Christmas is Light

Author Unknown

When we think on the Christ child at this Christmas season, we remember the tender story surrounding his birth. Many of the story’s elements are symbolic of the gospel principles we try to cultivate in our lives.

We are reminded that we are all innkeepers. We try to warmly welcome in the Savior with all our hearts rather than renting him a single room. Hopefully he has come in to lodge as a permanent guest and not as an itinerant traveler.

The shepherds were humble men who, while keeping watch over their flocks, did not hesitate to put their business aside to go with haste and find the babe. From them we learn when to put our own temporal affairs aside and seek the more spiritual.

We remember the wise men from the east who searched out the Son of God. These were spiritually sensitive men who came to worship the King. After much searching, inquiry, and effort, they found Him. Truly, wise men still seek Him.

These magi presented treasures to the Christ child that were offerings from their hearts and hands. The gifts they bore were their very best. When we offer a gift to the Savior from our hearts it is our very best.

Light also abounds in this simple story. In many instances the symbol of light was chosen to herald the Savior’s birth:

The shepherd witnessed the light of the Lord’s glory as it shone round about them in their fields.

The wise men were directed by the light of the new star in the east, that went before them until it came and stood over where the young child was.

The light of Christ is both real and symbolic. We see it in the faces of each other and those who have come to accept His gospel.

The White Stocking

By Carolyn Cox Canberra

'Twas the night before Christmas as I walked through the house,

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The presents had been wrapped and placed under the tree
I paused, tired, excited, and then giggled with glee.

The stockings were hanging and were beautifully filled.

No one had been forgotten, though the credit card was billed.
As I looked at the scene with the stockings on the ledge,
I noticed one was empty, the one on the edge.

Where's the Spirit of Christmas - What have I done?

The children's stockings are all full, except for this one.
It was the stocking intended for the child of Bethlehem.
The White stocking for Jesus that was hung up by them.

Of all the people at Christmas, that might be forgotten,

How could I not remember the Fathers Only Begotten?
Only He had been left out of the festivities.
As we planned and prepared all, for our families.

 

As I pondered, I realized this just was not right!

It was His birth that was being celebrated, after this night.
I resolved then and there to remember the Lord
And quickly made changes that were easy to afford.
 

I hung the white stocking in a special place in our home.

And corrected the atmosphere to provide a more spiritual tone.
On Christmas morning I gathered the family together,
And each of us wrote on a special piece of paper,

We gave Jesus a gift which we placed in the stocking.

A sincere change of heart, not there for the mocking.
The white stocking hung in our home as a symbol for us
Of the true meaning of Christmas - the Savior, The Lord Jesus

 

So take your white stocking and hang it with pride

Remember the Savior, put his gift inside.

Of Greatest Worth

By Jeff Westover

The first week of December found her happily engaged in preparing for the holidays. She was about three months from delivering her first child. And after a few years of young married life—completing her education and working while her husband completed his–Maurine was ready to enjoy the upcoming years in a more settled fashion.

It was not yet to be.

Events transpired that first week of December in 1941 that changed lives for generations to come in nearly all nations around the world. And life for Maurine in this turmoil would be no different. The grand effort of World War II galvanized the nation and everyone in her life. From all sides of her family, people were separated and displaced. Busy and involved. Her vision of a steady and warm future would just have to wait a little while longer.

Her husband, Leon, was classified as 4f—physically incapable to serve in the military due to a severe injury sustained in his youth on the farm. But her status as a new mother and his physical classification did not preclude them from the war effort. He was a schoolteacher by day and a steel mill worker by night. Together they worked the scrap metal and rubber drives.

In the summer of 1942, Leon the eldest of several brothers at war—received a job offer suited for a man who desperately wanted to be involved. It would require a huge sacrifice. And, because Maurine was educated and qualified, it would provide a means for her to serve, too. Before long they found themselves teaching school to children in a Japanese relocation center in faraway Topaz, Utah.

What they did was not popular. Where they went was not inviting. But the same could be said of everyone involved in the effort at that time. And like so many far away from home and family at Christmas during World War II, they walked away with memories and deep appreciation for the season that they may not have previously possessed.

For Maurine, the war experience was one of contrasting injustice. While on one side of the globe the world fought a tyrant, she faced the shame of injustice imposed by her own suspicious government. In communities all over the West Coast, families of Japanese descent were forced to sell their homes, businesses, and possessions with only a few hours notice. They could take whatever they could fit in a suitcase and they were shipped to isolated camps located well inland all over the American West.

Maurine found them to be a stoic people. Respectful and industrious in every way, she came to love them and their children as they endured the madness that the world’s circumstances had created. She lived with them behind the barbed wire, pledged the flag with them each morning, and with them, tried to make the best of it. They in turn loved her and her family. They were enchanted with her infant son and often assisted in tending him.

Christmas that year proved most interesting to her. While some of these people were Japanese immigrants all of them were Americans. They too had a reverence for the holiday even though many of them were not Christian. The lessons of giving during this season did not have to be taught to the Japanese-Americans there, because they were so widely practiced in the art of giving selflessly. This was proven to Maurine by the singular act of a little boy who decided to give at great personal risk.

As the Christmas season approached, parents of the Japanese students in the class helped their children produce gifts for Maurine. Many of them gave works of art or craft projects of their own making. But one little boy had wrapped up his most valuable possession. And the sight of it made Maurine gasp as the meaning of it tore at her heart. Wrapped in tissue was this little boy’s pass.

To understand, one must realize that Topaz was a military-style camp. The people interred there did not have rights. They did not go where they wanted to go. They had few possessions of their own. And they lived under the strictest rule of law being told where to go and when. Each Japanese-American person in the camp, even the youngest of the children, was given a pass that allowed them to move about their business within the camp. To lose the pass, to sell it or to fail to produce it when asked would impose a strict measure of discipline upon them. The nation was at war, and right or wrong though it was, these were the rules under which they lived. The pass was their most valuable possession.

To give the pass back to the little boy would prove to be a rejection that he and his family couldn’t bear. Through this gift he was expressing love and appreciation of her. Living under the circumstances of great injustice, this little boy (and, undoubtedly, his family too) was willing to risk what little freedom he had and give it to her as a gift. It was the most selfless gift she had ever received in her life.

In violation of strict procedure, she requested and obtained a new pass for the little boy. She kept the pass in her possession for the remaining days of her life. Over 40 years later, as she recounted this story for me, Maurine recalled how many of those students remained in touch with her after the war. She followed their lives, their weddings and babies. One even sent a photo to her when he graduated from West Point. The giving did not stop that Christmas. And it would not stop for years.

The experience in the windswept, desolate place called Topaz touched Maurine’s life forever. The war did end. And the life she sought before the war, she found. But it was all the more rich for having to delay it to receive a most valuable gift in the most unusual of circumstances.

A Light Hearted Holiday

By Ginger Boda

Our little girl, Alisha, was intent on bringing the Christmas spirit to her little gray house on Ole Susanna Street. It seemed there was a bit of "bah humbug" in the air, since major financial burdens had pressed in on us. I tried my best to create the warmth of the holiday in our home that year, but something was definitely missing. Alisha knew exactly what was needed.

She found our old box of Christmas lights up in the rafters of the garage. Very gingerly, she began to remove them strand by strand, recalling how her dad would check each one, ensuring that they still glowed. She plugged them into the wall, and smiled with each success. In the past, her father had displayed the Christmas lights on the outside of the house, but this year Alisha realized that he wasn't "getting around to it". There was just one week left before Christmas, she pondered, and it looked as though the holiday was going to come and go without even a slight glimmer twinkling from their homestead.

Alisha and her Dad hadn't said much to each other lately. Oh, she knew that he loved her but the words never came easy for him. Ever since she turned thirteen, last year, she and her father had drifted apart, somewhat. He seemed to enjoy talking with her brothers because they always had sports and "guy stuff" to discuss. That was just on the surface, though, and she knew her Dad felt depressed. Something in Alisha now told her that her father needed her more than he cared to admit.

I called to Alisha to come help with the cut out cookies, but she didn't answer. Glancing down the hallway toward her bedroom door, I discerned no movement. Oh, she's probably listening to her music, I presumed. All of sudden, strange noises were heard, coming from outside the house. Distracted by the commotion interrupting his day, Mark went to the front door and listened for a moment. Shrugging his shoulders, he shuffled back to his spot in front of the television and let out a big sigh as he sat down.

I tiptoed, sock footed, out to the yard in the chilly afternoon. Looking up and straining to see if there might be a cat on the roof, I noticed the Christmas lights hemming the eaves over our garage door; apparently still in their placement process. However, to my confusion, there was no one on the roof. Once again, I called towards the front door for Alisha. Slowly, a sweet little face emerged over the peak of the house. There she was, lights in one hand and stapler in the other, trying to do what has always been known in her home as a "man's job." She was grinning from ear to ear.

I gulped hard, then smiled and praised my little girl for her efforts. However, I did suggest that she come down immediately before she gets hurt. Goodness, she's gutsy, I thought. Hearing the rooftop conversation from the comfort of his cozy couch, Mark reluctantly came outside to assess the situation. He eyed our little rooftop elf, but said nary a word. He simply turned slowly back toward his abode. As I followed behind my grumpy husband, I shook my head in disappointment. The spirit of Christmas was difficult to feel with the tension in the air and the reason for the season seemed to have been forgotten. That simple joy of being together as a family should have been enough, I pondered. My heart ached, as well, for my daughter's efforts to bond with, and please her father.

Knowing that Alisha was determined, I retrieved my jacket from the closet and headed past the living room to the front door to assist her. I halted mid-step, and a grin quickly replaced my frown, as I surveyed my "scrooge of a husband" putting on his shoes and jacket. Across the room, I noticed that the television had finally lost its voice. Seizing the moment, I sauntered over to the stereo, switched on some Christmas music, and turned to face my hubby. The room began to fill with warmth as our eyes met and a knowing smile was exchanged.

In no time at all, there appeared to be all kinds of activity heard from the rooftop of the little gray house on Ole Susanna Street as the little girl and her daddy laughed and worked together. Although he clearly stated that "he was pushed into the job," he DID wink as he said it.

Nothing had changed monetarily for us. Christmas presents would still be scant but the hearts that lived in the little house were already richly gifted. It didn't take much to remind us that the light in our spirit can brighten our world, and the people we love, if we just take the effort to display it.

Finally, the spirit of love and joy had arrived just a week before Christmas. The outline of the homestead became illuminated, as did the heart of our little girl as she bonded with her father and tucked away a precious and brightly lit memory in the treasure chest of her childhood.

Empty Pockets and Full Hearts

By Jolene Jones
For the Deseret News 2006

Every year at Christmas time, my husband, Russ, relates this story to our children about him and his father, Milton Jones, so that the children can know a little about the grandfather they have never met.

I grew up in McKinleyville, a little town on the Pacific Coast of northern California. During the late 1960s, my father owned a small furniture store. At that time, most of the local business was from the logging industry.

I worked for my dad, hauling furniture into our small truck for delivery to the local customers. My dad, "Milty" to his friends and customers, was a short, quiet, gentle man. Day after day in the store, I would watch him arrange to deliver some much-needed furniture to families with little money. Dad would arrange for payments to be made on the furniture and seal the deal with a handshake. One year, just days before Christmas, I overheard my mom inform Dad that the shop was behind in its collections.

My mom, Helen, was the polar opposite of my dad. Where he was short, she was tall; where he was quiet, she was vivacious. She had enough personality to earn the nickname "Hurricane Helen." She sternly warned him that he had been too soft-hearted in his collection efforts, and if the shop were going to survive, he had to collect the payments due. Knowing that she was right, Dad reluctantly called out to me, "Rusty, get your coat."

We climbed into the delivery truck. I was shivering in the frigid, wet December weather. We drove in silence to the first house. The house was really a small shack that looked utterly uninviting in the thick, coastal fog. Dad went to the door and knocked. There was no answer. He opened the door to silence. No one was home. With a sigh, Dad shoved the door open and moved into the small front room. We had come to collect a sofa, a kitchen table, chairs and some children's beds.

It was ice-cold in the room. Dad looked around at the furniture then walked quietly over to the kitchen table. On the table lay a note.

"Milton, I know you have come to collect the furniture. I'm sorry we couldn't pay the rest of what we owe you. I got sick and was laid off from the mill. I left the door open for you. I didn't want my family to be home when you came."

Without a word Dad put the note back on the table. He just stood there for a few minutes. He walked over to the fridge and opened it. Nearly empty. He opened a few cupboards. Nearly empty, as well. He looked at the fireplace, the only method of heating the home. No wood. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out some money, turned to me and said with quiet resolve, "Rusty, go get some groceries."

"Dad," I argued, "Mom's going to be mad! We need to take the furniture, not give them money!"

His reply was absolute. "Rusty, these people need this furniture far more than I need the money."

When I returned to the house, with bags of groceries, I walked into a warm front room. Dad had chopped wood for the fire. We put the groceries in the cupboards and fridge and started to walk out the door when Dad stopped and looked around again. I watched in silence as he slowly walked back over to the kitchen table, the very one we had come to collect. He put his hand back in his pocket and pulled out all the money he had and placed it on the table. Then, he took off his brand new, expensive wool coat, which had been an early Christmas present from my mom, and placed it on the table beside the money.

As we drove back to the shop, the only thing my 16-year-old brain could think was that my mom was probably going to kill my dad! Dad had not only left the furniture but had also emptied his pockets and given them his new wool coat. Knowing what the reaction of my mom would be, I honestly thought he was either insane or the bravest man I knew.

When we returned to the shop, we weathered "Hurricane Helen" just fine. Dad never spoke about the experience or the furniture again. But I have never forgotten that Christmas trip to collect what was owed to us. In lieu of collecting, my dad gave. Dad gave a man his dignity. And to me, he gave the gift of knowing I had a generous, kind father.

One Prayer Among Many

By Heather Chesnut

For the Deseret News, 2012

On Christmas Day 1984, my small home town of Castle Dale, Utah in Emery County felt still and unnatural. Eyes were filled with despair, bewilderment or sorrow. The Wilberg Mine just outside of town was an inferno, and 27 miners and company officials were trapped deep within the workings. The rescue attempt had become a body-recovery operation. Almost everyone in town had a loved one either trapped in the mine, working on one of the rescue teams or providing support to the teams.

I was 15 years old. My 12 year old sister Heidi, my 8 year old brother Stephen, and I were alone. A short distance away our mother, a county emergency medical technician, worked at the medical unit set up to evaluate mine rescuers for carbon monoxide poisoning, smoke inhalation and other potential health hazards after ascending from their searches. No one had been rescued from the mine.

Our father, exhausted from four long days working at the mine office supporting rescue teams, working with miners' families, and dealing with media sat in an isolated room of the house staring out a large window, his expression unreadable. For the first time in my life, I thought he looked old.

Heidi, Stephen and I had opened our presents early. Stephen raced around the house joyfully, his He-Man and Skeletor characters locked in mortal combat. But Heidi kept asking when Mom would be home. Was she going into the mine herself? Would she get burned in the fire? What was wrong with Dad? I knew the answer to none of her questions.

But even then, Christmas Day was Christmas Day. I decided to make the best of it for Heidi and Stephen. My cooking repertoire was small back then, but I chose my best dish — spaghetti — for our Christmas dinner. Selecting the best china, I heaped each plate with pasta and covered it with spaghetti sauce. Then I made glasses of chocolate milk and decorated the table with candy canes and candles. Dad didn't come to the table. He had finally fallen asleep. But Heidi's eyes brightened when she saw the table, and she stopped asking about Mom.

After dinner, we pulled on red knit hats and mittens and dragged inflated inner tubes up the hill near our house. On the way, I taught Heidi and Stephen the words to a new Christmas Song, "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer," which sent Heidi into fits of giggles. Over and over we raced down the hill. Soon friends joined us, and for a couple of hours it really did seem like Christmas.

When the snow around us began to look pink and blue in the early Christmas sunset, we started for home. In front of our house, Stephen threw his tube into the snow and laid on it, looking up at the cold, brightening moon. Heidi and I lay on our tubes on either side of him, and we held his hands. I thought about my Christmas efforts and how inadequate they seemed compared to our usual Christmas — the magnificent dinner, the house full of family and friends, the gifts hidden by Santa, the caroling and the homemade divinity. I felt tears threatening.

"This is the best Christmas I've ever had in my whole life," Stephen suddenly said, his childlike voice bursting with enthusiasm. Heidi looked at me. She said quietly, "I love you."

A light streamed across the yard and I saw Dad in the front doorway. We raced to him and he gathered us in his arms. We went inside and warmed our red hands and noses at the fire. Then my father fell to his knees for a prayer. He prayed for blessings for our family and pled for the safety of our mother and other relatives at the mine. He prayed for the miners. Then, his voice rich with emotion, he offered thanks for each of us, his children. I felt his love to the core. More than that, I felt the beginning of a new consciousness, an adult appreciation of how much my father loved us and how much my parents had sacrificed to raise us. And I said my own prayer of thanks. It was unforgettable.

Into the Wind

By Carol McAdoo Rehm

She hadn't been born on the high plains of Wyoming. In fact, after all these months, she still called Pennsylvania home. She was only here because in 1923 that's what wives did: They followed their husbands. And her husband had a powerful yen to homestead in the West. So here she found herself, on the lonely plains of Wyoming.

For the most part, Grete Klein had made friends with the land. Well, maybe not friends, but she was learning its ways and that was the first key to survival in this harsh country. She had even learned to accept her "new" house, but the drafty tar-paper shack rattled with each gust of wind.

The wind.The ever-blowing, good-for-nothing, bitter Wyoming wind. The thief that puffed away the few autumn leaves before she had a chance to savor them. It robbed the children of pleasant play and stole the moisture from the crops.

Grete sighed and stoked the fire in the black majestic cook stove. She smiled as she recalled her mother saying, in heavily accented English, "If you vant to get rich, mein daughter, you must schtrike those matches tvice!" Rich? Hardly. Even her mother would be amazed and impressed at the ways Grete found to economize. Corncobs for fuel. Flour sacks sewn into underwear. Cardboard insoles to cover the holes and extend the life of the children's shoes.

And now Christmas was nearly here. Not that the landscape gave evidence of that. In the predawn light, Grete pushed aside the gunnysack curtaining the kitchen window and gazed out. No soft December snow blanketed the bare dirt. Instead, grim skies of gunmetal gray hovered while the wind howled in swirls of dust. Its icy fingers clawed at the flimsy door, while its frigid breath seeped around the crooked window frames. And all the while, a lone cottonwood tree -- their only summer shade -- batted its skeletal arms in a field dotted with tumbleweeds too stubborn to blow away. Shivering, Grete turned away.

Christmas. And we can't even spare a tree for the children.

Her children were so young. She knew they carried no memories of holidays back home. Of stately evergreens brushing the ceiling. Of Grossmutter's fine, hand-blown glass icicles dripping from its full branches. Of visits from the Weihnachtsmann, Father Christmas. Or of a table groaning under the weight of tasty traditional delicacies. Roast goose with potato dumplings. Sauerkraut and noodles. Apple strudel.

Oh, and don't forget all the home-baked desserts with their old-world names. I must teach them to the children.

Names like Pfeffernusse, Lebkuchen, and Blitzkuchen. Nusstorte, ApfelPfannkuchen, and Schnitzbrot. Like taking roll call, Grete whispered her favorites one by one. The familiar German words rolled from her tongue, comforting her with their rhythm and taste.

Schnitzbrot. Fruitbread.Hmmm...maybe if I made some substitutions, altered the proportions....

With an excitement she hadn't felt in a long time, Grete pulled out a saucepan, a wooden spoon, and a large tin bowl. She reached for the carefully hoarded currants and dried peaches. Since the fruit was sweet, maybe the children wouldn't notice that she would have to skimp on sugar. She could spare two eggs and felt lucky to have fresh milk from the cow. But Schnitzbrot needed yeast. Grete hesitated.

Do I dare?

She dared. Grete lifted the crock of sourdough starter, her old standby. She had tended it faithfully for months, stirring for four days, adding exact amounts of milk, flour, and sugar each fifth day. It was the foundation for their regular fare of bread, johnnycakes, and biscuits. Why not Schnitzbrot? Grete could almost hear her mother say, "Ya, that's right, mein Grete. Lean into the vind and you vill arrive vit ease."

Humming "Stille Nacht" under her breath, Grete set about stewing, draining, and chopping the fruit. She measured. She mixed. She kneaded until the dough was soft and firm. Grete divided the dough into balls and rolled them like clay between her palms. Instead of the customary loaves, she would make a festive fruit bread wreath for each child. She braided the strips and shaped them into small circles. Covering the dough rings with dishtowels, Grete set them aside to rise near the radiating warmth of the cook stove.

Now, if only the children could have a tree. It would seem more like home. Then I think I could be satisfied.

A Christmas tree. No amount of wishing, no amount of dreaming, no amount of wanting would make it so. Of course, there was still prayer. Doubtfully, Grete closed her eyes and paused a long, silent moment.

Realizing it was nearly time to wake the family, she grabbed her long woolen coat and headed for the door. Let them sleep. She would see to a few outside chores first.

Grete lowered her head to shield her face from the grit of whirling dust. She leaned into the breath-stealing wind, headed toward the barn, and -- she gasped when she felt it. As sharp as needles, spiny tentacles pricked her stockings, scratched her legs. Tumbleweeds. Thorny, branched tumbleweeds. Those last, stubborn thistles had finally broken loose in this gale and rolled right to her feet.

With a hoot of laughter, Grete plucked them from around her ankles. She gathered tumbleweeds and carried them gingerly to the house. Already she could imagine her children giggling and stacking to make a towering tumbleweed tree. An answer to prayer. A gift from the fickle Wyoming wind. Who would have thought!

Remembering Grossmutter's heirloom icicles, she felt a fleeting tug of regret. But she shrugged and turned her thoughts toward tissue paper, shiny ribbon, and scraps of cotton batting. The children could string popcorn and make paper chains. Together, they would create new traditions. Perhaps, with a few clicks of her knitting needles and a little more thought, she could even arrange some small gifts from Father Christmas.

And at that very moment, Grete swore she heard her mother whisper, "Yust think, mein daughter. First sauerSchnitzbrot. And now a Vyoming Christmas tree. Vhat a vonderful place is home."

I Wish My Legs Were Longer

By Linda M. Forsey

For the Deseret News, 1988

A memory. A Christmas memory from more than a few years ago - not of the stockings hung with care or the smell of cookies baking, but of a gift. I'll share it with you.

December 1966. Outside, two pine trees stand with stooping shoulders, their fingertip branches just brushing the morning's snow, long since turned to slush on the sidewalk. The sky is half-heartedly trying to be blue, and pale sunlight cuts through the chill of the early winter afternoon. Inside, the studio is warm. Too warm. The combination of temperamental old radiators and overworked bodies has made the air heavy and hot. Dancers are scattered about the hardwood floor in seemingly bizarre positions of stretching; others lean hook-elbowed against the barre, talking in a low buzz. I welcome this brief pause in a taxing three-hour rehearsal and gladly plop to the floor. My feet are blistered. My muscles ache. I feel like a deboned fish and could not will my body to do one more jete' if my very life hung on it. There's nothing particularly glamorous about a ballet rehearsal.

Mr. C. steps into the studio. "Back to work! Come on, babies, you can't get to the big-time sitting on your derrieres. We'll go straight through the second act. With schmaltz this time, please."

There is an almost magical quality about his rich and raspy voice: It lifts our sagging energies and we stand, brushing rosin dust off of our leotards, ready to begin again.

"Oh, before we go on. . . . " Mr. C. raps his stick on the floor for attention. "There will be no rehearsal tomorrow afternoon." Puzzled looks are passed from face to face. He continues. "We've been asked to perform at the kiddies' hospital. I'd like the bear and the doll from the first act and the variations from the second act. Do some of you guys want to put on mouse suits? Good. We'll take some mice, too. Any questions? Then let's get back to work." He punches a button on the tape recorder and Tchaikovsky's "Nutcracker" fills the room.

I'm in the Arabian corps. Three variations rehearse before mine, so I steal the time to practice in front of the mirrors lining the north wall of the studio. The three other girls in the corps join me, and we appraise our reflections in the glass. One girl wishes that her elbows weren't so bony. Another wishes that her feet would arch more. And I wish that my legs were a little longer. It's a habit you get into in ballet training, this analysis and criticism of every angle of your body. You hate yourself if your wrists won't relax, blame your grandmother if you inherited her short neck, and every night, faithfully, you sleep like a frog to stretch your turn-out. It becomes an obsession.

We meet at the hospital, quickly dress in costumes and begin warming up. Mr. C. steps out to the front of the auditorium and tells the story of Clara and her nutcracker to the children sitting in wheelchairs, propped up on crutches, lying in hospital beds, and then the dancing begins.

First the bear in checkered pants and brown fur suit. He growls at the mechanical ballerina doll and prances around her in a giddy jig.

Next come the Spanish dancers, leaping and twirling in the air and throwing fiery Latin looks at each other. The children clap their approval. They are taken by the glittering costumes and the surging music.

Then the Chinese dancers pop out, the gold tassels on their pointy hats quivering as they nod their heads in time. The soloist jumps incredibly high, spins his feet in the air as if on an invisible bicycle and struts about with a proper ah-so smirk. Again the children applaud.

We four in the Arabian corps begin our dance with a prayerful pose. Then, at a clap of our Arabian master's hands, we spin away and dutifully display our cloths of pink and gold. Behind one cloth stands the beautiful Arabian princess. She rises like a snake being charmed and slowly, seductively begins wooing our master. We stand behind her, mimicking her swaying and undulating.

I catch the eye of one of the patients, a girl of about 8, lying in bed in a cast from hips to feet. Ropes and pulleys hold her body in a perpetual pratfall. Her eyes are fixed on me.

In the middle of a slither, I am struck by the irony of what I am doing: This little child is crippled, whether temporarily or permanently I don't know, and here am I, flaunting my fine and healthy body, feeling sorry for myself that my legs aren't long enough. Long enough for what?

With a toot of his flute and a flip of the cloth, the master makes the princess disappear! Then, in a whirl of pink and gold, we too are gone and nothing remains but the children's soft gasps of wonderment.

After the performance, one of the nurses asks if we can stay long enough to come into the auditorium and talk to the little patients. We all nod. I am drawn to the girl with the broken legs. I walk over to her bed. She reaches up to touch my veil and I touch her hand. She wants to meet the bear too, and I grab him by his suspenders and pull him over to the bed of my new friend. He gives her three of his best growls and she smiles. I smile, too. I have found an answer and to a question I'd not even asked. This is what "Nutcracker" is really all about. It's about children: to confirm their belief in music and magic, hopes and dreams.

We head for the hospital parking lot with shouts of "Can I ride with you?" and "See you tonight."

"Bundle up, kids. Don't get chilled," Mr. C. calls like a gruff mother duck to no one in particular. "Take care of yourselves."

An automatic remark. But then, is it? I think Mr. C. has known all along what I have just learned: A healthy body is a gift, perhaps the best gift of all.

Sunlight is ricocheting off the powdered crystal snow, and the winter sky has never been more blue. I pull my coat closer around me and jam my hands deep into my pockets. My legs are finally long enough.

The Christmas Candle

By Richard Paul Evans

On a snowy Christmas Eve a young man made his way along a dark, deserted cobblestone street. His name was Thomas, and he was wrapped in a woolen cloak, a knapsack flung across his back. In his hand hung a tin candle lantern. Behind the lantern’s glass panes sat the remains of a spent candle.

When he saw the glow of candlelight through the shop window of the chandler, the village candle maker, he hurried his steps, turning onto the snow-covered pathway. In Thomas’s way stood a beggar, shaking his cup for coins. Thomas pushed him aside impatiently and opened the door to the shop.

Inside the shop, metal pots filled with tallow and beeswax hung from a stone hearth. The old chandler stood with his sculptor’s tools in his hands, surrounded by the beautiful creations he had made out of wax.

“I am lucky to find you here,” Thomas said. “The town is empty.”

The old man gazed silently at Thomas as the young man glanced about at the rows of sculpted candles. There were sprites and fairies, angels with see-through wings, and fragile princesses in gowns as delicate as lace. They smelled of myrrh and frankincense and meadow flowers.

“You are a foolish old man,” Thomas said. “You spend hours making beautiful things that devour themselves. How long before the flame melts an angel into an ugly clump of wax?” He pointed to a row of simpler candles. “I only need light. I will take one of those.”

The chandler looked steadily at Thomas. “The Christmas candles are of no good to you.”

Thomas was startled by the stern response, but he laughed. “It would do me much good not to stumble in the dark. Are you playing me, old man? I will not pay more for your candle than it is worth.”

“It is only four coppers….but you may find it costly.” The old man’s words were strangely serious.

“I have money! Give me the candle!” Thomas shouted. “It is late, and my family is waiting for me. I need illumination to find my way.”

“Then it is illumination you desire?” the chandler asked softly.

“That is what I need,” Thomas replied.

The candle maker nodded slowly. “So you do.” He took a candle, dipped it over a flame, then placed it inside the lantern’s tin frame.

Thomas dropped some coins on the counter and walked to the door.

The old man’s lips pursed in an odd, amused smile. “Merry Christmas, my brother,” he said.

The farewell surprised Thomas. “To you, as well,” he stammered. Then he hastily stepped out into the darkness, the lantern lighting the road ahead.

Thomas had traveled only a short distance when a shadow emerged from an alleyway. A robber, he thought fearfully. He held out his lantern. “Who’s there?” he called. Then, in the light of the candle, he saw it was only a frail woman huddled against the cold.

“Sir,” cried the woman. “A pence, please?”

His eyes narrowed in contempt at the beggar. Then, as he looked at her more closely, he gasped. He knew her face well! It was his own mother!

“Mother! What is this prank? Why do you greet me as a beggar!"

The woman stared at him. “Just a ha’ pence, Sir?”

“Why are you here? Where are my brothers? My sister?” Thomas asked. He reached out to her, but she pulled away. “Mother, how peculiar you act. You will catch a chill. Here, take my cloak.” He removed it and held it out to her.

Cautiously, the woman came forward, then snatched the coat and retreated into the shadow.

But as she moved from the lantern’s light, her appearance changed. She was not his mother, but a beggar indeed! With Thomas’s cloak in hand, she disappeared into the darkness.

“A strange trick,” he said to himself. He wrapped his arms around his chest, wishing he had kept his cloak. “It is I who will catch a chill.”

Thomas walked on, quickening his pace against the frigid air. As he passed beneath the awning of a darkened inn, the candle revealed another form, lying in the gutter. He held out the candle and again gasped. “Has the universe gone mad? Elin, my brother! Are you sick?”

He set the lantern down, and pulled his brother’s limp arm around his shoulder, struggling to lift him. “Elin, I cannot carry you.”

He pounded on the inn’s door, which was opened by a grim-faced woman.

“My brother is sick and I fear he will freeze before I can come back for him. May I bring him inside?”

“For the price of a night,” she cackled. “A shilling.”

“A shilling?” Thomas reached into his pocket. “I have only sixpence.”

The old woman scowled and began to shut the door.

“Wait! My knapsack is worth more than a shilling!” Thomas cried. “And the trousers inside are newly tailored. I will give you everything.”

The old innkeeper looked at the bundle and reached out a fat hand.

Thomas flung his knapsack from his back and handed it to her with the last of his money. She opened the door. “Bring him in.”

Leaving the lantern on the curb, Thomas dragged the man into the inn’s foyer. As he gently laid him on the wooden floor he suddenly saw that the man’s face, like the beggar’s had changed.

“So it is your brother who lay in the gutter?” croaked the woman. “You are mad,” she muttered and shoved him out the door.

Outside, Thomas picked up the lantern.

He looked into its glass panes. “There is something strange about your light,” he whispered.

Thomas had just glimpsed the bright lights of home when he came across a little girl shivering in the cold.

“Have your anything to eat, Sir?” she asked in a faint voice.

Thomas felt a stir in his chest. This child was tiny, no bigger than his sister…..Suddenly he pulled the lantern away. He wouldn’t shine it in her face. He could guess its trick. And what could he do for this poor waif? He had no food or money left to give.

“I have nothing,” Thomas murmured as he left her, willing himself not to turn around.

Penniless and cold, Thomas trudged onward, hardly glancing at the familiar houses of his childhood.

His own home was dressed for the season, and music and laughter came from inside. As he entered the foyer, his mother greeted him with great excitement. “Thomas,” she exclaimed, “you have arrived!”

Hearing her cry, his sister and brothers rushed into the room to welcome his arrival.

When the joviality had begun to settle his mother looked at him peculiarly. “Thomas, where is your cloak?”

“Yes,” said his brother Elin, “and why have you no pack?"

Thomas gazed solemnly into their bewildered faces. “I….gave everything away,” he said.

“To whom?” his mother asked, puzzled.

Thomas looked down at the waning Christmas candle. “The old man spoke the truth. You are costly….” A smile of understanding slowly spread across his face.

“…..but of great worth.”

“What is this riddle? What old man?” his sister asked.

“A wise man who sculpts candles,” Thomas replied as he gazed at the face of his sister. And just then, in his mind, her bright face became the woeful, hungry face of the poor child in the cold.

Thomas looked at the sumptuous banquet laid out on the table. Suddenly he turned to the door.

“Thomas, where are you going?” his sister asked.

 “I must see about another member of our family,” he said.

And as he left the warm, fragrant house for the cold night, Thomas’s heart was warm with joy. For that Christmas Eve, a lesson was learned and taken to heart: If we will see things as they truly are, we will find that all, from great to small, belong to one family. And this truth, known from the beginning of time, is perhaps seen best in the joyous illumination of Christmas.