Christmas Devotional 2010

 By Thomas S. Monson

This joyful season brings to all of us a measure of happiness that corresponds to the degree to which we have turned our minds, feelings, and actions to the Savior, whose birth we celebrate. There's no better time than now, this very Christmas season, for all of us to rededicate ourselves to the principles taught by Jesus the Christ. Let it be a time that lights the eyes of children and puts laughter on their lips. Let it be time for lifting the lives of those who live in loneliness. Let it be a time for calling our families together, for feeling a closeness to those who are near to us and a closeness also to those who are absent. Let it be a time of prayers for peace, for the preservation of free principles, and for the protection of those who are far from us. Let it be a time of forgetting self and finding time for others. Let it be a time for discarding the meaningless and for stressing the true values. Let it be a time of peace because we have found peace in His teachings. Most of all, let it be a time to remember the birth of our Savior, Jesus Christ, that we may share in the song of the angels, the gladness of the shepherds, and the worship of the Wise Men. My brothers and sisters, may the spirit of love which comes at Christmastime fill our homes and our lives and linger there long after the tree is down and the lights are put away for another year.

Red and Green Birthday

 By Linda K. Harris

People say December birthdays get lost in the holiday rush, and for a long time that’s how I felt about being a December baby. When my first-grade teacher announced that each student would get to wear a special pin and hand out treats on her birthday, I was excited, until my mom pointed out that school would not be in session on December 24.

“You can bring cookies the day before Christmas vacation,” she said.

“But that’s not the real day!” I protested. 

No amount of coaxing could console me.

I started compiling a grievance list: My presents were always wrapped in green-and-red paper or snowy scenes with Santa Claus, not real birthday paper. Gifts were combined with Christmas presents, with the explanation, “Since it was so close to your birthday, I decided to give you one present.” And parties . . . it was almost impossible to schedule a big party for December 24.

The morning I turned 10, I rushed into the kitchen to find Mom baking cookies in the shapes of Christmas trees and stars. She looked at me in dismay. “I can’t believe I forgot!” she said. “I haven’t even baked a cake!”

That did it. I decided my birthday was an enormous inconvenience for everyone. 

Finally, when I hit college, I came up with a solution and called Mom.

“I’ve decided to pick a new month to celebrate my birthday,” I said. “How about April?”

“What in the world are you talking about?” she asked.

“Well, you know how December is such a busy month for everyone.”

There was silence, and then she said, “You have no idea how wonderful it was for us to bring you home from the hospital on Christmas Eve.” She was crying.

So, I didn’t change the month. But when I got married, I vowed I would never have a December baby. My firstborn arrived in February. His brother was born four years later in May. But then nature took its course. My third child was due . . . in December. On the tenth, I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl.

The night we brought her home the crisp winter sky shone with thousands of stars and the radio played Christmas carols. As I carried her into the house I spotted the decorated tree, and the Nativity scene beneath it. Finally, I understood what my mother had meant. What a wonderful time to have a child, with the world poised to celebrate the newness of life. What a gift it is to share a month with the greatest birthday of all! 

Secret Gift from the Great Depression

 By Ted Gup

On December 22, 1933, something wonderful and unexplained happened to Felice May. It was the night before her 4th birthday and two days before Christmas, but in the past neither day had been any different than the other chore-filled days of her Depression-era childhood. 

But on that night, Felice's parents did something they had never done before. In their rickety Model T with its torn canvas roof, they drove into town, showed Felice the dazzling Christmas lights, and led her to the five-and-dime store, where they offered her a choice of a doll or a small wooden pony on a pull string. She chose the pony. It was her only store-bought toy.

It was a night Felice would never forget. But it was also a night that left her with a mystery that lasted through the years: how could her parents have afforded such a gift when they were so down on their luck? Felice's parents had no money. It was still in the depths of the Depression.

Even today, at 81, she remembers the pleasure that wooden pony gave her and how she pulled it around the hardscrabble farm she grew up on outside Canton, Ohio. That wooden horse brought untold joy into an otherwise bleak and threadbare childhood.

Today Felice May raises miniature ponies. But how, she's always wondered, could her parents have afforded such a gift when they, like millions of other Americans, were so down on their luck.

It was I as an investigative reporter who provided, or rather stumbled, across the answer. In June 2008, my 80-year-old mother, Virginia, handed me a battered old black suitcase that had belonged to her mother and it took me a little time to figure out what I was looking at.

Here is what I pieced together from the contents of the suitcase. On December 18, 1933, a Canton resident who called himself "B. Virdot" took out a tiny ad in the local newspaper offering to help his fellow townspeople in a modest way so that they and their children might know the joy of Christmas.

He asked them to write to him and tell them what they were going through, and he pledged that just as no one would ever learn his true name, he would never reveal the names of those who wrote to him.

He was deluged with letters, all of them dated December 18, 1933. A few days later, the mysterious B. Virdot mailed out a flurry of 150 five dollar bills to families across the town. Back then, five dollars was more like 80 dollars.

I came to realize that the name, "B. Virdot," was a combination of his three names - Barbara my sister, Virginia my mother, and Dotsy my sister. Among the letters in the suitcase was one from Felice May's mother, Edith.

"If I only had five dollars, I would think I am in heaven. I would buy a pair of shoes for my oldest boy in school. His toes are all out & no way to give him a pair. He was six in October. Then I have a little girl who will be four two days before Xmas + a boy of 18 months. I could give them all something for Xmas + I would be very happy... Please do help me! My husband don't know I am writing & I haven't even a stamp, but I am going to beg the mailman to post this for me." And the postman did just that.

The girl about to turn four was Felice and a portion of the money provided by B. Virdot bought that wooden pony. When I shared the letter with Felice, she was barely able to speak. And who was this mysterious Santa named "B. Virdot?" He was my grandfather. His true name: Sam Stone.

For the past two years I have been using Ancestry.com plus a handful of genealogy tricks and tools to track down the descendants of the letter-writers. I wanted to learn what had become of them, wondering how they survived the Depression and what affect - if any - the small gift might have had on them.

I also dug into my own grandfather's past in search of an answer about why he had made the gifts. Both of these quests yielded some stunning surprises - so many that I was able to compile them into a book, A Secret Gift.

Felice May's story is but one of scores that pay tribute to the character of those who endured the hard times. It is also a testament to the power of small gestures and the need for all of us to stay connected, particularly in times of hardship.

~ The Author is Ted Gup and this is from his book "A Secret Gift" which is "How One Man's Kindness--and a Trove of Letters--Revealed the Hidden History of the Great Depression."

A Perfect Christmas

 By Carla Shows Harris

Our house looked like the holiday spread in a decorating magazine, with garland framing the front door, stockings on the mantelpiece and bowls of cinnamon spice potpourri scattered about. But was it possible for a wife and mother ever to be completely ready for Christmas? Nine days, that’s what I had—and a million things to do. How would I get our Christmas cards ready when I couldn’t even take a decent picture of the kids to put in it?

“Boys!” I snapped, on edge. “Picture time.” Jackson, four, and 19-month-old Clay came running. I’d taken 72 shots of them and wasn’t happy with a one. This warm Saturday morning I was determined to get it right, even if the boys would be hot in the outfits I’d chosen. I fussed with the presents and rearranged the porcelain Nativity with Baby Jesus front and center, animals in a neat semicircle around him. Everything had to be perfect.

I popped a roll of 36 into the camera and looked through the viewfinder. Jackson was holding his favorite stuffed animal. “Honey, we’re not gonna put Rabbit in this picture, okay?” Jackson handed him over, grudgingly. He loved Rabbit. He slept with that old thing every single night, and it showed. Rabbit’s neck flopped to one side and his button eyes were off center. He was so threadbare I had to wash him in the gentle cycle inside a pillowcase. When Rabbit was in Jackson’s arms, all was well with the world. But that didn’t mean he belonged in our Christmas card picture.

“Okay, boys, heads together. Say cheese.” Click. “Clay! Sit still.” Click. “Smile. No funny faces, Jackson.” I took the last shot as my husband, Richey, came into the living room.

“Hey, Jackson,” he said, “let’s hit the mall for some last-minute shopping.”

“Good idea,” I said. “Clay and I will get the film developed at that one-hour place by Mama and Daddy’s. Mama and I still have to iron out the Christmas menu.”

I went to my room and put on something cooler. The weather wasn’t exactly cooperating in the perfect Christmas department. Temperatures in the seventies! In December! I saw my Bible lying open on the nightstand and closed it. That book stayed as close to me nights as Jackson’s Rabbit did to him. Lord, I prayed, help me prepare for your day.

My big guys drove off. Clay and I went in the opposite direction. We dropped off the film, and I looked up to see an eerie gray bank of clouds approaching. Tornado weather. I flicked on the car radio. “Warnings are in effect for the following counties,” the announcer said. Thank heavens, South Tuscaloosa County, where we live, was in the clear.

By the time we got to Mama and Daddy’s the wind was howling. “Carla!” Daddy said. “Where are Richey and Jackson? That tornado’s a real threat.” I prayed they were safe and rushed to the TV. The forecast had changed. “If you are in South Tuscaloosa County,” the meteorologist said, “get to your safe place immediately.”

“Let’s get to the Jaggerses basement,” Daddy said. I swept Clay up in my arms. Halfway there, Daddy turned and looked behind him. His eyes said fear. I had to see for myself. I looked—

A black, undulating mass, huge as a building, bore down on us. “Run!” I screamed. Mr. Jaggers met us at the door. “Everybody’s downstairs!” he shouted. We scrambled into the basement and bolted the door. What about Richey and Jackson? Lord, keep them safe. Keep us all safe. That’s all I ask.

Finally, the wind died down. It was okay to go outside. That first step into daylight was always the worst. You never knew what would be waiting out there. A yard strewn with tree branches—or an empty hole where a house once stood. We came out of the basement to find the neighborhood unscathed. Mama and Daddy were lucky. What about my house?

“I have to get home,” I said. Richey was probably already there with Jackson.

“Daddy will go with you,” Mama said. “I’ll keep Clay here. Just in case . . . ”

All the way home traffic lights were out, water spewed from hydrants, big oaks lay uprooted. We turned into our neighborhood. Folks stood outside their houses—some with sections of roof missing. Furniture, paper, clothes, appliances and lumber lay everywhere. “Just drive, Baby,” Daddy said. 

We reached our street. My heart pounded. Houses untouched by the storm stood next to others that had been destroyed. I turned the corner. And then I saw our house—the picture-perfect house with the garland around the door. The home I had readied for Christmas.

The garage and front porch were demolished. The second story was ripped clean off. The first floor interior walls stood bare and exposed. A stray garland dangled from a pipe. Richey and Jackson walked up. I got out of the car and fell into my husband’s arms. Daddy took Jackson. “I’m sorry,” Richey said. “I’m so sorry.”

Hand in hand, we stepped over the threshold of what had been our house and picked our way through the debris to the spot where the Christmas tree had been. We’ve lost everything, I thought. Everything.

I made my way to our bedroom and wiped the tears and dust from my eyes. Then I saw it—my Bible, lying on the bedside table, exactly as I had left it that morning. I opened the cover. The inside was wet and gritty. The acrid, fishy smell of the storm permeated each page. But it was there, still there, unmoved even by a tornado. Yes, Lord, you kept me and my family safe. Thank you.

Friends showed up. They took our linens home to wash, boxed up what was salvageable, carted off furniture to storage. Somebody we didn’t know delivered sandwiches and coffee. Darkness and rain stopped our work. We camped out at Mama and Daddy’s for the night. Clay was young enough to think this was an adventure. Jackson kept up a brave front.

“There’s so much to do,” I moaned to Richey when we finally lay down to rest. “Where do we start?”

“With a good night’s sleep, Carla. Close your eyes,” he said.

The next day, December 17, dawned clear and cold. We were back at the house by 8:00 A.M., sifting through the wreckage. Jackson had begged to come with us. I watched him out in the backyard, hands clasped behind his back, head down, moving through the debris one step at a time. I knew what he was looking for. Rabbit. We’ve lost everything we owned, and all Jackson can think about is Rabbit.

Just a day before, I was worried about the packages under the tree, our Christmas cards, the dinner menu. Now there were no presents. There was no tree. No house to celebrate in. There was no Christmas. But Jackson didn’t comprehend the totality of our loss. For him, there was simply no Rabbit. And that sting distracted him from the real pain of realizing we had been completely wiped out. Maybe, in a strange way, that would be Rabbit’s final comfort for my son.

I wondered about all the people surrounding us, friends and strangers alike. Their Christmases hadn’t been ruined. What about their last-minute preparations? What were they doing here with us? Nobody talked much while we worked, but word got around about what Jackson was looking for so hard.

A coworker of Richey’s found a framed photograph of me and Richey in his yard, five miles away. I had always cherished that picture. It was taken in the early days of our marriage when we used to talk a lot about what was most important to us and what we wanted out of life. To love and be loved, we agreed, first by God and each other and the family we hoped to start. I stooped down and pulled a soaked baby sock from a pile of bricks. A lady crouched next to me. “We all put a few Santa gifts in the backseat of your car for the boys,” she whispered. The woman patted my shoulder and went back to sifting through the wreckage.

I looked up at the sky. To love and be loved, I thought. We did, and we were. The worst had happened: The tornado had blown apart my perfect Christmas. But Christmas didn’t need me to make it perfect. Wasn’t it perfect already? Made perfect by the love God sent the world 2,000 years ago. That’s where Richey and I would start to rebuild our lives: We’d start with Christmas. I never thought I’d say it, but I was truly ready for it.

“Hey, everybody!” my brother-in-law shouted. “Look over here! Look what I found!” He held something high above his head. Jackson scrambled over the rubble. 

“Rabbit! You’re alive!” Jackson grabbed him and danced around. Everyone cheered. All was well with the world. It was Christmas, all right.

I had a hard time choosing a photograph of the boys from that last roll of 36. Tree out of focus, the boys engaged in high jinks . . . every shot was a winner. Not perfect, maybe, but real.

Last night in our new house, three years after the tornado, Jackson slept soundly in his room with Rabbit. I sat in my room with my Bible open in my lap. I’ve grown accustomed to the smell, but I’m still cleaning the pages. I take my time. I slide my hand down, wiping off the grit slowly, clearing verses before I read the truth of their words. The grit in my Bible kept me real while I prepared this past Christmas. I left the perfect for the One who is. 

Bursting “The Bubble” at Christmas

 By Linda and Richard Eyre

For us there were many years of the stress of trying to fill the Christmas wish lists of nine children. I remember that one of my most stressful Christmas experiences was standing in a long line for the desire of our seven-year-old daughter Shawni's heart: A Baby Alive doll. Just as I got to the front of the line, much to my chagrin, the woman in front of me got the very last doll. I was devastated trying to figure out how to tell Shawni that Baby Alive was dead! 

Then there was the Christmas when we discovered at about 2 a.m. on Christmas morning that the main "Santa gift" for our little six-year-old Jonah which was a little robot that could actually sweep the floor (six inches at a time) and had been stored in the garage in a black garbage bag for several weeks had somehow apparently been inadvertently thrown away. Great idea to put it in a garbage bag…in the garage, right?

One year when our house was full of teenagers along with kids down to about 10, we decided that enough was enough. The last thing we needed was a bunch more "stuff"! We knew that our kids were living in a bubble with no realization of the real world or the situation that much of the world living in poverty faced every day of their lives. 

After careful deliberation we took a deep breath and told the kids that what they would be getting for Christmas that year, in lieu of all the gifts and paraphernalia that previously permeated Christmas was a ticket to Bolivia. This project, sponsored by a great humanitarian group in Salt Lake City called CHOICE Humanitarian.

On Christmas morning we loaded our rides to the airport with a ridiculous amount of "stuff" not for us but for the villagers living in a remote village called Tuni on the Altiplano (high plains of the Andes Mountains). A previous humanitarian group had built a cistern on a little hill about a half a mile from the village to catch water. It was our goal to help finish digging trenches with picks and shovels in the rock-hard soil for PVC pipe so that by New Year's Day we could turn on the spigot in the center of the village which would be the first running water in their history.

The work was hard, and we were gasping for breath at 14,000 feet but our kids fell in love with the village children. It had been a really hard decision for our youngest child, Charity to give up her Santa list! We gave her the choice to stay with Grandma where Santa would surely find her, but after careful thought, she decided to come and was overjoyed at what she experienced!

In addition to the hard work, our teenagers had the time of their lives playing with the village kids and looking into the one-room mud homes and dirt floors of these humble villagers. We had two kids who spoke some Spanish which was helpful, but for the most part, language wasn't important. The love we felt for each other was. 

One of our most fun activities after being greeted by the village band and a shower of Bolivian confetti was taking Polaroid pictures of the families. They had never seen a picture of themselves, nor did they have mirrors, so it was hard for them to even know how they looked. It was so fun to see them examine who they were in these pictures. I'm sure those pictures are still hanging in their homes all these years later! 

It would take a whole book to really explain the world of good that came to our family from that stunning experience, which became the first of many. Let us just say that the villagers were a bit dubious about the water project actually working. After all, there were places where the PVC pipe went uphill for a while, and they just didn't see how it would work. So, you can imagine the joy on the faces of the villagers when the village mayor turned on that faucet in the village on January 1st and water spewed out. But the looks on the faces of our children were…..priceless! 

Doll Brings Lesson on Christmas

 By Adrianna Cabello

"Tell Santa what you'd like," Mother urges, as I stare suspiciously up at the whiskered old man. I eye him nervously. I don't want to talk to him, I don't even want to look at him, but I can't risk ruining my own Christmas. Like Ralphy and his Red Ryder, I am resolute. My Christmas will not be complete without a perfect, beautiful, porcelain doll.

I whisper my request and leap from his lap without waiting for the candy cane he is undoubtedly trying to hand me. I never liked those anyway. I cower behind my mom as I wait for my sister, Lauren, to take her chances with the scary old imposter. And that's when I hear it. Of course, she asks for a porcelain doll. My eternal copycat. 

As I stomp through the slushy mall parking lot, I try to ignore her, but that proves to be impossible. When I try to hold Mom's hand, she grabs the other. When I fold my arms angrily in the car, Lauren does the same. Why couldn't I have been an only child? I try to ignore her for the next two weeks as I ready our room for the doll that is sure to be coming. From the corner of my eye, I can see her, folding the blankets and polishing the tea set, just like me. Can't she do anything on her own?

When the glorious morning finally arrives, we rush down the staircase to find that Santa did not disappoint. There, beneath the glittering lights of the Christmas tree, are two beautiful dolls. One with dark black hair for me, and the other adorned with bouncing blond curls like Lauren. My doll is perfect. Her bright brown eyes stare cheerfully up at me, set off by her rosy red cheeks. Her deep purple dress will match my bedroom perfectly. Surprisingly, I am so enthralled by my own perfect gift that I forget to be angry with Lauren, my copycat. We play together all morning and I even have fun with her, though I'd never admit it. 

When it's time to go to Grandma's house, we buckle our dolls into their seat belts. I am literally counting the seconds until I get to show her. Grandmas are the best at being excited about Christmas things. When the minivan finally skids to a stop on the icy driveway, I throw the sliding door open. Grandma's going to see my doll first.

I sprint through the snow-covered grass, dashing up the stairs to the front door. Almost there. Right when my fingers touch the chilly brass knob, shattering glass echoes through the quiet evening air.

Whipping around, I see my sister, planted face first on the cold cement steps, with tiny shards from the little doll's face scattered in the snow around her. My voice catches in my throat, and I'm unsure what to say as I watch her eyes well with tears. I shouldn't care. I didn't want her to copy me in the first place. But against my will, all of my excited Christmas feelings are gone. I try to smile as I trudge into Grandma's house, but I can't seem to get over those little painted pieces lying in the snow. 

Daddy carries Lauren inside, but she is inconsolable. She sobs on the couch and her crying makes me so upset I feel too guilty to even bother showing Grandma my doll. I hide it under my coat instead. It just doesn't feel right to be happy. I'd be destroyed if it were my doll that was broken. 

Lauren is still crying when we get home much later that night. As Mommy tucks us into bed I stare through the darkness at the faceless doll that lies at her bedside. After what seems like hours, Lauren finally quiets down. I tiptoe across the carpet, snagging the doll by the hem of her dress, and sneak out of our bedroom to the stairs. At the bottom of the flight, I heave a decisive breath. I know what I need to do. 

In the quiet of the Christmas night, Daddy helps me pick the sleek black hair from my own doll's head, replacing it with the curly blond locks from Lauren's broken doll. When we've finished our work, even switching the dresses, the doll is barely distinguishable from its broken counterpart. 

I place the new doll by Lauren's bed and crawl under my covers, excited for morning. Even though I no longer have my precious gift, I have something even better. This year for Christmas I learned what Christmas is really all about. 

Christmas Birth Countered Ravages of War

 By Brice J. Hallows

For unto you is born this day… 

After enduring months of fighting and day-to-day survival under grueling combat conditions with the 6th Marine Division on Okinawa, the final surrender of Japan that summer of 1945 was a dream I had never dared hope for. 

During the campaign I saw many good friends lose their lives in the struggle. There had been too many close calls for me as well — not excluding the time I had my appendix removed by a MASH surgeon, the many times I had heard the zip of bullets whistling past my helmet or the occasion my rifle was struck by a bullet and ripped from my grasp with the force of a sledgehammer. 

For me, still just 19 years old, thoughts of home that had been snuffed dim for a time now filled my soul with hope once again. Christmas always afforded me a peaceful feeling in my heart, and I greatly anticipated this one because I was battle-weary and ready for peace of heart and mind. This Christmas would be a time for reflection and healing. 

My duties now took me to Tsingtao, China. I was among a select group of Marine guards chosen to assist a ship crew in escorting a thousand Japanese civilians from China back to their homeland of Japan. This was part of the surrender treaty agreements. I boarded with a one-gallon honey tin packed full of Christmas surprises my folks had mailed to me. My thoughts drifted to home as I pondered Christmas so far away from my family. 

My heart went out to these Japanese people as I read the sorrow on their faces and their apprehension as they embarked on a new life in a homeland many had never seen. They had established China as their home, raised families and built up businesses. 

This, along with my own deep personal feelings concerning the ugliness and tragedies of the war, made me feel much compassion. Passengers shared crude facilities. They had to supply their own food and blankets for the five-day trip. Shelter on the ship's decks was very basic. The weather was poor, and the ship churned, vibrated, and rocked through the choppy Pacific waters. 

Late on the eve of Christmas we neared the once large, beautiful city of Kagoshema, Japan, our destination. People peered anxiously from the cold deck into the night to catch a glimpse of their new home and seemed overwhelmed with emotion and sadness. Even under a stormy sky and dim lights you could see signs of the devastation wreaked by Allied bombing that had preceded the surrender. 

About midnight, without much to remind us of Christmas, a medical corpsman came by and asked a few of us if we'd like to gather and do something "Christmassy." Out of sheer creativeness, we fashioned a delightful 8-inch-tall Christmas tree constructed from tongue depressors, cotton swab sticks, cotton balls and tape. We used red iodine and green disinfectant to color the festive tree creation. During that hour we shared cherished Christmas memories and tender feelings about home. 

As we sang Christmas carols, a knock came at the door. A polite Japanese gentleman stepped in and asked the assistance of the medical corpsman for a young mother who was in labor and threatening delivery. We jumped to help, gathering towels, blankets and supplies to comfort her during this frightening ordeal. With true compassion, our corpsman provided critical assistance during the delivery. Soon a healthy baby boy was born and placed whimpering into his tired mother's arms. We all experienced such a feeling of awe at the miracle of birth and life under those stark and lowly circumstances. 

Upon our return to quarters, we resumed our simple observances, closed by reading the Christ child's Nativity from Luke. Later, as we parted for the night, wishing each other a very "Merry Christmas," I looked out into the turbulent night sky and was astounded to see a bright glimmering star, a beam of hope from the heavens. My heart skipped a beat as I pondered the coincidence and strange events of this night. I repeated in my mind, "Peace on earth, good will to men; for unto you is born this day in the City of David a Savior which is Christ the Lord.“ 

That most memorable Christmas journey was completed that evening across the China Sea in Shanghai, China, where we were warmly treated to gifts and a traditional Christmas dinner at the servicemen's USO. 

Over the past 64 years and through all the wonderful Christmases I have experienced in my life, that simple miracle aboard ship, halfway around the world, still warms my heart as it conjures up one of the most unforgettable Christmases ever.

A Flash of Red

 By Jackie Clements-Marenda

Aunt Thecla was in the kitchen when I walked in from school. I could hear the click click click of her potato peeler. I hoped she wouldn’t notice my bad mood. The school year had barely started, and all the other second-graders were talking about was Christmas. I was living with my aunt for a while, just a few blocks away from my house in Brooklyn. My father had to go on a lot of business trips, my mother told me, and she had her hands full with her church work. Besides, Aunt Thecla needed some help around the house. But the situation made things confusing—especially Christmas. Would I still be at Aunt Thecla’s? Or back with my parents? How would Santa know where to find me? Then there was that nasty rumor Mary Margaret Sullivan had started at school. 

If there even is a Santa, I thought as I plopped in a kitchen chair. 

“That frown you’re wearing is blacker than the bottom of a dry well at midnight,” Aunt Thecla said. She poured a glass of grape juice and put it in front of me. I let it sit there. 

Aunt Thecla wiped her hands on the apron she wore over her flower-print housedress and pulled out a chair. “Out with it, Jacquelyn,” she said. 

“Mary Margaret Sullivan stood up in the middle of the class and said there is no such thing as Santa Claus!” The words burst out of me. 

Aunt Thecla slapped her potato peeler down on the table. “If brains were leather, Mary Margaret wouldn’t have enough to saddle a flea.” Aunt Thecla laughed at her joke, then got serious again. I looked past her wire spectacles into her blue eyes. “What did Sister John have to say about all this?” 

“Sister John said she’s in the God business, not the Santa business. And that each of us should ask our parents. I guess I’ll call Dad—if he isn’t on a trip.” 

Sadness fell over Aunt Thecla’s face. This seemed to happen whenever I mentioned Dad. “My baby brother,” she always said, “no matter how many candles are stuck in his birthday cake.” Sometimes I wondered if there was something going on I didn’t know about. Aunt Thecla was a good-sized woman who wore flower-print housedresses exclusively. I couldn’t imagine her in anything else, except of course for the apron that was often on top. She could do everything herself: chop wood, change a tire, and bake the most delicious pies. How could she possibly need the help of a seven-year-old? 

Aunt Thecla regained her composure and raised her eyebrows. “Don’t you think I know the truth about Santa?” she said. 

“So?” I asked. “Is he real?” 

“Some people don’t think so. That’s because mostly you can’t see him. But he’s always watching. Like when you were weeding the vegetable patch the other day. He was only there for a second, but he saw what you were doing.” 

I remembered that day very well. I didn’t much like pulling weeds. But Aunt Thecla said I’d be doing her a favor. It seemed like a small way to help her. Which is what I was supposed to be doing, after all. 

“Santa is shy,” Aunt Thecla went on. “If you do sneak a peek at him, pay him no mind. And tell no one, Jacquelyn. Just go on doing what you were doing.” She picked up the peeler and stood. “As long as you were doing something good, that is.” 

Aunt Thecla laughed her belly laugh and went back to her potatoes. I didn’t imagine Santa Claus himself had a heartier laugh. 

“I sure am glad your parents let you come stay with me,” she said. “You make me forget all my troubles.” 

Mary Margaret Sullivan wouldn’t ruin Christmas for me. Santa had to be real. And that’s what I would focus on instead of whatever the adults were trying to protect me from. 

That night in bed I talked to God about it. “Watch over Mom and Dad and Aunt Thecla. I think they need you, but I don’t know why. And please let me see Santa. Amen.” 

One evening I was doing my homework at the kitchen table. Aunt Thecla was making a roast, and she set the timer on the stove as she put the pan in the oven. “I have to make some phone calls from the extension,” she said. “Study that math till the timer dings.” She went off to her bedroom. 

I looked at the book in front of me. Multiplication. Yuck. I gazed out the kitchen window. A flash of red went by. For a split second I could have sworn it was a Santa hat, with the pom-pom on the end. No, I thought, it couldn’t be. Could it? Mary Margaret would turn her nose up at such evidence. But I knew what I saw. I went back to my times tables. 

Aunt Thecla asked me to clear the snow off the front stoop that weekend. “But it’s so cold out,” I whined. “Do I have to?” 

“It would be a big help to me,” she said. There was that word again. I put on my scarf and coat. I didn’t know what was worse—shoveling or weeding. 

Outside I shoveled the snow off the first step. It felt good to help Aunt Thecla. I didn’t care if Santa was watching or not. I concentrated on my chore and the hot cocoa she would surely have waiting when I was done. She was probably heating the milk already. I peeked inside the kitchen window. This time, I saw more than a flash of red. I saw the whole suit—and caught a glimpse of the fluffy white beard. Santa! 

Now that I knew it was true, who cared what Mary Margaret thought? That night in bed I thanked God for answering my prayer. “Please don’t forget about Mom and Dad and Aunt Thecla,” I told him. “I know they have prayers too.” 

Dad seemed to be gone a lot. He even had to miss Thanksgiving. Sometimes when Aunt Thecla took me to visit at my parents’ house, she and my mother got all teary-eyed. They’d whisper before saying good-bye, and Aunt Thecla always gave me an extra-hard hug when we got back to her house. The adults would tell me what was the matter soon enough, I reasoned. Meantime, each night I asked God to take care of them as well as Aunt Thecla was taking care of me. 

I saw Santa one more time before Christmas. I was mopping the floor after dinner, something Aunt Thecla usually did herself. But that night, her back was aching, so she went to lie down. Outside the kitchen window, he looked right at me and winked. Still, I told no one, just as Aunt Thecla had advised. 

Christmas Eve, I went to bed assured that the real Santa would come through the door (since Aunt Thecla didn’t have a chimney) and leave my presents under the tree. I wasn’t disappointed. Not even old Mary Margaret Sullivan could ruin that Christmas. It seemed to me that I got more presents than ever. 

I soon learned the truth about what was happening at home. That spring my father lost his struggle with cancer. Aunt Thecla died several years later, after I was already grown. I went over to sort through her clothes to see what we could give to charity. 

All her aprons and flower-print housedresses brought back memories. She’d loved me and helped me solve my petty problems, all at a time when she must have been so very sad about her “baby brother.” I reached way in the back of her closet and pulled out something red. A Santa suit. 

Santa is real. He’s just disguised as people like Aunt Thecla, wearing a flower-print housedress with an apron over it, peeling potatoes and baking the most delicious pies.

Just Detours

 By A. Brian Fielder

I have a little story I thought I would share with all of you. I recently relocated, bought a house and moved in the first weekend of July. 

Since I have been in my new neighborhood, I have had the pleasure of meeting a few of my neighbors who seem to be extremely nice people. For Christmas, I thought I would do something nice for each of the neighbors that I know. I sat down and counted. There were nine neighbors whom I knew by name or spoke with often when I was out in my yard. I also knew which houses they lived in. 

I decided to add one more person to my list for a total of ten. This lady that I decided to add lives down the street from me. I meet her every morning walking to work as I drive down the street. She always manages a contagious smile and a hearty wave. I had no idea what her name was and was not even sure which house she lived in. 

My gift idea was to make small fruit baskets and leave them on each of my neighbor's front porches or doorsteps the night of Christmas Eve for them to find, either that night or the next morning. I signed the cards: "Happy Holidays from 5104 Northumberland Road." 

I saved the friendly lady for last, since I was still not exactly sure where she lived. I finally decided upon a house down about where I met her each morning and felt relatively sure that it was hers. 

My neighbors really appreciated the baskets and would tell me as they saw me in the yard or they would call, and a couple even came by to thank me. 

This morning on my way to work, I placed my mail in the mailbox and noticed a small note inside. It was addressed simply -- Resident, 5104 Northumberland Road. 

I opened the envelope and took out a Thank You card. I opened the card and read the message, which really caught me by surprise. 

The card said. "Thank you for the lovely fruit basket you left on the porch of Richard Kelly. It was very thoughtful. Richard Kelly passed away on January 19, 1999. He never stopped talking about how nice it was that someone remembered him in his time of illness. He really appreciated it." 

I was sincerely stunned. I had no idea who Richard Kelly was or that he had been gravely ill. I had left that nice lady's basket on Mr. Kelly's porch by accident. I wanted to say by mistake, but that would be wrong. I believe that Richard Kelly was meant to have that basket and the Lord knew that he only had less than a month to live. I hate that the nice lady did not get to receive a fruit basket from me this Christmas, but I believe that if she knew what happened, she would have had the outcome no other way. 

I feel blessed to have helped Richard Kelly's last days be more cheerful. This just further reinforces my belief that there are never any mistakes in life -- just detours, shortcuts, and small excursions along the way. 

Interlaced

 By Mary Faith Russell

It was the week before Christmas, 1966, in Carvin, a small mining town in northern France. My husband, Bill, got transferred there to be a technical director for an American-owned plastics plant. We pulled up stakes and moved from Massachusetts with our three young children. At first it seemed a great adventure, but for me it quickly turned into a real adjustment. Bill, who spoke fluent French, fit right in. But I struggled with the language. I also found it hard to get used to the rigid social and class distinctions, so unlike the States.

Automobiles shared Carvin’s streets with horse-drawn carts full of potatoes and sugar beets. Most folks walked. “Pardon,” I said one morning, maneuvering among the townsfolk while carrying spears of bread called baguettes. I turned off the main thoroughfare and followed the street to our house. “Hi!” I called out, pushing the old door open. 

Bill was helping the children string lights on the evergreen tree we’d bought from a farmer. He came over and relieved me of the baguettes. “Did you visit the woman down the street?” he asked.

“No, just shopped,” I said. 

The previous Sunday the pastor of our little church had drawn me aside. “I’ve heard there are newcomers on your block,” he said. “Madame Delplace and her husband and children have moved from Strasbourg. She could use a helping hand. Perhaps you could drop by?”

Drop by? I’d passed Madame Delplace one day on the narrow sidewalk in front of our houses. She carried herself proudly, and when I offered a timid “Bonjour,” she sailed past without a reply.

“Don’t bother with her,” a neighbor had called out from her window. “The husband has had trouble with the police.”

“I can’t just force myself on her,” I told Bill. “I’m sure she won’t talk to an American, much less one who speaks such patchy French.”

Bill lifted our six-year-old so she could put the star on top of our tree. “Why not at least try?” he said.

The next day I walked down the block and knocked on Madame Delplace’s door.

Madame Delplace answered, wearing a heavy black sweater, her hair pulled back in a bun and her lips pressed together tightly. “Je suis Madame Russell,” I said.

She hesitated, her gray eyes appraising me warily. I thought she might slam the door in my face. But she stepped back. “Entrez, s’il vous plaît,” she said. I quickly realized the reason for the sweater. Her house was freezing cold.

She motioned me to sit and brought me a cup of tea. The kettle hung over a small fireplace. “You are lucky to have come while the kettle is still hot,” she said. “We have no money to buy coal. We’ve taken down the doors and burned them when we need to.”

I listened intently and was able to follow what Madame said. “You see,” she explained, “my husband did just one tiny thing wrong.” She held up the tip of her little finger to show how small it was. “He broke a French business law, and the government forced us into bankruptcy to pay his debt. Officials auctioned off all our possessions. The only things we could keep were a chair apiece and our mattresses.”

She acted relieved to tell someone of her plight, a relief that seemed mixed with bitterness and pride. “We have a small social security stipend,” she said. “Our only other income is from stringing beads for carnival jewelry. In one stroke,” she said, “I went from being middle class to lower class. No one in this town will talk to me.”

“Madame,” I said, choosing my words carefully in French, “I will talk to you. And it would be my pleasure to bring you some things for Christmas. For your children.”

She looked at me steadily, then nodded. “Merci.” She snipped the word off like one would snip the stem of a rose.

My kids were excited about giving presents to the Delplace kids. They picked out some of their own toys. We wrapped them and took them to Madame Delplace’s house, along with an envelope containing seventy dollars in francs. “This is not money that is to be repaid,” I said. “Someday you’ll be able to pass the money on to someone else who needs it.”

She clasped my hand. “You have saved us,” she said, her voice wavering.

I visited Madame Delplace every week. One day Madame took out her needlework, a ball of thread and a hook. With a flick of her wrist, she began crocheting.

“What are you making?” I asked.

She held up a circle of intricate flower designs, woven in shades of a warm, almost golden, beige. Her work was exquisite. “How beautiful!” I exclaimed.

“A tablecloth for my sister,” Madame said. “Do you have a sister?”

“No,” I replied. “Just one brother, back in the States.”

“We miss them, no?” She looked up and smiled as if trying to cover up the sadness in her voice.

I loved my weekly teatime with Madame, not simply because my French was rapidly improving. We talked about serious subjects—politics, international affairs, religion. We discussed racism and injustice in both our countries. We agreed that God loves us all. “We are all the same in God’s eyes,” Madame Delplace said. Still, her words seemed to move upon a current of bitterness. There was something so unresolved in her passions, something deeper than her husband’s shame. Each time her voice rose she seemed to pull her emotions back with her crocheting, her fingers pulling the hook more quickly.

The winter softened into spring. “Would your children like to come play with mine?” Madame asked. The playdate went so well that I invited her children to our house to watch television.

“Would you like these clothes?” I asked Madame Delplace in the summer, holding up some shirts my girls had outgrown. She nodded and offered to make some lemonade. At every teatime as we talked in the soft afternoon light, her crochet needle kept moving, transforming the ball of thread into a delicate cascade.

Before I knew it, it was only a week till Christmas. Holiday lights bloomed on lampposts. Bûches de Noël—rich cakes shaped like Yule logs—appeared in the patisseries. This year has flown by, and I think I know why. Thank you, Lord, for sending me Madame Delplace. And, please, this Christmas bring peace to her troubled heart.

The next time I went to Madame’s for tea, sprigs of holly were arrayed over the fireplace. “I have finished the tablecloth,” she announced.

“Please,” I said, “I have to see.”

Slowly, almost reverently, Madame Delplace spread the cloth over the kitchen table. I caught my breath. “This could go into a museum!” I whispered.

She did something unexpected then. She folded up her treasure and held it toward me. “It is for you,” she said.

“I . . . I can’t,” I stammered. “You made it for your sister.”

“You are my sister,” she insisted. “In all of our times together this past year, there is one thing I have never spoken about. The war. American planes bombed Strasbourg. Those bombs killed my father. In my grief and rage I vowed I would always hate Americans. Then you came to visit me and to be my friend, and my bitterness melted. You must take this cloth as an expression of my thankfulness. Please.”

I clasped the cloth close to me. “Merci beaucoup,” I whispered, feeling both forgiven and forgiving.

So many years now have passed. But those serious topics Madame Delplace and I discussed over tea and crocheting still trouble the world. I think of the bitterness that divides people. Yet I remember her holding out that beautiful, exquisite cloth, so delicate and so strong, and I am reassured there is hope for us all. I remember that Christmas in a faraway place where I found a sister.

Christmas in Korea

 By Jim Lee

I had an experience while serving in the United States Army. We had been married three years, and I was stationed in the East, and orders came down for me and others to be transferred to Korea, and my wife couldn't go. We owned a mobile home, and had to take it to Weiser, Idaho where my wife's parents lived, and we parked it there, and then we traveled to Washington for me to catch a plane to Korea. We both felt lost and lonely, as that was our first Christmas apart from each other.

That first Christmas day they brought a group of orphans out to our compound, and they got to eat Christmas dinner with us, and we helped them dish up their food. Thinking they must be starved, we dished up a lot on their army trays, and sat with them during the meal. Then after the meal the company put on a cartoon movie for them to watch, and we sat with them as we were instructed to do. 

A little girl sat next to me, and I noticed that she was shivering because she had no coat, and her shoes so to speak, were slip-ons, and so I picked her up and sat her on my lap so she could see the movie better, and I opened up my Army field jacket and wrapped it around her, holding her close to me, and soon she stopped shivering, and when the cartoons were over, she was sound asleep on my lap.  This was in December of 1956, and it was winter outside with snow on the ground. 

That night, I sat in the library and wrote a letter to my mother telling her of my experience and wishing I could do something to help. She had raised 11 of us children, and literally wore her life out serving others. 

A couple of weeks later, I received a letter from her, with tear stains on it, and she told me she was going to start a clothing drive to provide warm clothes for those little orphans, which she wanted to do for them. I was delighted. 

When the clothes started arriving at our company, they came in burlap sacks, and were delivered to our company. Soon more bags started coming, and I started taking them to the orphanages for the children. Needless to say, my mother continued to send, not only clothes, but school supplies for the children, and food and other things which they needed, too. And whenever we had enough to take out to the orphanages in the area, I would get permission from the Company Commander to use an army truck to deliver them to the various orphanages. 

That fall, I received a letter from my mother telling me she was going to start collecting coats and dolls as well as other things to send for Christmas 1957, and wondered if I could get the tailors there to make the coats over for the orphans, and so I went to the Korean tailors on base and talked to them about the idea mom presented, and they agreed to tailor them for the kids in the local orphanage for free, and had Pastor Kim, the director of the orphanage, bring the children out for measurements so they could have a coat of their own which fitted them on Christmas day. And when the coats came, we took them to the tailors, and they started remaking the coats so that each child could have their very own coat. 

Mom also collected 200 dolls to send to me to share with the orphans, along with three boxes of things for her little orphan, Lee Eun Og, whom she was sponsoring through an orphan aid program to the tune of $15.00 a month, from money she earned by selling greeting cards in a booth set out in front of our home and wanted me to deliver her presents to her on Christmas day. 

So on Christmas day, 1957, we left the compound with a 2 ½ ton truck loaded with bags of clothes, dolls, food, shoes, etc., to make deliveries to the orphanages along the road to Seoul, and made stops along the way to share some of the bags of clothes, etc., with the orphanages we saw, and when we arrived in Seoul, we started trying to find the orphanage where Lee Eun Ok was, and we finally located it, and pulled into their compound, and started unloading what we had left, along with the presents for Lee Eun Ok. They brought her out, along with all the other orphans, and brought out a table to set the three boxes of things for her on, and when she opened the boxes, there was a great big doll, almost as big as she was, and all the little orphans said "Ah, or Oh, and so the director of the orphanage strapped the doll on Lee's back and she paraded around in front of all the orphans there as they clapped and cheered. And I cried, even as I am doing now, as I share this wonderful experience I had in far off Korea, some 54 years ago, which left a memory which time cannot destroy, and was the best Christmas I ever had. 

I didn't get to be at our Christmas dinner that year, to get to see all those little orphans open their present of a new coat made just for them, nor did I get to eat Christmas dinner that year, but I didn't care. I was out doing what my wonderful mother had been helping me to do.

When I returned home in March of 1958, I had the privilege of helping my mother prepare the last shipment to be sent to Korea, to the LDS Mission President to distribute to the needy there. And that was the last shipment she sent, making the total of 40,000 pounds of food, clothes, dolls, school supplies, and so forth, which she had collected, and in the process, had worn out a sewing machine and washing machine, which she used to prepare those things for me to give away. 

And years later, my youngest brother, Rex, who helped mom with her Korean Orphan Aid project in his youth, received a mission call to Korea, and was so excited to get to go on a mission to Korea, and while there, he experienced along with the Korean people, what is called the Monsoon season, where many of their poorly constructed homes had been washed away or destroyed, and he wrote to mom saying, "Mom, we need to do it again." 

And so, another Korean Orphan Aid Project was started by my dear mother, and we all helped with it this time, and in the process, another 15,000 pounds of food, clothes, etc., were shipped to Korea to be distributed to the needy through the LDS Relief Society there. And mom's history books are filled with many clippings which were published in the local newspapers about her Korean Orphan Aid Project, which I have in my possession this day, along with letters of commendation from various Army officials and others, because of her Orphan aid project. 

She passed away at the age of 95, several years ago, leaving behind over 200 descendants whom she dearly loved. And her posterity has grown with leaps and bounds since then, and we all owe her a debt of gratitude for all she did to show us the way to serve our fellow man, and to strive to make a difference in this old world of ours, just as Jesus said to do, when He said, "As I have loved you, love one another." And that is exactly what my mother, Jennie May Woodbury Lee, did. 

The Yule Turkey

 By James E. Morison

Christmas on the farm was bleak that year. A virulent form of bovine tuberculosis destroyed our dairy herd, and the farm was quarantined for years. The financial loss plunged our family into poverty and life became very difficult. My day on the farm had started at 4 a.m. to do chores, milk cows and didn't end until late in the evening.

However, all that changed almost overnight.

The once-busy dairy now was just a small group of buildings and the farm equipment sat idle. The big red barn and feeder pens, once active with animals, now stood silent. The daily stream of people arriving to buy our fresh milk and butter had disappeared. Sad to say, my parents were financially ruined, but we managed to stave off starvation for quite a while. Eventually my shoes had holes in them, and I always kept my feet flat on the floor so no one would see.

I was lucky to have a sandwich to take for lunch at school once in a while. School lunches didn't exist then, and I would just tell friends that I wasn't hungry. This was far from the truth.

Christmas was coming and the hope of having any presents under the tree seemed very distant. However, our family had a long-standing tradition of reading the Christmas story followed by everyone singing Christmas carols on Christmas Eve. My sister would single-finger play the old piano that once belonged to my grandmother.

Uncle Chester (my mother's brother), recently divorced and with nowhere to go, arrived just before Christmas bearing several bags of foodstuffs, small gifts and turkey. Everyone was seated at the big table on Christmas Day and the smell of roasting turkey filled every corner of the house. Finally, my mother stepped into the dining room with Uncle Chester's large turkey on a small platter.

Suddenly, and without warning, she tripped, staggered and stumbled while desperately trying to keep the platter upright. It almost seemed in a slow motion dream as the turkey took sudden and glorious flight. Just when the large bird seemed to break the bonds of gravity, it nose-dived straight down and crash-landed on the floor. It seemed to shudder as it belly-flopped on the aging carpet and freshly cooked dressing flew into the air.

"Well," my mother said while standing over the remains of our dinner, "it's a good thing I cooked both of Uncle Chet's turkeys."

My father soon had the mess cleaned up and he helped steady the platter as the second turkey made a safe arrival from the kitchen. The second turkey was wonderful, and we had a great dinner. However, our continued laughter and conversation about our mother's less-than-graceful entrance made her blush more than once. The grease stain never did come out of the carpet.

The farm was later sold for pennies on the dollar, and we were forced to move into a small home. The once-fruitful land later became a subdivision of homes. We saw Uncle Chester again at his funeral. He died tragically while trying to save a drowning swimmer.

Years passed and our parents' 50th wedding anniversary brought family and friends together for a wonderful time of celebration and a nice dinner. The days of extreme poverty on the farm were now just fading memories. Laughter and chatter broke out when someone mentioned the Christmas Day when our mother dropped Uncle Chester's turkey. Our mother then rose and said some nice things that brought tears to the eyes. She then paused and looked around at us all.

"Well," she said, "everyone remembers that Christmas when I dropped the turkey. Your Uncle Chester was confused because he had only brought one turkey. I told him that I had just made that story up about two turkeys. I just couldn't let it ruin the dinner. I stuck some hat pins in it, and it was as good as new."

There was stunned silence as the truth finally came out about the flying turkey. Finally, everyone present laughed and laughed for the longest time.

I never had the chance to say goodbye to my mother before she passed away, and every Christmas is a time for reflection. Yet, the sacrifices she made for the family during those difficult times will never be forgotten and never can be repaid. This Christmas, my family with children and grandchildren in tow, will again gather around the dinner table as we celebrate the birth of our Savior.

As we sit to enjoy the meal of roasted turkey as part of our Christmas tradition, I'm suddenly a young boy again on that day long ago when I learned that turkeys really can fly. 

Aunt Dolly’s Hat

 By Jackie Clements-Marenda

Three things I was sure of as a child: My family loved me. The sun would come up tomorrow. I had a wonderful voice. I figured that was unquestionably true because I participated at the top of my lungs in all the family sing-alongs, and no one ever stopped me. So, I was delighted when my second-grade teacher announced her plans for a musical pageant at Christmas.

“Singing,” said Sister Kathleen to our class, “is one of the most important ways you can tell God how much you love him.” She said she would cast singers according to ability. All 26 of us students raised our hands in eager anticipation. “Those who feel confident about a solo role, form a line to the right of the piano,” Sister said. “If you feel more comfortable as a chorus member, stand to the left.”

I was first on the solo line before Sister reached the piano. She showed me a list of tunes, and I picked a family favorite, “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.” Sister played, and I sang with all the emotion a seven-year-old could muster. “Thank you, Jacquelyn,” Sister said, interrupting. “Next, please.” I’d barely sung a dozen lines. Some of the kids snickered as I returned to my seat. What had I done wrong?

One by one the solo roles were filled. The rest of us were put into the chorus audition line. Sister listened to each student, then arranged us into small groups of similar voices. I was left alone.

While the other children studied their music, Sister Kathleen motioned me to her desk. She looked kindly at me. 

“Jacquelyn, have you heard the expression tone-deaf?”

I shook my head.

“It means what you think you are singing is different from the music.” Sister patted my hand. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, dear. You will still be in the pageant. You will be a lip-syncher. You may mouth the words, but no sound must be uttered. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

I understood, all right. I was so ashamed; I didn’t go home after school. I took the bus straight to Aunt Dolly’s house. She had an answer for everything. Independently single in an era when most women wed, she’d gone on safari, shook hands with President Eisenhower, kissed Clark Gable on the cheek, and planned to visit every country in the world. More than anyone else, she would understand that my world had been turned upside down by this terrible revelation.

Aunt Dolly served me cookies and milk. “What will I do?” I sobbed. “If I don’t sing, God will think I don’t love him.”

Aunt Dolly dunked her cookie in my milk. She drummed her fingers on the kitchen table as her brow creased in thought. Finally, her eyes grew wide. “I’ve got it!” she said. “I will wear my hat!”

Her hat? How can a hat help me with being tone-deaf? Aunt Dolly leveled her brown eyes on my face. Her voice dropped. “Jacquelyn, I’m about to reveal a bit of secret information about angels, but first you must swear that you will never tell a soul.” 

“I swear,” I whispered.

Aunt Dolly took my hand in hers. “When I was in Rome, praying in St. Peter’s,” she said, “I overheard a conversation in the next pew. It seems that other tone-deaf people also have concerns about God not understanding their silence in song. They were told, in the strictest confidence, of course, that a simple piece of aluminum foil is the answer.” 

“I don’t understand.”

“You mouth the words,” she said. “Your silent words reflect off the foil. Angels capture the words and put them in special pouches they carry up to God.” 

As fantastic as it seemed, I could picture angels doing this. Absolute faith shone in Aunt Dolly’s face. I knew she could see the angels too.

“The result,” she said, “is that God hears your beautiful voice, singing in his praise along with your classmates.”

“Where will I hide the foil?”

“My hat!” said Aunt Dolly. “I’ll hide it in my hat. I’ll sit in the front row. As for Sister Kathleen and your parents? Not a single word to them.” 

My entire family attended the pageant. I gave what Aunt Dolly called “an Oscar-winning performance.” With my eyes firmly on her hat, the fact that none present could hear my voice didn’t matter. My silent singing was for God’s ears alone. 

Four years ago, Aunt Dolly died at the age of 90. When the nieces and nephews gathered to reminisce about her, we discovered something many of us had in common. Her angelic hat. 

A stutterer made it through a dreaded speech by concentrating on the hat. The family klutz didn’t knock anyone over during his high school commencement march because he kept his eyes glued to the hat. Even the most timid of us took part in school plays, spelling bees and talent shows because Aunt Dolly sat in the front row wearing her hat. Her surefire faith that God’s angels are here to help us overcome life’s stumbling blocks enabled us kids to do things we thought were impossible. 

Even now at times, when my world is turned upside down, I think of Aunt Dolly and remember that my childhood beliefs still hold true. My family loves me. The sun will come up tomorrow. And for one unforgettable Christmas pageant, I had a wonderful voice. I guess just about anything is possible when angels are on our side. 

A Winged Present

 By Jan A. Loeffler

Back in the olden times, everything was a bit different, even Christmas. It has been more than 50 years ago that we were allowed to write our wishes on a Christmas list. At the orphanage in Zurich, every year many children wrote a Christmas list: "To the Christ Child (our version of St. Nick) - In Heaven." And we knew that our wish could only be fulfilled if the hopefully expected gift would not cost more than 10 Swiss Francs. The choice of gifts for 10 Francs seemed limitless! We found many things in the catalogues of the toy stores: "Only 7.50 Francs - only 10 Francs…!" We had to choose carefully. There were many things that cost only 5 Francs that we would have liked, but we did not simply want to squander this once-a-year chance. It was not easy, and one time, it proved impossible for me. I was not able to make up my mind; nothing I had seen in the catalogue I liked, nothing that had a price tag of 10 Francs or less. And the truth of the fact was that I really did not want a toy; I was wishing for a duck. Yes, a real, live duck, to be exact: a white duck. A duck all of my own.

In the orphanage, we had chickens, which gave us eggs. We also had ducks. Our cooks said that duck eggs should only be used for baking. We had chicken and duck eggs, which I had to collect every day and bring into the kitchen. Counting and weighing of these eggs was my chore, and each Saturday I had to clean the chicken coop and the two duck houses. Of course, I had to feed them too. It was a much-wanted job in the orphanage, much better than cleaning the stairs or emptying the trash. I was "Master" over chickens and ducks - or maybe rather a "servant", the "Mistress" was Miss Lehmann, an older woman with a large goiter and devout words with which she always announced her faith in the dear Lord. She also announced when it was time for the chickens and ducks to be brought into the kitchen. And if our gardener, Mr. Stoll, was "unavailable", she herself chopped off the heads of the chickens - and off the ducks as well. And all other women who belonged to the servant staff of the orphanage, such as Miss Anna and Miss Ida, then plucked "my" chickens and ducks until no feathers remained to be plucked. The rest of the work was then done by the cook. Roast chicken or duck - who would not have liked to join in the eating? I was sick - and excused and given something else to eat in the kitchen. And that although I also liked to eat chickens - as long as they were "strange ones" and not my "own". I did not care that much for duck. That was when I had yet to discover "canard a l'orange."

If I were to have my own duck - so I thought to myself - it would never have to come to the kitchen; it would be allowed to live forever and swim around in a little pond, lay eggs and maybe even have little ducklings - those then would also belong to me - would they not? That was a thought a bit far removed for me at the time. My only question was if such a duck might after all cost more than 10 Francs. Nobody knew about such things, none of the children in the orphanage or school knew this. And I did not dare to ask my "boss" Miss Lehmann. I imagined what her answer to me would be: "Pray to the dear Lord, be a good boy and perform your chores well and correctly; maybe your wish will be heard, and you will receive your own duck." It seemed an easy task, asking the Lord for a duck. But I also knew that being "a good boy" and doing my chores "well and correctly" was another matter altogether. I would not find an easy ear with the Lord; he probably knew what was best anyway. Thus, I quit praying and wrote: "Dear Christ Child - I did not find a toy for 10 Francs I would like to have, but I do have one wish after all. Could you bring me a duck for Christmas, a white one. I don't know how much a duck costs and if it is too much, then bring me something else, something that does not cost more than 10 Francs, I don't know what. Thank you and best regards. Hansli." The folded wish list was placed in the small mailbox in the large foyer. And then came the long wait up until the 24th of December, Holy Night and Christmas Eve.

One week prior, a large fir tree had been set up in the refectory, a tree so tall, its tip reached all the way to the ceiling. But now on Christmas Eve all the candles were alight, maybe more than a hundred all white. Silver Christmas baubles glimmered, and silver tinsel shimmered. There was - just like every year - the manger of Bethlehem, with the ox and the donkey, with the crib and Mother Mary and Joseph and the little infant Jesus sitting on Mary's lap. A little hay, a little straw, and a red light were in the manger, and moss was on the roof of the stable. Each year the same scene and each year it brought new joys. Everybody crowded in front of the manger, me among them. And many of us glanced furtively in the direction of the half dark refectory because on its tables all of the packages and parcels had been spread. One could barely see them, all the way back from the Christmas tree and light of the candles, all shrouded in mystery. But everybody had to sit on the chairs, which had been arranged so that all could see the manger of Bethlehem. And next to the stable Mr. Meister took his seat - he was the highest boss in the orphanage; he read to us the Christmas Story. Each year the same story - each year we had to wait until Mr. Meister had finished reading.

This year - it was the year of the desired duck - I was not listening. I was disappointed. How could I have been so stupid to wish for a real, live duck of my own? There was no way one could wrap up a duck and place it as a package on the table. Surely, there would be a package for me, with 100% certainty, but it was as certain that it would not contain a duck. I did not care anymore how long the story reading would take. I was not interested in the end, not curious what my gift might be, it could only result in disappointment. That much I knew. And Mr. Meister read and read and quacked on and on … yes, I could clearly hear a sort of quacking. Everybody looked at me, even Mr. Meister. Everybody smiled and looked at me. And there it was again - a low quacking. -- could it be true? I would be the proud owner of my very own duck. A miracle, no doubt. And the story came to its end, the light came up. A few children ran up to the tables, one shouted: "Hansli, look, look here, here is YOUR DUCK, here, under the table." Under the table, in a large woven basket was a large, fat, white duck with a yellow bill and blue eyes. My Anita! That's what I named her as soon as I set eyes on her, at once. Why Anita? I have no idea. All I knew was that this large white duck was Anita to me. And none of the girls in the orphanage and no one in school had that name: Anita.

Now I owned my very own duck - and could even touch her. And Anita was patient and let me pet her. I took her out of the basket, took her in my arms. Anita barely resisted; she was heavy. I brushed with my face close up to her head - immediately she plucked out some of my hairs with her bill; she pinched me a bit on the ear. Hunger, yes, she must be hungry, my poor Anita, and thirsty as well. Although the basket contained some hay, there was no grain or water. Anita was returned to the basket - and I ran to get some water and some grains. And she "shoveled" it all in - grains and water. After all, I KNEW DUCKS. I had collected much experience with ducks. How many times had I fed the ducks of the orphanage - now I was feeding Anita, my very own duck. Of course, it was not too long before Anita had to join the other ducks in the duck house. It was nighttime, and Miss Lehmann came along to help me out. She said: "See, Hansli, your wish came true. What a nice Christmas gift you received. I am sure you will now really try to be a good boy, always, and do your chores well and right." I did try but did not always succeed. But I had my own duck, which did not have to go to the kitchen. That is, not as long as I was in the orphanage.

Three years later I left the orphanage. Anita stayed with the other ducks. In the years to come, I had other wishes, of which many came true. But a white, fat duck of my own, with a yellow bill and blue eyes, such a gift comes along only once in a lifetime; it had been a fairytale - once upon a time! The orphanage "Sonnenberg" in Zurich is now called a children and youth center. No more are the chickens, the chicken coops, and the ducks. Once upon a time, there was a duck... Merry Christmas! 

A Night Before Christmas

 By Erin with the Good Hair

Christmas Magazine, 2018

I came across this thread on Twitter, and it made me once again realize, that the most precious human interactions can be the most unexpected ones. We just have to be open and take the time to experience them and not look the other way.

*  *  *

Two years ago, I got angry one night in mid-December, and went for a drive. I stopped for gas and a young man who I had driven by earlier walked by wearing jeans and a hoodie. It was 20 degrees, but with the wind, felt like 10.

Against my better judgement, I offered him a ride: I don’t give rides to strangers. Ever. But I felt compelled to offer. “Where are you headed?” I asked. 

He told me and then said, “I’m from NY, I’m not sure how far it is.” 

“I know where you’re going,” I told him (just a mile up the road). He got in my Jeep. His fingers were bright red.

We started to chat. His mom was dead. He had lived with his girlfriend, but they broke up. He couldn’t afford their apartment on his own income, and had ended up homeless, staying on couches. His girlfriend had owned their car and when he couldn’t always find a ride, he ended up losing his job.

A friend around here told him he could stay with them while he got a fresh start. Things are cheaper here. Unemployment is lower. He bought a bus ticket from NYC and some food for the ride with the last of his money, and with nothing but hope, came out this way.

He was still shivering from his walk in the cold.

“Do you like hot chocolate?” I asked.

Of course, he did. I pulled into Dunkin Donuts. I got us two medium hot chocolates and I pulled into a space.

“Let’s sit and drink these and you can finish telling me your story,” I said.

He told me some more as we sipped our cocoa. He was barely in his twenties. Life hadn’t been very kind to him. But oh, he had so much hope that things were happening the way they should… happening for a reason. It took everything I had not to break down in tears.

I told him I admired his positive spirit. I pointed out the apartment complex he was headed for, across the street.

“If it was right there,” he asked, “why did you get me a hot chocolate and talk to me when you didn’t have to?”

“Because something told me you needed it,” I said.

I pulled ten bucks out of my wallet, (the only cash I was carrying) and pressed it into his hand.

He told me he didn’t want my money.

I told him he needed it more than I did, that it was Christmas. Consider it a gift. It might as well have been $100, the way he started to cry.

I never saw him again. December rolls around, and I think about him. I think what HE did for ME. He had hope in a seemingly IMPOSSIBLE situation. He found the strength to take the steps to make a positive change in his life, despite having nothing. If he could do it, I could too.

A few months later, I left a toxic relationship. I was scared about the difficulties I would face, but I remembered that young man who was starting over with nothing but faith and hope, and I found the strength to tell myself I could start anew.

If you ever get the chance to help a stranger, please take it. There’s no telling how they’ll end up helping you too. Hope may be abandoned, but it can always be reclaimed.