The Art of Keeping Christmas

By Wilferd A. Peterson

How can we best keep Christmas? How can we best defeat the little bit of Scrooge in all of us and experience the glory of the Great Day?

By sinking the shafts of our spirits deep beneath the sparkling tinsel of the surface of Christmas and renewing within us the radiance of the inner meaning of the season.

By following the Star on an inward journey to Bethlehem to stand again in awe and wonder before the Babe in the Manger.

By rediscovering the faith and simplicity of a little child, for of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.

By being still and listening to the angels sing within our hearts.

By quietly evaluating our lives according to the Master's standards as set forth in the Sermon on the Mount.

By reaffirming the supremacy of the spirit in our conquest of ourselves.

By resolving to give ourselves away to others in love, joy, and devotion.

By using the light of Christmas to guild us through the darkness of the coming year, refusing to go back to the dim kerosene lamps of the spirit when the brilliant electricity of Christmas is available to show us the way.

Merry Christmas, Dad

By Brooke Thomas

The clock on the wall revealed that it was exactly midnight. It was now Christmas Eve day.

The doctor's words were softly spoken. I had to strain to hear what he was saying. And yet, I fought against those words. Did I really want to hear them? What were we all doing here? I looked at the solemn faces of my family and last of all my dad. Did I look as shocked and helpless as they did? "We've got the results of the blood test," the oncologist said quietly.

I looked out the window of the hospital room and my eyes focused on the bright, colorful sign of a toy store down below and I just stared at it.

"I'm sorry, the test came back positive. It is leukemia," the doctor confirmed.

There was silence. The kind of silence that frightens you, like in the movies when it's quiet right before the monster jumps out and grabs the hero. A monster had invaded our lives. A monster called leukemia and it had gotten a hold of my dad, my hero.

I felt sick, like someone had punched me hard in the stomach and I couldn't breathe. I tore my eyes away from the toy sign and looked at my father lying in the hospital bed. He was strangely composed, but I could still see the fear in his eyes, the blue eyes that I had inherited from him. I suddenly remembered a time about four years ago when I was about 17. I'd been standing in front of a mirror and my dad had come up behind me. He smiled, and I had smiled back.

"Do you know what, Dad? I have your eyes," I had said.

Then I watched as those blue eyes filled up with tears as I looked back at his reflection.

"We'll have to begin intense chemotherapy immediately," the doctor said jerking me out of my reverie. I didn't realize that my cheeks were wet with tears until my dad reached out his hand to me. I was afraid to take it. Afraid that touching him would somehow validate all of this making it real. I wanted it to be some horrible nightmare that I could wake up from. But it was real. I stepped forward and took his hand.

It had never been so difficult to leave someone. I felt like we were abandoning him as we left later that morning, but he needed to rest . . . if he could. He would have to have a bone marrow biopsy to determine what kind of leukemia he had. We soon found out that he was in the advanced stages of acute myelogenous leukemia, a very serious strain, especially in adults.

My sister went home with my mom from the hospital, and I was left to drive home alone. I cried as I drove, picturing what my father would look like after losing his black, curly hair from the chemotherapy treatment. I desperately wished that it was me that had leukemia and not him. He was so much better a person than I was. He was the peacemaker, the person who always looked for the best in people and then managed to bring those qualities out. He was the foundation upon which we had built our home, our family, our lives. If he died, I knew that a part of me would perish also.

When I awoke the next morning, I was amazed that I had slept at all. But sometimes shock is like putting a blanket over a ticking bomb. It allows you to slip away. But then the blanket is pulled back and the bomb is once more exposed. You have to deal with it knowing that it might explode in your face. Everything came back full force and I was suddenly angry.

It was Christmas Eve day and the usual holiday cheer was painfully vacant from our home. We were no longer facing a babe in a manger, Santa Claus and Christmas gifts. We were dealing with leukemia, oncology, chemotherapy and maybe even death. I was angry that we had to acknowledge Christmas. It was like a mockery or some sick joke. It was like knowing that you're going to drown but having to swim anyway.

But on Christmas morning we gathered all my dad's gifts together and took them to the hospital. He was too sick to open them himself, so we each unwrapped the gifts we'd brought for him. He was so weak, and I thought maybe this hadn't been such a good idea, but he looked up at us, his weary eyes still sparkling, and he thanked us. He told us that everything would be all right.

"We'll get through this," he said with such conviction that I just stood and stared at him in awe and somehow I found the courage to believe him. I realized that he wasn't angry or bitter about what was happening to him. I felt a weight lifted off my shoulders, and I was ashamed that I had wanted to bypass Christmas. It wasn't about presents or decorations. It was something you manufactured from within. That day we laughed and joked and teased each other and we were happy.

The doctors didn't think my dad would even make it through the first night, but he did. He taught me that faith and courage can go a long way. He even made it through the next Christmas after three months of chemotherapy and another three months going through a bone marrow transplant.

My father died Feb. 6, 1993, at home when the leukemia returned, but through those many months I would hear those words he first said so long ago on that Christmas Day.

"We'll get through this."

And we did. And he did. He never complained and he never gave up.

Merry Christmas, Dad. I love you.

Glorious Music: A Gift the Brings Glad Tidings

By Claire Dyreng Richards

It was a cold December day in the mid-1950s. Although I was alone in my thoughts as I listened to the beautiful Christmas music that filled the air, I was surrounded by throngs of New Yorkers on bustling Fifth Avenue. I wondered to myself, "What would Christmas be like without the beautiful music of Christmas? Can you imagine approaching the holiday season without `Dreaming of a White Christmas,' or raising your voice in `Joy to the World, the Lord is Come,' or lovingly remembering that long ago `Silent Night, Holy Night'?" Without music, Christmas would be lonely indeed.”

My thoughts returned to my beloved home in Manti, Utah. Music was such an important part of our lives. Especially at Christmastime. My daydreaming stopped, and I looked around me. It was hard to believe. Newlywed, happy in love, I was so excited to spend this first Christmas with my husband in our own home in New York City, one of the great cities of the world.

I looked up again at the magnificent big pipe organ as I listened to the carols. It was bigger than any I had ever seen.

It was the width of a New York City block and several stories high. With its towering gold pipes and crimson trim, it covered the entire front of one of the world's best-known specialty stores, Saks Fifth Avenue. It was the most spectacular Christmas display I had ever seen or could have imagined. Of course, I knew it was not a real pipe organ, but it looked so real! The sound of a great pipe organ from within it, playing the Christmas carols, was equally impressive.

Across Fifth Avenue, the beauty and elegance of Rockefeller Plaza at Christmastime was something to behold! Through the skyscrapers stood a giant fir tree, at least 100 feet tall, overlooking the ice-skating rink. Beneath it, the ice skaters, in pairs, glided gracefully over the ice. The window of B. Altman sparkled with Santa's workshop.

Equally spectacular were the decorations in Lord & Taylor, Bergdorf Goodman and other stores along Fifth Avenue.

But it was the music coming from the immense facade of organ pipes that captured my attention. "It must be Virgil Fox, the great organist at Riverside Church playing," I thought to myself. "Wouldn't Bill love this?"

Bill, my husband, was the organist at New York University, where he taught music history and theory. He also played for Sunday morning church services in Carnegie Hall as well as evening services in our own Manhattan LDS Ward.

Bill was acquainted with many of the fine organists and the organs they played in cathedrals in Manhattan. "But this is one organ he has not seen or heard," I reasoned. Immediately plans for a special surprise began to form in my mind: I wanted to show him this fabulous display.

Christmas Eve arrived. Bill came home carrying a little tree. It didn't matter that it had no branches on one side. It was half price. It fit perfectly in front of the tall, thin radiator in our apartment. We decorated the tree with lights and ornaments Bill had from his bachelor days.

I prepared a nice supper. "Now we will go see that big organ," I thought to myself. "It will be a wonderful surprise." I was trying not to show my excitement, when rather casually Bill said, "I have a little surprise for you, darling, a somewhat unusual Christmas gift. I can't wrap it and put it under the tree. You can't hold it in your hands. It is something you must experience. Get your coat and come with me." With those few words of explanation, he took me to his car, helped me in, and off we went, down through Central Park to Fifth Avenue.

As we approached 57th Street, Bill continued on Fifth Avenue, going a little slower now. A few more blocks and he said, "Roll your window down. Do you hear something familiar? Does it sound like the Manhattan Ward organ?" Now we were in front of Rockefeller Plaza, looking across the street at the big, make-believe pipe organ covering the front of Saks.

Suddenly a wonderful thought occurred to me. A lump rose in my throat. Tears welled up in my eyes as I realized that Bill's surprise was my surprise. Bill was the organist playing the Christmas carols coming from the big pipe organ! He had learned about the big organ months ago when a friend from Saks asked him to make a recording of Christmas carols on the organ in the Manhattan Ward to be used with the elaborate new Christmas display at Saks. It was their gift to the people of New York City, and it was Bill's gift to me. It was the Christmas I remember best.

Sharing a Legacy of Love

By Kathy Melia Levine

When my mother died at the age of eighty-four, my four sisters and I were heartbroken. How could we ever get over the loss of this warm and loving woman, a talented artist who enjoyed life in spite of its challenges and always doted on her husband, daughters and grandchildren?

For weeks after, my sisters and I would meet for dinner, laughing and crying over old memories. When it came time to sell the home my mother loved, we spent many days in disbelief, clearing out her belongings. I remembered reading an Ann Landers column years earlier that discussed how many siblings fight bitterly over the possessions left by their deceased parents. I thought, “How lucky we are that will never happen to us.” Somehow, we easily and peacefully divided Mom’s belongings—furniture, jewelry and household items—among ourselves and a few charities. Although I expected there might be a tug of war over her paintings, that never happened. Pretty good considering there were five daughters and four grandchildren. No conflicts, squabbles or disputes at all. Until we discovered the old nativity set in a box in Mom’s closet.

I remembered Mom telling the story of how she acquired the manger. An old friend who did carpentry work gave it to my mom and dad as a Christmas gift when they were first married. My sister, Eileen, however, remembers it differently. Mom told her she found the crèche in a garbage can belonging to Mrs. Bingham, the elderly lady who lived across the street from us.
Unlike some of the ornate versions found in today’s stores, this manger was crafted from dark wood and completely unadorned—just a roof, a floor and a railing surrounding it. Though beautifully crafted, there was one flaw: one side of the double gate in front was lopsided. Mom filled it with three figurines to start—Mary, Joseph and the Baby Jesus. For many years after, she continued to add others—the Wise Men, shepherds, angels, and animals. As kids, we loved the annual rites of the Christmas season, especially taking the nativity set and decorations down from the attic and carefully putting them in place. When the sisters all married and grandchildren came along, they added new characters of their own to the stable, including a set of the three little pigs.

After Mom’s death, when the nativity set emerged, no one was prepared for the battle that would follow. My sister Joanne was the first to claim the manger, insisting it was the only one of Mom’s possessions that she really wanted. Her wish was granted. But when my niece Mandy found out, she called from her apartment in California to voice her objection. She was clearly emotional as she repeated a decades-old promise made to her by my mother: “Nanny promised me that I could have the nativity set when she was gone,” she cried. “The nativity set belongs to me.” Joanne felt strongly that as Mom’s daughter, she had first dibs. Neither she nor Mandy would budge.

When the disagreement showed signs of becoming a full-blown family feud, we realized something had to be done. Enter the family arbitrator, my sister Eileen, who somehow saw through the fog. But as Mandy’s mother and Joanne’s sister, could Eileen handle this dilemma fairly? Temporarily, she set aside the emotion of the dispute, and thought logically. The nativity set was just a wooden stable, not an irreplaceable masterpiece of art. The beauty was in the eye of the beholders, the perception of two people who coveted a simple item owned by someone they loved. Couldn’t a copy be created? Of course! She would order the wood from the lumberyard and get someone to build a second manger.
The following day, Eileen went to Centre Millwork and stood in line behind several contractors ordering lumber from a young man with a crewcut. He was wearing a tag with his name, Brett, written in green magic marker. When Eileen’s turn came, she had to shout over the sound of buzzing saws. She pointed to the nativity set in her arms and told him the story, explaining that it was causing a major rift between her sister Joanne and her daughter Mandy. Brett took the stable from her, held it up with one hand and laughed, “They’re fighting over this?”

“Yes,” Eileen explained. “I know it seems crazy, but it was my mother’s and they both loved her very much. Is there any way you could measure and cut some wood so we could have a duplicate built?
Brett said, “Leave it here. I’ll see what I can do.” Eileen left, hoping he could come up with a minor miracle. That’s what it would take to satisfy the two women in her life that were squabbling.
A few days later, she received a phone message saying that her order was ready. When Eileen arrived at the hardware store to pick up the wood, she couldn’t believe what she saw — two identical stables sitting side by side. Brett had not only cut and measured the wood, he had built a second manger. “I know you wanted them to look the same, so I added a couple of dings and flaws that were in the original. Hope that’s okay.”

Sure enough, the new stable had the same lopsided front gate. “Okay?” Eileen said in tears. “You have no idea what this will mean to my sister and my daughter. To the entire family. I don’t care what this costs. Your work has saved the day.”

“That will be $3.75 for the materials,” Brett said. When Eileen insisted on paying him more, he said, “I didn’t do it on company time. I built it at home so I won’t charge you for the labor.” He pointed to the new manger. “I hope this helps your family have a merrier Christmas.”

Eileen left Brett with a large tip and a big hug of thanks. When she got home and called Joanne and Mandy about her creative solution, they were very happy and extremely relieved that the problem was resolved. One phone call later, Joanne and Mandy had agreed that Joanne would take possession of the new stable as well as some of the old figurines—including Mary, Joseph and the infant. Mandy would get to keep the original—just as Nanny promised.

Special Delivery

By Gary Sledge

Ten-year-old Riley Christensen and her mother, Lynn, were huddled in front of the family computer, checking out models and prices of bikes. “Let’s pick one out for Dad’s birthday,” Lynn suggested to her daughter.

As Lynn scrolled down the home page of the Bike Rack, a shop in their town of St. Charles, Illinois, a video link for Project Mobility caught her eye. She clicked on it out of curiosity. The clip told how Bike Rack co-owner Hal Honeyman had created an organization to provide specially engineered bicycles to people with disabilities. It showed the happy faces of those who were now riding them—accident victims, injured veterans, and children with disabilities, including Hal’s own son, who had been born with cerebral palsy.

“I’m going to buy a bike for one of those kids,” Riley told her mother. Two days later, she showed Lynn a letter she had written asking for donations: “I think it’s amazing for a guy to make bikes for kids who can’t walk,” the letter said. “I saw how happy a boy was when he got one … I’m writing to ask for your help.”

Lynn was blown away by her daughter’s effort, but doubts quickly emerged. The cost of just one of those special bikes could be as high as $4,000. Riley could never raise the money. Nonetheless, her letter went out to 75 relatives and friends. Within three days, checks and cash began arriving. Then word got around about Riley’s campaign, and as Christmas neared, more and more donations rolled in. She ultimately raised more than $12,000, enough to pay for seven bikes.

Last Christmas Eve, Riley pulled on a Santa hat and delivered the bicycles to three of the lucky kids: Ava, a 13-year-old girl with spina bifida; Jenny, a 15-year-old girl with cerebral palsy; and Rose, a 4-year-old girl with a rare genetic disorder. “This is the best Christmas I ever had,” said Riley.

She and Ava have since ridden together. “When I ride, I like to go fast, get sweaty, and feel the breeze,” Riley says. “So does Ava. She pumps with her arms, not her feet, but she really flies.”
Riley is determined to keep her campaign going every holiday season. “I want kids to feel the wind in their faces,” she says.

A Christmas Surprise

By Jon VanderStek

It was Christmas 1967 and our country was in the middle of the Vietnam conflict. Thousands of families had sons and brothers serving their country far from home.

This family was no different as they prepared for Christmas missing their son and brother, Jeff, who was serving as a Marine on the front lines in the jungles of Vietnam. He was the oldest of three brothers and had joined the Marines right out of high school.

For the past 11 months, Jeff was on the front lines, the DMZ, in Vietnam. He had witnessed many of the atrocities of war and his family prayed for his safety daily. After months of deplorable conditions in the jungles of Vietnam, Jeff became ill with a parasite that had entered his body. Not recognizing the effects immediately, he began to lose his strength, eventually losing more than 60 pounds from his healthy 170-pound frame.

The last word his family received was that he was being evacuated to a military hospital ship to find out what was causing the condition and to receive treatment. It appeared that his condition would take several months to stabilize. His parents continued to pray for his speedy recovery as they prepared for this Christmas holiday with their other five children.

Three days before Christmas, the telephone rang and the youngest of the three brothers, 11-year-old Jon, answered the phone. On the other end of the line was his older brother Jeff. Jon’s heart pounded with excitement. He asked Jon not to say anything to the rest of the family, but to have Jess, who was one year younger than Jeff, call him as soon as he got home and gave Jon the phone number. Jon was true to his brother’s request and kept the secret and gave the number to Jess.

When Jess called the number, he learned that Jeff had just arrived at a military hospital in Memphis, Tennessee, not far from their home in northern Arkansas, and had received permission to go home for the holidays. Jess made arrangements to pick him up and bring him home.

Jess confided in Jon what he was going to do. He told him it was his duty not to tell the family what was going to happen but to get them prepared for a special Christmas surprise they would never forget. What a burden this was for an 11-year-old boy to carry. His excitement was hard to contain, but Jon knew he must be true to his word to complete the Christmas surprise.

The family was told that a special gift would be revealed on Christmas Eve as Jess had gone to pick up the gift. All day long, Jon’s three sisters and parents were trying to guess what the Christmas surprise would be. There were guesses of a new puppy or kitten or other gifts that they had dreamed of. The excitement level was so high and Jon could hardly contain himself, as he was so excited to see his Marine brother. Jess arrived home and asked Jon to take the family into the hallway while he got the surprise ready. Jon stood guard as Jess set up the family room with a big box to conceal the much-anticipated surprise. Jess was ready, and Jon escorted the family in.

Just as Jess got ready to open the box, Jeff in his military uniform walked into the room. In disbelief, everyone screamed with joys of happiness, and tears streamed down everyone’s face. Mother got the first hug, which seemed like an eternity, as she held her hero son in her arms. This was the best Christmas gift ever as a son separated by war from his family was reunited with those he loved and who loved him.

Shining tinsel and brightly colored packages could not overpower the love and joy this family felt with this special Christmas surprise. This story has special meaning to me, not only because it reflects the true meaning and purpose of the season, but because I was the 11-year-old brother who had to keep this special Christmas surprise secret for what seemed like forever.

This memory was so overwhelming to me that it has been imprinted in my mind as one of the happiest Christmastimes of my entire life and one that I will never forget. I have no recollection of what presents I got that Christmas, but I do have recollection of what gift I received.

Christmas Carols Warm the Heart

By LaVaun Ball

The toys, presents and memories of Christmas in 1962 have long been forgotten in many families, but not in the S. Reed Andrus family. The memory of that Christmas Eve will be remembered in our hearts for many years to come.

The usual family festivities were drawing to an end. The Christmas stories had been told, the songs sung, the presents had been opened, and the great abundance of food had been cleaned out by the large group of happy family. There was always a special excitement in the air on Christmas Eve. I still remember that "hardly can wait ’till morning" feeling that I would get in my stomach. It has not been forgotten to this day.

I was 8 years of age and the oldest grandchild in this big family. I had always felt a great abundance of love from my mother's parents and seven brothers and sisters. Christmas Eve was no exception. Every few minutes, one of them would open the door and exclaim that he or she had "seen a red light in the sky" or "thought they had heard the faint sound of bells," ’till my stomach could hardly take any more! And grandpa still insisted on going caroling. Santa would never come!

As we hopped in our frost-covered cars, we realized that it was a lot later than usual this year. The small town of Ucon, Idaho, was very quiet and cold. Some complained that we shouldn't go so late; but, my grandpa insisted that we should go to a couple of houses. After all, caroling was an Andrus tradition, and who wanted to break that?

As we drove down the small, tree-covered lane, we could see no hint of light in the tiny log cabin home belonging to "Old Jim." Old Jim was a good friend. He had been a hard-working railroad man in his early years and was one of little means, but he had a big heart. He had been a widower since I could remember.

Surely, Jim wouldn't care if we didn't stop. Santa Claus would miss us for sure! Again it was mentioned, "Maybe we shouldn't stop." But my good grandfather persisted, "Just quietly gather by the bedroom window and start with 'O Little Town of Bethlehem.'" Our voices were unsteady at first, but strength lies in numbers, and it was not long until the music swelled into a beautiful harmonious melody.

"Yet in the dark streets shineth
the everlasting light,
the hopes and fears of all the years
are met in thee tonight."

There was still no light, so we continued to sing …

"Oh morning stars together
proclaim the holy birth
And praises sing to God our King,
and peace to men on earth."

The cabin door opened and in the moonlight we could see the tears shine as they ran down "Old Jim's" face. As he embraced us all, he cried … really cried. And after a time, he wiped the tears of joy from his face and said to us, "I have waited all year for you to come. You are my Christmas, and when the clock turned 9:30, I thought I had been forgotten. I was so disappointed; I had gone to bed, for there was no reason to stay up anymore."

Our hearts were filled. As he motioned us into his home and turned on the light, we could see that Jim indeed had been expecting us. His kitchen table was beautifully set, and there was everything from Christmas cake and cookies, to cold wieners cut and laid out waiting for us to eat. The cups had been carefully counted and lovingly poured with sweet apple cider, so "not to miss a one of you," he said.

As we huddled together, we pretended to be sensible as we caroled once again. Not one of us could really eat all of the goodies Jim so graciously forced upon us. Our hearts were too full and our throats all had large lumps in them.

We had been his Christmas? Not so. Jim had been ours. The gift of love we received that cold Christmas Eve in 1962 was more wonderful than anything Santa could every have left under our Christmas tree.

The Long Walk Home

By Katie Martin

In 1952, my daddy traveled with the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. He worked on a very large dredge vessel, and he went where it went. This meant he spent a lot of time away from our North Carolina home.

As Christmas approached, he called from Galveston, Texas. Daddy explained to my mother why he would not be celebrating the holiday with us. Money was tight and he didn’t have a way to get back to his family.

Disappointed as she was, Mother knew he was right. She also knew we would be upset, so she told my two sisters, brother and me right away. The news hit me very hard. Christmas just wouldn’t be the same without Daddy.

I knew he had tried his best. Still, I went to bed on Christmas Eve with a heavy heart.

When we woke up on Christmas morning, Santa had come. I don’t remember what gift my brother received that year, but my sisters and I found new Dy-Dee dolls. Their dolls had a carriage to ride in, and Santa had brought mine a crib.

We were all happy with our gifts, so we went outside to play. I didn’t want Mother to see how glum I was that I couldn’t show Daddy what Santa had brought me. I could tell she was feeling sad, too.

As we were playing, I looked up and thought I saw my daddy in the distance. I ran inside to tell Mother. She did not believe me and told me not to make up stories.

But I was sure it was Daddy! My mother repeated he would have been there if he could, but it just wasn’t possible.

I turned to go back outside when I heard familiar footsteps. I ran down the stairs. Daddy was home! (These stories of Christmas miracles will restore your hope for the holidays.)

As I rushed into his outstretched arms, Daddy explained that he had tried everything to get home for Christmas, but without success. At the last minute, a group of the workers had decided to drive.

But the nearest guy lived miles away. So Daddy started walking on Christmas Eve until he arrived home. He had walked all night to get home to his family.

Though the presents that year were wonderful, the best gift was not found under the tree. Daddy’s special surprise made this my most memorable Christmas.

Too Big For Dolls?

By Helen Gardner

Seeing the look of anticipation on my face, my mother frowned and shook her finger at me. "This Christmas will be your last year for a doll," she told me. "You're 9 years old and too big to be getting dolls."

"Maryann, I know that look," she scolded. "Don't go getting your hopes up for a frilly, expensive doll, just because this will be your last one. We're not going to be able to afford a big Christmas this year. Cattle prices are way down and we've had to buy a lot of hay, and now some of the cattle have black leg.“ Life on a remote cattle ranch always included a day-to-day crisis. It was either too much drought, too much rain, too many winters of blowing, drifting snow or black leg. One day, after listening to my father and grandfather talk, I began to inspect my legs every night before I went to bed, for signs of a black leg creeping from my toes up past my ankles and up around my legs to finally cover me completely. If this happened, I feared the worst.

Coming in to breakfast one morning, I overheard my father announce, "Tomorrow, we'll shoot the herd in the west pasture for black leg." From that day on, my dreams were haunted by visions of my legs turning black and of me being taken to the west pasture and shot. To add to my woes, this would be my last Christmas to get a doll.

"This year," I told myself, "this year I will never play with this doll. I'll put her on a shelf where she can stay clean and shining and pristine forever."

No more would I scrub, remake clothes, rearrange and loosen hair and drag my doll with me everywhere I played, outside and in. Most years, by September, my doll, the once pink and glistening doll I cherished so at Christmastime, became a scarred, sometimes bald and eyeless, smudged and scratched daily companion, whom I dearly loved. However, at Christmastime, when a new doll appeared under the Christmas tree, the old companion of last year was carefully wrapped in a sheet and placed in a battered and ancient trunk with a high dome lid where the old ones rested. Six of them.

I began receiving dolls when I was 3. All of the dolls each year received the same name. They were all called Annabella. The name was music on my tongue.

This year, time brought Christmas inexorably closer. My parents began looking sad, with a grim set to their normally cheerful faces. They went to town for their annual Christmas shopping, but the laughter and joking that usually accompanies their return and filled all of us with excitement was gone.

I stood watching the sparse supplies and packages brought into the house by my father. Intuitively I knew none of the packages contained a doll. I silently hated black leg.

I went to bed Christmas Eve feeling weary and old and telling myself I was now grown up and did not need a doll. After all, this past month, I no longer examined my legs every night and I was no longer haunted by the black leg bugaboo that had filled my dreams for some many months.

My grandfather, overhearing my conversation with Annabella about this problem, had taken me on his lap and gravely explained to me that black leg was a disease of cattle and not people. The shots he and my father had talked about were the same kind I received at the doctor's office for measles. He took me to the west pasture to let me see the sleek and contented cattle grazing there. I was comforted and so relieved.

"Come on Maryann," my younger brother was shrilling in my ear. "There's a big box by the tree for you." He stood beside my bed with his gleaming tricycle, waving his arms like a windmill, trying to hurry me along. I entered the living room and stood, transfixed. Beside the Christmas tree was a huge box, gaily wrapped with a big, red bow on top. Surely I was not getting a doll that big!

Excitement lent wings to my feet. I flew across the room to drop beside the gift. My brothers danced around me.

Carefully, I untied the bow and removed the paper. The wrapping fell away to display my old doll trunk. The warped and rusted metal was now a smooth and gleaming white and pink, with the clasp and hinges painted a glowing bronze. A large note on the lid said, "Open me." Hesitatingly, I slipped my fingers under the clasp and pushed open the lid.

There in a row, smiling at me, their eyes, hair and faces restored, were my old playmates. All of my Annabellas clad in exquisite new clothes and all with clean faces.

Behind me, my mother knelt to hug me close. "Merry Christmas, darling," she whispered. "I hope you like your new dolls."

I could only smile and wipe away tears. This was the Christmas I remember best. My most precious memory.

Secret Santa

By Deanna Collins Herrod

The year 1976 was a trying one for our family. While most of the country was celebrating our nation’s 200th birthday, there was little to celebrate in the Collins home. In the midst of a recession, Dad’s business had suffered a major setback and bankruptcy was now unavoidable.

With Christmas looming, my father had taken a temporary job just to make ends meet. Bracing for the season, Mom and Dad had gathered their five children together to explain our dire financial situation. This year, Christmas would be sparse. Any hopes of finding skateboards, surfboards and trendy clothes under the Christmas tree now vanished, and it seemed that this would be the year that Christmas passed us by.

Then, with only two weeks until Christmas, Dad arrived home one evening in excellent spirits. He had received a generous donation at work, from an anonymous member of our church congregation. Yes, Christmas in the Collins home had been saved! Feeling so humbled by the offering and not knowing who to thank, Dad admonished each of us from that time forward to treat everyone at church as if they had been the generous donor.

The following year found our family on better financial footing, and while Dad had secured stable employment, things were still tight. Now, with just a few weeks until Christmas, Dad pulled the family together one evening to discuss what he thought was a brilliant idea. Why not take that same sum of money so generously given to us the year before and provide a Christmas for another family less fortunate?

Dad’s job had taken him into the sleepy border town of Tecate, Mexico. It was there he had seen for the first time real poverty. Our money would go far in helping a family in need from Tecate.

Dad made a living in sales. He could sell anyone anything. Now he was employing his best sales tactics on his children. But his great idea fell rather flat as my teenage siblings and I considered the implications; this would mean less for us. Besides, spending Christmas anywhere but home wouldn’t feel like Christmas. We wanted to play with our presents and show them off to our friends.

But Mom and Dad were unmoved by our objections. This would be our family Christmas service project.

Over the next two weeks, we reluctantly set about gathering gently used clothes and blankets from neighbors and friends. We started a pile of donations in our tiny living room and encouraged friends to drop off what they could. Whatever reluctance we initially felt was now giving way as the mound of donations began to grow. We purchased small gift items and wrapped them in holiday trimmings. With the bulk of the money, Mom purchased large sacks of rice, beans and other food staples. Even a local tree lot donated a freshly cut Christmas tree.

Christmas Day dawned in classic San Diego style: bright and sunny. With food, gifts, clothing and linens filling every car nook and cranny and the tree strapped to the top, we all piled in and headed for the border. Now into the hills just outside of Tecate, we traveled down a long, windy road looking for just the right home and family. Then, up on the ridge we noticed a small crude plywood structure. Several yards away stood the outhouse. It was a stark contrast to all the neighboring concrete-block homes that surrounded it. We mutually agreed: This was the place!

We carried all our goods up the hill and knocked on the door. A petite, middle-aged woman opened the door to reveal a large family behind her. In typical Latino hospitality, they warmly invited us in as if they had been expecting us. Their tiny home consisted primarily of wall-to-wall beds with a small area reserved for a few primitive kitchen appliances. There were few windows and a dirt floor. Our very modest 1,200-square-foot home in Spring Valley seemed like a palace compared to this humble dwelling. It was now apparent — we had not brought enough.

Truly we could not have shared our offerings with a more deserving and gracious family. We spoke no Spanish. They spoke no English. And yet, somehow in that perfect sense of the Christmas spirit, language didn’t matter as hearts knitted together in the most joyous bonds of the season, bringing family, and yes, even strangers, close together.

Making our way down the hillside to our car, my eldest brother spoke: “Wow, that was really cool. I just wished we had more to give.” As if on cue, we each simultaneously began to search our wallets for any spare money. Every floormat was turned, every ashtray scoured, every pocket turned inside out as we searched and searched. With a fist full of money, my brother charged up the hill to deliver our final gift. Now our offering was complete.

Reflecting on that day so many years ago, perhaps the most vivid memory of all was this: on our way back to San Diego, hardly anyone spoke. In a car usually filled with teasing, bickering and laughing, we sat unusually silent, each of us processing what had just happened. We had been touched by the true spirit of the season. In our self-absorbed teenage hearts, we had profoundly experienced the Savior’s admonition that "it is more blessed to give than to receive.”

Forty-one years have come and gone since that day. We are all married now and raising families of our own. But if you were to ask each of my family members, "of all the Christmases past, which was the most special?” I’m certain the resounding reply would be: “The year we spent in Tecate was the best Christmas ever."

To a Waterfowl

By Shirley Griffiths

I will always remember the Christmas just before my dad passed away. Dad was one of those strong, quiet individuals with deep religious convictions and a great love for his family. He wasted few words on small talk, but a strong forte was his love of poetry. His long ago school years often required poem memorization, and in years after, he entertained us with perfectly remembered classics of poetry such as "The Cremation of Sam McGee" and "Little Orphan Annie." One of his and my favorites, which I asked for often, was William Cullen Bryant's "To a Waterfowl." The deep spiritual undertones escaped my adolescent brain, but in later years I came to appreciate the insightful writing and why it touched Dad's heart so deeply.

"There is a Power whose care,
Teaches thy way along the pathless coast, —
The desert and illimitable air, —
Lone wandering, but not lost. …"

Some years later, Mom and Dad made their home in Utah. Life was mostly what they had planned it to be until Dad was diagnosed with cancer and the surgeon's sympathetic assessment of the outcome left no doubt that the struggle would be uphill — always uphill.

My usually quiet dad became quieter still, and the emotional armor went up. He did not wish to discuss the illness with anyone but Mom, and the detours around it became awkward. Dad went through the standard treatments, and as so many victims of the dreaded disease find, there were periods of hopefulness followed by despair followed by more hope. When it became apparent in the fall there would be only one Christmas left in Dad's life, a large question arose. What do you give someone with such a precarious hold on life that material possessions have ceased to be important? What can you give that will communicate to him the deep love and gratitude you have for his life and the shaping he has done in yours?

That question bothered me for several weeks, till one gray December afternoon, I saw the answer. Displayed on the wall of a small gift shop was a pair of shiny wooden plaques painted with a marshy shore, cattails and willows. Silhouetted against a rosy sky, a flock of geese flew into a glowing sunset. It was "To a Waterfowl" in every sense of the poem. I framed a copy of the poem that had formed a bond between us and sent it with the plaques to their temporary home in southern Utah. My gift was not the poem, not the pictures, it was the message of hope and love.

"He, who, from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright."

About mid-morning on Christmas Day, the phone rang. As I heard my mother's voice on the other end, my heart sank. Surely Dad could not have made it this far to leave us now. She let us know immediately he was okay. "He opened the package from you," she said. "He could hardly talk, but I could understand that he loves the pictures and poem. He wanted me to call you right now to say thank you." She hesitated, "He just can't seem to quit crying."

I hung up with a thankful heart. He had understood. Dad would live only another three months, but I will always remember his final Christmas, when heart spoke to heart through the beauty of a poem.

The Christmas Secret

By Louise H. Hall

The crumpled newspaper ad boldly stated the fact: “$169.97 plus tax.” The two older boys would finally purchase the biggest Christmas secret the four young children had ever kept from their parents.

The secret began months earlier, but it wasn’t until the Sunday after Thanksgiving I became an accomplice. Around 9 p.m. I received the whispered phone call.

“Nam, would you take me and Scott to Fred Meyer next Saturday?”

It was 12-year-old Lee inviting me into their scheme. They needed a car and a driver. Who better to ask than their grandmother?

The following Friday, I received my second phone call. I assured the young collaborators I would pick them up at the appointed time. I renewed my pledge of secrecy.

Months earlier, the four children did odd jobs to earn enough money for their grand gift. That’s a daunting task for children ages 12, 10, 8 and 6 years old. The older boys mowed lawns and baby sat. The two younger children collected aluminum cans and diligently saved their pennies. All saved birthday money and allowances.

Finally, the day of accounting came. Eight-year-old Andrea contributed $32.00 and 6-year-old Doug added $19.00. Neither were paltry sums, considering how enticing birthday money is when it is crisp and new.

On Thanksgiving Day, the children huddled over the voluminous newspaper ads and waded through all of the options. Finally, the four youngsters found the gift they dreamed of. The months of earning, saving, counting and whispering were finally coming to a conclusion!

As promised, Saturday afternoon I picked up the two boys. As they jumped into the car, they proudly thrust the crinkled newspaper ad in my face. While focusing my eyes, I amazingly queried, “Do you kids really have $169.97?”

“Yep!” came the dual reply, “and we even have enough for tax!”

We arrived at the store and the boys immediately found the exact item they wanted. A salesperson focused her attention on me. To her, my two young companions were only secondary.

I turned her attention to the boys and said, “They are making the purchase. Not me.”

At first, she didn’t seem to understand, and she continued to promote the more expensive model to me. After another gentle reminder, she realized the two young boys were making the purchase. They were using their own money. And it was for their parents.

I watched the quota-minded sales lady soften into an understanding individual who was astonished that these two young boys were more focused on buying a secret gift for their parents than calculating how many gifts they could get for themselves. She gave them full attention and taught them all the fundamentals of their secret gift.

As the two boys walked confidently to the check-out counter, I walked ahead of them and turned and watched 12-year-old Lee hand the clerk the crumpled wad of bills. As the clerk carefully arranged and counted the money, I wondered how long before the lengthy line of serious-faced Christmas shoppers would become disgruntled.

I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to find the salesperson.

“I have to tell you something. Those boys have made my Christmas. This is the nicest experience I’ve had all season. Imagine being so unselfish!”

As her feelings tumbled out, the impatient attitude of the people in line melted away. They became interested and involved. I could see two husky men smile as they realized what was happening. Other shoppers joined in. The rigid line became a semi-circle around the boys.

The unorganized money required counting four times. Several people joined in and nodded as they repeated, “Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty,” until all collectively arrived at $181.00. A cheering section for the home team!

The cashier handed Lee the receipt and 59 cents change. The group applauded and cheered. As we left the store, Lee threw the 59 cents into the Salvation Army kettle.

Christmas Day arrived. Their grandfather and I were invited to share of the joy of opening the gift. Armed with video camera, we were escorted to the boys’ bedroom where the surprise would take place.

Previously, the children instructed Mom and Dad to leave the house for 10 minutes. When they returned, they were to follow written clues. It was an old-fashioned treasure hunt!

Hearing the parents coming, we muffled our giggles of anticipation. The door opened, and the children jumped from behind the bed and boomed, “Surprise!” After admiring the unique wrapping, Mom and Dad opened the gift. They were shocked and thrilled at the same time. But mostly they were grateful.

It was more than a new vacuum cleaner. It verified that life’s lessons taught by loving parents were being incorporated into the lives of their children.

Although the snow of Christmas 1988 melted into spring, the thoughts of four young children saving and sacrificing for their parents comes often to my mind and to my heart. In future years, the vacuum cleaner will be worn out. But I will always remember the surprised salesperson, the cheering shoppers, the giggling children and the grateful parents. And I will rejoice in the warmth of love radiating in the faces of family members. This special Christmas secret dreamed and accomplished by four unselfish little children is the Christmas I remember best.

The Joy of Giving

By Diane Cahoon

Christmas was nearly four months away when I met my new fourth-grade class for the 1980 school year. As a second-year teacher, I was delighted with the prospect of sharing the coming year with this exceptional group of 31 eager and enthusiastic students. I did not know, however, that one of these students would help to give me the Christmas I remember best.

Amid the sea of scrubbed faces, shiny new shoes and fashionable school outfits, one boy stood out in stark contrast to the rest. Bret was a colorful sight in his bright orange plaid shirt and dingy green plaid slacks. His shoes were scuffed and worn and at least two sizes too large. The laces were frayed, held together by several large knots, strategically placed to make the ends long enough to hold the oversized shoes in place. Though Bret's fashion ensemble seemed bizarre, his facial expression was anything but comic. His dark, serious eyes peered from beneath long brush-like lashes. His gaze was slightly melancholy, yet there was a warmth in those eyes, an undeniable spark of hope. He returned my smile, and I instantly knew I had found a friend.

As the weeks passed, I learned that one of the unique things about Bret was his lifestyle. He and his family lived, basically, a pioneer existence in isolation from neighbors and friends. They made their home in a remote canyon where they had established a homestead. Their home consisted of mobile homes, tents and shacks. They managed to do without most modern conveniences. Water was obtained from a well. It was heated on a wood-burning stove. There was no electricity or telephone service. Money was a scarce commodity.

Bret seemed to be an island in so many ways; I feared he would be an outcast. I was surprised to learn that he was rather warmly accepted by the other boys and girls. Bret had a sincere, humble quality about him which seemed to endear him to others. Although he lacked the material possessions the other children enjoyed, he never seemed to feel sorry for himself, and never complained. Still, he spent much of his time alone and would often sit and gaze wistfully at the other children as they worked and played together.

Christmas approached with the usual high levels of excitement. The children's wish lists grew daily as they shared their holiday dreams. Bret remained quiet, but the enthusiasm of others was contagious. Sometimes the flicker of hope in his mysterious eyes would grow into a cozy flame, warming my heart. I would wonder what kind of Christmas Bret would have. Would there be presents for him? And how would he feel if those presents didn't come?

The pure and innocent hearts of children are always willing to share. The miniature Christmas tree on my desk was soon hidden by the generous gifts of thoughtful students. Finally, on the last day of school before the holiday break, it was time to open the gifts!

One by one, I opened gifts, gave hugs and expressed my thanks. I was moved by this outpouring of affection from these students I loved. The gifts were all as unique as their givers and it was an enjoyable time for all of us.

"Open mine next, Teacher!" was the expression repeated by student after student that day. We rejoiced in the festive atmosphere which pervaded the schoolroom. Conspicuously silent, however, was Bret. I began to wonder if, perhaps, he did not bring a gift and was feeling left out. I wanted to tell him that it didn't matter. He caught my gaze and his smile reassured me. I winked at him and continued.

The last package under the tiny tree was a small, square box with slightly soiled paper. A neatly printed gift tag attached to the box announced proudly: "Merry Christmas, From Bret."

A gift from Santa himself could not have been more exciting to me at that moment. As I opened the little box, nestled in crumpled tissue paper, was a lovely rhinestone ring. The pale green stone sparkled brightly as I slipped it on my finger for all to see. Bret grinned shyly as he came forward to accept my gratitude.

As the children left school that day, nearly flying on wings of anticipation, I couldn't help but wonder what the holiday held for Bret. I thought about buying some small gifts and leaving them for him anonymously, but I had no idea how to find the homestead. All I could do was hope and pray that he would have a happy Christmas.

I became engaged that Christmas Day and was soon preoccupied with my own good news and plans for my forthcoming marriage. It wasn't until I returned to school after the holiday break that I turned my attention back to the children.

The day after we returned to school, the children were permitted to bring one of their Christmas gifts to share with the other students. I walked around the room admiring the children's treasures. As I approached Bret, I noticed the oversized bag beneath his desk and asked him to show me his gift.

A look of pride filled his eyes as he removed from the bag a well-worn Parcheesi game. "I got two shirts, too," he said, "and some oranges and two candy canes. I had such a nice Christmas."

As I looked into his shining eyes, I finally learned something that Bret had discovered long ago. The joy of Christmas is not in what one receives, but in how one receives it. Bret knew his gifts were not expensive, or even new, but they were given with humility and love, pure and sweet, and that made all the difference.

Each time I open my little jewelry box and see the sparkling rhinestone ring, I think of Bret. He will always be a part of me and a reminder of the Christmas I remember best.

‘Tis Better to Give

By Jennifer Yardley Barney

I knew I was not supposed to be quite so excited. I was too old for that. At age eleven, the oldest and my mom’s “grown up” girl, I had to keep my cool. I was in middle school after all. But every chance I got, when I was alone, I checked each present under the tree. I read every tag and felt every package, guessing at the contents within. I had examined each gift so often that I could tell which present went to which person without even looking at the tags.

It had been a tough year for my family. Whenever my mom looked over at the tree and scattered presents, she would sigh and warn us, “There won’t be as much for Christmas this year. Try not to be disappointed.” Christmas had traditionally been a time for my parents to spoil us. In years past, the presents would pile up and spill out from under the tree, taking over the living room. I had heard the phrase “giving is better than receiving,” but thought that whoever had said that must have been out of their mind. Getting presents was the whole point! It was the reason I couldn’t get to sleep on Christmas Eve.

On Christmas morning, we eagerly waited in the hallway until Dad told us everything was ready. We rushed into the living room and let the wrapping paper fly. We made weak attempts to wait and watch while other family members opened their presents, but as the time passed we lost our self-control.

“Here’s another one for you,” said Mom as she handed me a package. I looked at it, confused. Having spent so much time examining the presents before Christmas, I recognized this one. But it had not been mine. It was my mom’s. A new label had been put on it, with my name written in my mother’s handwriting.

“Mom, I can’t…”

I was stopped by my mother’s eager, joyful look—a look I could not really understand.

“Let’s see what it is, honey. Hurry and open it.”

It was a blow dryer. Though this may seem but a simple gift, to me it was so much more. Being an eleven-year-old girl, I was stunned. In my world, where receiving outweighed giving by light years, my mom’s act of selflessness was incomprehensible. It was a huge act. Tears filled my eyes and I thought in disbelief about how much my mom must love me to give up her Christmas so I could have a few more presents.

I have always remembered that Christmas fondly. It had such an impact on me. As an adult with children in my life whom I adore, I can now understand my mom’s actions. I see how she was not “giving up her Christmas” as I had thought but was finding an even greater joy in her Christmas because giving truly is better than receiving. My mom’s simple act meant the world to me.

The Russian Christmas Angel

By Tim Hess

In the fall of 1996, our family was involved in the final stages of adopting a 12-month-old baby girl from Russia. Her name was Svetlana Abakumetz. Svetlana was born in the remote peasant village of Sosnovka in eastern Siberia.

At 8 days old, Svetlana’s parents left her at an orphanage because she had been born with a cleft lip and palate. Her humble peasant parents were unable to care for her or have this disfiguring birth defect corrected.

In early December 1996, we were notified by the Russian government that either my wife, Suzanne, or I had to appear before a Russian judge in the Siberian port city of Vladivostok to receive final approval for the adoption. We were shocked to learn that our court date was Dec. 24. Christmas was not celebrated in Vladivostok because the communist Soviet government had done away with Christmas decades earlier. We decided I would go to Russia and leave my wife at home to manage the family.

With a heavy heart, I kissed Suzanne and our seven children goodbye and boarded an airplane four days before Christmas. I would be gone for 11 days.

Christmas Eve day dawned bitterly, cold and gray, in Vladivostok. The city had no decorations or any hint that it was Christmas. I made my way to the courthouse, where I spent Christmas Eve afternoon waiting on a hard wooden bench in the dreary and dimly lit corridor of a rundown Russian government building. As I waited my turn to appear before the judge, I had plenty of time to think about the many blessings my family and I had received in helping us find this little girl. I was alone in a very foreign and strange city on Christmas Eve, yet I was filled with happiness. I was not lonely, sad or afraid.

Months earlier, we had chosen the simple, beautiful name of “Mary” for our little girl. She would be named Mary Svetlana. Now at Christmas, our hearts were filled with joy that our little daughter would have the same name as the Savior’s mother.

About 4:30 in the afternoon, I was finally called into the courtroom. The judge was a stern-looking woman of about 60 years old in black robes. There were about 10 other government officials in the room. I was asked to stand. My translator, Natasha Goncherova, stood at my side.

The judge started the questioning by asking me to tell the court about my family and our home. The judge also asked about my employment, our neighborhood and my religious beliefs. The judge asked other questions, including, “How do your children feel about this adoption?” “Are you aware of Svetlana’s deformity?” and “What are your plans to have her birth defects corrected?”

The judge’s final question was, “You have not yet seen this child. How do you know that you or your family will not reject this child … when you see how ugly she is?”

Emotions welled up in me and tears came to my eyes as I pondered the answer to this question. I could not find the words to fully express the feelings of my heart. The best I could do was to say to the judge, “My wife and I have seen Svetlana’s picture. Our children have seen her picture. We love Svetlana, and we will never, ever reject her.”

With this, the 20 minutes of questioning was concluded, and I was asked to wait in the hall while the court considered my case.

After about 10 minutes I was called back in, and the judge said words to the effect of, “You are hereby granted permission to adopt Svetlana Abakumetz.” At that, I immediately went around and shook each of the officials’ hands and repeated over and over the only Russian word I knew: “Spasiba.” (Thank you.)

The next day was Christmas, and I spent the entire day at an obscure little orphanage surrounded by dozens of beautiful little children. There I met our daughter, tiny 12-month-old Svetlana, the most beautiful little Christmas angel I had ever seen. We spent the entire happy day together playing and getting acquainted. This blonde angel had a gaping hole in her lip and a crooked nose, but she was alert, happy and bright-eyed, and she squealed and laughed as she bounced on my knee.

It was Christmas Day in eastern Siberia. For me, there would be no family gatherings, presents or turkey dinner. But the great blessing and joy of bringing this sweet little Christmas angel into our family made this the most bounteous Christmas of my life.

We Can’t Afford Christmas

By John Bass

The December of my second-grade year, I was excited. And I don't mean a little bit; I mean sugar-fueled-ADHD-holiday excited. Christmas was coming and I could hardly stand myself. It was about three weeks before Christmas and my parents had decided that we would drive over to California and have Christmas with my grandparents. As a result, they didn't see the necessity of getting a Christmas tree or making purchases because they would do all that in California.

But my young, hyper mind could not really wrap itself around that. We needed a Christmas tree, decorations and presents; I bothered my dad ad nauseam, asking him when we were going to get a tree, when we would decorate said tree, when we would buy presents, when we would wrap them, and when is Christmas! Finally, my poor besieged father had had enough. In frustration he blurted out, "We are not having Christmas! We can't afford it!"

Well, that did the trick — it shut me up. It’s interesting to look back now as I think about it. I wasn't really upset by it. I took it as the gospel truth; I mean, it had come from my dad and he would be the one to know, so I accepted it. I abandoned all thoughts of Christmas and just continued on with my normal life; however, when my teachers at school would ask me, “John, are you excited for Christmas?” my response was, “We’re not having Christmas, we can't afford it.” And when my Sunday School teachers would ask if I was excited for Christmas, I would again answer, “We are not having Christmas, we can't afford it.” This was my answer to anyone who would ask, and I said it until about two weeks before Christmas.

My family was sitting in the front room when the doorbell rang. I answered the door and, lo and behold, right in the middle of the porch was a Christmas tree. I couldn't believe my eyes! It was a Christmas miracle. My parents were dumbfounded. Where could it have come from? Why would somebody give us a Christmas tree? Not knowing anything better to do with it, we took it in and decorated it.

The next night we were watching TV when the doorbell rang again. I ran to the door and on the porch was a giant box of presents! My sisters and I danced rings around the box while my bewildered parents again wondered why people were giving us things.

During the next four to five days, the doorbell continued to ring; each time the porch would magically replenish itself with food, presents, decorations and Christmas trees. (We got three Christmas trees that year; the first two we decorated and the last one we just leaned in the corner.) Our pirates' hoard of presents went halfway across the living room. That's after my mom donated one half of them to Goodwill. I was so overjoyed that I was about to explode; I didn't care where this stuff came from, but my parents were going nuts.

My poor mother — in her women's group at church, she had gotten involved in a program to help the less fortunate in the neighborhood, and had donated some homemade caramels to be handed out. You can imagine her surprise when one of those knocks at the door was the women's group, unknowingly, and very charitably, giving my mother her own caramels and wishing her a merry Christmas. I can vividly remember my mother yelling out as she closed the door, "Why do people think we are poor?"

That was the best Christmas ever. I think my sisters and I got every single toy that was created and advertised that year.

It wasn't until I was a teenager that I finally realized my mistake in announcing to the world that we were too poor to have Christmas. And it wasn't until my late twenties, with all of us sitting around the dining room table for another Christmas, and Mom said, “Do you remember that Christmas when everybody thought we were poor?” that I finally worked up the guts to tell her. I could tell that time had not diminished my mother's feelings about the situation when she ran at me with her hands outstretched as she screamed, “People thought we were poor!”

But I will always remember it as the best Christmas ever.

A South Dakota Christmas Social

By Rogert Thompson

As a young boy and teenager, I liked to spend my summers and Christmas vacations on my grandparents' farm they rented in northeastern South Dakota. Long summer days kept us busy with field work growing grain. Winters, though less busy, kept the cows in the barn which required bringing hay in from the haystacks for their feed, and necessitated constant shoveling of cow manure to keep the barn clean.

The basics of life seemed more difficult in the winter as temperatures outside dropped. Milking twice a day, hoisting icy pails of water from the well in the yard for all the cooking, washing and bathing, trips to the outhouse with its frosted wood seat, retrieving coal/wood/corncobs for the black kitchen cook stove as well as for the parlor stove all caused chapped hands, very cold feet and red noses.

This seemed ok and even unique for me since I lived the rest of the year in a town, but pretty monotonous for grandma’s family, who spent the long winters with these chores every day. Not much happened out of the ordinary in winter, not even meals, usually salt pork, potatoes and milk gravy.

I was 13 in December 1927 when I again visited the farm. Only two of my grandparents’ 10 living children remained at home, though others occupied nearby farms. Aunt Ida, 22, decided a party would definitely brighten up the short, frigid days that Christmas season. She created handwritten notes to take to all the surrounding farm families. That fairly flat part of South Dakota had little to break the wind, and roads piled with drifting snow made travel by old Model-T Fords impossible.

So, with me in the saddle of our pony and my younger cousin, Marvin, sitting behind, the two of us set out to deliver the party invitations. I remember plowing through some big drifts, but we succeeded in reaching every near neighbor.

At the final farm we put the pony in the barn and headed for the house to get warm. The two young men of the family arrived the same time we did in a wooden bobsled pulled by horses, bringing provisions from the local village store 5 miles away. The four of us sat at the kitchen table as their mother served us freshly baked bread just out of the oven along with jam. Delicious! When we finished, my cousin and I got back on the pony and returned to Grandma’s, completing our part of the preparations for the holiday party.

Winter chores seemed less tedious as everyone on our farm and neighboring farms anticipated my family’s upcoming Christmas social. When the day came, neighbors arrived in their cars (the roads now open from the snow) for an evening of entertainment. With the few furnishings in the parlor moved elsewhere, the kerosene lamps lit, and the pine board floor ready for dancing, the festivities began. My Uncle Alfred would trade off playing the fiddle and the banjo, and an accordion rounded out the musicians. Dances had long been a source of inexpensive recreation for farm families, most often on summer Saturday evenings. The dancers would leave a little money for the musicians in the hat left on the floor. Many who came knew the fox trot, the waltz, the two step, the schottische and square dancing. Though inept and shy, even I was enticed onto the floor a few times. As a family affair, the children enjoyed the music with their twirling around as much as the adults enjoyed dancing. For older men past their dancing days, they socialized in an upstairs bedroom playing the card game whist.

At midnight the music stopped and we all ate “lunch”. Each family brought some food, mostly sandwiches and cake to share. My grandma provided coffee, rolls and the sweat cream butter she churned in her wooden churn (the family’s major source of cash). When all had eaten, everyone resumed dancing and we danced until four in the morning. But cows on the farms would soon need milking, so reluctantly the menfolk went out to start the cars, and the families bundled up for their return home.

Our holiday celebration had no decorations and no gifts. The guests wore the best clothing they owned, inexpensive material and simply sewn. No one had much. But the fun of mingling with each other, of music and dance, of shared food and laughter, made that Christmas season most memorable to me.

A Small, Snow-Covered Tree

By Darrell Smart

One day, shortly before Christmas, our third child and first son, Bay, was born. As I said good-bye that evening to my exhausted but joyful wife and left the hospital, the warmth and joy that accompanied the birth of my son overwhelmed the cold chill of that clear December night.

The following December we celebrated the first birthday of our dark-eyed, dark-haired son. The day after Christmas, during an evening of games at the home of my in-laws, our revelry was interrupted by an awful shriek from my mother-in-law: “He’s not breathing!” She had gone to check on Bay, who had been sleeping on her bed, and discovered his cold, lifeless body. We immediately rushed our son to the hospital, attempting CPR on the way. We were grief-stricken to learn that nothing could be done to save his life. He had died from sudden infant death syndrome.

Since then, Christmas has been filled with a much deeper meaning for our family. Each year on Christmas Eve when we take down our other children’s stockings to fill them, one solitary stocking is left on the fireplace mantle. Throughout the remainder of the holiday the stocking serves as a reminder of Bay.

Each year, around the time of Bay’s birthday, my wife and I drive to the cemetery where he is buried. At each visit we find that someone else has arrived before us and placed something on our son’s grave: one year it was delicate, small flowers; the next year, a stuffed bear; the next, a little Christmas tree decorated with miniature ornaments. We have no idea who is responsible; the gifts, which touch us deeply, are never accompanied by a note or card.

When I hinted to my mother-in-law that I knew her secret, she denied responsibility. The following year while she and my father-in-law were serving a Church mission abroad, we again found that someone had placed a gift on our son’s grave. Even after inquiring with other family members and friends, we were unable to solve the mystery.

Ten years after our son’s death, a series of snowstorms prevented us from traveling short distances. As a result, our annual visit to our son’s grave site was delayed until several days after Christmas. When we finally made it, we saw a small, decorated Christmas tree, mostly buried in the snow, standing bravely at the head of Bay’s small grave. The effort it must have taken for someone to get to the cemetery through the heavy snowfall overwhelmed us. Tears streamed down our faces as we realized that someone still shared our grief and loss.

After that, we were more resolved than ever to discover the identity of our benefactor and thank him or her for showing us such compassion. But as we reflected more, we realized that whoever was doing these acts of kindness did not want to be identified. We decided to allow our friend to remain anonymous. We replaced our need to thank our friend with a desire to simply live better.

It is now harder for us to speak ill of or criticize any of our friends or family members, because any one of them may be our anonymous friend.
Often while doing service, my wife and I pause to examine our hearts: are we doing good things to be seen by others or for the pure love of Christ and of our fellowmen?

For us, charity—humble and never seeking its own—is symbolized by a beautifully decorated Christmas tree, half-buried in snow, resting in a quiet cemetery.

My Worst Christmas was one of my Best

By Ray Palmer and Tricia Fuhriman
(As told to Ray Palmer's granddaughter, Tricia Fuhriman)

Christmas of 1945 started out as one of my worst. In retrospect, I am grateful for the lessons I learned, and it has become one of my best.

March of that year I departed America as a Marine aboard a naval transport ship assigned as a Japanese code intercept operator. I left behind my pregnant young wife and toddler son. Just as most of the world was experiencing, my life was uncertain and torn apart. I felt pride for my cause and righteous indignation for the great enemy — the Japanese.

After spending a few months in the South Pacific islands, our ships headed to Japan. On August 6, 1945, the first atomic bomb was dropped, followed a short three days later by the second. Our mission that started out with the intent of invasion turned to occupation. Our fleet arrived at Japan’s Sasebo Bay in September. The next few months, we labored tracking down the remainder of the entrenched Japanese forces.

News from home was slow to arrive. The due date for my new baby had come and gone. It was six weeks after her birth that the happy news finally came, I had a new baby girl. She and mother were doing well. Being separated from my family was difficult. My conditions were uncomfortable and I still had a great amount of frustration toward the Japanese.

Christmas Day arrived. It was chilly, cold and desolate in Nagasaki. It was time for the greatly anticipated Christmas feast. My division headed off to the mess hall with visions of turkey, gravy and mashed potatoes. Much to our dismay they had run out of food! We were handed more K-rations instead. I felt hard-pressed to be so neglected on Christmas.

To our relief, high command became aware of our circumstances. Additional food was gathered and prepared. Later that evening, we returned to the mess hall. This time there was the scent of juicy turkey, rolls, gravy and all that made it feel like Christmas.

After eating our fill, we began to file out, back into the cold and dark. As we went to dump our food trays in the bins, we were met with the hollow but anxious eyes of several Japanese citizens, including children. They were dirty, poorly dressed (most without anything to cover their bare feet). They tentatively and humbly collected what scraps of bones or potatoes they could, in an effort to sustain life.

These poor people were not the great enemy I had come to fight. They were a beaten, destitute and hungry people. I had pitied my situation without realizing how truly blessed I actually was. I was separated from my loved ones, but I knew they were safe and secure and had the necessities of life. I knew we would be reunited. My current situation was not ideal but, I had three meals a day, a warm dry bed and security. I knew a great future lay ahead of me.

The realization of the immense suffering of these people humbled me and changed my outlook on life. A calm came with realizing these people were not my enemy but fellow human beans with families and heartaches. The feelings of fear and hatred were replaced with love and compassion. Under the direction of great American leaders, the soldiers rallied to help rebuild the Japanese communities and ease the suffering as much as possible.

Every Christmas I take a moment to ponder on this experience. The memory of what I learned becomes dearer to me each year. The Christmas of 1945 has become one that has meant the most in my life.

Grandma’s Magic

By Candy Lish Fowler

"Crying at Christmas?" my husband asked as tears welled up in my eyes. "What's wrong?"

"Just a little homesick," I stuttered.

Bill's job had taken us to a new city. It was difficult to be far from home during the holidays. I missed my family. One morning as I struggled with feeling blue, I recalled a childhood incident when my great-grandmother had rescued me from a broken heart.

"The best cure for sadness is doing something for someone else," she said. Then she handed me a "to-do" list for her neighbors. Upon completion of all the chores, my unhappiness was gone; Great-grandma's remedy had worked!

Now, years later on a melancholy day, it was time for a little of "Grandma's magic."

Our family joined an organization whose purpose was to assist the needy. We were assigned a family with young children the same ages as ours. Instructions called for "gently used" clothing and toys to be sent to them as soon as possible.

My husband, Bill, carried a large box into the living room. When I explained our plans to our children, they were excited. Each morning after they left for school, I sorted through old clothes and toys to send to the family. On Saturday, I showed the children what I'd collected. Eagerly, all four rummaged through the box. When they finished, they were confused, disappointed and angry.

"What's the matter?" Bill asked.

"I don't want to do this," Katie said.

"This is awful," complained Matthew.

"I hate this," sulked Kip.

"This is dumb," Betsy said in tears.

Soon all four were crying. They ran into Katie's room and slammed the door. Why would sharing upset them? Hoping to salvage this lesson in "good will towards men," I took a deep breath and entered the room. Four tear-stained little faces were buried in the covers of Katie's bed. My "Grandma's magic" plan had backfired.

Matt's husky little voice whispered, "It isn't fair for you to decide what we give away."

"Mom, how could you?" Katie questioned.

"We don't want to give away these things," cried Kip and Betsy.

Stunned, I looked at my crying children: They were too selfish to share.

"If that's how you feel, take your things out of the box and put them back in your rooms. Then YOU decide what goes to the children. But work fast. Tomorrow's Sunday, and we only have two days left to fill the box.

Sunday, all during church, my mind wandered back to Saturday's calamity. I couldn't stop thinking that somewhere along the way, I'd failed to teach my children the principle of charity. As services closed, the children in the congregation sang:

“Away in a manger no crib for a bed,

“The little Lord Jesus laid down His sweet head.”

I couldn't hold back my tears. Silently, I prayed, "Heavenly Father, please help our family find the true meaning of Christmas."

That evening, hoping to rescue the holiday spirit, I involved everyone in a favorite tradition, making Christmas caramels and gingerbread men. But as we worked, our usual Christmas joy was missing. Unable to focus on the project at hand, four disheartened children asked to be excused and went to their rooms. Discouraged, I cleared the table and made mental notes of things I would purchase tomorrow for the gift box.

Monday night, our four smiling children were waiting in the living room for us.

"Mom and Dad, we have something to show you."

There sat the box. It was full. I didn't dare look at the junk my four pack rats had collected.

"Go ahead, Mom and Dad, look at Christmas!"

With hesitation, we opened the box. Silence. Our hearts stopped. The box had been filled to the brim.

Katie had placed her two most precious dolls, Mandy and Jenny, on a soft bed of quilts. Beside them lay the beautiful baby clothes I had painstakingly sewn for each doll. Matthew had carefully loaded his "Star Wars" X-wing fighter and his favorite "Star Wars" action figures in the box. Kip had put his brand new leather baseball glove inside. And Betsy had carefully tucked her favorite stuffed doggy next to the other treasures.

"Look, there's more!" our four elves chimed. Underneath the toys, on the bottom of the box, our children had carefully folded their beautiful Sunday outfits. They had given their best clothes and toys.

"Mom, Dad, we couldn't let you send that old stuff. Christmas is special; it isn't junk."

We were shocked. "You can't give your nicest things away, they're far too expensi ...." I stopped in midsentence as I realized what had happened. Our children hadn't cried because they were selfish. They had cried at the thought of some sweet child getting less than wonderful for Christmas.

“The stars in the heavens looked down where He lay.

“The little Lord Jesus asleep on the hay.”

We had found the true meaning of Christmas with Grandma's magic.

Mrs. Schwartz's Ornaments

By F. Rex Nielsen

On Christmas morning, Santa had brought a blue, Schwinn five-speed bicycle with sports handlebars and a blue speckled seat. I couldn't wait to ride it, even though nothing but snow and ice covered the ground. The excitement of Christmas morning was the climax of the entire year, especially to a 7-year-old boy who had just received his first bicycle.

After a special breakfast of egg and sausage omelet, Father let me ride my bicycle as we delivered fruit baskets to the old ladies in our neighborhood. They were all poor and lived in rundown houses like all the houses in our neighborhood. Many of them lived alone, having emigrated from Europe and outlived their husbands. I was quick to show off my new bicycle. The old ladies would smile and pat me on the head. With a tear in their eye, they would tell us about their grandchildren and how they wished to see them and share Christmas with them. I guess I was the next best thing. In fact, we were their only visitors.

The last fruit basket was for Mrs. Schwartz, an old lady who lived in the most rundown house of all. Father knocked on the door while I slammed on my brakes and skidded into the next yard. She still hadn't come to the door by the time I walked back and leaned my bicycle against the gate of the weather-worn picket fence.

Finally, the door opened just a crack, and a big, distorted eye peered at us through a thick horn-rimmed lens. She smiled, opened the door and invited us into her home. It was a single room with a light bulb dangling from a frayed cord. Her cot was against the back wall, a small icebox was in the corner, and in front of the window was a nightstand on which an old foot-and-a-half artificial Christmas tree stood. Father gave Mrs. Schwartz the fruit basket, which was about the same size as her icebox. Her room was so cold that the fruit would do just as well on top of the icebox as in it. The only warmth in the room radiated from the Christmas tree, even though there were no lights.

I was so enchanted by the glass ornaments on her tree that I completely forgot to show her my new bicycle. Each ornament was hand-blown glass from her home in Germany: a star, a bell, two wooden shoes, a bluebird and a little baby Jesus. The sun flickered off the colored glass, sending sparks of reflected light throughout the room. Her priceless ornaments, along with a Christmas card her daughter in Chicago had sent last year, were the only signs of this special season.

She was not much taller than I was. Slowly, she shuffled over and stood next to me, one hand on my shoulder and the other hand steadied by an oak cane. I listened intently to her heavy German accent as she told the story of each ornament.

She, too, had a tear in her eye as we waved good-bye.

The next day, father took me back to Mrs. Schwartz's home. She said she had a Christmas gift for me. I eagerly unwrapped the gift, not noticing the bare nightstand in front of the window. I took the lid off the old shoebox and pushed aside the shredded wood packing. Inside the box were her treasured ornaments — her life's possessions.

I had a big lump in my throat as I tried to tell her that I couldn't keep them. She just smiled and patted my shoulder. When she saw in my eyes that I had given in to her wishes, she said, "I vant ya to haf my Christmas ornaments. You enjoy dem so much as I do. I vill not be here next Christmas. I vant you to haf dem. Please!"

Mrs. Schwartz died the next month. Her daughter in Chicago sent a check to pay for the funeral expenses. Father spoke at the service, attended by nine old ladies and me.

My blue Schwinn five-speed has been stored in the garage for many years now. But every Christmas, I put up the little tree and watch the sun flicker off the colored glass ornaments, sending sparks of colored light throughout the room.

When Santa Wore Blue and Gold

By Mary D. James

Although the weather that Christmas Eve of 1929 in Portland, Ore., was typically drippy and dreary, inside our home the atmosphere was brimming with excitement and anticipation. It wasn't until many years had flown by that I could realize how difficult it must have been for my parents to maintain the happy facades that hid from us the ache and worry in their hearts.

Christmas had always been an extravagant time in our home. Anticipation would start building as soon as Thanksgiving was over. Mother would begin preparation of holiday cakes, cookies and candies with the eager help of young hands. Letters were written to Santa, despite solemn warnings that Santa was very poor this year and were mailed in the fire for "smoke delivery" to the North Pole. Christmas stories and poems were read and recited, and carols sung almost constantly. Lists were made, marvelous works of art were created by young geniuses, and whispered secrets filled the air.

Christmas mornings would always find Dad's dark, curly-haired head bent over the trucks and trains with the small blond boys, his bright blue eyes snapping with youthful excitement.

Mother's hazel eyes would mist with happiness as she listened to the squeals of pleasure over the beautiful clothing she had made for daughters and dolls. To see their children happy and healthy was the greatest joy of our young parents.

But this year was different. Dad was a longshoreman and had suffered severe injuries in July, when he fell down a 30-foot hatch on a ship. He spent several weeks in the hospital, returning home for a lengthy convalescence just before Mother entered the hospital to give birth to their fifth child, an adorable baby girl.

Complications were involved with this delivery, and it was several weeks before she came home.

During this time, Dad received some workman's compensation, but once he was declared fit for duty and able to return to work, the checks ceased. He was ready, willing and eager to return to work, but unemployment, with all its haunting ugliness, had begun stalking the city since the stock market crash, and his diligent searches proved fruitless.

The available money had been carefully stretched, and every corner that could be cut had been. Our electricity was cut off. We still had a snug house in which to live, but most of our waking hours were spent in the kitchen, where the polished black kitchen range could keep us cozy. It also heated our water in the reservoir at one end of the stove and was the means of cooking our simple meals.

I was the eldest of the five children and feeling extremely grown up at almost 9 years old. I had discovered who Santa was the previous year and felt quite important as I helped the younger children and my parents make simple gifts with things we had on hand. This Christmas seemed to be extra special to me because I shared the Santa secret with the grown-ups. I certainly did not comprehend our nearly desperate circumstances, though.

Our supper of homemade soup and Mother's crusty homemade bread had been eaten and cleared away. We were gathered around our friendly kitchen range singing Christmas carols, led by Dad's wonderful tenor and Mother's sweet alto. Soon we would hang up our stockings in anticipation, and we were happy, because we were celebrating the birth of little Lord Jesus, and that was the most wonderful event in the world.

Suddenly the doorbell rang. As children do, we crowded closely as Mother opened the door, then called for Dad.

There stood two men and a woman, modest but resplendent in Salvation Army blue and gold. Their arms were laden with packages. They explained that Santa had asked them to help him by bringing our gifts to us. Back and forth to the car they went, until they had filled our hallway with boxes of food and toys.

The tears were coursing freely down the cheeks of our parents as they stammered expressions of gratitude and asked why we had been so visited. But they never knew who sent those dear people to our door, sacrificing their own holiday hours to help those in need.

The years have flown by; I remember some of the toys allotted to me, but my mother remembers best the bounteous supply of food. Were the toys new, or were they used and refurbished? We did not know, nor would we have cared. We were just thankful.

The years have flown by, but it would be unthinkable to ever pass the tinkling of bells by the faithful guardians of the Salvation Army kettles without leaving a token of remembrance of those beautiful people who truly keep the spirit of Christmas.

The Tomato Plant Christmas Tree

By Aralee Scothern

The Christmas I remember best occurred in 1978. I had just returned home from an LDS mission to North Carolina. One month before my return, my father had died of prostate cancer. When I learned my father was near death, I had to make a tremendous decision whether to go home or stay and finish my mission. After much prayer and contemplation, I decided to stay and fulfill my obligations in the mission field.

During the third week of December I returned home. Christmas didn't look too promising that year. Finally, my mother unenthusiastically said, "I suppose we should go out and pick out a nice Christmas tree and decorate it. I'm not too much in the spirit this year." It was then that the viney tomato plant wrapped around a floor-to-ceiling pole in the middle of the living room picture window caught my eye. This tomato plant was my dad's pride and joy. He had seen it advertised in a magazine and had sent for it. He thought the idea of having tomatoes on an indoor tomato plant in the middle of the winter would be sensational. He always boasted and bragged about his fresh tomatoes, which he served up to the taster's delight.

The tomato plant became a real family novelty. It was tall and stringy, and everyone made fun of it. But faithfully, the hardy plant would deliver up a handful of tasty tomatoes every winter season, and my father would faithfully slice and proudly serve them for special occasions such as Christmas dinner. If nothing else, the tomato plant was a conversation piece for anyone who entered the front door, and my dad was eager to share his tomato plant experiences. I think the plant actually knew my father loved it. He watered and fertilized it year-round for its meager little crop.

So, as I looked at the tomato plant, a plan came into my mind. "Mother, I think we should decorate the tomato plant in honor of Dad and use it as our Christmas tree this year."

To my surprise, my mother agreed. She unpacked all the old heirloom Christmas tree ornaments, lights and silver tinsel, and she and I happily and carefully decorated the tomato plant. She even painstakingly hung each string of tinsel, string by string, just like she did on previous Christmas trees. When we were finished, the tomato plant stood proudly decorated to the hilt. It was a sight no one could forget. To say it was unusual was an understatement.

Everyone who passed our house and looked in the window stared and even laughed; anyone who stepped inside our front door asked about the weird-looking Christmas tree. During the course of the next week, the tomato Christmas tree brought Dad back into our lives. Each person who dropped by commented about the tomato plant, and a full conversation was indulged in about Dad and his beloved plant. Everyone shared a memory of Dad.

"Do you remember how he always remembered everyone's first name?" one person asked.

"Remember when he played the city Santa Claus?" asked one of my sisters.

Or how about the time he found the dent in the "Green Dragon" Oldsmobile and threw a fit when no one would admit who was at fault?

He thought one of the kids on a bike had done it, but I was the one who had hid the secret for years.

"Do you recall when he was in that airplane crash?" another inquired.

"No, but I remember how he loved his dog Spot."

"I just remember the time he got a Utah Power and Light truck and climbed up and rescued a scared cat from a pole," said someone else.

"Or remember how he loved the county fair?"

"What a conversationalist he was. He could carry on a conversation with anybody at any place."

"He knew everyone in the valley and could tell you where they lived."

"He could scale and trim a tree in a flash."

"Remember how he could dance? He loved to dance."

"How about all the trips to Lava? He liked to swim."

"And how many softball games did he watch? He was at the park every summer night."

"He loved storms. That meant he could go to work and get overtime at the expense of Utah Power and Light."

"That sure is a stupid-looking Christmas tree, but I bet your dad would love it. I would like to hear what he would say about it. I am sure he would have an opinion we could all laugh about."

Everybody who passed through the front door shared a memory of Dad. My family's hearts were softened, and our emotions healed as we enjoyed a happy, peaceful, memorable Christmas, eating fresh tomatoes and laughing over Dad and his strange-looking Christmas tree.