Through Jesus Hope Lives: A Christmas Story

Author Unknown

For a moment or perhaps a long while, we are dropped into the depths of despair, a tragedy of intense proportions. In the darkness we struggle with difficult and often confusing feelings.

As Christians we often feel guilty about these feelings. All are true human emotions, and necessary in enabling us to cope.

God understands our pain and our suffering.
He will wrap his loving arms around us.
He will be there when no one else can.

After a time, we begin to see his presence.
You can see a faint light in the distance.

This is the light of HOPE.

Moving toward the light - The Holy Spirit takes us by the hand and helps us to move even closer to the light. The light of the Lord that shines into each of our lives.

Here in the Lord's loving presence, our souls and our wounds begin to heal.

God has a plan for us and we can rest assured that we have been called here for a purpose. Our job is not yet finished.

We must continue to move forward.

We might not understand the sequence of events in our lives. We might not understand the meaning of our suffering. But we have not lost everything; we are not alone.

We will always have HOPE.

As the Holiday season approaches, let us remember that Hope was born at Christmas.

His name is Jesus.

And Hope does live on.

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The Gold and Ivory Tablecloth

By Howard C. Schade

At Christmas time men and women everywhere gather in their churches to wonder anew at the greatest miracle the world has ever known. But the story I like best to recall was not a miracle -- not exactly.

It happened to a pastor who was very young. His church was very old. Once, long ago, it had flourished. Famous men had preached from its pulpit, prayed before its altar. Rich and poor alike had worshipped there and built it beautifully. Now the good days had passed from the section of town where it stood. But the pastor and his young wife believed in their run-down church. They felt that with paint, hammer, and faith they could get it in shape. Together they went to work.

But late in December a severe storm whipped through the river valley, and the worst blow fell on the little church -- a huge chunk of rain-soaked plaster fell out of the inside wall just behind the altar. Sorrowfully the pastor and his wife swept away the mess, but they couldn't hide the ragged hole.

The pastor looked at it and had to remind himself quickly, "Thy will be done!" But his wife wept, "Christmas is only two days away!"

That afternoon the dispirited couple attended the auction held for the benefit of a youth group. The auctioneer opened a box and shook out of its folds a handsome gold and ivory lace tablecloth. It was a magnificent item, nearly 15 feet long. but it, too, dated from a long vanished era. Who, today, had any use for such a thing? There were a few halfhearted bids. Then the pastor was seized with what he thought was a great idea.

He bid it in for $6.50.

He carried the cloth back to the church and tacked it up on the wall behind the altar. It completely hid the hole! And the extraordinary beauty of its shimmering handwork cast a fine, holiday glow over the chancel. It was a great triumph. Happily he went back to preparing his Christmas sermon.

Just before noon on the day of Christmas Eve, as the pastor was opening the church, he noticed a woman standing in the cold at the bus stop. "The bus won't be here for 40 minutes!" he called, and invited her into the church to get warm.

She told him that she had come from the city that morning to be interviewed for a job as governess to the children of one of the wealthy families in town but she had been turned down. A war refugee, her English was imperfect.

The woman sat down in a pew and chafed her hands and rested. After a while she dropped her head and prayed. She looked up as the pastor began to adjust the great gold and ivory cloth across the hole. She rose suddenly and walked up the steps of the chancel. She looked at the tablecloth. The pastor smiled and started to tell her about the storm damage, but she didn't seem to listen. She took up a fold of the cloth and rubbed it between her fingers.

"It is mine!" she said. "It is my banquet cloth!" She lifted up a corner and showed the surprised pastor that there were initials monogrammed on it. "My husband had the cloth made especially for me in Brussels! There could not be another like it."

For the next few minutes the woman and the pastor talked excitedly together. She explained that she was Viennese; that she and her husband had opposed the Nazis and decided to leave the country. They were advised to go separately. Her husband put her on a train for Switzerland. They planned that he would join her as soon as he could arrange to ship their household goods across the border. She never saw him again. Later she heard that he had died in a concentration camp.

"I have always felt that it was my fault -- to leave without him," she said. "Perhaps these years of wandering have been my punishment!" The pastor tried to comfort her and urged her to take the cloth with her. She refused. Then she went away.

As the church began to fill on Christmas Eve, it was clear that the cloth was going to be a great success. It had been skillfully designed to look its best by candlelight.

After the service, the pastor stood at the doorway. Many people told him that the church looked beautiful. One gentle-faced middle-aged man -- he was the local clock-and-watch repairman -- looked rather puzzled.

"It is strange," he said in his soft accent. "Many years ago my wife - God rest her -- and I owned such a cloth. In our home in Vienna, my wife put it on the table" -- and here he smiled -- "only when the bishop came to dinner."

The pastor suddenly became very excited. He told the jeweler about the woman who had been in church earlier that day. The startled jeweler clutched the pastor's arm. "Can it be? Does she live?"

Together the two got in touch with the family who had interviewed her. Then, in the pastor's car they started for the city. And as Christmas Day was born, this man and his wife, who had been separated through so many saddened Yule tides, were reunited.

To all who hear this story, the joyful purpose of the storm that had knocked a hole in the wall of the church was now quite clear. Of course, people said it was a miracle, but I think you will agree it was the season for it!

True love seems to find a way.

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The Wishing Star

Author Unknown

Davey looked out the window at the falling snow. Usually he loved snow, but today he was sad. It was Christmas Eve, and the snow was so deep that it might ruin Christmas for Davey. Because of the snowstorm, Davey was afraid that his older brother Josh would never make it home for Christmas.

“And I have such a special present for him!” Davey said to himself. “If only he could get here!" With his best crayons, Davey had drawn a picture of the barn on their farm. He was going to give it to Josh for Christmas to hang in his room at college. Davey turned away from the window with a sigh.

Just then, Dad called, “How about some help shoveling the driveway? We’re going to try to make it into town to finish our Christmas shopping. We also have to buy our tree, don’t forget.”

Davey ran to get his boots and coat. He followed Dad out into the snow. Davey picked up his small shovel and set to work, while Dad used his bigger one. Helping Dad shovel the snow made Davey feel better.

Soon, Davey and Dad and Mom were on their way to town. Because of the snow, they had to drive slowly. “I brought my picture for Josh with me,” Davey said as they rode along. “Maybe I can find a frame to fit it when we get to the store.”

 “Good idea,” said Mom. “I’ll help you look.”

When they got to town, they went to the Christmas tree lot. Davey was the first one out of the car. He ran over to a beautiful, glossy, tall tree. “Look at this one!” he shouted to Mom and Dad. “Josh will love this tree!” Then he remembered. Josh probably wouldn’t be home at all. Davey felt sad again.

Mom and Dad came over to see the tree Davey had found. “That’s a great tree, Davey,” said Dad with a smile. “I think you’re right. It’s the one we should get.”

Mom added, “And even if Josh doesn’t get here to see it, he’d still be happy we have such a beautiful tree.”

Later, at the store, Mom took Davey to the counter where picture frames were sold. Davey looked at all the frames. Finally he said, “I like this wooden one. It reminds me of the wooden barn in my picture.”

The wooden frame was just the right size for his picture. Davey was very pleased. “I’m getting this just in case Josh makes it home for Christmas,” he said. 

Mom patted him on the shoulder. “I know how much you want Josh to be here tonight,” she said, “but it is still snowing hard. I really don’t think he’ll make it. So you mustn’t be too disappointed.”

“At least I can wish he’d come,” Davey said. As they were about to leave the store, Davey saw a crowd of people. “What are all those people looking at?” Davey wondered. He ran to get a closer look. Looking around the man in front of him, Davey could see what was at the center of the crowd.

It was Santa! Children were sitting on Santa’s lap and talking to him. “Can we get in line, please Dad?” begged Davey. 

“Well, we’re kind of in a hurry. We need to be back home before the snow gets too deep,” said Dad. “But since this is Santa, I guess we can spare the time.”

Davey gave Dad a big thank-you hug and ran to get in line. It seemed to take forever, but at last it was his turn. When Davey climbed up on Santa’s lap, Santa said, “Well, well, and what would you like for Christmas?”

“I wish my brother Josh could get home for Christmas,” Davey said. “But the snow is so deep that Mom and Dad don’t think he can make it.” 

“I don’t usually deliver people on Christmas Eve, just toys,” said Santa. “But I’ll tell you what. Tonight, before you go to sleep, make your wish on the biggest, brightest star in the sky. That’s the Wishing Star.”

“Will it really work?” Davey asked Santa. 

“Well, you never can tell about wishes, so I don’t make any guarantees,” said Santa. “But it surely doesn’t hurt to try!”

On the way home in the car, Davey saw that the snow was coming down harder and harder. When he and Mom and Dad were almost to the house, Davey talked about Santa’s Wishing Star. “We all make wishes every now and then,” said Mom, “but sometimes they just can’t come true.”

“I’m going to try, anyway,” insisted Davey. 

That night after dinner, Dad put the Christmas tree in its stand, and Mom and Davey joined him in decorating it with colored lights and balls and lots of tinsel. While they were working, Davey thought sadly, “It would be so great if Josh were here to see our beautiful tree.” 

Dad put a golden angel on the very top. “I think this is the best tree we’ve ever had!” he exclaimed.

Davey went over to the window and looked out. The snow had stopped falling. And there, right overhead, was a star Davey had never seen before. It was big and bright and sparkling. It was the biggest and brightest star in the sky, just as Santa had said.

Davey looked at the star and said, “Wishing Star, please let my Christmas wish come true. I wish that Josh would come home tonight, so we can all be together for Christmas.” Then Davey closed his eyes and wished as hard as he could.

Too soon, Davey heard Mom’s voice. “Time for bed, little one. If you go right to sleep, it will be Christmas morning before you know it.” Davey hung his stocking by the fireplace. He kissed Mom and Dad and started up the stairs to his room.

Just then, the three of them heard a sound outside the front door. “Who could that be?” asked Dad.Suddenly the door flew open, and there was Josh! Davey raced to the door, flung his arms around his brother, and gave him the biggest hug he could manage. Josh had made it home after all. Davey’s Christmas wish had come true.

Later that night, when Davey was finally in bed, he looked out his window. Sure enough, the Wishing Star was still high in the sky. “Thank you, Wishing Star,” he whispered. “I knew you could do it. You’ve made this my best Christmas ever!”

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The Christmas Fruitcake

Author Unknown

I never cared for the taste of fruitcake, but I’ve been saving one for years.

It’s the last of those I used to get every Christmas from Elizabeth, my friend Paul’s mom. She always cooked up what seemed like hundreds for family and friends, wrapping them in plastic, and tying them with red and green ribbons.

Fruitcakes are known to take on lives of their own, passing from one person to the next, sometimes lingering long enough to carbon-date. Cut one open, if you dare, and divine its age like you’d count the rings of some ancient tree.

Though we pretended to like them, Elizabeth never pressed us for reports on their flavor, probably sensing that many simply became souvenirs—if not albatrosses—not that it seemed to matter. Still, everybody got one, delivered with a proud smile and wrapped in love, a present from this woman who used her recipes to nourish our souls as much as our bodies.

The tradition was passed down by Elizabeth’s mom, who had learned it from her own aunt. With nobody sure how many generations back it goes, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn an early version of the recipe, scripted on papyrus and stored in an urn, has been unearthed during some distant archaeological dig.

Paul’s father lost his hearing some years back, and got to where he couldn’t see very well. Then Elizabeth’s diabetes eventually put her in a wheelchair and robbed her of sight, so Paul moved back home that fall to help care for them.

As Christmas approached, Elizabeth kept mentioning how much she wished she could hand out those fruitcakes again. Saddened by having to break the tradition, she reminisced about helping Grandma when she was a little girl. Tears welled in her eyes as she talked about her fruitcakes, admitting that eating them isn’t what matters, that it’s cooking up some love and sharing it with people who mean the most to her.

During her nap that afternoon, Paul searched through two boxes stuffed with hundreds of recipes filed in no particular order. He finally found it, flour-crusted, yellow with age, and difficult to read. He went out and bought the ingredients, then set about mixing, determined to make her a batch to give away. Paul’s not known for his culinary finesse, and most family recipes require a dollop of magic beyond what’s actually written down, so he finally had to wake her, confessing his plan and asking her to help.

They spent the rest of the afternoon making fruitcakes. She took charge, while Paul served as her eyes and hands. They didn’t need that old recipe card; Elizabeth knew this one by heart.

She glowed with pride as she handed them out, accepting kisses and thanks, hugging back with newfound strength despite her frail condition. She’d probably felt that way every year, but this marked the first time we really noticed.

Several days after Christmas, Elizabeth required hospitalization, but there was little that could be done, and she took a turn for the worse. In a stark, antiseptic room far from the familiar aromas of her kitchen, Paul lost his mother, and we all lost a friend.

Gathered at the house after the funeral, Paul and his siblings carefully copied her fruitcake recipe, all vowing to carry on the custom. Several of them did, too—for a couple of years. Busy with their own lives and still discovering their own unique ways to celebrate, they gradually let the fruitcake tradition slip away.

Some things will never leave us, though. Elizabeth’s children, like all of us she touched, will always carry on with a more important tradition: living the way she taught. Devotion to our families, integrity, loyalty, and love for each other . . . these are what I see being passed on to the next generation. These are truly Elizabeth’s recipe for life.

I still have that fruitcake somewhere, the one she and my friend made together. When I look at it, I can see her face lighting up as she presented it to me.

It is, after all, just a fruitcake. I still don’t care for the taste. And I can’t say how long I’ll manage to hang on to this odd thing, a souvenir wrapped in plastic and tied with red and green ribbons . . .

A family recipe, the reminder of those last precious moments my friend spent with his mom, a Christmas gift from the heart.

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Green Stamp Christmas

By Trish Kline

We often joked that she was my favorite aunt and I, her favorite niece. She was my mother’s only sister; and I, my mother’s only child. But even if our extended family hadn’t been so limited, Aunt Mary would have won the position.

She was one of those “quality” people—one who never got in a hurry, applying great patience to the most minute details.

It was that quality—and an artful eye—which combined to create the gifts she gently placed under the tree of our family’s Christmas Eve gatherings.

The package was always easy to spot. The paper was tailored and taped with precision. The ribbons were crossed around the box, gathering into a large rose-shaped bow—my aunt’s trademark. And beneath the handmade bow would be my name, accented with multicolored glitter.

Each Christmas I thrilled to my aunt’s creations.

One year it was a long, narrow wall plaque. Near the bottom edge, a small Japanese girl approached a bridge which served as the entrance to a pathway leading through a botanical garden.

As the path led to the top of the frame, it created the impression of walking deeper into the garden.

But the most unusual element of the plaque was not what it portrayed, but what it was made of—pebbles! Every drop of water, every flower petal, every inch was an accumulation of minute, colored pebbles. Each stone was spotted with a drop of glue, then delicately placed so close together that they created a flowing picture.

Another year, the box was especially large. Opening it, I gently lifted out a blue-dyed piece of canvas, the backdrop to a treetop filled with nests, complete with baby birds.

The tree was real bark; the nests, straw. The plump baby birds were small cotton-filled pouches covered with rows of colorful feathers, each bird had an open beak of split corn kernels.

As the years passed, my aunt’s health began to fail. Nevertheless, each year she managed to put a handmade gift under the tree—embroidered pillowcases, monogrammed handkerchiefs—all beneath a rose-shaped bow.

She continued to do this every Christmas until the one preceding her death. In the course of the year, Aunt Mary had become totally bedridden. Because she was unable to work, her savings had been quickly depleted by medical bills. Even if she had been physically capable of producing one of her elaborate creations, her limited funds would not have permitted such an expenditure.

But she wasn’t physically capable. She had become so weak that eating became a painstaking task that often took more than an hour. Assistance was required for bathroom trips. Bathing was done bedside. Her once surgeon-steady hands now shook uncontrollably as her arms laid alongside her emaciated body.

That Christmas there weren’t any glittering boxes with rose-shaped bows. But there was one with my name on it, scribbled by the shaking hand of my aunt.

Aunt Mary apologized repeatedly for the shabbily wrapped box. I continued to assure her it was just fine. But as I opened the lid, I couldn’t help but wonder what Aunt Mary could possibly have made for me this year.

Wrapped in shredded newspaper laid a small ceramic bird.

“I know it’s not much,” began my aunt.

“It’s beautiful,” I interrupted.

“It’s not anything like the other Christmases,” she continued.

“I understand,” I tried to comfort.

“I knew you would,” she said sadly. “I just hate that this Christmas has to be a green stamp one.”

I knew what she meant by her emphasis of this.

“Green stamp one?” I asked, trying to change our thoughts.

“Yep!” Aunt Mary chirped in a voice much like her youthful self. “Right out of the S&H Guidebook to Finer Living!”

“Well, I think it’s lovely,” I concluded, gently hugging her neck.

“Good! I’m glad,” she said jokingly. “I had to lick a lot of stamps for that bird!”

We all laughed. The humor sounded so much like my aunt—the way she was before.

“She did lick a lot of stamps,” my mother said seriously as we were leaving my aunt’s house. “She also stuck every one of them into the books.”

“She did?” I asked astonished. “How? I mean, those little single ones? It must have been …”

“Painstaking?” finished my mother. “As much as any of your other Christmas presents. She even went to the store and picked it up herself. I took her.”

Suddenly I realized how much the small bird represented. I tried to visualize the hours her shaking hands labored to place so many stamps, and the effort to dress and make the difficult journey to purchase the gift.

As I thought, I found myself gaining a new perspective on the gifts brought to the baby Jesus. Rather than seeing the material value of the Wise Men’s offerings, I realized the love they expressed in making the journey themselves, rather than sending messengers.

Instead of viewing the shepherds as paupers in comparison to the kings, I realized the great value in the gifts they brought, giving of the painstaking, daily labor of their lives.

My green stamp Christmas was the one when I learned the most about giving! From three kings, a few shepherds, and my favorite aunt.

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