by
Robert Lewis Stevenson
Loving
Father, help us remember the birth of Jesus, that we may share in the song of
the angels, the gladness of the shepherds, and the worship of the wise men.
Close
the door of hate and open the door of love all over the world.
Let
kindness come with every gift and good desires with every greeting.
Deliver
us from evil by the blessing which Christ brings, and teach us to be merry with
clear hearts.
May the Christmas morning
make us happy to be Thy children, and the Christmas evening bring us to our
beds with grateful thoughts, forgiving and forgiven, for Jesus' sake, Amen.
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
Monday, December 24, 2012
A Christmas Surprise for Grandma
by Gloria J. Shuttleworth
Grandma
lived on Sugar Creek Mountain all alone. It was a beautiful mountain, with tall
cedar trees all over the mountain top. In the middle of the mountain was a
crystal clear lake. The water in the lake was the prettiest blue you've ever
seen. When the water was calm, you could see the fish swimming around in the
lake.
I loved
sitting by the lake when I was a little girl. Grandma would pack us a lunch,
and we would sit at the lake for hours on end. Hour after hour, Grandma would
tell me stories about her life on the mountain.
I remember
the day that Grandpa drowned in the lake. My parents had tried to talk Grandma
into moving into town, but she wouldn't hear of it. My parents knew not to
argue with her, because they knew that Grandma was set in her ways.
"I've
been on this mountain for so long that I've forgotten which is the oldest, me
or the mountain," Grandma had said, with a twinkle in her eyes. I knew my
parents worried about her being alone, because Grandma was the only person who
lived on Sugar Cliff Mountain.
Today I was
going to visit Grandma, and the excitement grew inside me at the thought of
spending time on the mountain once more. After all, it had been ten years since
I had seen Grandma. It's hard to believe that my career had kept me away for so
long. As I approached the top of the mountain, I could see Grandma staring out
the window of her little log cabin home.
Grandma
greeted me at the door with a big hug. "I am so happy that you could come
to visit with me," said Grandma. This Christmas is going to be so
wonderful! I have a special surprise for you dear.” Little did grandma know that I had a very
special surprise for her as well.
"Well,
we can't stand around here all day," said Grandma. “There's a lot of work
to get done. I have invited the people from the village to come to my Christmas
party on Saturday evening.”
After I had
freshened up a bit, we spent the day baking all sorts of cookies and candies.
Grandma had a story to tell as we baked the goodies for the party.
She told me
about how she used to bake apple pies for Grandpa.
"He
loved apple pies," said Grandma. Those were his favorite.
She said
that after the pies would cool off, that Grandpa would send her into the living
room, under the pretense that he would clean up the kitchen. Grandma knew what
he was really up to, but she never let on that she knew. Grandma would go into
the living room and sit in her rocking chair. She would sing some of the songs
that she knew Grandpa loved. About an hour later, Grandma would wander back
into the kitchen.
"Why
Henry!" she said, as she
tried to look surprised, "This kitchen isn't clean and what happened to
that pie?" Grandma could see that he had eaten two slices of the apple
pie.
Keeping as straight a face as he could,Grandpa
would go into a wild story. He'd say, "Gee Emmy, you know that when our
horses smell those apple pies, they prance right up to the window and snatch
them!"
"How is it that they only got two
pieces?" asked Grandma.
"Well, if I hadn't snatched it away
they would have eaten the whole pie," chuckled Grandpa!
Grandma said it was the same routine every
time she baked an apple pie. Grandma's eyes would sparkle and twinkle whenever
she relived her memories of Grandpa. Listening to her talk about him was a real
experience. You could see the love she had for him on her face as she spoke.
Whenever she would talk about Grandpa, you could feel the love for him in every
word.
After the last of the cleaning up was done
in the kitchen,
Grandma retired for the evening. I made myself a cup of tea and sat down in
front of the fireplace.
Sitting
alone in the quiet house, I pondered my childhood memories of my grandparents.
They had always been such a fun loving and happy couple. Shortly after they
were married, Grandpa built the log cabin home for his "Little ole
Emmy", as he called her. Just before Christmas, almost twelve years ago, Grandpa
was outside gathering firewood, when Grandma heard a horrible scream and a
terrible noise. She ran outside to find that an area of the ice on the lake had
fallen through. She yelled for Grandpa over and over but no reply ever came.
They searched the lake for over a week, but no trace of Grandpa could be found.
Finally, they called off the search. One of the men who had helped in the
search said they'd probably never find Grandpa now.
Just then,
as my thoughts were still racing around in my head, my grandmother brought me
back to reality. "We have to be up very early in the morning dear, so off
to bed now," she said. I slowly walked to my grandmother's room, and
kissed her goodnight.
Morning came
early at Grandma's house. As I entered the kitchen, I could smell the homemade
biscuits and gravy cooking on the stove. "What's on our list of things to
do today?" I asked.
"The
men are coming from the village this morning to put the lights on the trees,
and we have lots of presents to wrap for the children," she said.
Just then,
there was a knock at the door. It was the men from the village ready to start
putting up the lights. Grandma was so excited as she stepped back to watch
them.
"Let's
wrap those presents now, Laura," said Grandma. As I watched Grandma wrap
the presents and tie the ribbons, I knew that so much more was being placed
around them. With each piece of wrapping paper, Grandma was also wrapping them
with love. After the last present was wrapped, we realized that we'd been
wrapping presents all day!
It was now
getting dark outside, and Grandma wanted to go outside to view the lights. As
we stepped out onto the porch, we gasped. The sight that met our eyes was so
beautiful to behold! The snow was glittering and the reflection of the lights
on the snow was beyond words! It was breathtaking!
That night I
went to bed with a heart full of love for my grandmother. I knew that someday I
wanted to be just like her, full of love for others. Saturday evening the village
people started arriving just after dark. Grandma always waited until evening to
have her Christmas party, because she loved the lights. All the guests gathered
around in the front yard and began to sing Christmas carols. Oh, how Grandma
loved that!
Ole Ben was
a jolly fellow who worked at the village store, and he was chosen to help Santa
hand out the presents. The children shouted with glee, as they unwrapped their
gifts. Grandma said, "Laura, come here dear, I have a surprise for
you."
As she handed
me the present, I could see the love and pride in her eyes. "I love it
grandma," I said, as I bent down to kiss her cheek. "I will cherish
it forever." Grandma had made a quilt out of some of my dresses that I had
worn as a little girl.
"Grandma,
if you could have just one special gift for Christmas, what would it be?"
I asked her. Without even stopping to think, she replied, "I would like to
see your grandfather just one more time, so I could feed him the apple pie that
the horses quit snatching when he left us."
Just then Grandma's
face lit up like the lights on the Christmas tree! Everyone turned to see what
Grandma was looking at. Walking slowly toward her, with an apple pie in his
hand, was Grandpa! There were two slices missing from the pie that he was
holding. The village people were speechless, as they thought they were seeing a
ghost. Grandpa chuckled, as he yelled out, "Emmy, those darn horses
snatched the pie and got away with two pieces. They would have eaten it all if I hadn't snatched it back away from them!"
Tears of joy were flowing down Grandma's
cheeks as she threw her arms around Grandpa.
“Henry! We thought you had drowned!”
“I'll explain everything to you Emmy, but
first let's thank God that we are together again.”
Everyone bowed their heads as Grandpa
thanked God for bringing him home to his "Little ole Emmy".
Grandpa told everyone to gather around the
fireplace and he would tell them what had happened to him. “For almost twelve
years I couldn't remember anything," said Grandpa, "Not even my name.
Then about two months ago, Laura came to work at the county home where I have
been living.
“I didn't recognize Laura at first,"
said Grandpa, “especially, since she is all grown up now, but she did know who I
was right away! She was so shocked to see me, that it took her a while to
believe it was really me. She started to tell me some of the stories that Emmy
used to tell me. She would sit there with me and sing me the songs that Emmy
used to sing. At first it didn't make any difference to me, but slowly my
memory started to return.
“I remember
now going out to gather firewood. There was a nice piece of wood on the lake. I
thought the lake was frozen over so I stepped out on the lake to get the piece
of wood. I remember hearing the lake crackle and that's the last I remember
about the accident.”
"Laura,
how can I ever thank you for bringing grandpa home to me?" asked Grandma.
Laura
replied, "Seeing the happiness and the love you have for each other is all
the thanks I need."
As Laura retired to bed that night, she couldn't help
but think about the surprise that she had given to Grandma for Christmas. She
knew in her heart that it was the best surprise present that Grandma would ever
get. What a warm and wonderful feeling came over Laura as she fell asleep,
thinking of her grandparents.
Sunday, December 23, 2012
December 23
Author Unknown
Today is December 23. It is on this day each year that I do penance for an act I committed in 1947, when I was seven years old. I was in the third grade at Emerson School and had been blessed with a marvelous teacher named Miss Heacock. She was not much taller than I, and had dark red hair and smiling green eyes. I credit her with any love I have for classical music, because she spent part of every Thursday morning introducing us to the lives of the great composers and playing recordings of music by Beethoven, Brahms, Bach, and other great musicians. I loved school because of the influence of this wonderful woman.
As Christmas approached, we made decorations for our schoolroom. Miles of red and green paper strips were pasted into interlocking loops to form paper chains as we listened to Handel's Messiah. Pictures of Santa Claus were drawn and painted with water colors. Stained-glass windows were approximated as Miss Heacock ironed our crayon drawings between pieces of scrap paper. A Christmas tree was placed in one front corner of the room, and the odor of pine replaced the particularly pungent aroma of oil that arose from the decades-old hardwood floors of our classroom. It was then that Miss Heacock announced we were to have a Christmas party on the day we were released for Christmas vacation. We were all excited.
Fate had blessed us with a peculiar situation that year. There were exactly as many girls as boys in our class. Miss Heacock decided, perhaps in an attempt to introduce us to the social graces, that each of us would purchase a gift for another student in the room. Each boy would supply a gift for a girl and vice versa. The gifts were to cost no more than twenty-five cents. There have been moments in my life when I have known exactly what was going to happen. I claim no great gift of prophecy, but, nevertheless, I have known. As Miss Heacock began walking down the aisles, a box of boys' names in one hand, one with girls' names in the other, I knew the name I'd draw would be Violet's.
Violet was a sorry little girl who had been placed in our class that year. She was very plain and did little to help her looks. Her hair was rarely combed, she wore the same dress every day, and, worst of all, she wet the bed and rarely bathed. Violet sat in the back corner of the room, partially because she chose to sit there, but also because the rest of us had moved away from her. When the room warmed up, the aroma of Violet mixed with the perfume of floor oil and became almost overpowering. Seven- and eight-year-old children can be cruel, very cruel. Violet had been the target of most of our cruelty during the school year.
Miss Heacock approached my desk with the box of girls' names. I reached into the box, shuffled the names around, and finally withdrew the folded scrap of paper. I placed it before me on my desk. My fingers trembled as I unfolded it. There it was, as I knew it would be: “Violet.” I quickly wadded up the paper and shoved it into my pants pocket. The bell rang for recess.
“Who'd you get?” asked my best friend Allen.
I panicked. I couldn't let anyone know I'd gotten Violet. “We're supposed to keep it secret.”
“Sure, but you can tell me,” Allen probed. “I'll tell you who I got. Just between us, okay?”
“Miss Heacock said to keep it secret.” My voice squeaked a little.
Suddenly Allen smiled. Earlier in the year I had made the mistake of telling him I thought one of the girls in our class, Margo of the honey-colored hair, was pretty. I had endured considerable abuse since that disclosure. “I'll bet you got Margo's name. That's why you won't tell. You got Margo!” Immediately he was running around the playground shouting that I'd gotten Margo's name. So much for Allen's ability to keep a secret.
I slunk back into the school, face aflame. The rest of that Friday crawled by. Finally the last bell rang. As I was pulling on my galoshes I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Is something wrong?” I looked up into Miss Heacock's emerald eyes. “You seemed awfully quiet this afternoon.”
“I'm okay,” I stammered. My mind had been struggling with the Violet problem all afternoon. I had reached a possible solution; I wouldn't get Violet anything. Since we were maintaining secrecy, no one would know. “Maybe,” I said, “I won't be able to get a present. My father makes me earn all my spending money,” I lied, “and I might not have a quarter to buy a present.”
A look of concern came over Miss Heacock's face. “If you can't afford a quarter, I'll give you one. It will be our little secret.”
I trudged home through the snow. No other brilliant escapes from the situation entered my mind. Christmas was the following Thursday, and the party would be on Tuesday. I had only three days to find a way out of my misery. Perhaps I could become sick, but that path was fraught with peril, since my mother made us stay in bed all day when we were sick, and I might be in bed Christmas Day if she suspected I was really not sick. At last I reached home.
The house smelled wonderful. I could tell my mother had been baking bread. I hurried to the kitchen in hopes of melting gobs of butter on a slice of warm bread. My mother greeted me. “Miss Heacock phoned. I'm sure your father and I can come up with a quarter for a Christmas present.” My heart sank into my galoshes. Now there was no way out.
Saturday morning it was snowing. My mother exulted about a white Christmas while I pulled on my snowsuit and galoshes and prepared for the four-block trek to the Economy Drug Store. My mother gave me a quarter and a dime “just in case” and sent me off to do my Christmas shopping. I took time to investigate everything along the way, prolonging the inevitable as long as possible.
Since the previous evening, I had been contemplating what to buy for Violet. Nothing seemed really appropriate. As I wandered up and down the aisles of the Economy Drug, galoshes squeaking mournfully, I discovered my choices were somewhat narrowed by the twenty-five-cent limit. I considered purchasing five nickel candy bars but discarded that idea, since Violet probably liked candy bars. As I reached the end of the counter, I saw the gift, and a terrible plan exploded full-blown in my mind. Not only did I see the gift, but I knew how I would present it to Violet. There on the shelf were small, crown-shaped bottles of cologne. I selected one from the display and twisted off the lid. Years later when I read novels that used the phrase “she reeked of cheap perfume,” my mind always flashed back to the first whiff of cologne from that bottle in the Economy Drug. It had only one redeeming feature. It cost a quarter.
I sloshed back home with my purchase. Thankfully, my mother did not sniff the cologne. She merely commented on how lovely the little bottle was. She helped me find a box and wrap my gift. I went to my room, found a pencil and paper, and wrote the following poem:
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Put this stuff on
So we can stand you.
I did not sign it. I sealed it in an envelope and taped it to the gift.
Monday morning I left for school earlier than usual. When I arrived, I went to my classroom. The door was open, but Miss Heacock was not in her room. Quickly and furtively I placed the gift under the Christmas tree. So far so good.
By the time the school bell rang, Miss Heacock was playing Christmas carols on the phonograph, and more and more gifts were being placed under the tree. We became more excited about tomorrow's Christmas party as the day wore on. Miss Heacock carefully looked at each gift and checked off names in her roll book.
On Tuesday, our party was preceded by a semi-annual desk clean out. At last all of the papers had been removed, crayon boxes lined up neatly, and pencils sharpened and put away. It was time for the party!
We drank punch from paper cups and ate cookies and candy canes, and then it was time to distribute gifts. As we sat in our seats Miss Heacock selected a present from beneath the tree and called out, “Sandra.” Sandra, somewhat embarrassed, walked to the front of the room and took her present back to her desk. She was unsure whether she should open it or not. “You may open it, Sandra,” said Miss Heacock.
Several more presents were distributed before Miss Heacock called out, “Violet.” Violet walked slowly to the front of the room. Miss Heacock extended her hand and delivered my gift. Violet, eyes glistening, walked back to her seat. I shifted in my seat so I could see her reaction. She placed the unopened gift on her desk and opened the envelope. Suddenly she began to quiver; a tear formed in the corner of her eye and ran down her cheek. Violet began to sob. She grabbed her present and ran from the room. Miss Heacock, reaching for a gift, did not see her go.
The enormity of what I had done sank home. Tears filled my eyes. There have been moments in my life when I wished I could back up ten minutes and correct errors I had made. This was one of those moments. I am sure my name was eventually called. I am sure I was given a gift. I remember nothing of this. I merely wallowed in guilt. Finally, the party ended, and I walked home.
As Christmas vacation came to an end, I began to realize I would have to face Violet when I went back to school. Even though I had not signed my name, I was certain she had figured out who had written that terrible poem. How could I face her? But like it or not, school began again. It began without Violet. Her seat was empty. It was empty the next day and the next. Violet had moved.
Twelve years passed. I entered a classroom at the University of Utah and took my seat. The professor began to call the roll. “Violet,” he called. The girl in the seat directly behind mine answered, “Here.” My blood ran cold. As discreetly as possible I turned and looked at her. She had matured, she had changed from an ugly duckling into a swan, but there was no doubt it was Violet.
When class ended I turned to her. “Violet,” I said, “I don't know if you remember me. We were in the same class in third grade at Emerson School.”
She looked at me, and her forehead wrinkled. “I'm sorry; I really don't remember your name. I was only in that class for part of the year.”
“Violet, may I take you to lunch? I need to ask your forgiveness.”
“For what?” She looked puzzled.
“I'll tell you at lunch, okay?”
We walked silently to the Union Building, through the cafeteria line, and to a table. “What do you need to talk to me about?”
“How much do you remember about our third grade class?” I asked.
“The music,” she answered. “Our teacher played such beautiful music. I think she's the reason I'm a music minor today. It had been such a tough year for my family. My father died that July, and we found a little house to rent. It was so crowded with six children. I had to sleep with my two little sisters, and they both wet the bed. I can remember how embarrassed I was to come to school smelling so bad, but the bathtub didn't work, and we had to wash out of a washtub after heating the water on our coal stove. Usually there wasn't time to bathe in the morning.” The words were tumbling out as Violet remembered bitterly that third grade experience. “I used to come to school and hide in the back corner.”
I was finding it harder and harder to confess. As Violet spoke, the coals were heaped higher and higher upon my head. At last she was silent. “Violet, do you remember the Christmas party?”
Tears formed in her eyes. “Oh, yes.”
“Violet, can you ever forgive me? I was the one who wrote that terrible poem that sent you sobbing from the room.”
She looked puzzled. “What poem? I was crying because I hadn't had a quarter to buy a gift and yet someone had given a gift to me. I couldn't stand the guilt and the shame.”
“Violet, there was a card attached to your gift. On it I wrote a terrible poem. Don't you remember?”
Violet tipped her head back and laughed. “I couldn't read in the third grade. I don't think I even looked at your poem.” Then the knife twisted. “What did it say?”
“Violet, it doesn't matter. Just forgive me, please."
"Cone on, what was the poem?"
I chose not to compound my guilt with a lie, so I quoted it to her.
“It seems appropriate to me,” she laughed. “I forgive you.”
We finished lunch, and I walked out of the Union Building with a lighter heart. However, every December 23, I still do penance for the cruelty of youth.
Today is December 23. It is on this day each year that I do penance for an act I committed in 1947, when I was seven years old. I was in the third grade at Emerson School and had been blessed with a marvelous teacher named Miss Heacock. She was not much taller than I, and had dark red hair and smiling green eyes. I credit her with any love I have for classical music, because she spent part of every Thursday morning introducing us to the lives of the great composers and playing recordings of music by Beethoven, Brahms, Bach, and other great musicians. I loved school because of the influence of this wonderful woman.
As Christmas approached, we made decorations for our schoolroom. Miles of red and green paper strips were pasted into interlocking loops to form paper chains as we listened to Handel's Messiah. Pictures of Santa Claus were drawn and painted with water colors. Stained-glass windows were approximated as Miss Heacock ironed our crayon drawings between pieces of scrap paper. A Christmas tree was placed in one front corner of the room, and the odor of pine replaced the particularly pungent aroma of oil that arose from the decades-old hardwood floors of our classroom. It was then that Miss Heacock announced we were to have a Christmas party on the day we were released for Christmas vacation. We were all excited.
Fate had blessed us with a peculiar situation that year. There were exactly as many girls as boys in our class. Miss Heacock decided, perhaps in an attempt to introduce us to the social graces, that each of us would purchase a gift for another student in the room. Each boy would supply a gift for a girl and vice versa. The gifts were to cost no more than twenty-five cents. There have been moments in my life when I have known exactly what was going to happen. I claim no great gift of prophecy, but, nevertheless, I have known. As Miss Heacock began walking down the aisles, a box of boys' names in one hand, one with girls' names in the other, I knew the name I'd draw would be Violet's.
Violet was a sorry little girl who had been placed in our class that year. She was very plain and did little to help her looks. Her hair was rarely combed, she wore the same dress every day, and, worst of all, she wet the bed and rarely bathed. Violet sat in the back corner of the room, partially because she chose to sit there, but also because the rest of us had moved away from her. When the room warmed up, the aroma of Violet mixed with the perfume of floor oil and became almost overpowering. Seven- and eight-year-old children can be cruel, very cruel. Violet had been the target of most of our cruelty during the school year.
Miss Heacock approached my desk with the box of girls' names. I reached into the box, shuffled the names around, and finally withdrew the folded scrap of paper. I placed it before me on my desk. My fingers trembled as I unfolded it. There it was, as I knew it would be: “Violet.” I quickly wadded up the paper and shoved it into my pants pocket. The bell rang for recess.
“Who'd you get?” asked my best friend Allen.
I panicked. I couldn't let anyone know I'd gotten Violet. “We're supposed to keep it secret.”
“Sure, but you can tell me,” Allen probed. “I'll tell you who I got. Just between us, okay?”
“Miss Heacock said to keep it secret.” My voice squeaked a little.
Suddenly Allen smiled. Earlier in the year I had made the mistake of telling him I thought one of the girls in our class, Margo of the honey-colored hair, was pretty. I had endured considerable abuse since that disclosure. “I'll bet you got Margo's name. That's why you won't tell. You got Margo!” Immediately he was running around the playground shouting that I'd gotten Margo's name. So much for Allen's ability to keep a secret.
I slunk back into the school, face aflame. The rest of that Friday crawled by. Finally the last bell rang. As I was pulling on my galoshes I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Is something wrong?” I looked up into Miss Heacock's emerald eyes. “You seemed awfully quiet this afternoon.”
“I'm okay,” I stammered. My mind had been struggling with the Violet problem all afternoon. I had reached a possible solution; I wouldn't get Violet anything. Since we were maintaining secrecy, no one would know. “Maybe,” I said, “I won't be able to get a present. My father makes me earn all my spending money,” I lied, “and I might not have a quarter to buy a present.”
A look of concern came over Miss Heacock's face. “If you can't afford a quarter, I'll give you one. It will be our little secret.”
I trudged home through the snow. No other brilliant escapes from the situation entered my mind. Christmas was the following Thursday, and the party would be on Tuesday. I had only three days to find a way out of my misery. Perhaps I could become sick, but that path was fraught with peril, since my mother made us stay in bed all day when we were sick, and I might be in bed Christmas Day if she suspected I was really not sick. At last I reached home.
The house smelled wonderful. I could tell my mother had been baking bread. I hurried to the kitchen in hopes of melting gobs of butter on a slice of warm bread. My mother greeted me. “Miss Heacock phoned. I'm sure your father and I can come up with a quarter for a Christmas present.” My heart sank into my galoshes. Now there was no way out.
Saturday morning it was snowing. My mother exulted about a white Christmas while I pulled on my snowsuit and galoshes and prepared for the four-block trek to the Economy Drug Store. My mother gave me a quarter and a dime “just in case” and sent me off to do my Christmas shopping. I took time to investigate everything along the way, prolonging the inevitable as long as possible.
Since the previous evening, I had been contemplating what to buy for Violet. Nothing seemed really appropriate. As I wandered up and down the aisles of the Economy Drug, galoshes squeaking mournfully, I discovered my choices were somewhat narrowed by the twenty-five-cent limit. I considered purchasing five nickel candy bars but discarded that idea, since Violet probably liked candy bars. As I reached the end of the counter, I saw the gift, and a terrible plan exploded full-blown in my mind. Not only did I see the gift, but I knew how I would present it to Violet. There on the shelf were small, crown-shaped bottles of cologne. I selected one from the display and twisted off the lid. Years later when I read novels that used the phrase “she reeked of cheap perfume,” my mind always flashed back to the first whiff of cologne from that bottle in the Economy Drug. It had only one redeeming feature. It cost a quarter.
I sloshed back home with my purchase. Thankfully, my mother did not sniff the cologne. She merely commented on how lovely the little bottle was. She helped me find a box and wrap my gift. I went to my room, found a pencil and paper, and wrote the following poem:
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Put this stuff on
So we can stand you.
I did not sign it. I sealed it in an envelope and taped it to the gift.
Monday morning I left for school earlier than usual. When I arrived, I went to my classroom. The door was open, but Miss Heacock was not in her room. Quickly and furtively I placed the gift under the Christmas tree. So far so good.
By the time the school bell rang, Miss Heacock was playing Christmas carols on the phonograph, and more and more gifts were being placed under the tree. We became more excited about tomorrow's Christmas party as the day wore on. Miss Heacock carefully looked at each gift and checked off names in her roll book.
On Tuesday, our party was preceded by a semi-annual desk clean out. At last all of the papers had been removed, crayon boxes lined up neatly, and pencils sharpened and put away. It was time for the party!
We drank punch from paper cups and ate cookies and candy canes, and then it was time to distribute gifts. As we sat in our seats Miss Heacock selected a present from beneath the tree and called out, “Sandra.” Sandra, somewhat embarrassed, walked to the front of the room and took her present back to her desk. She was unsure whether she should open it or not. “You may open it, Sandra,” said Miss Heacock.
Several more presents were distributed before Miss Heacock called out, “Violet.” Violet walked slowly to the front of the room. Miss Heacock extended her hand and delivered my gift. Violet, eyes glistening, walked back to her seat. I shifted in my seat so I could see her reaction. She placed the unopened gift on her desk and opened the envelope. Suddenly she began to quiver; a tear formed in the corner of her eye and ran down her cheek. Violet began to sob. She grabbed her present and ran from the room. Miss Heacock, reaching for a gift, did not see her go.
The enormity of what I had done sank home. Tears filled my eyes. There have been moments in my life when I wished I could back up ten minutes and correct errors I had made. This was one of those moments. I am sure my name was eventually called. I am sure I was given a gift. I remember nothing of this. I merely wallowed in guilt. Finally, the party ended, and I walked home.
As Christmas vacation came to an end, I began to realize I would have to face Violet when I went back to school. Even though I had not signed my name, I was certain she had figured out who had written that terrible poem. How could I face her? But like it or not, school began again. It began without Violet. Her seat was empty. It was empty the next day and the next. Violet had moved.
Twelve years passed. I entered a classroom at the University of Utah and took my seat. The professor began to call the roll. “Violet,” he called. The girl in the seat directly behind mine answered, “Here.” My blood ran cold. As discreetly as possible I turned and looked at her. She had matured, she had changed from an ugly duckling into a swan, but there was no doubt it was Violet.
When class ended I turned to her. “Violet,” I said, “I don't know if you remember me. We were in the same class in third grade at Emerson School.”
She looked at me, and her forehead wrinkled. “I'm sorry; I really don't remember your name. I was only in that class for part of the year.”
“Violet, may I take you to lunch? I need to ask your forgiveness.”
“For what?” She looked puzzled.
“I'll tell you at lunch, okay?”
We walked silently to the Union Building, through the cafeteria line, and to a table. “What do you need to talk to me about?”
“How much do you remember about our third grade class?” I asked.
“The music,” she answered. “Our teacher played such beautiful music. I think she's the reason I'm a music minor today. It had been such a tough year for my family. My father died that July, and we found a little house to rent. It was so crowded with six children. I had to sleep with my two little sisters, and they both wet the bed. I can remember how embarrassed I was to come to school smelling so bad, but the bathtub didn't work, and we had to wash out of a washtub after heating the water on our coal stove. Usually there wasn't time to bathe in the morning.” The words were tumbling out as Violet remembered bitterly that third grade experience. “I used to come to school and hide in the back corner.”
I was finding it harder and harder to confess. As Violet spoke, the coals were heaped higher and higher upon my head. At last she was silent. “Violet, do you remember the Christmas party?”
Tears formed in her eyes. “Oh, yes.”
“Violet, can you ever forgive me? I was the one who wrote that terrible poem that sent you sobbing from the room.”
She looked puzzled. “What poem? I was crying because I hadn't had a quarter to buy a gift and yet someone had given a gift to me. I couldn't stand the guilt and the shame.”
“Violet, there was a card attached to your gift. On it I wrote a terrible poem. Don't you remember?”
Violet tipped her head back and laughed. “I couldn't read in the third grade. I don't think I even looked at your poem.” Then the knife twisted. “What did it say?”
“Violet, it doesn't matter. Just forgive me, please."
"Cone on, what was the poem?"
I chose not to compound my guilt with a lie, so I quoted it to her.
“It seems appropriate to me,” she laughed. “I forgive you.”
We finished lunch, and I walked out of the Union Building with a lighter heart. However, every December 23, I still do penance for the cruelty of youth.
Saturday, December 22, 2012
Brown Bag Christmas
Author Unknown
When I asked our newlywed Sunday School class to share a favorite Christmas story, Carrie Fuller said, "Our family has one we call the 'Brown Bag Christmas.'" When she had finished, I had to hear more. Two days later, I called a member of her family for more details.
It was the early 1930's during the Dust Bowl days of Kansas in the heart of the Depression. The Canaday family---Mom, Dad, and seven children---were having a tough time existing, so there would be no luxuries at Christmas that year. Mom told the children to go outside and find a Christmas tree and decorate it. After a lengthy search, they returned with a dead branch, the only thing they had been able to find. They stood it up in a bucket of sand and decorated it with pieces of paper tied with string. Little Judy, almost four, did not know how a Christmas tree was supposed to look, but somehow she knew it was not like that!
As Christmas approached, the Canaday children, like children everywhere, pestered Mom and Dad about what presents they might get under their "tree." Dad pointed out that the pantry was bare, that they did not have enough to live on, and there certainly would be no money for gifts. But Mom was a woman of faith and told her children, "Say your prayers. Ask God to send us what He wants us to have."
Dad said, "Now, Mother, don't be getting the children's hopes up. You're just setting them up for a disappointment."
Mom said, "Pray, children. Tell Jesus." And pray they did.
On Christmas Eve, the children watched out the window for visitors, but no one came. "Blow out the lamp and go to bed," Dad said. "Nobody is going to come. No one even knows we're out here."
The children turned out the lamp and got in bed, but they were too excited to sleep. Was this not Christmas? Had they not asked God to send them the presents He wanted them to have? Did Mom not say God answers prayer?
Late that night when one of the children spotted headlights coming down the dirt road, everyone jumped out of bed and ran to the window. The commotion woke up Mom and Dad. "Don't get excited, children," Dad said. "They're probably not coming here. It's just someone who got lost." The children kept hoping and the car kept coming. Then, Dad lit a lamp. They all wanted to rush to the door at the same time, but Mr. Canaday said, "Stay back. I'll go."
Someone got out of the car and called, "I was wondering if someone here can help me unload these bags." The children dashed out the door to lend a hand.
Mom said to her youngest, "Stay here, Judy, and help Mom open the bags and put up the gifts."
A deacon from the church in town had gone to bed that Christmas Eve and lay there tossing and turning, unable to get the Canaday family off his mind. Later he said, "I didn't know what kind of shape you folks were in, but I knew you had all those kids." He had gotten up and dressed and went around town, rousing people from their sleep to ask for a contribution for the Canaday family. He filled his car with bags of groceries, canned goods, toys, and clothing. Little Judy got a rag doll which remained her favorite for years.
With so much food, Dad wanted to have a Christmas feast, to spread it all out and eat as they had never eaten before. Mom, ever the caretaker, said, "No, we need to make this last." And it did last, for weeks.
The next Sunday, Mrs. Canaday stood in church and told what the members---and one deacon in particular---had done for her family. There was not a dry eye in the house.
Years later, the oldest sister Eva wrote up this story about her family for a school project. Eva said, "We were so thrilled by all the wonderful things in the bags, for a while we lost sight of the most special gift. The best gift that Christmas was not in brown bags at all. It was Mom's faith as she taught her children to bring their needs to Jesus and trust Him to meet them. And a Dad's love that wanted only to protect his children from hurt and disappointment."
When Carrie finished telling her story, she added, "Little Judy is my wonderful grandmother." Today, Judy Canaday Dryden lives in Sanger, Texas. As she relived this event from seventy years ago over the phone, one could hear the tear in her voice and feel her pride in being the recipient of such a precious heritage from her mother and father.
At Christmas, we celebrate praying mothers and caring fathers and believing children. We give thanks for sensitive deacons and generous friends and sleepless nights. And we praise God for the hard times that teach unforgettable lessons, stories of faithfulness that get told and retold through the years inspiring each new generation to place their faith in a loving Savior.
When I asked our newlywed Sunday School class to share a favorite Christmas story, Carrie Fuller said, "Our family has one we call the 'Brown Bag Christmas.'" When she had finished, I had to hear more. Two days later, I called a member of her family for more details.
It was the early 1930's during the Dust Bowl days of Kansas in the heart of the Depression. The Canaday family---Mom, Dad, and seven children---were having a tough time existing, so there would be no luxuries at Christmas that year. Mom told the children to go outside and find a Christmas tree and decorate it. After a lengthy search, they returned with a dead branch, the only thing they had been able to find. They stood it up in a bucket of sand and decorated it with pieces of paper tied with string. Little Judy, almost four, did not know how a Christmas tree was supposed to look, but somehow she knew it was not like that!
As Christmas approached, the Canaday children, like children everywhere, pestered Mom and Dad about what presents they might get under their "tree." Dad pointed out that the pantry was bare, that they did not have enough to live on, and there certainly would be no money for gifts. But Mom was a woman of faith and told her children, "Say your prayers. Ask God to send us what He wants us to have."
Dad said, "Now, Mother, don't be getting the children's hopes up. You're just setting them up for a disappointment."
Mom said, "Pray, children. Tell Jesus." And pray they did.
On Christmas Eve, the children watched out the window for visitors, but no one came. "Blow out the lamp and go to bed," Dad said. "Nobody is going to come. No one even knows we're out here."
The children turned out the lamp and got in bed, but they were too excited to sleep. Was this not Christmas? Had they not asked God to send them the presents He wanted them to have? Did Mom not say God answers prayer?
Late that night when one of the children spotted headlights coming down the dirt road, everyone jumped out of bed and ran to the window. The commotion woke up Mom and Dad. "Don't get excited, children," Dad said. "They're probably not coming here. It's just someone who got lost." The children kept hoping and the car kept coming. Then, Dad lit a lamp. They all wanted to rush to the door at the same time, but Mr. Canaday said, "Stay back. I'll go."
Someone got out of the car and called, "I was wondering if someone here can help me unload these bags." The children dashed out the door to lend a hand.
Mom said to her youngest, "Stay here, Judy, and help Mom open the bags and put up the gifts."
A deacon from the church in town had gone to bed that Christmas Eve and lay there tossing and turning, unable to get the Canaday family off his mind. Later he said, "I didn't know what kind of shape you folks were in, but I knew you had all those kids." He had gotten up and dressed and went around town, rousing people from their sleep to ask for a contribution for the Canaday family. He filled his car with bags of groceries, canned goods, toys, and clothing. Little Judy got a rag doll which remained her favorite for years.
With so much food, Dad wanted to have a Christmas feast, to spread it all out and eat as they had never eaten before. Mom, ever the caretaker, said, "No, we need to make this last." And it did last, for weeks.
The next Sunday, Mrs. Canaday stood in church and told what the members---and one deacon in particular---had done for her family. There was not a dry eye in the house.
Years later, the oldest sister Eva wrote up this story about her family for a school project. Eva said, "We were so thrilled by all the wonderful things in the bags, for a while we lost sight of the most special gift. The best gift that Christmas was not in brown bags at all. It was Mom's faith as she taught her children to bring their needs to Jesus and trust Him to meet them. And a Dad's love that wanted only to protect his children from hurt and disappointment."
When Carrie finished telling her story, she added, "Little Judy is my wonderful grandmother." Today, Judy Canaday Dryden lives in Sanger, Texas. As she relived this event from seventy years ago over the phone, one could hear the tear in her voice and feel her pride in being the recipient of such a precious heritage from her mother and father.
At Christmas, we celebrate praying mothers and caring fathers and believing children. We give thanks for sensitive deacons and generous friends and sleepless nights. And we praise God for the hard times that teach unforgettable lessons, stories of faithfulness that get told and retold through the years inspiring each new generation to place their faith in a loving Savior.
Friday, December 21, 2012
Gift from the Children: A Christmas Miracle
By Donna Wallace
Helen. Dear, sweet, elderly Helen. Such a beloved lady, and friend to all who knew her.
Helen had belonged to the same church for almost all her adult life. She saw many members come and go, bond and feud, but she had always remained faithful to her beliefs, and she was highly respected and cherished among all the other parishioners.
Poor Helen. She wasn't a young, spry chicken anymore. She was well into her 90's, and not quite as energetic and bubbly as when she first visited the church so many years ago.
Christmas 1998 was not destined to be a very kind year to Helen. She had suffered many losses. She had lost her beloved husband six years before, but this year she seemed to have lost it all. After her dear husband passed away, she had moved in with her daughter Becky and her young granddaughter Jennifer. They saved her from the loneliness she would surely have visited without their love. They grew closer every day, and each new day life brought them more to be grateful for They knew they were blessed, and always remembered their blessings in prayer.
Jennifer was only two years old when Helen first came to live with them. Cute as a button, rambunctious, outgoing, and always joyful and singing, she made a house a home. Becky and Helen used to kid how it took the two of them to even half keep up with the whirlwind they nicknamed "Sunshine". Jennifer was as curious as a cat and filled the day with endless questions - some deep, some comical, and each one needing answers! Her mother and her grandma were careful never to carelessly brush her questions aside or grow impatient. They answered each and every one, if not with wisdom, then at least with unbridled love. Jennifer grew into a brilliant young lady, and everyone predicted a bright and sunny future for the special little girl.
Life is funny. Predictions sometimes don't come to pass. Futures sometimes only last today.
One night while driving home from the store, Becky and Jennifer were hit head on by a drunk driver. It was a mistake. A horrid mistake. If it weren't for a flat tire, they would have been home long before the intoxicated man drove down their street. Nobody can predict the future. Their shiny future ended that night. Their dreams and plans and goals scattered among the broken glass and the shredded steel. They were gone - forever. Once again, Helen was alone.
The sorrow and remorse that lived in Helen's heart surely should have killed her, she thought. The agony of losing those closest to her, the loneliness of being all alone in a house as quiet as a tomb, and the emptiness of having nothing more to live for were more than she could bear.
Every Sunday she continued to go faithfully to her church, pray to her God, and she was always polite, but oh, so sad. She had changed - withered, deflated, crumbled. She seemed to hardly be able to put one foot in front of the other. Her joyous laughter was seldom heard, her excitement and zest for life were simply no longer a part of who she was. She was no longer inflated - just completely deflated - flat. Zombie-like instead of lifelike, just waiting for her turn to go be with her loved ones.
Naturally, all the other parishioners saw the change. They felt her sadness, and loneliness. She had always been such a pillar of strength, a friend in need, someone who could be counted on when the rest of the world had checked out. She was always there, in every way, for everyone. Now she wasn't there at all, and nobody seemed to know how to comfort and help her. But everyone saw and everyone knew - from the oldest members, to the toddlers. They all saw the change and the grief and the pain.
Months passed. It was now December, and the holiday season was proving to be harder than Helen imagined it would be - and lonelier. She still went about living, kept up appearances, prayed, and was kind to everyone she met. Yet she felt like she was melting - dissolving - dying, slowly inside. She wondered if she would see Christmas this year or go to spend it with those that went before her - the ones she loved.
Then the second Sunday of December, the Sunday School Teacher came to her with a special request. Would she be kind enough to help with trimming the tree that stood in the middle of the children's classroom? Each child had handmade a special ornament to place on the tree, and they needed assistance and adult supervision. Helen tried to gracefully decline, but the teacher smiled and said that the children had requested that she be the assistant this year. It was important to them for some reason, the teacher whispered.
The night of the special event, Helen was present. She was dressed as immaculate as always, and wore the best smile she could muster. The sight of the young children was bittersweet. The laughter and playfulness were refreshing, but they also held memories of her dear granddaughter Jennifer who had passed away just four short months before. For the first time in months though, you could occasionally see her eyes shining through a veil of tears. She decided she was happy that the children had thought to invite her and thankful that she had decided to come join in the merriment. She felt more alive than she had since that dreadful day in August 1998.
Most of the ornaments had already been placed on the tree when an excited, almost giddy group of children came to her and took her by the hand. They led her to an ornate, red velvet chair that the teacher must have pushed into the center of the room, and they begged for her to sit down. Curious and a little apprehensive, Helen obeyed goodheartedly. You could see a tiny smile light up the corner of her mouth as she wondered what the little gremlins were up to.
A group of five girls and four boys sat in front of her splendid chair smiling up at her with eyes moist from tears of happiness and mouths trying not to prematurely babble the secret they were about to share with her. In the middle of the group sat a magnificent gold gift-wrapped box addressed to: "Our Grandma, with Love."
Eight year old Christine stood before Helen tears overflowing, smiling from ear to ear, eyes dancing at the speed of light. Christine had always been special to Helen, for she had been Jennifer's best friend ever since she could remember. They had spent much time together over the years, and they had grown close. She placed the box in Helen's tiny lap and the whole group rose in unison and began to sing just for an amazed and delighted Helen, who seemed to be crying and laughing and praying all at the same time! With pride in their eyes and love in their voices and their notes sometimes off-key, they musically told her the reason that she was there. It was easy, yet touching to see that the children had written the words, and the song just for her. A gift to be cherished. Wonderful memories to last forevermore.
Each of the nine small children either had no grandmother any longer or had never even known their grandmother. This was a very special celebration and union - a new family meeting and bonding and growing and loving - and sharing a very special Christmas. One by one, they unpacked the special ornament each had made and proudly showed her their surprise. Each ornament was addressed, "To my special Grandma, with Love - on our First Christmas". Every ornament was unique, special, splendid, and everyone was a miracle beyond belief to a heart so desperately in pain.
Once again, proving that predictions don't always come true.....Christmas 1998 wasn't unkind to Helen whatsoever. No, Christmas 1998, was a new beginning, a brand new start, and nine new reasons to celebrate many more Christmases to come. The next two weeks Helen became a human dynamo! She baked, she decorated, she sang, and filled her house with so much cheer until at last it warmed up again and became a home. She invited her nine special grandkids over and celebrated a Christmas as only a very special, wonderful grandma knows how to do filled to the brim with magical memories that only the nine most special grandchildren on earth could ever have provided.
You see, dear sweet Helen wasn't the only one in need that Christmas. She wasn't the only lonely soul who felt the emptiness and a void which needed filling. The children in their infinite wisdom saw her need and in filling her need, they filled their own. There is no love as pure and unpretentious as a child's love, no mind as wise and true as a child’s mind can be when given the opportunity to flourish and grow. Every single child is a miracle you can mold and design. Parents have the power, the opportunity, and the responsibility to teach their children love and compassion, peace and kindness. The future is in the hands of our children, but our children are first placed in our loving arms and under our tender guidance. Teach them love. Teach them the true meaning of Christmas not only one day in 365 days, but 365 days each and every year. Each new day provide an opportunity to celebrate and rejoice and give the gift of love. The gift of abundance that only grows with no chance of diminishing in time.
Christmas is magical. You can see it, feel it, smell it, hear it, taste it. Christmas is a blessed event that makes believers out of the staunchest cynics at times. Its wishes being granted - dreams coming true. But most of all, it has to live all year long deep within your heart. Christmas isn't for a day - it's all year long. Christmas is a lifetime affair. Merry Christmas to all....today, tomorrow, and forevermore.
Helen. Dear, sweet, elderly Helen. Such a beloved lady, and friend to all who knew her.
Helen had belonged to the same church for almost all her adult life. She saw many members come and go, bond and feud, but she had always remained faithful to her beliefs, and she was highly respected and cherished among all the other parishioners.
Poor Helen. She wasn't a young, spry chicken anymore. She was well into her 90's, and not quite as energetic and bubbly as when she first visited the church so many years ago.
Christmas 1998 was not destined to be a very kind year to Helen. She had suffered many losses. She had lost her beloved husband six years before, but this year she seemed to have lost it all. After her dear husband passed away, she had moved in with her daughter Becky and her young granddaughter Jennifer. They saved her from the loneliness she would surely have visited without their love. They grew closer every day, and each new day life brought them more to be grateful for They knew they were blessed, and always remembered their blessings in prayer.
Jennifer was only two years old when Helen first came to live with them. Cute as a button, rambunctious, outgoing, and always joyful and singing, she made a house a home. Becky and Helen used to kid how it took the two of them to even half keep up with the whirlwind they nicknamed "Sunshine". Jennifer was as curious as a cat and filled the day with endless questions - some deep, some comical, and each one needing answers! Her mother and her grandma were careful never to carelessly brush her questions aside or grow impatient. They answered each and every one, if not with wisdom, then at least with unbridled love. Jennifer grew into a brilliant young lady, and everyone predicted a bright and sunny future for the special little girl.
Life is funny. Predictions sometimes don't come to pass. Futures sometimes only last today.
One night while driving home from the store, Becky and Jennifer were hit head on by a drunk driver. It was a mistake. A horrid mistake. If it weren't for a flat tire, they would have been home long before the intoxicated man drove down their street. Nobody can predict the future. Their shiny future ended that night. Their dreams and plans and goals scattered among the broken glass and the shredded steel. They were gone - forever. Once again, Helen was alone.
The sorrow and remorse that lived in Helen's heart surely should have killed her, she thought. The agony of losing those closest to her, the loneliness of being all alone in a house as quiet as a tomb, and the emptiness of having nothing more to live for were more than she could bear.
Every Sunday she continued to go faithfully to her church, pray to her God, and she was always polite, but oh, so sad. She had changed - withered, deflated, crumbled. She seemed to hardly be able to put one foot in front of the other. Her joyous laughter was seldom heard, her excitement and zest for life were simply no longer a part of who she was. She was no longer inflated - just completely deflated - flat. Zombie-like instead of lifelike, just waiting for her turn to go be with her loved ones.
Naturally, all the other parishioners saw the change. They felt her sadness, and loneliness. She had always been such a pillar of strength, a friend in need, someone who could be counted on when the rest of the world had checked out. She was always there, in every way, for everyone. Now she wasn't there at all, and nobody seemed to know how to comfort and help her. But everyone saw and everyone knew - from the oldest members, to the toddlers. They all saw the change and the grief and the pain.
Months passed. It was now December, and the holiday season was proving to be harder than Helen imagined it would be - and lonelier. She still went about living, kept up appearances, prayed, and was kind to everyone she met. Yet she felt like she was melting - dissolving - dying, slowly inside. She wondered if she would see Christmas this year or go to spend it with those that went before her - the ones she loved.
Then the second Sunday of December, the Sunday School Teacher came to her with a special request. Would she be kind enough to help with trimming the tree that stood in the middle of the children's classroom? Each child had handmade a special ornament to place on the tree, and they needed assistance and adult supervision. Helen tried to gracefully decline, but the teacher smiled and said that the children had requested that she be the assistant this year. It was important to them for some reason, the teacher whispered.
The night of the special event, Helen was present. She was dressed as immaculate as always, and wore the best smile she could muster. The sight of the young children was bittersweet. The laughter and playfulness were refreshing, but they also held memories of her dear granddaughter Jennifer who had passed away just four short months before. For the first time in months though, you could occasionally see her eyes shining through a veil of tears. She decided she was happy that the children had thought to invite her and thankful that she had decided to come join in the merriment. She felt more alive than she had since that dreadful day in August 1998.
Most of the ornaments had already been placed on the tree when an excited, almost giddy group of children came to her and took her by the hand. They led her to an ornate, red velvet chair that the teacher must have pushed into the center of the room, and they begged for her to sit down. Curious and a little apprehensive, Helen obeyed goodheartedly. You could see a tiny smile light up the corner of her mouth as she wondered what the little gremlins were up to.
A group of five girls and four boys sat in front of her splendid chair smiling up at her with eyes moist from tears of happiness and mouths trying not to prematurely babble the secret they were about to share with her. In the middle of the group sat a magnificent gold gift-wrapped box addressed to: "Our Grandma, with Love."
Eight year old Christine stood before Helen tears overflowing, smiling from ear to ear, eyes dancing at the speed of light. Christine had always been special to Helen, for she had been Jennifer's best friend ever since she could remember. They had spent much time together over the years, and they had grown close. She placed the box in Helen's tiny lap and the whole group rose in unison and began to sing just for an amazed and delighted Helen, who seemed to be crying and laughing and praying all at the same time! With pride in their eyes and love in their voices and their notes sometimes off-key, they musically told her the reason that she was there. It was easy, yet touching to see that the children had written the words, and the song just for her. A gift to be cherished. Wonderful memories to last forevermore.
Each of the nine small children either had no grandmother any longer or had never even known their grandmother. This was a very special celebration and union - a new family meeting and bonding and growing and loving - and sharing a very special Christmas. One by one, they unpacked the special ornament each had made and proudly showed her their surprise. Each ornament was addressed, "To my special Grandma, with Love - on our First Christmas". Every ornament was unique, special, splendid, and everyone was a miracle beyond belief to a heart so desperately in pain.
Once again, proving that predictions don't always come true.....Christmas 1998 wasn't unkind to Helen whatsoever. No, Christmas 1998, was a new beginning, a brand new start, and nine new reasons to celebrate many more Christmases to come. The next two weeks Helen became a human dynamo! She baked, she decorated, she sang, and filled her house with so much cheer until at last it warmed up again and became a home. She invited her nine special grandkids over and celebrated a Christmas as only a very special, wonderful grandma knows how to do filled to the brim with magical memories that only the nine most special grandchildren on earth could ever have provided.
You see, dear sweet Helen wasn't the only one in need that Christmas. She wasn't the only lonely soul who felt the emptiness and a void which needed filling. The children in their infinite wisdom saw her need and in filling her need, they filled their own. There is no love as pure and unpretentious as a child's love, no mind as wise and true as a child’s mind can be when given the opportunity to flourish and grow. Every single child is a miracle you can mold and design. Parents have the power, the opportunity, and the responsibility to teach their children love and compassion, peace and kindness. The future is in the hands of our children, but our children are first placed in our loving arms and under our tender guidance. Teach them love. Teach them the true meaning of Christmas not only one day in 365 days, but 365 days each and every year. Each new day provide an opportunity to celebrate and rejoice and give the gift of love. The gift of abundance that only grows with no chance of diminishing in time.
Christmas is magical. You can see it, feel it, smell it, hear it, taste it. Christmas is a blessed event that makes believers out of the staunchest cynics at times. Its wishes being granted - dreams coming true. But most of all, it has to live all year long deep within your heart. Christmas isn't for a day - it's all year long. Christmas is a lifetime affair. Merry Christmas to all....today, tomorrow, and forevermore.
Thursday, December 20, 2012
What Happened Christmas Eve
by Oliver Herfold
It was Christmas Eve and the frost fairies were busy getting ready for Christmas Day. First of all, they spread the loveliest white snow carpet over the rough, bare ground; then they hung the bushes and trees with icicles that flashed like diamonds in the moonlight. Later on, they planned to draw beautiful frost pictures on the window panes, to surprise the little children in the morning.
Jessie and Fred had gone to bed very early so they might be the first to shout "Merry Christmas!" but their eyes would not stay shut.
"Oh, dear! It must be 'most morning," said Fred. "Let us creep softly downstairs and maybe we'll catch Santa Claus before he rides off."
Hand in hand they tiptoed to the dining-room and peeped out the big window - surely, surely, that was something climbing up the roof of cousin Nellie's house; it must be old Santa. Fred gave a chuckle of delight; to be sure the reindeer were very queer looking objects, and the sleigh such a funny shape, but the children were satisfied.
The old fir tree whose high branches almost touched the roof knew all about those shadows, but it was so old no one could ever understand a word of the many tales it told.
"There's something scratching on the door," whispered Jessie. But it was only a mouse that had sniffed the delightful odors of the Christmas goodies and was trying his best to find a way into the pantry and test them with his sharp teeth.
"Come," said Jessie, "we'll turn to icicles if we stay here much, longer." So upstairs they quickly scampered.
Papa had been to town on an errand, so it was quite late when he came home. As he was hunting in his pockets for his key, he heard a pitiful cry, and looking down he saw a big, white cat carrying a tiny kitten in her mouth.
"Poor thing," said Papa, "you shall come inside till morning."
Santa Claus had been there with the nicest wagon for Fred and a warm, seal-skin cap that lay right in the middle of it. When papa left the room, puss and her kitty were curled up comfortably on the rug singing their sleepy song.
The sun was shining brightly in the dining-room window when Jessie and Fred made their appearance; then Fred just laughed with delight, for right in the crown of his new cap lay the cutest white kitten with big, blue eyes and a wee, pink nose, while standing close by as if to guard her darling from danger was good old mother puss.
"I never had a live Christmas present before," said Fred. "Now I know Santa Claus read the letter I threw up the chimney because I told him to bring me a kitten and here it is."
Papa smiled and looked at Mamma, and then everybody said "Merry Christmas" at once.
It was Christmas Eve and the frost fairies were busy getting ready for Christmas Day. First of all, they spread the loveliest white snow carpet over the rough, bare ground; then they hung the bushes and trees with icicles that flashed like diamonds in the moonlight. Later on, they planned to draw beautiful frost pictures on the window panes, to surprise the little children in the morning.
Jessie and Fred had gone to bed very early so they might be the first to shout "Merry Christmas!" but their eyes would not stay shut.
"Oh, dear! It must be 'most morning," said Fred. "Let us creep softly downstairs and maybe we'll catch Santa Claus before he rides off."
Hand in hand they tiptoed to the dining-room and peeped out the big window - surely, surely, that was something climbing up the roof of cousin Nellie's house; it must be old Santa. Fred gave a chuckle of delight; to be sure the reindeer were very queer looking objects, and the sleigh such a funny shape, but the children were satisfied.
The old fir tree whose high branches almost touched the roof knew all about those shadows, but it was so old no one could ever understand a word of the many tales it told.
"There's something scratching on the door," whispered Jessie. But it was only a mouse that had sniffed the delightful odors of the Christmas goodies and was trying his best to find a way into the pantry and test them with his sharp teeth.
"Come," said Jessie, "we'll turn to icicles if we stay here much, longer." So upstairs they quickly scampered.
Papa had been to town on an errand, so it was quite late when he came home. As he was hunting in his pockets for his key, he heard a pitiful cry, and looking down he saw a big, white cat carrying a tiny kitten in her mouth.
"Poor thing," said Papa, "you shall come inside till morning."
Santa Claus had been there with the nicest wagon for Fred and a warm, seal-skin cap that lay right in the middle of it. When papa left the room, puss and her kitty were curled up comfortably on the rug singing their sleepy song.
The sun was shining brightly in the dining-room window when Jessie and Fred made their appearance; then Fred just laughed with delight, for right in the crown of his new cap lay the cutest white kitten with big, blue eyes and a wee, pink nose, while standing close by as if to guard her darling from danger was good old mother puss.
"I never had a live Christmas present before," said Fred. "Now I know Santa Claus read the letter I threw up the chimney because I told him to bring me a kitten and here it is."
Papa smiled and looked at Mamma, and then everybody said "Merry Christmas" at once.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
A Gift from the Heart
By
Bonnie
December
is the busiest time of the year. Everyone's busy preparing for the holidays and
continuing family traditions. Has it ever crossed your mind, as to how many
really stop and think what Christmas is all about? Are we teaching our children
the true meaning of Christmas or how many gifts need to be bought? If we have
taught our children the true meaning of Christmas, what we've instilled in them
will be carried into generations to come. I like to see families create
traditions all year long. After all, the original gift to all of us here on
earth, was given from His heart. For through our hearts, one single gift of
kindness can touch an endless amount of hearts forever.
This is a story about a child who saw the importance of giving and never thought about giving up. Some may think a child isn't old enough to carry enough wisdom to teach us all a lesson in living. But I've learned a heart grows from life's many challenges and sometimes a child's challenges can be far greater than some adults'.
We met a little girl seven years ago during one of my daughter's occasional hospital stays. Her name was Beth, and she was my daughter's roommate for a week. Beth was a very happy girl despite the medical problems she was facing. Her long, blonde curls always seemed to bounce with her smile. The girls got to know each other well and had become good friends. On the pediatric floor of the hospital, we saw many seriously ill children. It was so sad even though my daughter had an incurable kidney disease and did not have a very good chance of living to see old age herself. We always saw many children with all kinds of cancer, and sadly enough, Beth was one of those children. She was doing two weeks of chemo and radiation. I was amazed at her will and determination to never give up despite how very sick her treatments made her. She was always concerned about my daughter and the other children with cancer who she grew to know over her many hospital stays.
My daughter's IV treatments were done after a week and I was happy to finally bring her home. We were awaiting the final discharge orders when Beth appeared from the other side of the curtain which separated their beds. She said, "I want you to have this. I know you need a new kidney, so keep this angel pin with you till you get better. She will watch over you so that you will smile all over. My friend John gave this to me to watch over me, but it's time for this angel to watch over you. When you get your new kidney and smile, you can give this angel to someone who needs her too. I'm done reading my book so here's my bookmark that has a poem on it called Don't Quit! I know it by heart anyhow." My daughter thanked her and the girls exchanged hugs and big smiles. I knew we may never see Beth again, but we never forgot the gift she gave from her heart that day. During that year, we found out that Beth had passed away. It was so sad to know such a beautiful little girl was no longer bouncing smiles to everyone she would meet. Her sincere kindness will stay with us forever.
We kept that angel for six more years. My daughter had gone beyond what medical journals had studied and expected from her disease. Was it the angel watching over her or pure luck? My daughter ended up on kidney dialysis for over a year, and one month after almost losing her, a kidney became available and she received a transplant. My heart tells me an angel upstairs was watching with a loving smile. My daughter had kept that angel pin, and now she felt it was time to give it to someone who needed to be watched over until they could smile again. She gave it to an elderly man who was trying to overcome the damage from heart problems and was undergoing extensive therapy. His family informed us that when he returns home he wants to give the angel to someone he knows who is suffering from a brain tumor.
How many families and hearts this angel has touched no one knows for sure. But all it took was one single gift of kindness that has and will touch an endless amount of hearts forever.
So this Christmas season, look around and see that gift which can't be bought. Create a tradition with your children or maybe someone you love. Make someone's day and do the unexpected, let a friend know you care, or greet a stranger with a warm smile. Give the gift that keeps on giving. It's open twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year; it's a gift from your heart. After all, isn't that what Christmas is all about?
This is a story about a child who saw the importance of giving and never thought about giving up. Some may think a child isn't old enough to carry enough wisdom to teach us all a lesson in living. But I've learned a heart grows from life's many challenges and sometimes a child's challenges can be far greater than some adults'.
We met a little girl seven years ago during one of my daughter's occasional hospital stays. Her name was Beth, and she was my daughter's roommate for a week. Beth was a very happy girl despite the medical problems she was facing. Her long, blonde curls always seemed to bounce with her smile. The girls got to know each other well and had become good friends. On the pediatric floor of the hospital, we saw many seriously ill children. It was so sad even though my daughter had an incurable kidney disease and did not have a very good chance of living to see old age herself. We always saw many children with all kinds of cancer, and sadly enough, Beth was one of those children. She was doing two weeks of chemo and radiation. I was amazed at her will and determination to never give up despite how very sick her treatments made her. She was always concerned about my daughter and the other children with cancer who she grew to know over her many hospital stays.
My daughter's IV treatments were done after a week and I was happy to finally bring her home. We were awaiting the final discharge orders when Beth appeared from the other side of the curtain which separated their beds. She said, "I want you to have this. I know you need a new kidney, so keep this angel pin with you till you get better. She will watch over you so that you will smile all over. My friend John gave this to me to watch over me, but it's time for this angel to watch over you. When you get your new kidney and smile, you can give this angel to someone who needs her too. I'm done reading my book so here's my bookmark that has a poem on it called Don't Quit! I know it by heart anyhow." My daughter thanked her and the girls exchanged hugs and big smiles. I knew we may never see Beth again, but we never forgot the gift she gave from her heart that day. During that year, we found out that Beth had passed away. It was so sad to know such a beautiful little girl was no longer bouncing smiles to everyone she would meet. Her sincere kindness will stay with us forever.
We kept that angel for six more years. My daughter had gone beyond what medical journals had studied and expected from her disease. Was it the angel watching over her or pure luck? My daughter ended up on kidney dialysis for over a year, and one month after almost losing her, a kidney became available and she received a transplant. My heart tells me an angel upstairs was watching with a loving smile. My daughter had kept that angel pin, and now she felt it was time to give it to someone who needed to be watched over until they could smile again. She gave it to an elderly man who was trying to overcome the damage from heart problems and was undergoing extensive therapy. His family informed us that when he returns home he wants to give the angel to someone he knows who is suffering from a brain tumor.
How many families and hearts this angel has touched no one knows for sure. But all it took was one single gift of kindness that has and will touch an endless amount of hearts forever.
So this Christmas season, look around and see that gift which can't be bought. Create a tradition with your children or maybe someone you love. Make someone's day and do the unexpected, let a friend know you care, or greet a stranger with a warm smile. Give the gift that keeps on giving. It's open twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year; it's a gift from your heart. After all, isn't that what Christmas is all about?
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Just Detours
By A. Brian Fielder
I
have a little story I thought I would share with all of you. I recently
relocated, bought a house and moved in the first weekend of July.
Since
I have been in my new neighborhood, I have had the pleasure of meeting a few of
my neighbors who seem to be extremely nice people. For Christmas, I thought I
would do something nice for each of the neighbors that I know. I sat down and
counted. There were nine neighbors whom I knew by name or spoke with often when
I was out in my yard. I also knew which houses they lived in.
I
decided to add one more person to my list for a total of ten. This lady that I
decided to add lives down the street from me. I meet her every morning walking
to work as I drive down the street. She always manages a contagious smile and a
hearty wave. I had no idea what her name was and not even sure which house she
lived in.
My
gift idea was to make small fruit baskets and leave them on each of my
neighbors' front porches or door steps the night of Christmas Eve for them to
find, either that night or the next morning. I signed the cards: "Happy
Holidays from 5104 Northumberland Road."
I
saved the friendly lady for last, since I was still not exactly sure where she
lived. I finally decided upon a house down about where I met her each morning
and felt relatively sure that it was hers.
My
neighbors really appreciated the baskets and would tell me as they saw me in
the yard or they would call, and a couple even came by to thank me.
This
morning on my way to work, I placed my mail in the mailbox and noticed a small
note inside. It was addressed simply -- Resident, 5104 Northumberland Road.
I
opened the envelope and took out a Thank You card. I opened the card and read
the message which really caught me by surprise.
The
card said. "Thank you for the lovely fruit basket you left on the porch of
Richard Kelly. It was very thoughtful. Richard Kelly passed away on January 19,
1999. He never stopped talking about how nice it was that someone remembered
him in his time of illness. He really appreciated it."
I
was sincerely stunned. I had no idea who Richard Kelly was or that he had been
gravely ill. I had left that nice lady's basket on Mr. Kelly's porch by
accident. I wanted to say by mistake, but that would be wrong. I believe that
Richard Kelly was meant to have that basket and the Lord knew that he only had
less than a month to live. I hate that the nice lady did not get to receive a
fruit basket from me this Christmas, but I believe that if she knew what
happened, she would have had outcome no other way.
I
feel blessed to have helped Richard Kelly's last days be more cheerful. This
just further reinforces my belief that there are never any mistakes in life --
just detours, shortcuts, and small excursions along the way.
Monday, December 17, 2012
From Santa, With Love
By Kitty T. Mickelson
At Christmas, no request is too large or small, no person is too young or old to hope their dreams will come true.
I remember back when I was nine years old standing in the line to see Santa. If I wasn’t the eldest child in line, I was certainly the tallest. My friends didn’t believe in Santa anymore, but that didn’t bother me. I believed.
When it was my turn, I not only told Santa what I wanted for Christmas, I assured him how much I believed. He reached into his sack, handed me a candy cane, and sent me on my way.
“That was quick,” said my dad, who was waiting for me. “Did you tell Santa what you wanted for Christmas?”
“This year I only want one thing,” I replied, spreading my arms wide. “My own spacecraft.”
My father’s face went blank. I guess he had expected me to ask for one of the special dolls that were popular then in the early 1950s. But I had been hooked on Space Control and Captain Jet ever since we got our first television set and thought nothing could be more exciting than driving through the universe.
However, during Christmas vacation, Clyde, our town bully, made me his target. “Santa Claus,” he derided me. “I suppose you’ve seen a reindeer fly too?”
“No,” I said defensively. “Some things I just know.”
“Like getting a spaceship for Christmas?” Clyde hooted. “You must have rocks in your head!”
I didn’t answer. Clyde was three years older than I was and he always had the last word.
On my way back home to our neat house with the fence-in yard, tears burned my cheeks. For the first time I had doubts. When I got home I found Father sitting in the living room recliner. “Why the long face?” he asked.
“The kids say I’m crazy because I asked Santa for a spaceship,” I sniffed. “Do you think it’s crazy?”
The Christmas tree lights reflected in his glasses. “The only thing that matters is what you think.”
I sighed. “It does seem silly, I guess. I don’t even know how Santa would get it here, do you?”
“Not off hand,” said Father, smiling. “I believe anything’s possible though.”
That Christmas morning, I woke up early still hoping that somehow my dreams of a spaceship would come true. I ran downstairs to find that Santa had been there. Our stockings on the hearth were filled to overflowing and the milk and cookies I’d left out the night before were gone—but there was no sign of a space craft. I was disappointed but not really surprised. Asking for a spaceship was dumb. Clyde was right.
Christmas music flowed from the radio, and the tree lights burned brightly against the pine branches. While Mother poured cocoa into our cups and Father distributed the presents, I quietly rummaged through my stocking. Among the small items, I found a note. It directed me to look in the front yard. I ran to the door and threw it open. A group of kids with awestruck faces were huddled in our driveway, their Christmas presents forgotten. I ran outside and pushed through the circle, hardly able to believe my eyes.
There stood a five-foot-long spaceship, built of plywood, with four wheels and a padded seat that faced a panel of instruments just like the real ones in a cockpit. Though only pedal power could make it move, there were enough switches and dials on the control panel to keep any child happy. Everyone was pleading for a chance to ride my spacecraft—even Clyde.
Our imaginations took us to many far galaxies that day. In between those trips, I saw my father’s face watching me from the window. I knew that spaceship had not come from Santa. My father created it with a hammer and nails, and most of all, love.
Years have passed since then, but the memory of the spaceship is still alive at Christmastime. My father had not only given me my heart’s desire that year, he helped me discover what he already knew—that Santa Claus is the magic of believing.
At Christmas, no request is too large or small, no person is too young or old to hope their dreams will come true.
I remember back when I was nine years old standing in the line to see Santa. If I wasn’t the eldest child in line, I was certainly the tallest. My friends didn’t believe in Santa anymore, but that didn’t bother me. I believed.
When it was my turn, I not only told Santa what I wanted for Christmas, I assured him how much I believed. He reached into his sack, handed me a candy cane, and sent me on my way.
“That was quick,” said my dad, who was waiting for me. “Did you tell Santa what you wanted for Christmas?”
“This year I only want one thing,” I replied, spreading my arms wide. “My own spacecraft.”
My father’s face went blank. I guess he had expected me to ask for one of the special dolls that were popular then in the early 1950s. But I had been hooked on Space Control and Captain Jet ever since we got our first television set and thought nothing could be more exciting than driving through the universe.
However, during Christmas vacation, Clyde, our town bully, made me his target. “Santa Claus,” he derided me. “I suppose you’ve seen a reindeer fly too?”
“No,” I said defensively. “Some things I just know.”
“Like getting a spaceship for Christmas?” Clyde hooted. “You must have rocks in your head!”
I didn’t answer. Clyde was three years older than I was and he always had the last word.
On my way back home to our neat house with the fence-in yard, tears burned my cheeks. For the first time I had doubts. When I got home I found Father sitting in the living room recliner. “Why the long face?” he asked.
“The kids say I’m crazy because I asked Santa for a spaceship,” I sniffed. “Do you think it’s crazy?”
The Christmas tree lights reflected in his glasses. “The only thing that matters is what you think.”
I sighed. “It does seem silly, I guess. I don’t even know how Santa would get it here, do you?”
“Not off hand,” said Father, smiling. “I believe anything’s possible though.”
That Christmas morning, I woke up early still hoping that somehow my dreams of a spaceship would come true. I ran downstairs to find that Santa had been there. Our stockings on the hearth were filled to overflowing and the milk and cookies I’d left out the night before were gone—but there was no sign of a space craft. I was disappointed but not really surprised. Asking for a spaceship was dumb. Clyde was right.
Christmas music flowed from the radio, and the tree lights burned brightly against the pine branches. While Mother poured cocoa into our cups and Father distributed the presents, I quietly rummaged through my stocking. Among the small items, I found a note. It directed me to look in the front yard. I ran to the door and threw it open. A group of kids with awestruck faces were huddled in our driveway, their Christmas presents forgotten. I ran outside and pushed through the circle, hardly able to believe my eyes.
There stood a five-foot-long spaceship, built of plywood, with four wheels and a padded seat that faced a panel of instruments just like the real ones in a cockpit. Though only pedal power could make it move, there were enough switches and dials on the control panel to keep any child happy. Everyone was pleading for a chance to ride my spacecraft—even Clyde.
Our imaginations took us to many far galaxies that day. In between those trips, I saw my father’s face watching me from the window. I knew that spaceship had not come from Santa. My father created it with a hammer and nails, and most of all, love.
Years have passed since then, but the memory of the spaceship is still alive at Christmastime. My father had not only given me my heart’s desire that year, he helped me discover what he already knew—that Santa Claus is the magic of believing.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Cookie Cutter Chaos
By
Tracy Moeller Cary
When I was in elementary school in Saginaw, Michigan
back in the 1950's, Paul Davis was my neighbor as well as classmate. Paul's
birthday is December 16th. Every year for his birthday treat, he would take to
school wonderful Santa face cookies, complete with raisin eyes and coconut
beards.
I would always make sure to walk home with Paul on those
days, just in case someone had been absent and he had an extra cookie or two.
Somehow, one cookie survived long enough for me to show my mother. She got the
recipe from Paul's mother and bought the special cookie cutter at Morley
Brothers, our wonderful all-purpose department store.
Over the years, my mother and I would continue to make
these cookies. After I got married in the mid-60's, I bought my own cookie
cutter. We had three daughters and the cookies remained a must-do at Christmas
time. I was a stay-at-home mother in those days and would make the Santa
cookies for my daughters' class parties. Some special teachers would get a
plate of them years after they taught our daughters. Eventually, my mother gave
me her Santa cookie cutter and I guarded both of them because Morley's had
closed years before and we never saw anything even resembling these wonderful
Santa faces.
Several years ago in late December, I had made several
batches and the two plastic cutters were sitting on the cupboard waiting to be
hand washed and put away for another year. Well, my oldest daughter decided to
help out by loading the dishwasher. You guessed it ... the two treasured
plastic cutters came out distorted and totally unusable. I was sick!
For some reason, I had kept the original paper insert
from the cookie cutter box. So, I knew that they were from Aunt Chick's in
Tulsa, Oklahoma. Now, it was time to see if that company was still in business.
Honestly, I wasn't optimistic but if I couldn't replace them, then a
long-standing tradition had come to an abrupt halt.
That January, I wrote to the Tulsa Chamber of Commerce
and inquired about Aunt Chick's cookie cutters. I enclosed a copy of the insert
that I'd kept for so many years. Within days I received a reply. They even sent
me newspaper clippings about Aunt Chick (she had died in 1982) and they told me
that the cookie cutters were still available at The Final Touch in Tulsa. They
also told me that Aunt Chick's granddaughter, Pat Kimbrel, had taken over the
business and it was now called Chickadees Cookery Company in Irving, Texas.
I was elated! I phoned The Final Touch and explained what
had happened and said that I wanted to buy TEN Santa cookie cutters. The woman
told me that they were only available in sets (Santa, star, tree, stocking.)
But I didn't want the other designs and couldn't afford to buy ten SETS.
So, I decided to call Chickadees Cookery Company. I was
able to talk with Pat Kimbrel and tell her about the happy memories connected
with her grandmother's cookie cutters. She said that she hoped to get them back
into distribution once again. Through Pat I was able to buy four Santa cutters.
Then, several weeks later, I received a note from The Final Touch saying that
they found six Santa cutters and asked if I still want them.
I phoned to say "Yes!" and sent a check. So,
within about four months I went from having no Santa cutters to having ten, the
exact number that I stated that I wanted in the first place!
It was wonderful to be able to do business with two women
who went out of their way to satisfy a customer. And, now the family tradition
of the Santa face cookie cutters continues not only in our house but also in
the home of our oldest daughter, who has since married. At this point, it's
three generations strong.
So, Happy Birthday, Paul Davis, this December 16th
wherever you are. I'll bet you just never knew that your old friend, neighbor,
and classmate would perpetuate the cookie tradition for nearly a half-century.
Thanks to you and your mother and with the help of some dear women in both
Oklahoma and Texas, we'll be enjoying our very special Santa cookies for many
years to come.
Sometimes you just never know how many lives you affect
or for how many years the influence will be felt. Merry Christmas from
Kentucky.
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