:30 and going on 5:00 in the morning. He probably wouldn't get back till noon or after if he left now. Mary had thanked him as best she could, but she always said there just were not words enough to express her thanks. After all, how do you thank a miracle, and a Christmas miracle at that?
As soon as he left, Mary began to unpack the crates. She had only an hour to get ready before the children would wake up. At the top of one of the crates she found a letter from her sisters. They told her that quilting bees had been held all over Malad Valley, and from these, six thick, warm, beautiful quilts had been made to send up to them. They told her of the many women who had sewn shirts for the boys and dresses for the girls, and of the others who had knitted the warm gloves and hats.
The donation of socks and shoes had come from people from miles around. The Relief Society had even held a bizarre to raise the money to buy the coats, and all the sisters and nieces and cousins and aunts and uncles from all around got together to bake the breads and make the candy to send. There was even a crate half full of beef that had been cured and packed so that it could be shipped, and low and behold there were three slabs of bacon and also two hams.
The closing of the letters had said, "We hope you have a Merry Christmas, and thank you so much for making our Christmas the best one we've ever had!"
When Mary's family awoke that Christmas morning, they awoke to what to them was a miracle. Bacon was sizzling on the stove; hot muffins were ready to come out of the oven. There were bottles and jars of jams and jelly and canned fruit the younger children had never seen before in their lives, and they weren't even sure what it was. But oh, was it good!
Every sock that was hanging was stuffed full! Homemade taffy, fudge, divinity and dried fruit of every kind were in the socks, as well as cookies like the children had never seen. They weren't even sure what to call them.
Later, Mary and LeLand were to find tucked in each toe of socks that had been sent for them, a dollar or two with a little note that the money was to be used to buy coal and fuel for the rest of the winter and to buy oats and wheat to feed the animals.
For each boy, there was a bag of marbles, and each girl had a little rag doll made just for her. But best of all and the most wonderful miracle occurred when Ellen, the very last to get up, rubbed her eyes in disbelief as she looked at the spot where her sock was supposed to have been hung the night before. Hanging there was a beautiful red Christmas dress, trimmed with white and green satin ribbons.
Ellen turned around, walked back to her bed and laid back down, thinking it had to be a dream. But in only a moment she opened her eyes again and came back out to the joy of the most wonderful Christmas ever, for that morning with the Christmas dress for Ellen, a childhood had been brought back, a childhood of hopes and dreams and Santa and the miracle of Christmas.
An Angel in Deed
by Amanda Rowe
When my eldest daughter, Lauren, started school, I looked forward to her afternoon account of the day’s activities. As Christmastime approached, her enthusiasm for the Nativity play was delightful.
Each day she would tell me of the various preparations being made for the performance. She sang me the songs and recounted the familiar story of the birth of Jesus with childlike wonder. One afternoon she announced that she had been chosen to play the part of an angel. She went on to describe the beautiful white dress she would wear and talked excitedly about the golden tinsel that would garland her hair. Over the next few days, as the rehearsals became more intense, her excitement continued to grow, so I was slightly puzzled when she arrived home one afternoon and made no mention of the play.
A few days later, Lauren came home and immediately started rummaging through her box of dress-up clothes. I inquired what she was looking for, and she told me she needed a dull, plain dress to wear for the school play. Puzzled, I asked about her angel costume. She quietly explained that there was a little boy in her class who did not get along with any of the children. His difficulty in fitting in with the others had alienated him from his classmates. This young boy’s role in the play was to be part of the crowd of people in Bethlehem, but despite instruction and rehearsal, his constant fidgeting on stage was disruptive. To help keep Charlie quiet, the teacher had asked Lauren to forgo her part as an angel and stand in the crowd scene beside him so that he would not disturb the flow of the performance. Lauren had quietly accepted the change of plans and was now looking for a costume— not only for her but also for Charlie in case he forgot to bring one.
My indignation rose as I absorbed what she was saying. Why should she give up her special part for a troublesome classmate? As I looked at Lauren, however, I held my tongue. Instead, I commended her for her thoughtfulness. Still, a nagging irritation stayed with me throughout the night.
The next day I broached the subject with Mrs. Roberts, her teacher. She told me that recently she had watched a relationship develop between Lauren and Charlie. As other children had scorned him and laughed at his clumsy ways, Lauren had begun to befriend him. It seemed that not only was Lauren helping him through the play but she had also been assigned to sit next to him in class. I related my concern that in looking after Charlie, perhaps my daughter would fall back in her own work. Mrs. Roberts smiled and assured me that Lauren was a bright little girl. “She gets on with her work quickly and efficiently and then spends time helping Charlie with his tasks while others are finishing,” she explained. “Lauren is patient and understanding with him, and his work has improved and his self-confidence has blossomed. By becoming his friend, she has done more for him in three weeks than I, a qualified teacher, have been able to do in three months!”
I left the classroom with a spring in my step. The Christ-like attitude of my five-year-old daughter was humbling. That evening, as the lights came up on the Nativity play, there was a general stir in the audience as the little angels in white dresses and sparkling tinsel halos came on stage. But one mother, at least, recognized the glowing inner beauty of a little girl in a dull blue dress standing in the middle of the Bethlehem crowd scene—holding tightly to Charlie’s hand.
When my eldest daughter, Lauren, started school, I looked forward to her afternoon account of the day’s activities. As Christmastime approached, her enthusiasm for the Nativity play was delightful.
Each day she would tell me of the various preparations being made for the performance. She sang me the songs and recounted the familiar story of the birth of Jesus with childlike wonder. One afternoon she announced that she had been chosen to play the part of an angel. She went on to describe the beautiful white dress she would wear and talked excitedly about the golden tinsel that would garland her hair. Over the next few days, as the rehearsals became more intense, her excitement continued to grow, so I was slightly puzzled when she arrived home one afternoon and made no mention of the play.
A few days later, Lauren came home and immediately started rummaging through her box of dress-up clothes. I inquired what she was looking for, and she told me she needed a dull, plain dress to wear for the school play. Puzzled, I asked about her angel costume. She quietly explained that there was a little boy in her class who did not get along with any of the children. His difficulty in fitting in with the others had alienated him from his classmates. This young boy’s role in the play was to be part of the crowd of people in Bethlehem, but despite instruction and rehearsal, his constant fidgeting on stage was disruptive. To help keep Charlie quiet, the teacher had asked Lauren to forgo her part as an angel and stand in the crowd scene beside him so that he would not disturb the flow of the performance. Lauren had quietly accepted the change of plans and was now looking for a costume— not only for her but also for Charlie in case he forgot to bring one.
My indignation rose as I absorbed what she was saying. Why should she give up her special part for a troublesome classmate? As I looked at Lauren, however, I held my tongue. Instead, I commended her for her thoughtfulness. Still, a nagging irritation stayed with me throughout the night.
The next day I broached the subject with Mrs. Roberts, her teacher. She told me that recently she had watched a relationship develop between Lauren and Charlie. As other children had scorned him and laughed at his clumsy ways, Lauren had begun to befriend him. It seemed that not only was Lauren helping him through the play but she had also been assigned to sit next to him in class. I related my concern that in looking after Charlie, perhaps my daughter would fall back in her own work. Mrs. Roberts smiled and assured me that Lauren was a bright little girl. “She gets on with her work quickly and efficiently and then spends time helping Charlie with his tasks while others are finishing,” she explained. “Lauren is patient and understanding with him, and his work has improved and his self-confidence has blossomed. By becoming his friend, she has done more for him in three weeks than I, a qualified teacher, have been able to do in three months!”
I left the classroom with a spring in my step. The Christ-like attitude of my five-year-old daughter was humbling. That evening, as the lights came up on the Nativity play, there was a general stir in the audience as the little angels in white dresses and sparkling tinsel halos came on stage. But one mother, at least, recognized the glowing inner beauty of a little girl in a dull blue dress standing in the middle of the Bethlehem crowd scene—holding tightly to Charlie’s hand.
The Legend of the Candy Cane
by Lori Walburg
One dreary evening in the depths of November, a stranger rode into town. He stopped his horse in front of a lonely storefront. The windows were boarded shut and the door was locked fast. But the man looked at it, smiled, and said, “It will do.”
All through the gray, short days and the long, dark nights of November, the man worked. The townspeople could hear the faint pam, pam, pam of his hammer and the shish, shish, shish of his saw. They could smell the sweet, clean scent of new lumber and the deep, oily smell of new paint. But no one knew who the man was or what he was doing.
The mayor hoped he was a doctor to heal his illness. The young wives hoped he was a tailor to make beautiful dresses. The farmers hoped he was a trader to exchange their grain for goods. But the children had the strongest, deepest wish of all. A wish they did not tell their parents. A deep, quiet secret wish that none of them said out loud.
No one spoke to the man. No one asked if he needed help. They just waited. And watched. And wondered. And wished.
But one small girl watched and wondered, waited and wished longer than she could stand. And one snowy day she knocked at the stranger’s door. “Hello,” she said. “My name is Lucy. Do you need some help?”
The man smiled warmly and nodded. Then he opened the door, and Lucy stepped inside. A long counter ran down the side of the room. Bare shelves filled the opposite walls. In the back were dozens and dozens of barrels and crates.
“Could you help me unpack?” the man asked.
Lucy’s heart sank at the sight of all the boxes. What if there were only barrels of nails and bags of flour? But she removed her dripping boots and hung her coat on a peg. On stocking feet, she crossed the rough floor and knelt beside a crate.
“Please. Open it,” the man urged.
Slowly, Lucy put her hand into the box and pulled out an object wrapped in tissue. Round and heavy, it almost slipped through her fingers. Lucy trembled a little as she unwrapped it. It was a glass jar. Lucy gave the man a puzzled look. “Go on,” he said.
So she unpacked another glass jar, and another, and another, until she was completely surrounded by jars of all shapes and sizes. Tall and thin. Round and squat. Jars with lids and jars without.
“Now,” the man said, “for something to put inside.” And he pulled over a huge crate stamped with a strange word. ...CONFECTIONS...
As Lucy unpacked, her eyes lit up. It was candy. Her favorite candy. Gumdrops!
“Try some,” the man said.
She popped one in her mouth. Now she could hardly unwrap fast enough. Peppermint sticks! Taffy! Lollipops! Chewing gum! Wide-eyed, she looked at the man.
“We wished.....,” Lucy said.
“Yes, I know,” said the man, “and here it is. Welcome to Sonneman’s Candy Store. I am John Sonneman.”
Soon the small store was filled with candies, gleaming in their glass jars. Raspberry suckers and tiny lemon drops. Brightly colored jawbreakers and long tangles of licorice. Pink and white peppermints for church and butterscotch balls for company. Then in the very last package in the very last crate was a candy Lucy had never seen before, a red and white striped candy stick with a crook on the end. “What is this?” Lucy asked.
“This,” Mr. Sonneman explained, “is a candy cane. It is a very special Christmas candy.”
“Why?” Lucy asked.
“Tell me,” Mr. Sonneman said, “what letter does it look like?”
Lucy took the candy and turned it in her hand. “J!” she said.
“Yes,” Mr. Sonneman smiled. “J is for Jesus, who was born on Christmas Day. Now turn it over. What does it remind you of?”
Lucy turned the candy in her hand. She peered down intently. “I know!” she said finally. “It’s like a shepherd’s staff.”
“Who were the first to find out about Jesus’ birth?” Mr. Sonneman asked.
“Shepherds in the field,” Lucy answered, “watching over their flocks by night. But Mr. Sonneman, what are the stripes for?”
The man’s eyes grew sad. “The prophet Isaiah said, ‘By his stripes we are healed.’ Before he died on the cross, Jesus was whipped. He bled terribly. The red reminds us of his suffering and his blood. But then, the candy is white as well. When we give our lives to Jesus, his blood washes away our sins, making us white and pure as snow. That is the story of the candy cane.”
“Is it a secret?” Lucy asked.
Mr. Sonneman looked at her for a long moment. “It’s a story that needs to be told,” he said. “Will you help me share it?”
It was now the depths of December. The town was whipped round by blizzard winds. For days, the sun hid itself. But every morning, Mr. Sonneman and Lucy ventured out. They wore heavy woolen coats and bright hand knit scarves. And in their stiff, mittened fingers, they each held a bag. They went to every house in town. They traveled to every farm in the country. They knocked on every door. In every home, they told the story, they left a small gift, and they gave an invitation.
On the afternoon of Christmas Eve, the sun finally broke through the clouds. And Sonneman’s Candy Store officially opened. The mayor came, feeling better than he’d felt in days. The young wives came, eager to trade grain for Christmas gifts. The children ran in dizzy circles. Yes, their wish had come true. Yes, they had come to share in the opening of the candy store. But they shared something more. Something bigger. Something better.
On that Christmas Eve, they shared the story of the candy cane. They told of the miracle of Christ’s birth. The misery of his death. And the mercy of his love.
One dreary evening in the depths of November, a stranger rode into town. He stopped his horse in front of a lonely storefront. The windows were boarded shut and the door was locked fast. But the man looked at it, smiled, and said, “It will do.”
All through the gray, short days and the long, dark nights of November, the man worked. The townspeople could hear the faint pam, pam, pam of his hammer and the shish, shish, shish of his saw. They could smell the sweet, clean scent of new lumber and the deep, oily smell of new paint. But no one knew who the man was or what he was doing.
The mayor hoped he was a doctor to heal his illness. The young wives hoped he was a tailor to make beautiful dresses. The farmers hoped he was a trader to exchange their grain for goods. But the children had the strongest, deepest wish of all. A wish they did not tell their parents. A deep, quiet secret wish that none of them said out loud.
No one spoke to the man. No one asked if he needed help. They just waited. And watched. And wondered. And wished.
But one small girl watched and wondered, waited and wished longer than she could stand. And one snowy day she knocked at the stranger’s door. “Hello,” she said. “My name is Lucy. Do you need some help?”
The man smiled warmly and nodded. Then he opened the door, and Lucy stepped inside. A long counter ran down the side of the room. Bare shelves filled the opposite walls. In the back were dozens and dozens of barrels and crates.
“Could you help me unpack?” the man asked.
Lucy’s heart sank at the sight of all the boxes. What if there were only barrels of nails and bags of flour? But she removed her dripping boots and hung her coat on a peg. On stocking feet, she crossed the rough floor and knelt beside a crate.
“Please. Open it,” the man urged.
Slowly, Lucy put her hand into the box and pulled out an object wrapped in tissue. Round and heavy, it almost slipped through her fingers. Lucy trembled a little as she unwrapped it. It was a glass jar. Lucy gave the man a puzzled look. “Go on,” he said.
So she unpacked another glass jar, and another, and another, until she was completely surrounded by jars of all shapes and sizes. Tall and thin. Round and squat. Jars with lids and jars without.
“Now,” the man said, “for something to put inside.” And he pulled over a huge crate stamped with a strange word. ...CONFECTIONS...
As Lucy unpacked, her eyes lit up. It was candy. Her favorite candy. Gumdrops!
“Try some,” the man said.
She popped one in her mouth. Now she could hardly unwrap fast enough. Peppermint sticks! Taffy! Lollipops! Chewing gum! Wide-eyed, she looked at the man.
“We wished.....,” Lucy said.
“Yes, I know,” said the man, “and here it is. Welcome to Sonneman’s Candy Store. I am John Sonneman.”
Soon the small store was filled with candies, gleaming in their glass jars. Raspberry suckers and tiny lemon drops. Brightly colored jawbreakers and long tangles of licorice. Pink and white peppermints for church and butterscotch balls for company. Then in the very last package in the very last crate was a candy Lucy had never seen before, a red and white striped candy stick with a crook on the end. “What is this?” Lucy asked.
“This,” Mr. Sonneman explained, “is a candy cane. It is a very special Christmas candy.”
“Why?” Lucy asked.
“Tell me,” Mr. Sonneman said, “what letter does it look like?”
Lucy took the candy and turned it in her hand. “J!” she said.
“Yes,” Mr. Sonneman smiled. “J is for Jesus, who was born on Christmas Day. Now turn it over. What does it remind you of?”
Lucy turned the candy in her hand. She peered down intently. “I know!” she said finally. “It’s like a shepherd’s staff.”
“Who were the first to find out about Jesus’ birth?” Mr. Sonneman asked.
“Shepherds in the field,” Lucy answered, “watching over their flocks by night. But Mr. Sonneman, what are the stripes for?”
The man’s eyes grew sad. “The prophet Isaiah said, ‘By his stripes we are healed.’ Before he died on the cross, Jesus was whipped. He bled terribly. The red reminds us of his suffering and his blood. But then, the candy is white as well. When we give our lives to Jesus, his blood washes away our sins, making us white and pure as snow. That is the story of the candy cane.”
“Is it a secret?” Lucy asked.
Mr. Sonneman looked at her for a long moment. “It’s a story that needs to be told,” he said. “Will you help me share it?”
It was now the depths of December. The town was whipped round by blizzard winds. For days, the sun hid itself. But every morning, Mr. Sonneman and Lucy ventured out. They wore heavy woolen coats and bright hand knit scarves. And in their stiff, mittened fingers, they each held a bag. They went to every house in town. They traveled to every farm in the country. They knocked on every door. In every home, they told the story, they left a small gift, and they gave an invitation.
On the afternoon of Christmas Eve, the sun finally broke through the clouds. And Sonneman’s Candy Store officially opened. The mayor came, feeling better than he’d felt in days. The young wives came, eager to trade grain for Christmas gifts. The children ran in dizzy circles. Yes, their wish had come true. Yes, they had come to share in the opening of the candy store. But they shared something more. Something bigger. Something better.
On that Christmas Eve, they shared the story of the candy cane. They told of the miracle of Christ’s birth. The misery of his death. And the mercy of his love.
Aaron’s Christmas Tree
by Alma J. Yates
It was my first Christmas after Dad died. I was only seven then, but I was the man of the house - at least that’s what Dad had always told me whenever he went somewhere. Whenever he had to go away, he’d say to me, “Son, you’re the man of the house while I’m gone, and I want you to look after Mom and Aaron.”
Aaron’s my little brother, and he was only four that Christmas. We didn’t have much money with Dad gone; at least that’s what Mom told me. Now when she went to the store, she didn’t buy peanuts and candy like she used to when Dad was still alive. Aaron didn’t get much for his birthday either - just a ball, and it wasn’t even new. I didn’t tell Aaron because he liked the ball just fine.
Christmas was getting close, and I was getting excited. I told Aaron all about Christmas. He couldn’t remember the other ones because he was just a baby then. I told him about the lights and the decorations, and about Jesus in a manger, and about the presents and the stockings and about Santa Claus. Aaron didn’t talk much, but he listened a lot. I really liked Aaron because he was a good listener.
Lots of times when we were in bed at night, Aaron would ask me to tell him about Christmas. I’d talk and talk until I was sure he was asleep, but as soon as I stopped talking, he whispered, “Alma, tell me again.” I would have to start all over. He’d never go to sleep until I finally told him that my throat was sore and that I had to stop talking.
The thing Aaron liked to hear about the most was the Christmas tree. Whenever I talked about the tree, his eyes got really big and he’d smile. He always asked me if we would have a tree, and I’d say, “Sure. Everybody has a tree. You can’t have Christmas without a tree.” Well, I shouldn’t have said that, because later Mom told me we couldn’t afford to have a tree.
I was in trouble then, because it was getting close to Christmas and everybody on our street had trees in their windows. Aaron was getting more excited. He asked me every night to tell him about Christmas and the Christmas tree.
I didn’t know what to do, but I knew I had to do something. Then on Sunday, my Sunday School teacher told a story about a pioneer boy who found his own Christmas tree. He just went outside and found a tree in the woods and cut it down. It didn’t cost him anything. I didn’t hear the rest of the story. All I could think about was getting a tree.
On the way home, I looked for a tree. We weren’t pioneers or anything like that; we were just poor. We didn’t live in the woods either, but there were some Christmas trees growing in our neighborhood. Lots of people grew Christmas trees in their yards, and there were some growing in the park, but most of them were too big for our house. We didn’t have a very big house, so I knew I had to get a little tree that would fit.
I looked and looked, and I almost decided there weren’t any trees our size when I saw one in Mr. Hubbard’s yard, right next to the sidewalk. The tree was about as high as my mom, and it was really fluffy with lots of bluish-green branches. That was the tree I was going to get for Aaron. That night in bed, I told Aaron all about the tree and asked him if he would help me cut it down. He said he would, and then he asked me to tell him about Christmas again.
The next day, when Mom was in the house cooking supper, Aaron and I went to the garage and got an axe and one of Dad’s saws. We put the axe and the saw into my wagon and started down the street. At first, Aaron pushed while I pulled, but after a while, he climbed into the wagon and rode.
Mr. and Mrs. Hubbard weren’t home when we got to their house. I was glad, because I didn’t want to ask them if I could cut down their tree. I figured it would be easier to just cut it down like the boy in the story and not ask anybody anything. Besides, I didn’t think Mr. Hubbard would mind. He was the nicest man I knew, next to my dad. He was our home teacher, and he visited us all the time. He did lots of nice things for us, especially after Dad died. He told us that whatever we needed he’d try to get for us. So I didn’t think he’d care if we cut down his tree, because Aaron really needed a Christmas tree, and I didn’t know how else to get him one.
I got to work, but Aaron just sat in the wagon and watched. Although it was cold, he didn’t ask to go home. He wanted a Christmas tree. First, I had to saw off some of the branches so I could chop at the trunk. That was kind of hard, because the branches pricked my hands and face.
As soon as I got the branches out of the way, I got the axe out of the wagon and started to chop, but it didn’t work very well. The axe was too big. It kept hitting into the branches and bouncing off the trunk. I knocked off some bark, but I couldn’t chop down the tree. I kept trying though until I dropped the axe on my foot. Then I just had to cry because my foot really hurt. I didn’t let Aaron see me though. I put my head down close to the trunk and pretended I was looking at it.
I finally decided to use the saw, and it worked better. Pretty soon I had cut halfway through the trunk. But the tree still didn’t fall over, and the saw kept getting stuck. It would squeak and then stop. I pushed and pulled and kicked the tree, but that just hurt my foot. I was tired by then, and my hands and feet were cold. I started to cry. This time Aaron saw me, and he started to cry, too. When I tried to get him to stop crying, he said he was cold and wanted to go home, and that we could get Mom to come back and help us.
While we were both crying, Mr. and Mrs. Hubbard drove up in their car. At first, they didn’t know what we were doing, but as soon as they got out of their car, they could see. Mr. Hubbard was a nice man. He was old - kind of like a grandpa - and he was my best friend next to Aaron.
“What are you boys doing, Alma?” he asked when he walked over to us. Mrs. Hubbard stayed by the car and watched. I wasn’t crying anymore. I just stared at Mr. Hubbard’s big feet. They were bigger than Dad’s. Aaron stopped crying, too.
“We’re cutting a Christmas tree for Christmas,” Aaron said. “We’re going to put it in our house. Do you want to help us?”
Mr. Hubbard didn’t say anything, and I didn’t dare look at him. “We can’t buy one,” I whispered, “because we don’t have any money. But my teacher told me about a pioneer boy who cut down a tree, and he didn’t have to buy it. We aren’t pioneers like the boy in the story, but we thought it would be all right, since we didn’t have a tree. Yours was the very best tree. I hope you don’t need it.”
Mr. Hubbard thought for a minute and then asked, “Does your mother know you’re here, Alma?” He put his hand on my shoulder, and I shook my head.
“I’m the man of the house,” I said, “and I wanted to surprise her.” I looked up at Mr. Hubbard and then at Aaron and then back at Mr. Hubbard. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” I pulled Mr. Hubbard by the hand and took him behind the tree so Aaron wouldn’t hear us. “I’ve been telling Aaron all about Christmas, but now it doesn’t look like we’ll have too much Christmas. My friend Tommy says Santa Claus is just your mom and dad. Well, we don’t have a dad now, and Mom is poor, so if there isn’t a Santa Claus, we won’t have any Christmas at all unless we get a tree. That’s why I needed a tree. I really want Aaron to have a Christmas. He can’t remember the other ones, and I want him to have a real good Christmas, even if Santa Claus doesn’t come.”
I don’t know why I started to bawl. I guess my foot still hurt. Mr. Hubbard patted my shoulder and said, “Well, Alma, it doesn’t look like that tree will be doing much good where it is now. Do you want me to help you finish cutting it down?”
I looked up at him, and he was smiling, so I figured everything was ok. “Alma, don’t worry too much about what your friend Tommy said. I don’t have a dad or mom anymore, but Santa visits me every Christmas.”
“He does?” I asked.
“Sure,” Mr. Hubbard replied. “And I bet he’ll come to your house. In fact, I know he will.”
Mr. Hubbard dragged the tree home for us and I pulled Aaron in the wagon. When Mom saw the tree, she was really happy. She even cried.
On Christmas Eve, Aaron and Mom and I sat around the Christmas tree and sang. Mom told us about Jesus and all the people who came to see him when He was born. We were almost ready for bed when someone knocked on our door. I answered it, and there stood Mr. Hubbard with a big box in his arms. It was filled with oranges and apples and nuts and fruitcake and a turkey and candy and lots of other good things. Mom invited Mr. Hubbard in, and while Aaron and I looked through the box, she and Mr. Hubbard whispered in the corner. When they were through, Mr. Hubbard put his arms around me and Aaron and asked us if we were ready for Santa Claus. I nodded my head, but I really didn’t believe Santa would come. I was afraid Tommy was right, and that Mr. Hubbard was just trying to make me feel good.
I guess Mr. Hubbard knew what I was thinking, because he patted me on the back and smiled, “He’ll be here, Alma. You wait and see. He hasn’t forgotten you and Aaron.”
Aaron and I had to go to bed then. I was tired and wanted to go to sleep, but Aaron wouldn’t let me. He made me tell him everything I knew about Christmas. I don’t know which one of us fell asleep first, but it didn’t seem like I’d been sleeping very long when I felt Aaron shaking me and heard him whisper, “Alma, he’s here! He’s here! Wake up!”
Finally, I opened my eyes. I couldn’t see anything but a crack of light under our bedroom door. Someone had left the light on in the living room. “Who’s here?” I asked grumpily.
“Santa Claus!” he said.
“Santa Claus? Who said?” I asked.
“I can hear him, Alma,” Aaron replied. “I can hear him. He’s out by the Christmas tree!”
“Go back to bed, Aaron. I’ll turn the light off. It’s not Santa Claus. Just go back to bed.” I stumbled down the hall to the living room. Aaron was right behind me. I was too tired to stop him. All I wanted to do was turn the light off and get back into bed. But before I could, Aaron yelled, “It is Santa Claus! Alma, it is Santa Claus!”
I turned around and there he was! Aaron ran and kissed him on his white beard. I couldn’t even move. All I could do was stare. Santa’s eyes got big. He was surprised. I was afraid he was going to go away and not leave us anything. Mom used to say that if we didn’t go to sleep, Santa wouldn’t come.
“Aaron, come here,” I hissed. “We aren’t supposed to be here.” But Aaron didn’t listen to me. Santa was holding him, and Aaron was squeezing his neck and wouldn’t let go. All of a sudden, Santa started to laugh. He sounded a little like Mr. Hubbard, but Mr. Hubbard was skinny, not fat. He put Aaron and me on his knees and laughed and hugged us. He looked at me and said, “I heard you didn’t think I was going to come.” I looked at the floor. “Well, I’m here,” he said. “I brought you and Aaron something very special, but you must go back to bed while I work. You’ll see everything in the morning.”
Santa carried us to our beds and tucked us in. He kissed us both on the forehead, and his beard tickled my cheeks and nose. It felt good. I didn’t get to sleep for a long time. I listened to Santa doing things in the living room. When he left, I listened for him on the roof, but I didn’t hear anything. I wanted to go out and see what he’d brought, but I didn’t dare. I knew I had to go to sleep. As I lay there thinking, I was glad that I was the man of the house and that Mr. Hubbard and I could get Aaron a Christmas tree.
It was my first Christmas after Dad died. I was only seven then, but I was the man of the house - at least that’s what Dad had always told me whenever he went somewhere. Whenever he had to go away, he’d say to me, “Son, you’re the man of the house while I’m gone, and I want you to look after Mom and Aaron.”
Aaron’s my little brother, and he was only four that Christmas. We didn’t have much money with Dad gone; at least that’s what Mom told me. Now when she went to the store, she didn’t buy peanuts and candy like she used to when Dad was still alive. Aaron didn’t get much for his birthday either - just a ball, and it wasn’t even new. I didn’t tell Aaron because he liked the ball just fine.
Christmas was getting close, and I was getting excited. I told Aaron all about Christmas. He couldn’t remember the other ones because he was just a baby then. I told him about the lights and the decorations, and about Jesus in a manger, and about the presents and the stockings and about Santa Claus. Aaron didn’t talk much, but he listened a lot. I really liked Aaron because he was a good listener.
Lots of times when we were in bed at night, Aaron would ask me to tell him about Christmas. I’d talk and talk until I was sure he was asleep, but as soon as I stopped talking, he whispered, “Alma, tell me again.” I would have to start all over. He’d never go to sleep until I finally told him that my throat was sore and that I had to stop talking.
The thing Aaron liked to hear about the most was the Christmas tree. Whenever I talked about the tree, his eyes got really big and he’d smile. He always asked me if we would have a tree, and I’d say, “Sure. Everybody has a tree. You can’t have Christmas without a tree.” Well, I shouldn’t have said that, because later Mom told me we couldn’t afford to have a tree.
I was in trouble then, because it was getting close to Christmas and everybody on our street had trees in their windows. Aaron was getting more excited. He asked me every night to tell him about Christmas and the Christmas tree.
I didn’t know what to do, but I knew I had to do something. Then on Sunday, my Sunday School teacher told a story about a pioneer boy who found his own Christmas tree. He just went outside and found a tree in the woods and cut it down. It didn’t cost him anything. I didn’t hear the rest of the story. All I could think about was getting a tree.
On the way home, I looked for a tree. We weren’t pioneers or anything like that; we were just poor. We didn’t live in the woods either, but there were some Christmas trees growing in our neighborhood. Lots of people grew Christmas trees in their yards, and there were some growing in the park, but most of them were too big for our house. We didn’t have a very big house, so I knew I had to get a little tree that would fit.
I looked and looked, and I almost decided there weren’t any trees our size when I saw one in Mr. Hubbard’s yard, right next to the sidewalk. The tree was about as high as my mom, and it was really fluffy with lots of bluish-green branches. That was the tree I was going to get for Aaron. That night in bed, I told Aaron all about the tree and asked him if he would help me cut it down. He said he would, and then he asked me to tell him about Christmas again.
The next day, when Mom was in the house cooking supper, Aaron and I went to the garage and got an axe and one of Dad’s saws. We put the axe and the saw into my wagon and started down the street. At first, Aaron pushed while I pulled, but after a while, he climbed into the wagon and rode.
Mr. and Mrs. Hubbard weren’t home when we got to their house. I was glad, because I didn’t want to ask them if I could cut down their tree. I figured it would be easier to just cut it down like the boy in the story and not ask anybody anything. Besides, I didn’t think Mr. Hubbard would mind. He was the nicest man I knew, next to my dad. He was our home teacher, and he visited us all the time. He did lots of nice things for us, especially after Dad died. He told us that whatever we needed he’d try to get for us. So I didn’t think he’d care if we cut down his tree, because Aaron really needed a Christmas tree, and I didn’t know how else to get him one.
I got to work, but Aaron just sat in the wagon and watched. Although it was cold, he didn’t ask to go home. He wanted a Christmas tree. First, I had to saw off some of the branches so I could chop at the trunk. That was kind of hard, because the branches pricked my hands and face.
As soon as I got the branches out of the way, I got the axe out of the wagon and started to chop, but it didn’t work very well. The axe was too big. It kept hitting into the branches and bouncing off the trunk. I knocked off some bark, but I couldn’t chop down the tree. I kept trying though until I dropped the axe on my foot. Then I just had to cry because my foot really hurt. I didn’t let Aaron see me though. I put my head down close to the trunk and pretended I was looking at it.
I finally decided to use the saw, and it worked better. Pretty soon I had cut halfway through the trunk. But the tree still didn’t fall over, and the saw kept getting stuck. It would squeak and then stop. I pushed and pulled and kicked the tree, but that just hurt my foot. I was tired by then, and my hands and feet were cold. I started to cry. This time Aaron saw me, and he started to cry, too. When I tried to get him to stop crying, he said he was cold and wanted to go home, and that we could get Mom to come back and help us.
While we were both crying, Mr. and Mrs. Hubbard drove up in their car. At first, they didn’t know what we were doing, but as soon as they got out of their car, they could see. Mr. Hubbard was a nice man. He was old - kind of like a grandpa - and he was my best friend next to Aaron.
“What are you boys doing, Alma?” he asked when he walked over to us. Mrs. Hubbard stayed by the car and watched. I wasn’t crying anymore. I just stared at Mr. Hubbard’s big feet. They were bigger than Dad’s. Aaron stopped crying, too.
“We’re cutting a Christmas tree for Christmas,” Aaron said. “We’re going to put it in our house. Do you want to help us?”
Mr. Hubbard didn’t say anything, and I didn’t dare look at him. “We can’t buy one,” I whispered, “because we don’t have any money. But my teacher told me about a pioneer boy who cut down a tree, and he didn’t have to buy it. We aren’t pioneers like the boy in the story, but we thought it would be all right, since we didn’t have a tree. Yours was the very best tree. I hope you don’t need it.”
Mr. Hubbard thought for a minute and then asked, “Does your mother know you’re here, Alma?” He put his hand on my shoulder, and I shook my head.
“I’m the man of the house,” I said, “and I wanted to surprise her.” I looked up at Mr. Hubbard and then at Aaron and then back at Mr. Hubbard. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” I pulled Mr. Hubbard by the hand and took him behind the tree so Aaron wouldn’t hear us. “I’ve been telling Aaron all about Christmas, but now it doesn’t look like we’ll have too much Christmas. My friend Tommy says Santa Claus is just your mom and dad. Well, we don’t have a dad now, and Mom is poor, so if there isn’t a Santa Claus, we won’t have any Christmas at all unless we get a tree. That’s why I needed a tree. I really want Aaron to have a Christmas. He can’t remember the other ones, and I want him to have a real good Christmas, even if Santa Claus doesn’t come.”
I don’t know why I started to bawl. I guess my foot still hurt. Mr. Hubbard patted my shoulder and said, “Well, Alma, it doesn’t look like that tree will be doing much good where it is now. Do you want me to help you finish cutting it down?”
I looked up at him, and he was smiling, so I figured everything was ok. “Alma, don’t worry too much about what your friend Tommy said. I don’t have a dad or mom anymore, but Santa visits me every Christmas.”
“He does?” I asked.
“Sure,” Mr. Hubbard replied. “And I bet he’ll come to your house. In fact, I know he will.”
Mr. Hubbard dragged the tree home for us and I pulled Aaron in the wagon. When Mom saw the tree, she was really happy. She even cried.
On Christmas Eve, Aaron and Mom and I sat around the Christmas tree and sang. Mom told us about Jesus and all the people who came to see him when He was born. We were almost ready for bed when someone knocked on our door. I answered it, and there stood Mr. Hubbard with a big box in his arms. It was filled with oranges and apples and nuts and fruitcake and a turkey and candy and lots of other good things. Mom invited Mr. Hubbard in, and while Aaron and I looked through the box, she and Mr. Hubbard whispered in the corner. When they were through, Mr. Hubbard put his arms around me and Aaron and asked us if we were ready for Santa Claus. I nodded my head, but I really didn’t believe Santa would come. I was afraid Tommy was right, and that Mr. Hubbard was just trying to make me feel good.
I guess Mr. Hubbard knew what I was thinking, because he patted me on the back and smiled, “He’ll be here, Alma. You wait and see. He hasn’t forgotten you and Aaron.”
Aaron and I had to go to bed then. I was tired and wanted to go to sleep, but Aaron wouldn’t let me. He made me tell him everything I knew about Christmas. I don’t know which one of us fell asleep first, but it didn’t seem like I’d been sleeping very long when I felt Aaron shaking me and heard him whisper, “Alma, he’s here! He’s here! Wake up!”
Finally, I opened my eyes. I couldn’t see anything but a crack of light under our bedroom door. Someone had left the light on in the living room. “Who’s here?” I asked grumpily.
“Santa Claus!” he said.
“Santa Claus? Who said?” I asked.
“I can hear him, Alma,” Aaron replied. “I can hear him. He’s out by the Christmas tree!”
“Go back to bed, Aaron. I’ll turn the light off. It’s not Santa Claus. Just go back to bed.” I stumbled down the hall to the living room. Aaron was right behind me. I was too tired to stop him. All I wanted to do was turn the light off and get back into bed. But before I could, Aaron yelled, “It is Santa Claus! Alma, it is Santa Claus!”
I turned around and there he was! Aaron ran and kissed him on his white beard. I couldn’t even move. All I could do was stare. Santa’s eyes got big. He was surprised. I was afraid he was going to go away and not leave us anything. Mom used to say that if we didn’t go to sleep, Santa wouldn’t come.
“Aaron, come here,” I hissed. “We aren’t supposed to be here.” But Aaron didn’t listen to me. Santa was holding him, and Aaron was squeezing his neck and wouldn’t let go. All of a sudden, Santa started to laugh. He sounded a little like Mr. Hubbard, but Mr. Hubbard was skinny, not fat. He put Aaron and me on his knees and laughed and hugged us. He looked at me and said, “I heard you didn’t think I was going to come.” I looked at the floor. “Well, I’m here,” he said. “I brought you and Aaron something very special, but you must go back to bed while I work. You’ll see everything in the morning.”
Santa carried us to our beds and tucked us in. He kissed us both on the forehead, and his beard tickled my cheeks and nose. It felt good. I didn’t get to sleep for a long time. I listened to Santa doing things in the living room. When he left, I listened for him on the roof, but I didn’t hear anything. I wanted to go out and see what he’d brought, but I didn’t dare. I knew I had to go to sleep. As I lay there thinking, I was glad that I was the man of the house and that Mr. Hubbard and I could get Aaron a Christmas tree.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
