One Solitary Life

by James A. Francis

He was born in an obscure village the child of a peasant woman.

He grew up in still another village
where He worked in a carpenter shop
until He was thirty, and then for three years He was an itinerant preacher

He never wrote a book.
He never held an office.
He never had a family.
He never owned a house.
He never went to college.
He never visited a big city.

He never traveled
two hundred miles
from the place
where He was born.

He did none of the things
one usually associates with greatness.
He had no credentials but Himself.

He was only thirty-three when
the tide of public opinion turned against Him.
His friends ran away.
He was turned over to His enemies
and went through the mockery of a trial.

He was nailed to a cross between two thieves.

While He was dying
His executioners gambled for His clothing,
the only property He had on earth.

When He was dead
He was laid in a borrowed grave
through the pity of a friend.

Twenty centuries have come and gone,
and today Jesus is the central figure
of the human race,
the leader of mankind's progress.

All the armies that have ever marched
All the navies that have ever sailed
All the parliaments that have ever sat
All the kings that have ever reigned put together

Have not affected the life
of mankind on this earth
as much as that
one solitary life.

Christmas Magic

Author Unknown

I wish I could tell you that the whole thing happened because I’m caring and unselfish, but that wouldn’t be true. I had just moved back to Wisconsin from Colorado because I missed my family and Denver wages were terrible. I took a job at a hospice in Milwaukee and found my niche working with the patients and families. As the season changed into fall, the schedule for the holidays was posted.

I was devastated. Newly engaged, it was my first Christmas back home with my family after many years. But with no seniority, I had little clout to get Christmas off while my dedicated colleagues worked.

While lamenting my predicament, I came up with an idea. Since I couldn’t be with my family, I would bring my family to the hospice. With the patients and their families struggling through their last Christmases together, maybe this gathering would lend support. My family thought it was a wonderful plan, and so did the staff. Several invited their relatives to participate, too.

As we brain-stormed ideas for a hospice Christmas, we remembered the annual 11:00 P.M. Christmas Eve service scheduled in the hospital chapel.

“Why don’t we take the patients to church?” I suggested.

“Yes,” replied another staff nurse. “It’s a beautiful candlelight service with music. I bet the patients would love it.”

“Great. And we can have a little party afterwards, with punch, cookies and small gifts,” I added.

Our enthusiasm increased as we planned the details of our hospice Christmas celebration.

Now, it never occurred to me that all these great ideas might not float so well with the administration. It never occurred to me that we might have to get permission for each of these activities—until the director called me into her office.

“Uh, Barb, I’m hearing rumors of a Christmas Eve celebration here at the hospice.”

“Well, yes,” I replied. Eagerly, I outlined all the plans and ideas the staff had developed. Fortunately for my career, she thought involving our families with the unit activities was a wonderful idea, too.

“But,” she said, “certainly you are not serious about taking the patients to church. It has never been done.”

“Yes, I’m serious. It would mean a lot to the patients and families.”

“Very seldom do you see any patients at this service, and if they do go, they are ambulatory and dressed.” She shook her head. “Our patients are too sick to go.”

“But a number of them have indicated an interest,” I argued.

“I cannot authorize the additional staff needed.”

“The family members can help.”

“What about the liability?”

Now I felt like saying, “What could be the worst thing that could happen—someone dies in church?” But I didn’t. I just kept convincing her, until she begrudgingly gave approval.

Christmas Eve arrived. Family members gathered in the lounge and decorated a small tree, complete with wrapped packages. Then we implemented our plan for the staff and families to transport the patients to the chapel. While most of the patients had family members with them, one young girl had no one. At just nineteen, Sandy had terminal liver cancer. Her mother had died of cancer three years previously, and her father stopped coming long ago. Perhaps he couldn’t sit by the bedside of another loved one dying so young. So my family “took charge” of Sandy. My sister combed her hair while my mother applied just a hint of lipstick. They laughed and joked like three old friends as my fiancé helped her move to a gurney.

Meanwhile, other nurses hung IVs on poles, put IVACs on battery support and gave last-minute pain meds. Then, with patients in wheelchairs and on gurneys, we paraded our group into the chapel just as they were finishing “Joy to the World,” with the organ and bells ringing out in perfect harmony. Silence descended on the congregation as we rolled slowly down the aisle. The minister just stood there with his mouth open, staring. Everyone turned around to look at us. We faltered in our steps, each movement echoing in the large, crowded chapel.

Then the magic began.

One by one, people stood up, filed into the aisle and began to help us. They handed patients hymnals and distributed programs. They wheeled patients to the front so they could see well. They handed out candles to be lit for the closing hymn. One woman adjusted Sandy’s pillow and stroked her hair. Throughout the service, the congregation catered to our patients, guiding them through the worship.

The beautiful service closed with a candlelight recessional to “Silent Night.” Voices rang in disjointed harmony as the congregation assisted us in exiting the chapel and returning our charges to the unit. Many stayed to share punch and cookies and stories.

As I got Sandy ready for bed that late night, she whispered, “This was one of the nicest Christmases I ever had.”

When I shared her comments with my family later, we realized the magic that evening was on many levels. The unit had a special climate we’d never experienced before. Sandy had one of the best Christmases she’d ever known. The congregation had shared in a special, caring way. But we also realized that this evening impacted our family as well. We felt closer, bonded in purpose and spirit.

Since that Christmas, my family has been blessed with many Christmases together—but I think that one was the best. Like the author Bill Shore, I, too, believe that when you give to others and give to the community, you create something within yourself that is important and lasting. He calls it the “Cathedral Within.”

Our family cathedral is a little stronger for the privilege of giving that Christmas.

The Red Mittens

Author Unknown

When I was a little girl, I lived in the small town of Eau Claire, Wisconsin. In town was a school for the deaf. Each school year, deaf children from the surrounding farming communities would live with families in town so that they could go to school. One year, Tom, age ten, and Bernie, age eleven, lived with our family. We didn't have much money, but we had a lot of love to share.

The boys came with a limited amount of clothing, but it did include a warm jacket and hat for the bitter Wisconsin winters. However, neither boy had mittens or gloves. It just so happened that Mom was famous for her hand-knit mittens. She had made them for years as gifts for family, friends, and neighbors.

Mom asked the boys if they would like to have a pair of her mittens for themselves, and they both smiled and nodded. She had them trace their hands on a piece of paper and choose a color for their mittens. They both chose red. The mittens were completed in a few evenings, and Tom and Bernie wore them to school the following day.

After school, they returned home and excitedly told Mom that some of the other children at the school also needed mittens. They asked her if she would make some for them. Mom agreed and asked the boys to have each child who needed mittens trace his or her hands on a piece of paper and write the color of mittens wanted.

Tom and Bernie came home from school the next day with 137 pieces of paper, all requesting red mittens! Mom looked a little surprised, but she was undaunted. It was the end of September. She figured how long it would take to knit each pair and decided that she could have all 137 pairs finished just before Christmas.

At this point, I became involved in the plan. Yarn did not come ready to use, as it does now. It came in skeins that needed to be wound into balls. I spent many evenings for the next several months with my elbows propped up on several books, a skein of yarn stretched between my wrists, and Mom winding the red yarn into balls.

December 22 was a crisp winter day. Outside a light snow was falling. On this day, Tom and Bernie proudly took 137 pairs of red mittens to school. Mom had made it!

Many years have passed since that day in December. Dad died, my brothers grew up, and Mom eventually moved to Oregon. Through the years, Mom lost track of Tom and Bernie. When she grew old and became ill, she moved back to Wisconsin to live with my brother John. Shortly afterward, she died.

We held a small graveside service for family members in the cemetery, where she would be buried next to Dad. It was December 22--a crisp winter day. At the cemetery, a light snow was falling.

As the short service ended, I noticed two figures coming toward us in the distance. I didn't recognize the man or the boy, who looked to be about ten. As the two came closer, I noticed that the boy was wearing a pair of red mittens. Then the man smiled, and my brother and I recognized him. It was Bernie!

"I read about your mother's death in the newspaper yesterday," he said. "I had to come. She was very important in my life."

I noted the red mittens on the boy's hands. "Surely those aren't the same red mittens that Mom knitted for you?" I asked in surprise.

"They are," he assured me. "My five sons have all worn them, too. They are a symbol of a loving, caring, and sharing woman whom I have never forgotten. I will treasure these red mittens forever."

Christmas Is Coming

Author Unknown

I sat on the floor near Jeremy, my three-year-old, and handed him assorted ornaments to put on the Christmas tree. He stood on a holiday popcorn can to reach the middle section of the tree, which was as high as he could reach. He giggled with a child’s pure delight every time I said, “Christmas is coming!” Although I had tried many times to explain Christmas to him, Jeremy believed that Christmas was a person. “Christmas is coming!” he would giggle. “And all of these presents are for Christmas when she comes!”

I was sitting back, watching him smiling to himself as he carefully placed each ornament on the tree. Surely he can’t know enough about Christmas to love it this much, I thought.

We lived in a small apartment in San Francisco. Although the weather was usually mild, this Christmas season it was chilly enough for us to need a fire. On Christmas Eve I threw in a starter log and watched my son sliding around the apartment, sock-footed on hardwood floors. He was anxiously awaiting Christmas. Soon he couldn’t stand it any longer and began jumping up and down. “When will she be here, Mommy? I can’t wait to give her all these presents!”

Again I tried to explain it to him. “You know, Jeremy, Christmas is a time of year, not a person, and it will be here sooner than you know. At twelve o’clock, Christmas will be here but you will probably be sleeping, so when you wake up in the morning it will be Christmas.”

He laughed as if I was telling a silly joke. “Mommy,” he said, “will Christmas eat breakfast with us?” He spread out his arms over the gifts under the tree. “All of these presents are for Christmas! All of them!”

I tickled his belly and laughed with him. “Yes,” I said. “They are all for Christmas!”

He scampered about the apartment until fatigue slowed him down and he lay on the rug by the tree. I curled up next to him, and when he finally fell asleep I carried him into his bed.

I decided on a hot chocolate before bed, and as I drank it I sat near the window looking down on the decorated streets of San Francisco. It was a beautiful scene. But there was one thing that disturbed me. Directly outside our apartment, in the spot where I usually left the garbage, was what looked like a crumpled heap of old clothes. But I soon realized what the heap really was. It was an old homeless woman who usually hung out near the corner store down the street. She was a familiar sight in the neighborhood, and I had tossed a few coins into her bag a few times after shopping at the grocery store. She never asked for money, but I think she got quite a few handouts from passersby because she looked so helpless.

As I looked out on this Christmas Eve, I wondered about this poor old woman. Who was she? What was her story? She should be with family, not sleeping in the cold street at this special time of year.

I felt a sinking feeling inside. Here I was, with a beautiful child sleeping in the next room. I had often felt sorry for myself as a single mom, but at least I wasn’t alone and living on the streets. How hopeless and sad that would be for anyone, let alone a woman who must be about eighty years old.

I went to my front door and walked down the steps to the street. I asked the old woman if she would like to come inside. At first, she hardly acknowledged me. I tried to coax her; she said she didn’t want my help. But when I said I could use a little company, she relented and agreed to spend Christmas with Jeremy and me.

I arranged for her to sleep in the living room on our foldout couch. The next morning, I was awakened by Jeremy yelling at the top of his lungs. “Christmas is here! Christmas is here, Mommy!”

I quickly pulled on my robe and hurried to the living room, where I found a very excited little boy presenting a very surprised “Christmas” with gifts from under the tree. “We’ve been waiting for you!” he shouted joyfully. He giggled and danced around as she opened the presents he had given her.

I don’t think “Christmas” had known a Christmas like this for a very long time. And neither had I. I also knew that it would have taken more than just one special day to lift the burden from that old lady’s weary heart, but I was thrilled when she promised to come back the following year. I hope she will. And Jeremy knows she will.

The Christmas Kindness Blanket

by Maurine Proctor

I had a pit in my stomach the first few weeks after we moved from Utah to Virginia, feeling somewhat like the baby eagles who are pushed from their cliff-high nests by their weary mothers and plummet wildly to the ground. When I've seen these nature documentaries with pictures of the falling eagles, I hold my breath, frightened for their safety, “Oh, please fly.”

Leaving Utah had been like leaving a nest for me, because there I had a lifetime of friends and family, a network of support that cushioned every blow. Grocery shopping at Macy's always took much longer than I planned, because around each new aisle I ran into a friend, whose eyes lit with recognition, and we'd catch up. What was the price per pound of turkey? How are the plans for your daughter's wedding? Did you hear that the Perrin boy got his mission call?

It was all such sweet familiarity. Wherever we went, we ran into old college chums, second cousins, fellow writers. But most of all, around our kitchen table still sat eight of our children. Yes, some of them were grown and going to college, on the verge of flight themselves, but here they still were, making us laugh at dinner, prolonging the time together at the end of each day because the conversation was so lively.

So moving after a lifetime in one place was a shock, and nowhere did I feel it more starkly than the grocery store or a school event where there were no loving greetings, no light of recognition in the eyes of friends. We had all suddenly become invisible; we were ciphers surrounded by people who wouldn't know or care if we just suddenly disappeared.

Four of our children had moved with us, while the rest, who had been at home, stayed on in Utah for college. Those of us who had made the 2,000 mile move were feeling the shock of displacement. “Dinner is my favorite time of the day,” our son, Andy, regularly told us. It was a time of connection. He had been the sophomore class president in Utah , but now in a school of 4600, he was just the oddball from someplace in the West, whose standards were a little squeaky clean.

We had moved just before school started, and now with Christmas coming, I was eager to find some new seasonal traditions that would tie us to our Virginia home. One day, I picked up the local Fairfax newspaper and scanned the listings for the upcoming Christmas events. I landed on one I thought would be memorable. It seemed the “President's Own” United States Marine Band joined with several church choirs for a Holiday Sing-A-Long at Wolf Trap, the National Park for the Performing Arts. It was on Sunday after church, and it was free.

Here it was. A possibility for starting a new tradition in this place that still felt so foreign, and I presented the idea to the family, who thought it sounded fun.

The day came, and we piled in our car after church still in our Sunday clothes. Staying in our Sunday clothes had long been the Sabbath tradition in our family, and so this day as we drove to Wolf Trap, I had on a thin, wool jacket I'd worn to church; my husband, Scot, had only his suit coat, our sons had on only light coats, and our little girls had bare, thin legs sticking out of their Sunday dresses.

It was a bitterly cold day, but we envisioned finding a place to park, scurrying into the auditorium, and being warmed. It was the ignorance of a newcomer.

We drove into the massive parking lot, jammed with cars, and as we looked around at other families, we could see immediately that something was wrong. They were bundled up like Arctic trappers. Woolen hats pulled over their ears; tasseled, knitted scarves around their necks, quilts and blankets bundled around them. They wore gloves and carried steaming jugs of hot chocolate. They stamped across the parking lot in fur-lined boots.

We followed the trail of people toward the sounds of the U.S. Marine band playing Christmas carols with a growing suspicion that we had badly miscalculated.

What I hadn't known and didn't entirely realize, until we were right at the entrance, was that Wolf Trap was an outdoor pavilion. It had a beautiful stage festooned with 10-foot wreathes, a roof that sloped up covering the rows of seats, but it was unheated and the sides were open so the chilling breeze came through, ruddying up the cheeks of the singers and quickly numbing any exposed fingers until they ached.

Virginia can have some temperate days in the winter, but this wasn't one of those. In all the years we have since gone to Wolf Trap, no year has seen such a biting temperature that gnawed at our warm flesh, freezing our extremities, stiffening our arms and legs.

You'd think at that point we'd wise up and leave, but the band in their bright red uniforms and brass buttons were playing a piece of the Nutcracker, that delighted the senses. We'd been given a book with the words to the carols that the audience would soon be joining in to sing. We had looked forward to this Christmas outing to have a new tradition in our family, so needy to connect in our new community.

We sat down on ice-cold metal chairs and hoped that the warmth of those several thousand bodies around us would lessen the impact of the freezing weather that we were already experiencing as pain.

We were part way through singing, “Joy to the World”, singing at the top of our lungs, because in the mass of singers in the audience, no one could hear our mistakes or faltering voices. We were singing like a concourse of angels, singing like our voices could roll across the entire earth, inviting the rocks and stones to arise and join us. We were people of all faiths, but we loved why we had come to sing.

“Joy to the world
The Lord is come
Let earth receive her king.”

Suddenly the people two rows in front of us passed up a blanket. “We see you're cold,” they said. How could they have noticed? Did they have eyes in the back of their heads? Was this icy night a good time to give up an extra blanket? They did more.

“Our gloves have liners. It makes it like two pairs of gloves.” They passed up their glove liners and then our hands were warmed.

Others chipped in. All around us people were passing “extra” hats and scarves our direction. “You might need this,” they said. “Does this help?” Before the next song, we were bundled up with donations from people all around us.

“Hark, the Herald Angels Sing” we all joined together like the original chorus that came to the shepherds, “Glory to the newborn king.”

We all stood together for the chorus from Handel's Messiah. “Hallelujah, Hallelujah.” I felt as one with everyone around me. There were no more strangers. All these people I didn't know were shouting the same praises I felt, “Hallelujah, Hallelujah. For the Lord, God, omnipotent reigneth.” Bundled up in our nearest neighbors' blankets and hats, I felt as warm as I ever had.

The last song was “Silent Night” and the Wolf Trap tradition is for each person to light a candle on the last verse and exit in a reverent recessional, the pool of candles a glow against the early darkness of a winter night. As we passed back our borrowed things with our gratitude, everyone around us was lighting their candle.

“Silent night, Holy night
Son of God, love's pure light.”

We joined the sea of people exiting the arena and moving out on to the lawn, shorn back to our thin coats. My husband, Scott, carried our five-year-old, Michaela, her pale, thin legs sticking out from her dress, exposed now to even colder air. She has always been a wisp, who in years to come would make as her New Year's resolution with little conviction, “Eat more, maybe.” This night her legs looked and felt like scrawny icicles.

Suddenly out of the darkness as we walked along, a woman came up and wrapped a green blanket around those naked legs. Warmth made her snuggle closer to her Daddy, and I said to the kind woman, “Thank you so much. We'll follow you to your car, and return your blanket.”

“Oh no,” she said, “That's for her. I'm a grandmother.”

In the darkness, I didn't see her face clearly. I didn't get her name, before she moved back into the flowing crowd.

Michaela stayed bundled in the blanket all the way home. She slept with it that night and gave it a name. It became her “kindness blanket.” She slept with it for years to come, and the funny thing was, so did I. So did all of us. We slept each night and rose each day with the memory of the kindness of strangers whose faces we don't know and names we didn't learn who wanted to keep us warm against an icy night.

I had been wrong all along. Our new home wasn't filled with strangers—just friends we hadn't met yet. It was the beginning of making Virginia our home.

’Twas the Night Before Christmas

by Mary Marcdante

Two Decembers ago, my dad called wanting to know what I wanted for Christmas. I mentioned a particular book and then interrupted myself and said, “No, what I’d really like is for you to put ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas on audiotape.”

There was this long pause and then Dad said with familiar stern emphasis in his voice, “Oh for Heaven’s sake, Mary. What in Sam Hill do you want that for? You’re forty years old!”

I paused, feeling embarrassed yet determined, “Dad, I remember how good it felt when you used to cuddle us all up next to you on the couch when we were little and read ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas. I can still remember how strong your voice was, how safe I felt and how well you acted out all the different sounds. I’d really appreciate your doing this, since I live 2,500 miles away and I’m not coming home for Christmas. It would be nice to have you with me.”

Dad said with a little more softness but still incredulously, “You mean you want me to read just like I did when you were kids, with all the bells and whistles and everything?!”

“Yaaaaaah, just like that,” I said.

Again, he paused a long time and then said, “I’ll get you the book.”

I heard the clarity of his decision in his voice and resignedly said, “Okay. Talk to you on Christmas.” We said our “I love yous” and hung up. I felt bad but tried to understand. I assumed it was too much sentimentalism for a seventy six year old bear, and that in his mind it was a foolish request for an adult to ask. Maybe. Maybe not. All I knew was that each time I talked to Dad his voice sounded more tired, and I was beginning to accept that it was no longer if, but when, the day would come that I wouldn’t hear it anymore.

On Christmas Eve day, a small, brown, heavily recycled padded envelope with lots of staples and tape all over it arrived. My name and address were written out in my dad’s memorable architect’s lettering with thick black magic marker. Inside was a tape, with a handwritten label, “’Twas the Night b4 Christmas.”

I popped the tape in my recorder and heard my father’s words come roaring out. “’Twas the niiiiiiiiiiiiiight before Christmas when allllllllllllllllllllllllll through the howwwwwwse,” just like when we were children! When he finished, he went on to say, “And now I’m going to read from The Little Engine That Could. I guess Dad had another message in mind when he included one of our favorite childhood bedtime stories. It was the same story we read to my mom when she was dying of cancer three years ago.

He continued with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing “Silent Night,” our family’s favorite Christmas Eve song we sang together before bedtime. And then “Oh Come All Ye Faithful” . . . song after song until the tape ran out. I went to sleep safe and sound Christmas Eve, thanking God for giving me another Christmas miracle with my dad.

The following May, Dad passed away suddenly and unexpectedly. No more phone calls every Sunday morning, no more phone calls asking me, “What was the Gospel about today, Mary?” no more “I love yous.” But his voice lives on . . . and continues to remind me that I can do what I put my mind to and that I can stretch myself emotionally for someone else, even when it’s difficult. That’s the power of love.

For Christmas this year I sent my sisters and brother and their children a copy of the tape, which they weren’t expecting. My youngest sister called and left a tearful message on my machine that said, “Mary, I just got the tape. Did you know that on the tape he said it was December 19. That’s today! When I put the tape on while I was in the living room, Holden (her two and one half year old son) came running out from the kitchen full steam, yelling at the top of his lungs, ‘Grampa’s here, Grampa’s here.’ You should have seen him, Mary, looking all around for Dad. Dad was here.”

His voice lives on.

Christmas is for Love

Author Unknown

Christmas is for love. It is joy, for giving and sharing,
for laughter, for reuniting with family and friends, for
tinsel and brightly decorated packages. But mostly
Christmas is for love.

I had not believed this until a small elf-like student with
wide-eyed innocence and soft rosy cheeks gave me a
wondrous gift one Christmas.

Mark was an orphan who lived with his aunt, a bitter
middle-aged woman greatly annoyed with the burden of
caring for her dead sister's son. She never failed to
remind young Mark, if it hadn't been for her
generosity, he would be a vagrant, homeless waif. Still,
with all this scolding and chilliness at home, he was a
sweet and gentle child.

I had not noticed Mark particularly until he began
staying after class each day (at the risk of arousing his
aunt's anger, I later found) to help me straighten up
the classroom. We did this quietly and comfortably, not
speaking much, but enjoying the solitude of that hour
of the day. When we did talk, Mark spoke mostly of his
mother. Though he was quite small when she died, he
remembered a kind, gentle, loving woman, who always
spent much time with him. As Christmas drew nearer,
however, Mark failed to stay after school each day.

I looked forward to his coming, but as the days
passed, he continued to scamper hurriedly from
the room after class. I stopped him one afternoon and
asked why he no longer helped me in the room. I told
him how I had missed him, and his large gray eyes lit up
eagerly as he replied, "Did you really miss me?" I
explained how he had been my best helper.

"I was making you a surprise." he whispered
confidentially. "It's for Christmas." With that, he
became embarrassed and dashed from the room. He
didn't stay after school anymore after that. Finally
came the last school day before Christmas. Mark crept
slowly into the room late that afternoon with his hands
concealing something behind his back.

"I have your present." he said timidly when I looked up.
"I hope you like it." He held out his hands, and there
lying in his small palms was a tiny wooden box.

"It's beautiful, Mark. Is there something in it?" I asked,
opening the top to look inside.

"Oh, you can't see what's in it," he replied," and you
can't touch it or taste it, or feel it, but Mother always
said it makes you feel good all the time...warm on cold
nights, and safe when you're all alone."

I gazed at the empty box. "What is it, Mark," I asked
gently, "that will make me feel so good?"

"It's love," he whispered softly, "and Mother always
said it's best when you give it away."

And he turned and quietly left the room.

So now I keep a small box crudely made of scraps of
wood on the piano in my living room and only smile as
inquiring friends raise quizzical eyebrows when I
explain to them that there is love in it.

Yes, Christmas is for merriment, mirth and song, for
food and wondrous gifts. But mostly... Christmas is for
love.

A String of Blue Beads

Fulton Oursler

Pete Richards was the loneliest man in town on the day Jean Grace opened his door. Pete's shop had come down to him from his grandfather. The little front window was strewn with a disarray of old-fashioned things: bracelets and lockets worn in days before the Civil War, gold rings and silver boxes, images of jade and ivory, porcelain figurines.

On this winter's afternoon, a child was standing there, her forehead against the glass, earnest and enormous eyes studying each discarded treasure as if she were looking for something quite special. Finally she straightened up with a satisfied air and entered the store.

The shadowy interior of Pete Richards's establishment was even more cluttered than his show window. Shelves were stacked with jewel caskets, dueling pistols, clocks, and lamps, and the floor was heaped with andirons and mandolins and things hard to find a name for.

Behind the counter stood Pete himself, a man not more than thirty but with hair already turning gray. There was a bleak air about him as he looked at the small customer who flattened her ungloved hands on the counter.

"Mister," she began, "would you please let me look at the string of blue beads in the window?"

Pete parted the draperies and lifted out a necklace. The turquoise stones gleamed brightly against the pallor of his palm as he spread the ornament before her.

"They're just perfect," said the child, entirely to herself. "Will you wrap them up pretty for me, please?"

Pete studied her with a stony air. "Are you buying these for someone?"

"They're for my big sister. She takes care of me. You see, this will be the first Christmas since Mother died. I've been looking for the most wonderful Christmas present for my sister."

"How much money do you have?" asked Pete warily.

She had been busily untying the knots in a handkerchief and now she poured out a handful of pennies on the counter.

"I emptied my bank," she explained simply.

Pete Richards looked at her thoughtfully. Then he carefully drew back the necklace. The price tag was visible to him but not to her. How could he tell her? The trusting look of her blue eyes smote him like the pain of an old wound.

"Just a minute," he said and turned toward the back of the store. Over his shoulder he called, "What's your name?" He was very busy about something.

"Jean Grace."

When Pete returned to where Jean Grace waited, a package lay in his hand, wrapped in scarlet paper and tied with a bow of green. "There you are," he said shortly. "Don't lose it on the way home."

She smiled happily at him over her shoulder as she ran out the door. Through the window he watched her go, while desolation flooded his thoughts. Something about Jean Grace and her string of beads had stirred him to the depths of a grief that would not stay buried. The child's hair was wheat yellow, her eyes sea blue, and once upon a time, not long before, Pete had been in love with a girl with hair of that same yellow and with eyes just as blue. And the turquoise necklace was to have been hers.

But there had come a rainy night—a truck skidding on a slippery road—and the life was crushed out of his dream.

Since then, Pete Richards had lived too much with his grief in solitude. He was politely attentive to customers, but after hours his world seemed irrevocably empty. He was trying to forget in a self-pitying haze that deepened day by day.

The blue eyes of Jean Grace jolted him into acute remembrance of what he had lost. The pain of it made him recoil from the exuberance of holiday shoppers. During the next ten days trade was brisk; chattering women swarmed in, fingering trinkets, trying to bargain. When the last customer had gone late on Christmas Eve, he sighed with relief. It was over for another year. But for Pete Richards the night was not quite over.

The door opened and a young woman hurried in. With an inexplicable start, he realized that she looked familiar, yet he could not remember when or where he had seen her before. Her hair was golden yellow and her large eyes were blue. Without speaking, she drew from her purse a package loosely unwrapped in its red paper, a bow of green ribbon with it. Presently the string of blue beads lay gleaming again before him.

"Did this come from your shop?" she asked.

Pete raised his eyes to hers and answered softly, "Yes, it did."

"Are the stones real?"

"Yes. Not the finest quality—but real."

"Can you remember who it was you sold them to?"

"She was a small girl. Her name was Jean Grace. She bought them for her older sister's Christmas present."

"How much are they worth?"

"The price," he told her solemnly, "is always a confidential matter between the seller and the customer."

"But Jean has never had more than a few pennies of spending money. How could she pay for them?"

Pete was folding the paper back into its creases, rewrapping the little package just as neatly as before. "She paid the biggest price anyone can ever pay," he said. "She gave all she had."

There was a silence then that filled the little curio shop. Then from a faraway steeple, a bell began ringing. The sound of the distant chiming, the little package lying on the counter, the question in the eyes of the girl, and the strange feeling of renewal struggling unreasonably in the heart of the man, all had come to be because of the love of a child.

"But why did you do it?"

He held out the gift in his hand. "It's already Christmas morning," he said. "And it's my misfortune that I have no one to give anything to. Will you let me see you home and wish you a Merry Christmas at your door?"

And so, to the sound of many bells and in the midst of happy people, Pete Richards and a girl whose name he had yet to hear, walked out into the beginning of the great day that brings hope into the world for us all.

A True Christmas

Author Unknown

“You don't choose your family. They are God's gift to you, as you are to them.”
~Desmond Tutu

I plopped the last of the ready-made cookie dough onto the cookie sheet and shoved it into the oven. These standard-issue chocolate chip cookies would be a far cry from the bejeweled affairs I'd baked for twenty-six years, but the only reason I'd even summoned the effort was because my youngest son, Ross, had opened and re-opened the cookie jar four times the previous night, saying with fourteen-year-old tact, "What? No cookies this year?"

Since today was the twenty-third, and his older siblings, Patrick and Molly, would be arriving Christmas Eve, Ross informed me that they would be "big-time disappointed" if there wasn't "cool stuff" to eat. This from the same kid who had never watched a Christmas TV special in his life and who had to be dragged into the family photo for the annual Christmas card.

I never considered a family picture this year. A big piece of the family was now missing -- or hadn't anybody noticed?

All my friends had been telling me the same thing since the day of the funeral, "Pam, the first year after you lose your husband is the hardest. You have to go through the first Valentine's Day without him, the first birthday, the first anniversary..."

They hadn't been kidding. What they hadn't told me was that Christmas was going to top them all in hard-to-take. It wasn't that Tom had loved Christmas that much. He'd always complained that the whole thing was too commercial and that when you really thought about it, Easter seemed to be a much more important Christ-centered celebration in the church.

The phone rang. Molly was calling collect from the road. She and two dorm buddies were driving home after finals.

"Do you know what I'm looking forward to?" she said.

"Sleeping for seventy-two straight hours?" I asked.

"No." She sounded a little deflated. "Coming home from Christmas Eve services and seeing all those presents piled up under the tree. It's been years since I've cared what was in them or how many were for me -- I just like seeing them there. How weird is that?"

Not weird at all, my love, I thought. I sighed, took a piece of paper and penciled in a few for Ross, Molly, Patrick, his wife Amy and my grandson, Shane.

And then I snapped the pencil down on the counter. A part of me understood that the kids were in denial. Tom's sudden death eleven months earlier had left them bewildered and scared. And now at Christmas, their shock was translated into exaggerated enthusiasm. The Cobb family Christmas traditions provided a sense of normalcy for them. Patrick had even asked me last week if I still had the old John Denver Christmas album.

But as far as I was concerned, there just wasn't that much to deck the halls about. Tom was gone. I was empty and unmotivated. At worst, I wished they'd all just open the presents and carve the turkey without me.

When the oven dinged, I piled two dozen brown circles on a plate and left a note for Ross: "I don't want to hear any more complaining! Gone shopping. I love you, Mom."

The complaining, however, went on in my head as I elbowed my way through the mob at the mall.

Tom was right, I thought. This is all a joke.

It really was everything he hated: canned music droning its false merriment, garish signs luring me to buy, tired-looking families dragging themselves around, worrying about their card limits as they snapped at their children.

Funny, I thought while gazing at a display of earrings I knew Molly wouldn't wear. All the time Tom was here pointing this out to me, it never bothered me. Now it was all I could see.

I abandoned the earring idea and took to wandering the mall, hoping for inspiration so Molly would have something to look at under the tree. It wasn't going to be like years past -- I should have told her that. She wasn't going to see a knee-deep collection of exquisitely wrapped treasures that Tom always shook his head over.

"You've gone hog-wild again," he would always tell me -- before adding one more contribution. Instead of buying me a gift, he'd write a check in my name to Compassion International or a local food pantry, place it in a red envelope, and tuck it onto a branch of our Christmas tree.

"This is a true gift," he'd tell me. "It's a small demonstration that Christ is real in our lives."

I stopped mid-mall, letting the crowds swirl past me.

Tom wasn't there, a fact that the rest of the family didn't want to face or discuss. But he could still be with us, maybe just a little.

I left the mall and quickly found a Christmas tree lot. The man looked happy to unload one very dry tree for half price. He even tied it to my roof rack.

Then it was off to Safeway, where I bought a twenty-four-pound Butterball turkey and all the trimmings. Back home, the decoration boxes weren't buried too deeply in the garage. I'd barely gotten them put away last year when Tom had his heart attack.

I was still sorting boxes when Ross emerged from the kitchen, munching the last of the two dozen cookies.

"Oh, I thought we weren't going to have a tree this year," he said between mouthfuls.

"Well, we are. Can you give me a hand getting it up?"

Two hours later, Ross and I stood back and admired our Christmas tree. The lights winked softly as I straightened a misshapen glittery angel Molly had made in second grade and Ross's first birthday Christmas ball.

I wanted to cry.

The house sprang to life when everyone arrived Christmas Eve. In the middle of our church service, however, my spirits sagged. There was no lonelier feeling than standing in the midst of one's family singing "Silent Night" -- surrounded by a vivacious college daughter; a sweet, gentle daughter-in-law; a handsome, successful twenty-five-year-old son; a wide-eyed, mile-a-minute three-year-old grandson; and an awkward teenager whose hugs were like wet shoelaces -- and being keenly aware that someone was missing.

Back at home everyone continued to avoid the subject.

"The tree is gorgeous, Mom," Molly said. She knelt down and began hauling gifts out of a shopping bag to add to my pile.

"I love what you did with the wrappings, Pam," Amy said. "You're always so creative."

"I forgot to buy wrapping paper," I told her. "I had to use newspaper."

It was Christmas as usual -- easier to pretend everything was normal than to deal with harsh reality. Ross and Patrick sparred over whose stocking was whose, and Shane parked himself in front of a bowl of M&Ms. They all got to open the customary one present on Christmas Eve, and after doing so, they schlepped off to bed.

But there was one more thing that had to be done. I went over to Tom's desk, found a red envelope in the top drawer, and stuck into it a check made out to the American Heart Association. It seemed appropriate.

"I know the kids -- and even I -- have to go on with our lives, Tom," I whispered. "But I wish you were here."

It occurred to me as I tucked the red envelope midway up the tree that one of the kids would say, "Oh, yeah -- I remember, he always did that," and then there would be an awkward silence and perhaps sheepish looks.

I hoped so.

Morning, or at least dawn -- came way too soon. Shane was up before the paper carrier. I dragged myself into the kitchen and found it already smelling like a Seattle coffeehouse.

"This is what we drink at school," Molly told me and handed me a cup.

"Is anyone else awake?" I asked.

She nodded her head, and for the first time I noticed a twinkle in her eye that was unprecedented for this hour of the morning. "What are you up to?" I asked.

"Mom!" Patrick yelled from the living room. "You've got to see this!"

"At this hour of the..."

What I saw was my family perched on the couch like a row of deliciously guilty canaries. What I saw next was our Christmas tree, dotted with bright red envelopes.

"Man, it got crowded in here last night," Ross said. "I came down here about one o'clock and freaked Amy out."

"I almost called 911 when I came down," Patrick said, "until I saw it was Molly and not some burglar."

I had never heard a thing. I walked over to the tree and touched each one of the five envelopes I hadn't put there.

"Open them, Mom," Molly said. "This was always the best part of Christmas."

From Patrick, there was a check to Youth for Christ, to help kids go on mission trips like the one Dad supported him on to Haiti five years earlier. From Amy, a check to our church for sheet music, because some of her best memories of her father-in-law were of him helping the children's choir. From Molly, several twenty-dollar bills for the local crisis pregnancy center, "because many of the women who go there have probably never experienced the love of a husband like Daddy," she said. From Ross, a twenty-dollar bill for a local drug program for kids, "since Dad was all freaked out about me staying clean."

The last envelope was lumpy. When I opened it, a handful of change spilled out.

"Mine, Gamma," Shane said, his little bow-mouth pursed importantly. Amy finished his thought. "He wants this to go to the animal shelter -- you know, for lost dogs. Like the one he visited with Dad just before he died."

I pulled all the envelopes against my chest and hugged them.

"You know what's weird?" Molly said. "I feel like Daddy's right here with us."

"Yeah, that's pretty weird," Ross said.

"But true," Patrick said. "I feel like he's been here this whole time. I thought I'd be all bummed out this Christmas -- but I don't need to be."

"No, you don't, my love," I said. To myself, I added, Neither do I. I have my family, and I have my faith.

The Spirit of Christmas

Author Unknown

Long, long ago in a far away country there lived a King. For many years, he ruled his kingdom wisely and well. For a while, this was a happy kingdom where friendship and love were shared by everyone. But then something strange happened. The people became gloomy and no one laughed or smiled any more. Instead of people greeting each other kindly when they met, there were sharp words.

The King became worried and thought to himself, “Christmas will soon be here. Then the people will be happy and my kingdom will be filled with love again.” But as Christmas drew near, nothing changed. No one gathered the lovely, wild holly that grew so abundantly on the hillsides near the city. No one made wreaths to hang upon their doors. The spicy smell of holiday puddings and cakes and pies were replaced with a moldy, musty stench. Where once were heard the songs of cheerful carolers, there was now only bleak, cold silence in the air.

The King was sad indeed. “What has happened to my people? Why have they all lost the Spirit of Christmas? Something must be done! And done quickly!” So he called his sons together to ask for their help. Bryan, the eldest was very obedient. Thomas, the middle was a diligent young man. His youngest son, Michael, was very loving.

“My sons,” began the King, “I am in need of your help. The Spirit of Christmas has fled from our midst, and we must bring it back. I’ve been told that in the dark forest many miles to the north lives the Christmas Spirit. In the deepest part of the forest, you will find a special tree hidden by many other trees. You will know this tree is special because it has a golden trunk and silvery, white boughs. And it is said that anyone who has love in his heart can find it easily. People say that when someone does a good deed, its blossoms glow with a soft and beautiful light. And if many good deeds are done, the whole tree becomes a glory of light – beautiful to behold. That light can be seen for a great distance and is accompanied with beautiful music floating through the forest, and the Spirit of Christmas appears and dances for joy.

“Now, my sons, you are all good boys and it is important that I save my kingdom. Bryan, because you are the eldest, I will send you first to find the Spirit of Christmas. If you do not return in three days, Thomas will follow you. And if neither of you has come back to me within six days, I will send young Michael to search for the Spirit of Christmas. The time is short, so go quickly, Bryan, my son. You must make haste!”

Bryan set off on his quest with his father’s last words ringing in his mind, “Go quickly, my son. Make haste!” He came upon an old beggar pleading for a crust of bread to eat. But obediently, he hurried on. Then he came upon two young urchins fighting furiously in the road. He stepped around them and hurried on his way. Soon he came upon a shivering, small child who was coatless and stood in the wintery cold. He felt sorry for the child, but time was quickly passing, so he turned his face away from her. He hastened on and nearly stumbled into an old woman. She was bent beneath the heavy bundle of firewood on her back and was gathering sticks of wood. But Bryan seemed to see or hear nothing except his father’s last words, “Go quickly, my son. Make haste!”

At last he entered the dark forest to begin his search for the Spirit of Christmas. He searched all night long and all the next day until darkness fell. But he saw no glow from the special tree nor heard the sweet strains of music fill the air. Exhausted and filled with despair, he sank to the ground and fell asleep.

On the third day when his eldest son did not return, the King sent forth his second son, Thomas. He gave him the same instructions and said, “Go quickly, my son. Make haste!” Thomas sped on his way. He too passed the hungry old beggar who reached out his bony hand for food. When he saw the uncontrolled fighting of the two young urchins, Thomas simply shook his head and went on. He felt sorry for the shivering small child, but felt that he must keep his cloak because the forest would be cold and damp. He patted her head as he remembered the saddened face of his father and heard his words, “Go quickly, my son. Make haste!” Seeing the old woman bent beneath her load of firewood, Thomas politely smiled and said, “Good morning, madam.” As he entered the forest he thought of the unfortunate people he had passed on the road. “I must stop on my way home and help them,” he promised himself as he continued his search. Morning came, dusk fell, but there was not light from the special tree to guide him as he wandered deep into the forest and became lost.

When the sixth day came, the King called Michael to him and gave him the same instructions before he left on his search for the Spirit of Christmas. “My son, there are but three days left until Christmas. If you fail, there will be no Christmas in this kingdom. You must hurry, my son...hurry!”

Michael took off as if he had wings on his feet. Shortly, he came upon the old beggar asking for a crust of bread. He quickly opened his knapsack and withdrew a slice of bread for the man. The beggar’s eyes filled with tears as he thanked the young man. Michael sped on until he came upon the two young urchins, still fighting in the road. He paused for a moment and said, “My lads, why do you fight? Do you know that adding hurt to hurt does not solve your difficulty? There are better ways. Come, let us have peace!” He talked to them and helped them settle their differences, leaving them playing happily together.

As he hurried on, he saw the shivering child standing coatless in the cold. He took his cape from his shoulders and wrapped it snugly around the child. Then he hastened on his way, wondering if he had delayed too long. He thought of the saddened face of his father and the task he had to do. He remembered the words, “Go quickly, my son. Make haste!” Just then, the old woman crossed his path as she continued gathering sticks at the forest’s edge. “Here, Grandmother, let me help you. It is fast growing dark.” Then he speedily gathered the wood for her and was on his way again.

As he entered the dark forest, he saw light through the trees. Drawing nearer, he heard the sweet strains of music and saw a lovely figure dancing before a strange and beautiful tree. “That must be the Spirit of Christmas!” he exclaimed. He stood there as though entranced, wondering why he had been able to find the tree so easily. He watched the Christmas Spirit as she joyously whirled and pivoted.

When the Christmas Spirit saw him, she stopped dancing and came to him saying, “Oh, Prince! You and you alone made the tree glow again, and that has brought me such great happiness. When you shared your food with the beggar, this special flower bloomed. When you stopped to teach the urchins of peace, this flower burst forth with light. When you unselfishly gave your cape to the small child, this blossom lighted. And when you stopped to help the old woman, yet another flower glowed.

“Oh, Prince, you have no need to search for the Spirit of Christmas, because you carry it in your heart. Do you not know that the Spirit of Christmas comes from giving and sharing with others? Do you not know that it is unselfishness and love? It is the same spirit by which the Savior of the world brought great happiness to man.”

The tree glowed with its lights of unselfish love. The two other brothers, weary and hungry from their search, were drawn to the spot by the great light shining through the darkness. As the Spirit of Christmas spoke, they listened to her, and then Michael told her of his father’s special request. “Please come home with us and bring the Spirit of Christmas back to our kingdom.” Bryan and Thomas bowed their heads remorsefully, realizing that in their haste to be obedient, they had forgotten their father’s first teachings, “Serve others unselfishly and treat them with kindness.”

Together they left the dark forest to return home. As they passed through the kingdom, they saw joy and happiness return to the people. And a voice was heard as if from a far distance, “Even as ye have done it unto the least of these, yea have done it unto me.”

A Christmas to Share

by Johanna Goodwin

Rulon snuggled down into the warmth of his sheets and comforter. Every evening just before he hopped into bed, his mother ironed the foot of the sheets to remove the chill of the unheated bedroom. Rulon shivered involuntarily when he realized that even with such saving measures, their coal supply would probably not last out the winter. “If only Pa hadn’t died last summer,” he sighed miserably.

He tried to shut out such thoughts by thinking of the Christmas tree downstairs. Earlier that Christmas Eve afternoon, he and his brothers had hiked into the woods to chop down the Douglas fir his sisters had picked out the day before. “It’s a beauty, all right,” he thought, “thick and full and fragrant with the rich smell of fir.”

He smiled to himself, remembering Bessie’s laughter as she threaded popcorn and cranberries into garland for the branches. This was the first year she’d been old enough to do it without breaking more of the popped kernels than she strung, and she had proudly declared, “I strung almost as many pieces as you ate, Rulon!”

His pleasant thoughts ended abruptly as he remembered the emptiness of the floor beneath the tree. He knew that his mother had an orange and some nuts for each of the children, but that was all there would be this year. The family had sold almost everything to pay off the debts when their father died, and there wasn’t anything extra to spare. “There’s not even a new ornament this year,” Rulon thought dismally. One of his father’s favorite traditions had been to make a different hand-carved wooden ornament for the tree each year. Lately, Rulon had been trying to fill Pa’s shoes in most respects, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to take on this particular responsibility.

Rulon awoke the next morning to find two huge, blue eyes staring into his. “Oh, Rulon,” Bessie cried. “Wake up! It’s Christmas! Are you going to sleep all day?

“All day!” Rulon muttered to himself as he watched her scamper out of the room. “There’s a whole hour before daylight yet!” But he couldn’t help chuckling at her eagerness as he leapt out of the bed and dressed, dancing from one foot to the other on the cold floor.

The kitchen was a mess of confusion by the time Rulon got there. His mother was busy frying eggs and making biscuits while his seven brothers and sisters scurried around in an effort to help setting the table and pouring the milk. “Thought this one day I’d let you sleep as long as you could,” his mother called over her shoulder as Rulon entered. “But I guess Bessie couldn’t wait.”

“Come on, Rulon!” eight year old Nathan fairly shouted. “The sooner we get breakfast eaten and cleaned up, the sooner we can go to the tree.”

With all of them pitching in, everything was soon ready. Despite Ma’s warning of, “Don’t wolf your food!” and “Slow down and taste it!” there was soon nothing left of the morning’s fare. After breakfast was cleared away, the family lined up according to ages and marched in to the tree.

Caught up in the excitement of the morning, Rulon almost forgot his bitterness. After feasting on oranges and nuts, the whole family joined in singing every Christmas carol they knew – and then they sang some over again. Finally Ma declared, “Because this is such a happy occasion, I think we should do something really special. Since we have so much and are so blessed, I think it’s only right that we should share Christmas with another family.”

So much! The words hit Rulon like a bullet. Why, we don’t have enough for ourselves, and she wants us to take to someone else! The children glanced at each other, somewhat puzzled, as though they couldn’t believe what they had heard. But Ma seemed not to notice their bewilderment and went on to explain. “I want each of you to go to your rooms and find something you would like to give away. You have some nice hair ribbons, Wanda, and I know you have two pairs of mittens, Harold. But you decide. While you find your gifts, I’ll bake some apple pies to put in a crate with everything else.”

As Rulon dragged up the stairs after his brothers and sisters, confused thoughts whirled around in his mind. “What do I have to give away?" He wondered. “I – we’ve all had to do without so much lately, and now Ma wants us to find something nice we don’t need. I don’t get it.”

Rulon was the last one to bring his gift back down to the tree. After looking around for a long time, he finally settled on a fine linen pocket handkerchief that a maiden aunt had sent him from the East. His brothers and sisters were already wrapping their offerings in some brown paper and string. Rulon looked with interest to see what they had found. Wanda had contributed hair ribbons; Harold his extra pair of mittens; Nathan was parting with the straw hat he had woven last summer – “Can always make me a new one next year,” he volunteered as he saw Rulon watching him; Thelma was intently wrapping the lace jabot that adorned her otherwise plain Sunday dress, and from the shape of the package Ralph was tying string round, Rulon knew he had given away his reed whistle. Tears sprang to Rulon’s eyes, though, when he saw Bessie struggling to wrap the stuffed calico cat that she slept with every night.

Just then, Ma entered the room, brushing some flour off her apron. “Well, the pies are baking,” she announced. “Rulon, why don’t you go get the crate from the barn to put all of these gifts in?”

Something seemed to snap suddenly inside Rulon, and he faced his mother fiercely. “Ma, what are we doing, anyway? We don’t even have enough for ourselves, and here you have us taking Christmas to someone else? This is crazy.”

The room was hushed as the children stared in amazement at their oldest brother. But Ma didn’t seem angry at his outburst. Her shoulders sagged a little as though she were suddenly tired, but her face reflected only deep love and concern. Finally she spoke, “I’m not quite sure I understand, son. We’re some of the richest people on this earth. We have a fine house to live in, clothes to wear, and I don’t recall any of us ever having to go to bed hungry. More importantly, we’ve got each other and even though your Pa’s gone, we know that we’ll see him again. And we’ve got our testimonies of the gospel, and there’s no kind of earthly treasure that I’d ever exchange for that.” She paused, but went on when Rulon didn’t speak. “Seems to me we’re rich and very blessed, and it would be selfish of us not to want to share our bounty with others.”

Rulon was strangely quiet on the way home from the Kirkham’s house later that evening. He had laughed with the others when the presents were opened and as the two families joined in games and singing. But after doing his evening chores and eating supper, he excused himself, saying he needed to get something from the barn. While the others gathered around the tree to tell stories, he went to the room he shared with his brothers, explaining that there was something he wanted to do.

It was past everyone’s usual bedtime when Ma called the family together for the traditional reading of the Christmas story from Luke. Rulon appeared at the top of the stairs holding something behind his back. “I have something to say,” he began a little shyly, but his eyes twinkled. “This has been a wonderful day for all of us, and especially for me.” He cleared his throat before he went on. “I learned a lot today, and I tried to think of some way to remind myself of it in the future. I know it’s a little late to be hanging up our new ornament for the year, and I know it’s not nearly as nice as the ones that Pa always made, but...”

Rulon drew his hands from behind his back to reveal a soft wood carving of a wooden crate, topped with a Christmas bow and inscribed: “A Christmas to Share, 1931.”

Everyone was sniffing as Rulon lifted Bessie up so she could hang the new ornament near the top of the tree.

“It’s lovely, son,” Ma said softly. “Now why don’t you sit here in this chair and read the Christmas story to us.”

An Angel Among Us

by Rita Hampton

I come from a large family of nine brothers and sisters, and all of us have kids of our own. On each Christmas night, our entire family gathers at my oldest sister’s home, exchanging gifts, watching the nativity skit put on by the smaller children, eating, singing and enjoying a visit from Santa himself.

The Christmas of 1988, my husband Bob and I had four children. Peter was eleven, Leigh-Ann was nine, Laura was six and Matthew was two. When Santa arrived, Matthew parked himself on Santa’s lap and pretty much remained dazzled by him for the rest of the evening. Anyone who had their picture taken with Santa that Christmas also had their picture taken with little Matthew.

Little did any of us know how precious those photos with Santa and Matthew would become. Five days after Christmas, our sweet little Matthew died in an accident at home. We were devastated. We were lucky to have strong support from our families and friends to help us through. I learned that the first year after a death is the hardest, as there are so many firsts to get through without your loved one. Birthdays and special occasions become sad, instead of joyous.

When our first Christmas without Matthew approached, it was hard for me to get into the holiday spirit. Bob and I could hardly face putting up the decorations or shopping for special gifts for everyone. But we went through the motions for Peter, Leigh-Ann and Laura. Then, on December 13th, something extraordinary happened to raise our spirits when we didn’t think it was possible.

We were just finishing dinner when we heard a knock on the front door. When we went to answer it, no one was there. However, on the front porch was a card and gift. We opened the card and read that the gift-giver wanted to remain anonymous; he or she just wanted to help us get through a rough time by cheering us up.

In the gift bag was a cassette of favorite Christmas music, which was in a little cardboard Christmas tree. The card described it as being “a cartridge in a pine tree,” a twist on the “partridge in a pear tree” verse in the song “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” We thought that it was a very clever gift, and the thoughtfulness of our “elf” touched our hearts. We put the cassette in our player and, song by song, the spirit of Christmas began to warm our hearts.

That was the beginning of a series of gifts from the clever giver, one for each day until Christmas. Each gift followed the theme of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” in a creative way. The kids especially liked “seven swans a-swimming,” which was a basket of swan-shaped soaps plus passes to the local swimming pool, giving the kids something to look forward to when the warm days of spring arrived. “Eight maids a-milking” included eight bottles of chocolate milk, eggnog and regular milk in glass bottles with paper faces, handmade aprons and caps. Every day was something very special. The “five golden rings” came one morning just in time for breakfast -- five glazed doughnuts just waiting to be eaten.

We would get calls from our family, neighbors and friends who would want to know what we had received that day. Together, we would chuckle at the ingenuity and marvel at the thoughtfulness as we enjoyed each surprise. We were so caught up in the excitement and curiosity of what would possibly come next, that our grief didn’t have much of a chance to rob us of the spirit of Christmas. What our elf did was absolutely miraculous.

Each year since then, as we decorate our Christmas tree, we place on it the decorations we received that Christmas while we play the song “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” We give thanks for our elf who was, we finally realized, our very own Christmas angel. We never did find out who it was, although we have our suspicions. We actually prefer to keep it that way. It remains a wondrous and magical experience – as mysterious and blessed as the very first Christmas.

Our New Holiday Tradition

by Douglas Presençça

During the Christmas season of 1995, when I was 13 years old, my family talked about creating a new Christmas tradition. For a long time, we looked for the right idea in our neighborhood in Manaus-Amazonas, Brazil. But the season continued to pass, and we had not yet put any of our ideas into practice.

Christmas Eve fell on a Sunday that year, and as usual Mama prepared roast chicken for dinner. It never felt like Sunday if we didn’t have roast chicken. But on this special Sunday, Mama prepared three chickens instead of the usual two. She wrapped the extra chicken in aluminum foil and put it in a sack. Then she picked up a cake she had made.

“These are presents,” she told us. “Do you know who they are for?”

We guessed the names of our friends, neighbors, and ward members. None of our guesses was correct.

Then she said, “They are for Banel.”

We fell silent. Banel was a boy about my age who lived with his grandmother in a humble little house. He was also the terror of the streets. He got into cars if they were not locked. He stole the wallet of one of our friends and tore up the papers inside. He threw rocks at dogs and threatened children at play. The neighbors wanted to file a complaint against him to get him off the streets.

But after we had recovered from our surprise, we agreed. My father, my eight-year-old brother, and I took the chicken and cake and went to visit Banel. He was at home and came out when we asked for him.

He looked distrustful. He thought we had come to complain about something. “What is it? What is it?” he kept asking.

My father just smiled and handed him the packages. Banel was very surprised. “For me?” he asked. His countenance changed, and he became friendly and courteous. He was very grateful for the presents.

Since that day, Banel has not bothered the neighborhood children. Sometimes he even plays with them. He smiles and speaks to the neighbors when he sees them on the street.

Our family learned something important that day. We learned that a friendly gesture, however small, has the power to change people, even people who seem as unreachable as Banel.

We also started a practice that we hope will become more than just a Christmas tradition: taking the time to show love and kindness to those who need it most.

A Pocketful of Memories

by Brenda Taylor Peterson

Rhonda loved to tell her four year old daughter, Katie, stories about the time when she was a little girl. Only in that way could she make grandpas and grandmas and cousins who lived far away come alive for her daughter.

Rhonda spent hours transforming her own memories of Christmas spent at Grandpa and Grandma Eppich’s - of sleigh rides and making snowmen and ice skating on the town pond - into mental pictures for her daughter. Katie probably knew her relatives better than many of the people who lived in the same farming town with them.

So, for Katie’s sake, Rhonda was especially pleased that they were having their first family reunion back east during the holiday this year. They would all be together at least one more time with Grandpa Bill.

Grandpa Bill was actually Katie’s great-grandpa. He was the reason grandpa had a special sparkle for Rhonda. As a child, she loved him so much. On Sunday afternoons when everyone else went to take a nap, he always had time to read her the funny papers, and he had more stories about skipping school and putting tacks on teachers’ chairs than anybody else’s grandpa. But she had especially liked a secret game the two of them had played.

Whenever Grandpa came for a visit, she would run to him and, before giving him a kiss, would shove her hands into his pockets, searching for the candy she knew was hidden in one of them. He’d always look shocked and deny that he had brought any candy. He’d apologize and say he was sorry that he had forgotten this time. But she persisted until she found it, because Grandpa Bill never forgot the candy.

But Grandpa Bill was 85 now, and, according to the nurses at the home where he lived, a lingering illness had left him unable to remember most things. Senile was the catch all word someone mentioned, and that’s what Rhonda’s mom warned her of when they were planning their reunion.

Rhonda’s parents had been to Seattle several times since Katie’s birth, but this was Katie’s first trip east, and the excitement of a plane flight to her great-grandma’s house was almost more than she could stand. And when they arrived, there was so much fun to explore at Grandpa and Grandma Eppich’s farm that Katie never stopped running from morning till night.

On Christmas Eve, Rhonda sat with her daughter on the big, lumpy bed that had been hers years ago and told Katie that Grandpa Bill would be coming to dinner the next day.

Katie’s eyes grew wide. “You mean Grandpa Bill who worked in the silver mines and who lived with the Indians?”

“Yes,” Rhonda said, realizing her stories had made Grandpa Bill a bigger than life size hero for Katie. Then she tried to explain. “Grandpa is very old now and has been sick for a long time. He has forgotten almost everything that ever happened to him. He won’t remember the Indians or the silver mines. He probably won’t even remember me.”

The change they would see in Grandpa Bill would be much easier for Katie to accept than for Rhonda. Katie was asleep seconds after Rhonda tucked the familiar old quilt around her, but Rhonda lay awake for a long time, regretting that Katie could never know the wonderful man Grandpa Bill had been.

Early next morning, the aunts and uncles began to arrive. Rhonda introduced Katie to each one and explained their part in the stories she had told her daughter. By 11:30, everyone was accounted for except Tim and his family, who were bringing Grandpa Bill. Then someone yelled, “Uncle Tim and Aunt Stacey are here!” and everyone crowded around the front door to welcome them.

Tim’s family piled out of their van, and then Tim carefully helped Grandpa Bill out. Rhonda was shocked at how old and frail he looked as he slowly followed Tim’s family up the sidewalk.

Tim and Grandpa Bill came through the door just as everyone was hugging Stacey and the children. Grandpa Bill stopped just inside the door and looked blankly around, bewildered by the noise and the sight of so many people. He stood silent, stiff, unsure of what was expected of him.

“Merry Christmas, Dad. We’re so glad you could come,” Rhonda’s mother said as she kissed him on the cheek and took his hat.

Rhonda’s heart went out to him as he stood there confused and frightened, being greeted by people he didn’t recognize, She saw tears well up in his eyes, and all of a sudden she regretted the family reunion she had looked forward to so much.

She longed to go to him and put her arms around him and say, “It’s ok, Grandpa, We’re your family. We love you.” But she just stood still, now wanting to add to his confusion.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Katie slip through the crowd of cousins and aunts and uncles and shyly sidle up to Grandpa Bill. With a knowing look, Katie reached up and put her hand in his sweater pocket. Through the fabric, Rhonda could see her fingers searching the corners. Undaunted at finding nothing there, Katie went around to his other side and tried another pocket.

Rhonda’s heart was twisted again as she realized what Katie was doing, but there would be no candy in Grandpa Bill’s pockets for her to find. Rhonda longed to pull her daughter away from disappointment and spare Grandpa Bill the humiliation of having this unknown child rifle through his pockets. But she stood frozen, unable to halt Katie’s candy hunt.

Apprehensively, Rhonda looked at Grandpa Bill’s face again. Tears were streaming down his wrinkled cheeks, but the confusion and pain were gone, and he was smiling. In fact, he was almost laughing. As Katie stopped the search of pockets within her reach, he slowly bent over and shakily pointed to the breast pocket on his flannel shirt. Katie’s hand quickly disappeared inside and triumphantly came out with a small package of breath mints, the only candy the rest home allowed him. She turned and said, “See, Mom, I knew he wouldn’t forget.”

Then Katie took Grandpa Bill by the hand, led him to the sofa, and pulled him down to sit beside her. “Would you like me to tell you a story about when you were little, Grandpa Bill?” she began.

A Coat For Mother

by Tom Baker

It was Christmas time in 1969; I had no idea that this would be the last Christmas we would spend with Mom. This was a very special Christmas for me – you see Mom never owned a new coat that I could remember. Mom was the kind of person who would give you everything she had, and would very seldom buy anything for herself. Mom and Dad had seven mouths to feed, in addition to their own, and lived on a very modest income.

Mom truly had a Christ-like attitude and endured to the end. She’d had polio as a young child. One of her legs was larger than the other. Sometimes she would have trouble walking, but never complained. Mom always treated my friends with kindness and they were always welcome at our house anytime. I remember my good friend Glen coming over and talking with Mom even when I wasn’t at home. Mom was always willing to lend a listening ear. She was a great mentor in that respect; if you ever asked her what she thought, you had to be prepared to listen, because she would tell you. When I was a teenager, Mom would always wait up for me – to talk with me after a date, or if I was just out with friends.

For never having much personal wealth, Mom had a heart of gold. Mom was one of the original founders, of the Head Start Program, in the area where we lived. I remember many times taking Christmas presents and food items to the needy people in the program. Mom would say to me, “This is a good cause and we are doing good things. By the way, you’re driving.”

As I think back on her unselfish acts of giving, watching the expressions of gratitude on the little children’s faces was priceless. So was hearing the heartfelt “Thank you” from needy parents, knowing that this family would have a better Christmas. To me this truly brings the spirit of Christ into Christmas. Mom would always let us know that it was important to be thankful for what you have and never dwell on the things we didn’t have.

Mom’s entire wardrobe consisted of four dresses, four pairs of shoes, a light jacket, and a couple of sweaters. The only jewelry that she had was her wedding ring, a watch, and some costume jewelry.

I decided that I would buy Mom a coat that year, so I took her down to Sears (almost dragged her) to find something for Christmas. As we went past the coat rack, one of the coats on the rack caught Mom’s eye. On a hanger was beautiful long dress coat that buttoned down the front. The blue and gray colors made a charcoal blend. I had to persuade her to try on the coat for fun. She said that we did not have the money to buy the coat. Money was tight and we needed the money we had, just to get by this Christmas. I nodded my head that she was right.

I told her, I would buy the coat and was not going to take “No” for an answer. Trying to convince Mom to let me get the coat for her was a tough job. I don’t remember the price of the coat. Eventually, we left the store with Mom wearing that nice new coat. She agreed that the coat did look good on her. I will ever be grateful for this opportunity, being able to give back just a little. This was the nicest coat that she ever owned.

In February of 1970 Mom passed away at age 42. I remember getting the award trophy for her, from the Head Start Program for valiant service with the program after she passed away. As I reflect back on my mother’s life, it was filled with acts of kindness too numerous to mention. Giving came from her heart, with a willingness to help whenever possible. Little things like a cup of sugar, or a loaf of homemade bread. She had a pure talent to make things from scratch, no cookbook necessary. There was always room to set another place at our dinner table for unexpected guests.

She knew the true meaning of Christmas, giving unselfish gifts from the heart. She was an example to us that, without Christ there would be no Christmas.

Mom left this little motto,
Which is important to follow.
The true place to start,
Is giving from the heart.
Sharing her Christ like love,
Unselfish acts worth thinking of.
Leaving things here on earth,
That still have great worth.
You never know whose lives you’re going to touch

At the pharmacy I go to for my prescriptions, I share the things that I write with my good friends, the pharmacist and his wife. I gave them the story "A Coat for Mother" last week. Monday when I went in I asked Jeff how Nancy liked the story. He said, "She loved It." Standing next to him was his assistant pharmacist, she picked up the copy I left with them and said "I loved this story, too."

The assistant pharmacist continued, “You see my mother passed away this year. I bought her a new coat last Christmas; my mother thought also that it was too expensive. I bought it for her anyway; my mother also had polio as a little girl. Also the date at the bottom of your story November 16th is my mother’s birthday. Thank you this story meant a lot to me.”

It’s a small world after all. You never know whose lives you are going to touch.

Yearlong Gift Dazzles A Dad

by Lincoln J. Card
Deseret News - January 3, 2003

All night, fierce winds swept the ground of the crisp, white snow and had chipped at the frozen earth, eroding off precious particles of top soil. The driving winds caused ground blizzards that had piled snow in great grayish-brown-tipped drifts around the house. As the frigid winds subsided, the whole world seemed frozen in the quiet, crisp chill of the frosty dawn. Meager threads of smoke curled upward from guarded blazes of stoves desperately trying to heat the scantily equipped homes. The 1930s Depression was at its peak. It seemed that no one was spared from the bony clutches of this catastrophic experience.

We were no exception. The furnace in our home sat cold and muted. The 10-room, two-story house had been closed off except for three adjoining rooms. The bathroom, kitchen and dining room struggled for the warmth from the coal-burning stove in the kitchen.

A Christmas tree crowded the corner of the dining room. My older brothers had tied a rope from the hinge of the door leading to the front entry hall, then diagonally across the room to the hinge of the door leading to the kitchen. From this rope hung 10 limp, well-worn stockings, many of them filled from heel to toe with loving stitches.

Mother's stocking hung at one end of the line, followed in succession, the oldest to the youngest, of each family member, ending with Father's stocking.

I was 8 years old and had saved every penny since the past February in order to buy presents for my family.

My oldest brother, Brigham, had been working on a government highway project high in the Rocky Mountains of southern Alberta. He had sent all of his earnings home to my father to help the family survive the stranglehold of financial depression.

Today, however, was Christmas morning, and the laughing excitement of eight children electrified the air as they lined up at the kitchen door awaiting Father's signal to enter the magical Christmas room. Enchantment had swallowed up the harried struggles for survival of the past year.

"Open the door!"

This signal brought cheers of delight as eight eager children flew to their stockings. For a fleeting moment, I had a feeling of disappointment as the stockings appeared to look as limp and lifeless as they had been on Christmas Eve. However, on closer observation my disappointment turned to thrilling delight as I recognized some small bulges stretching the sides of the otherwise gaunt stockings.

A comb, a pair of socks, a toothbrush, a pair of shoelaces, some handkerchiefs, a few nuts and most of all the wonderful hard-tack candy with colored stripes and designs.

A feeling of love, excitement and joy filled the room. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Father open a plain, wrapped, small gift. It was a notebook, the kind a man carries in his shirt pocket. As he fingered through the pages, his cheerful smile melted into thoughtful reflection. Tears began to dazzle his eyes, overflowing in little bursts of silver down the creases of his weary, worn cheeks. Quickly, he left the room.

Briefly, I wondered about this strange behavior on Christmas. My wonderment was soon distracted by the excitement of all the "ohs" and "ahs" and "thank yous" and laughter that punctuated this magic morning.

Soon, Father reappeared. His countenance was subdued and calm. There was a glow about him as if he had seen some heavenly vision. He walked slowly to his stocking, bowed his head for a moment, then slowly raised it. In a composed and gentle voice, he called out: "I would like to have everyone's attention."

This unusual request on a Christmas morning brought quick silence from eight children and Mother. All eyes were fixed on Father in the wonderment of expectation. Slowly he raised his hand, which held a little well-worn book, and spoke. The sound of his voice rang with a mellow yet driving sincerity that seemed to infuse my very being.

"I have just been given the greatest Christmas gift that I have ever received."

There was a short pause as he blinked away the mists that blurred his vision. Then he continued: "I want to tell you all about it. This is a gift from your brother Brigham. It is a little book with a notation written for each day of this year. In the front of the book is a note which says: 'Dear Father, I had no money to buy gifts this year. This is all I have to give you. It is a record of a good deed which I have done for someone each day of the year.'"

Father then stopped speaking. A hush fell over the whole family. The impact from the message of this gift left us all in thoughtful, reverent silence. Then someone began to clap their hands. Soon everyone was clapping with the joy of having experienced such an inspirational moment.

Though many years have passed since that eventful Christmas morning, the impact of its message of service and love lingers on as a brilliant, guiding star.

The Christmas Star

Author Unknown

This was my grandmother's first Christmas without Grandfather, and we had promised him before he passed away that we would make this her best Christmas ever. When my mom, dad, three sisters, and I arrived at her little house in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina, we found she had waited up all night for us to arrive from Texas. After we exchanged hugs, Donna, Karen, Kristi, and I ran into the house. It did seem a little empty without Grandfather, and we knew it was up to us to make this Christmas special for her.

Grandfather had always said that the Christmas tree was the most important decoration of all. So we immediately set to work assembling the beautiful artificial tree that was stored in Grandfather's closet. Although artificial, it was the most genuine-looking Douglas fir I had ever seen. Tucked away in the closet with the tree was a spectacular array of ornaments, many of which had been my father's when he was a little boy. As we unwrapped each one, Grandmother had a story to go along with it. My mother strung the tree with bright white lights and a red button garland; my sisters and I carefully placed the ornaments on the tree; and finally, Father was given the honor of lighting the tree.

We stepped back to admire our handiwork. To us, it looked magnificent, as beautiful as the tree in Rockefeller Center. But something was missing.

"Where's your star?" I asked.

The star was my grandmother's favorite part of the tree.

"Why, it must be here somewhere," she said, starting to sort through the boxes again. "Your grandfather always packed everything so carefully when he took the tree down."

As we emptied box after box and found no star, my grandmother's eyes filled with tears. This was no ordinary ornament, but an elaborate golden star covered with colored jewels and blue lights that blinked on and off. Moreover, Grandfather had given it to Grandmother some fifty years ago, on their first Christmas together. Now, on her first Christmas without him, the star was gone, too.

"Don't worry, Grandmother," I reassured her. "We'll find it for you."

My sisters and I formed a search party.

"Let's start in the closet where the ornaments were," Donna said. "Maybe the box just fell down."

That sounded logical, so we climbed on a chair and began to search that tall closet of Grandfather's. We found Father's old yearbooks and photographs of relatives, Christmas cards from years gone by, and party dresses and jewelry boxes, but no star.

We searched under beds and over shelves, inside and outside, until we had exhausted every possibility. We could see Grandmother was disappointed, although she tried not to show it.

"We could buy a new star," Kristi offered.

"I'll make you one from construction paper," Karen chimed in.

"No," Grandmother said. "This year, we won't have a star."

By now, it was dark outside, and time for bed, as Santa would soon be here. We lay in bed, snowflakes falling quietly outside.

The next morning, my sisters and I woke up early, as was our habit on Christmas day -- first, to see what Santa had left under the tree, and second, to look for the Christmas star in the sky. After a traditional breakfast of apple pancakes, the family sat down together to open presents. Santa had brought me the Easy-Bake Oven I wanted, and Donna a Chatty-Cathy doll. Karen was thrilled to get the doll buggy she had asked for, and Kristi to get the china tea set. Father was in charge of passing out the presents, so that everyone would have something to open at the same time.

"The last gift is to Grandmother from Grandfather," he said, in a puzzled voice.

"From who?" There was surprise in my grandmother's voice.

"I found that gift in Grandfather's closet when we got the tree down," Mother explained. "It was already wrapped so I put it under the tree. I thought it was one of yours."

"Hurry and open it," Karen urged excitedly.

My grandmother shakily opened the box. Her face lit up with joy when she unfolded the tissue paper and pulled out a glorious golden star. There was a note attached. Her voice trembled as she read it aloud:

Don't be angry with me, dear. I broke your star while putting away the decorations, and I couldn't bear to tell you. Thought it was time for a new one. I hope it brings you as much joy as the first one. Merry Christmas.

Love,
Bryant

So Grandmother's tree had a star after all, a star that expressed my grandparents' everlasting love for one another. It brought my grandfather home for Christmas in each of our hearts and made it our best Christmas ever.

Our Matchbox Christmas

Author Unknown

It was a rainy California Christmas Eve. Our tree was lit
up, and it shone through the large picture window of
our home in military quarters at Port Hueneme. My
husband would finally be spending Christmas with us.
He had often missed the holidays due to deployments,
leaving me and our three small children alone for
Christmas. He had just returned home from Vietnam
and would be home for six months. Then he would have
to go back to fighting the war in Vietnam.

Our children, six, four and two years old, were
anxiously waiting for their daddy to return from
battalion headquarters. He had to “muster and make
it.” Their little noses had been pressed against the big
frosty window almost all afternoon, waiting for him to
come back home.

Their daddy was a Seabee, and we were all as proud of
him as we could be, but we often struggled to make
ends meet. Once a month, I would buy a month’s worth
of groceries, and this month, I had managed to squeeze
in a large turkey and all the trimmings, to cook for our
Christmas Eve meal, but money for presents was
scarce. I had bought my husband a small gift, and he
had bought me one. The children each had a handful of
tiny department-store toys, all individually wrapped and
waiting for the big day. There were no names on the
small gifts; I could feel through the paper and tell what
they were.

I saw my husband’s car headlights cut through the dark
winter mist that engulfed our home. I pushed back my
hair and straightened my clothes. The children and I
rushed to the door. This was our big night! It had been
our tradition back home in Texas to eat our big meal on
Christmas Eve night, and this year we were going to eat
better than we usually did. Our little table was laden
with all sorts of tasty-looking food. Each of the kids
would get to open one present, and Santa Claus would
be coming after they went to sleep.

To my surprise, when I opened the door to give my
husband a big kiss, standing behind him were three
burly Seabees. They hung their heads as they entered
our home, as if to apologize for intruding on our family
feast.

“Honey,” my husband said, almost apologetically,
“these are some of the guys who were with me in
‘Nam. Their families are thousands of miles away. They
were just sitting in the barracks, and I asked them if
they wanted to come eat with us. Is it okay if they
stay?”

I was thrilled to have Christmas company. We, too,
were thousands of miles away from friends and family.
It had been so long since we had “entertained.” We
gladly shared our small feast with those three huge
Seabees. After dinner, we all sat down in the living
room. The children started begging to open their gifts.
I sat them down and walked over to the tree to get
them each a tiny wrapped gift.

As I glanced up, I could see my husband’s friends
sitting there looking sad and distant. I realized how
bittersweet it must feel to be here with us. I knew they
must be thinking about their own children, wives and
homes. They were staring down at the floor, lost in the
loneliness of the season, trying to shake the horrible
memories of the war they had just left — a war to
which they would soon return.

Quickly, I scooped up six colorfully wrapped Matchbox
cars. I called each of our children’s names, and they
quickly opened their presents. Soon, all three of them
were rolling their cars on the floor.

I walked over to the men. “Well, what do you know?” I
said. “Old Santa must have known you were going to be
here!”

Those big old Seabees looked up in surprise. They
opened their treasures: a Matchbox car for each of
them. Within seconds after they opened the gifts,
those men, grinning from ear to ear, were down on the
floor playing with their tiny cars.

I looked up at my husband. “How about me?” he asked.
“Did Santa leave me anything?”

I reached under the tree and handed him a tiny present
also. He joyfully joined our children and his friends.
They must have played for hours. They ate, told funny
stories and laughed while they rolled those race cars
around on the floor.

I watched them there, filled with pride. These men had
fought for us and kept us free. Free to have nights like
this one, and others that were to come.

I didn’t really know these men, but there they were,
sitting on our floor. They would have given the world to
be back home with their loved ones, but it wasn’t
possible. They had committed to defend our country.
They were trying to make the best of an awful time in
their lives.

Soon, the races were over, the food was almost all
devoured, and each of the men said their goodbyes and
left our home, their faces shining with new hope. In
each of their hands, clutched tightly, was a tiny
Matchbox car.

Years have passed since that Christmas Eve night. Two
of the men returned from the war. One didn’t.
We have seen them over the years, visited their
homes, met their families. The men have swapped war
stories while the women shared “left at home to do it
all by ourselves” stories. Our children played together.

When we first met again, I was surprised to learn that
every one of the men had kept their cars in their
pockets when they were in ‘Nam. When times got
tough, and everything would get still, the men would
quietly take out those little cars. They would give each
other a grin, as if to promise that there would be
another race and that they would see another day.

And they showed me how, high on a mantel, or proudly
displayed in a shadow box, safely tucked away from
harm, they still have their tiny Matchbox cars!

An Elf’s Tale

by Tyree Dillingham

It was six o’clock at the mall, and I was as exhausted as an elf on Christmas Eve. In fact, I was an elf and it was Christmas Eve. That December of my sixteenth year, I’d been working two jobs to help my parents with my school tuition and to make a little extra holiday money. My second job was as an elf for Santa to help with kids’ photos. Between my two jobs, I’d worked twelve hours straight the day before. On Christmas Eve, things were so busy at Santaland that I hadn’t even had a coffee break all day. But this was it -- only minutes more, and I’d have survived!

I looked over at Shelly, our manager, and she gave me an encouraging smile. She was the reason I’d made it through. She’d been thrown in as manager halfway through the season, and she’d made all the difference in the world. My job had changed from stress-filled to challenging. Instead of yelling at her workers to keep us in line, she encouraged us and stood behind us. She made us pull together as a team. Especially when things were their craziest, she always had a smile and an encouraging word. Under her leadership, we’d achieved the highest number of mall photo sales in California.

I knew it was a difficult holiday season for her -- she’d recently suffered a miscarriage. I hoped she knew how great she was and what a difference she’d made to all her workers and to all the little children who’d come to have their pictures taken.

Our booth was open until seven; at six, things started to slow down, and I finally took a break. Although I didn’t have much money, I really wanted to buy a little gift for Shelly so that she’d know we appreciated her. I got to a store that sold soap and lotion just as they put the grate down. “Sorry, we’re closed!” barked the clerk, who looked as tired as I was and didn’t sound sorry at all.

I looked around and, to my dismay, found that all the stores had closed. I’d been so tired I hadn’t noticed.

I was really bummed. I had been working all day and had missed buying her a present by one minute.

On my way back to the Santa booth, I saw that Nordstrom was still open. Fearful that they, too, would close at any moment, I hurried inside and followed the signs toward the Gift Gallery. As I rushed through the store, I began to feel very conspicuous. It seemed the other shoppers were all very well-dressed and wealthy -- and here I was a broke teenager in an elf costume. How could I even think I’d find something in such a posh store for under fifteen dollars?

I self-consciously jingled my way into the Gift Gallery. A woman sales associate, who also looked as if she’d just stepped off a fashion runway, came over and asked if she could help me. As she did, everyone in the department turned and stared.

As quietly as possible, I said, “No, that’s okay. Just help somebody else.”

She looked right at me and smiled. “No,” she said. “I want to help you.”

I told the woman who I was buying for and why, then I sheepishly admitted I only had fifteen dollars to spend. She looked as pleased and thoughtful as if I’d just asked to spend $1500. By now, the department had emptied, but she carefully went around, selecting a few things that would make a nice basket. The total came to $14.09.

The store was closing; as she rang up the purchase, the lights were turned off.

I was thinking that if I could take them home and wrap them, I could make them really pretty but I didn’t have time.

As if reading my mind, the saleslady asked, “Do you need this wrapped?”

“Yes,” I said.

By now the store was closed. Over the intercom, a voice asked if there were still customers in the store. I knew this woman was probably as eager to get home on Christmas Eve as everybody else, and here she was stuck waiting on some kid with a measly purchase.

But she was gone in the back room a long time. When she returned, she brought out the most beautiful basket I’d ever seen. It was all wrapped up in silver and gold, and looked as if I’d spent fifty dollars on it -- at least. I couldn’t believe it. I was so happy!

When I thanked her, she said, “You elves are out in the mall spreading joy to so many people, I just wanted to bring a little joy to you.”

“Merry Christmas, Shelly,” I said back at the booth. My manager gasped when she saw the present; she was so touched and happy that she started crying. I hoped it gave a happy start to her Christmas.

All through the holidays, I couldn’t stop thinking about the kindness and effort of the saleswoman, and how much joy she had brought to me, and in turn to my manager. I thought the least I could do was to write a letter to the store and let them know about it. About a week later, I got a reply from the store, thanking me for writing.

I thought that was the end of it, until mid-January.

That’s when I got a call from Stephanie, the sales associate. She wanted to take me to lunch. Me, a fifteen-dollar, sixteen-year-old customer.

When we met, Stephanie gave me a hug, and a present, and told me this story.

She had walked into a recent employee meeting to find herself on the list of nominees to be named the Nordstrom All-Star. She was confused but excited, as she had never before been nominated. At the point in the meeting when the winner was announced, they called Stephanie -- she’d won! When she went up front to accept the award, her manager read my letter out loud. Everyone gave her a huge round of applause.

Winning meant that her picture was put up in the store lobby, she got new business cards with Nordstrom All-Star written on them, a 14-karat gold pin, a 100-dollar award, and was invited to represent her department at the regional meeting.

At the regional meeting, they read my letter and everyone gave Stephanie a standing ovation. “This is what we want all of our employees to be like!” said the manager who read the letter. She got to meet three of the Nordstrom brothers, who were each very complimentary.

I was already a little overwhelmed when Stephanie took my hand. “But that’s not the best part, Tyree,” she said. “The day of that first store meeting, I took a list of the nominees, and put your letter behind it, with the 100-dollar bill behind that. I took it home and gave it to my father. He read everything and looked at me and said, “When do you find out who won?”

“I said, ‘I won, Dad.’”

“He looked me right in the eye and said, ‘Stephanie, I’m really proud of you.’”

Quietly, she said, “My dad has never said he was proud of me.”

I think I’ll remember that moment all my life. That was when I realized what a powerful gift appreciation can be. Shelly’s appreciation of her workers had set into motion a chain of events -- Stephanie’s beautiful basket, my letter, Nordstrom’s award -- that had changed at least three lives.

Though I’d heard it all my life, it was the Christmas when I was an elf -- and a broke teenager -- that I truly came to understand that the littlest things can make the biggest difference.