by Gary Sledge
Readers Digest
December 2005
Little miracles. That's what Jim Adelis thinks Christmas is all about. One day last November, he wandered over to Dees' Nursery in Oceanside, New York, and Tom Dee told him about a woman who had just been by asking if there was some way to send a Christmas tree to her son who was serving in Iraq.
Jim had a son in Iraq too: 20-year-old Jim Jr., a convoy machine gunner stationed at Camp Anaconda in Balad, Iraq. He'd had a narrow miss with a roadside bomb earlier in the year. Tom told Jim he'd be happy to donate 75 trees, if there was any way to get them there in time. But no one knew how it could be done on such short notice. Jim said, "Let me see what I can do.”
First he figured he'd better get the Army brass to sign on. He called Maj. Gen. Richard Colt, commander of the 77th Regional Readiness Command at nearby Fort Totten.
"Great!" Colt said. "How are we going to do it?"
Jim figured the ball was still in his court. As the owner of a security company at Kennedy Airport, he knew where to turn next. He called the international shipping company DHL. Officials there readily agreed to fly the trees all the way to Camp Anaconda for free.
But what good are trees without decorations? Jim talked to friends who were in the Port Authority police; they knew where there were some special lights. Lights that had been intended for the World Trade Center during the Christmas season 2001 -- and had been in storage for three long years. Now they could shine.
On November 19, a huge DHL tractor-trailer pulled into Dees' Nursery, loaded up carefully boxed trees and headed for the airport. A DC-8 carried them to Iraq, and they arrived at Camp Anaconda on November 22.
No way to ship Christmas to Iraq? No problem! Hey, it's miracle time.
And there were more to come -- on December 16, another 50 trees were sent, along with menorahs for Jewish soldiers. In addition there were steaks, lobsters and lamb chops.
This Christmas, Jim's son is home. But other people's sons and daughters are in harm's way. So the plan is to up the order to 400 trees.
Oh, yes. And that woman who came to the nursery and first floated the idea of sending a Christmas tree to Iraq in the middle of a war? Well, she never appeared again. And Jim Adelis thinks he knows why. "She was an angel," he says.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Monday, December 14, 2009
Christmas Eve Miracle
by Alda McDonald Strebel
I can still hear my mother’s soft voice as she related this Christmas Eve miracle. The experience was sacred to Mama; she told it only on special occasions, such as the evening my sweetheart asked for my hand in marriage.
The story began on a crisp autumn day in October 1928. The huge barn behind our home in Heber City, in northern Utah, was heaped to the rafters with fresh hay, and the loft was filled with the happy laughter and shouting of romping children. I was among them, unaware of the tragedy about to strike. I found myself an inviting hay hill, and got ready to slide down. Suddenly I was falling headfirst through a chute. Down I shot to a cement floor into a feeding manger at the bottom of the barn.
I still remember the startling sensation of regaining consciousness, and the horrible frustration of not being able to cry. My brothers ran for Papa. How comforting and secure his sturdy, strong arms felt as he lifted me out of the hay manger and carried me into the house. Gently he placed me on my bed.
Several days later my headache had not subsided. The condition became even more complicated when I contracted a severe cold; to this day I remember the nightmare of the accompanying high fever. Later one afternoon when the doctor made his routine call, he shook his head as he read the thermometer, and Mama knew it was time to take action. She sent for Papa, and we prepared to leave for Provo, forty miles away, where I could be hospitalized. Neighbors and relatives gathered to offer their assistance and assure us that my four small brothers would be well cared for.
The journey through the winding roads in Provo Canyon was long and hard, as Papa pushed his Model T Ford through herds of sheep on the roadway. We arrived at the hospital late that night.
The pain was severe behind my left ear and after two more days of high fever, the doctors operated and discovered a deep-seated mastoid infection. By this time it had entered my blood stream. The next week the surgeons were compelled to lance my left arm, and the next week my right leg. For seven long weeks I endured the grueling ordeal of many operations.
Three days before Christmas the doctors called my father into the office and told him they could offer little hope for my recovery. Knowing of my intense longing for my brothers and home, my parents decided to take me home for Christmas. They located a truck to take me to the train (there were only a few trucks in the entire town) and lifted me onto a cot. In the hallway the hospital personnel gave me a lovely doll dressed in a pink hand-knit sweater and cap. I clutched the doll close to my body under the blankets, and when we came out into the refreshing night air, I was hysterically happy. I thought I was leaving the whole ordeal behind me in that hospital.
Slowly the truck made its way to the depot. We boarded the train, the conductor shoveled a huge lump of coal into the potbellied stove in the caboose, and the train began its three-hour journey home. The sleeping powder the doctor had administered before we left the hospital soon took effect, and I slept most of the way. When the train stopped, Papa stepped to the door of the car, then bent over me chuckling.
“You would never believe the crowd that is out there to welcome us,” he said. “My goodness, you would think a celebrity was getting off this train.” He chuckled again as he pulled a warm cap over my head. Mama tucked the covers under my chin, and my cot was lifted to Uncle Dode’s bobsled. Sleigh bells tinkled as the horses pranced down Center Street over the smooth, icy roads.
When we reached the tabernacle corner, the sleigh stopped with a merry “Whoa.” In the middle of the main street was a large Christmas tree, adorned with electric tree lights, the first I had ever seen. How colorful and sparkly they were! The children of my primary class stood beneath the tree, welcoming me with the sacred strains of “Silent Night, Holy Night.” With all the faith and meekness of a child, I felt the love of our Savior in the hearts of many gentle people. Mama’s tears were mingled with the soft snowflakes that fell on my face.
A short time later, at our own front door, Mama laughed and cried as she hugged her four little sons. Seven weeks without a mother had seemed an eternity to them. Then, with hushed excitement, they led the way into my bedroom which they had adorned with red and green paper chains. A large, deep red tissue bell hung from the single light globe. “Oh, see! The Christmas elves have been here!” Mama exclaimed, hugging the boys again.
But as the exertion of the trip took its toll, I realized the pain and suffering had not ended. By Christmas Eve my situation was critical, and the doctors told my parents that my chances of surviving the night were small. The elders administered to me, and for the first time my parents had the courage to say, “Thy will be done.”
After the blessing, a special peace descended over the household. Papa and Mama went into the living room with the four boys and helped them hang their Christmas stockings. Then they tucked each one into bed, assuring them that Santa was on his way.
Knowing that she was going to need strength for what lay ahead, Mama was persuaded to retire to an upstairs bedroom. I loved to hear her tell of lying in the stillness of the night and of the peace that came over her as she fell into a sound sleep. She awakened, startled, just as dawn was breaking Christmas morning. She turned to my bedroom door, a silent prayer on her lips. Papa was just coming out, his tired face bathed in a relieved smile. A miracle had happened. I had been given strength to survive the night, and Mama could even see a slight sparkle in my tired eyes.
“Has Santa been here yet?” I asked.
“You bet he has,” she cried, tears streaming from her eyes. “It looks like Santa just stumbled into our living room and all the toys fell out of his bag.”
“But the most precious gift of all,” Mama would say whenever she retold the story, “was the Savior’s gift to us that hallowed Christmas Eve.”
Although the illness left me with a physical handicap—one leg was much shorter than the other—I have been privileged to lead an active life. In 1977, before he passed away, my husband, Dr. George L. Strebel, and I served in Europe, where he was the coordinator of English-speaking seminaries and institutes. I now have four happily married children and fifteen beautiful grandchildren.
Four years ago I had total hip surgery—three and a half inches were added to my leg. I am now walking without crutches and with just a slight limp. My leg is getting better all the time—a modern installment to the miracle that began that Christmas Eve.
I can still hear my mother’s soft voice as she related this Christmas Eve miracle. The experience was sacred to Mama; she told it only on special occasions, such as the evening my sweetheart asked for my hand in marriage.
The story began on a crisp autumn day in October 1928. The huge barn behind our home in Heber City, in northern Utah, was heaped to the rafters with fresh hay, and the loft was filled with the happy laughter and shouting of romping children. I was among them, unaware of the tragedy about to strike. I found myself an inviting hay hill, and got ready to slide down. Suddenly I was falling headfirst through a chute. Down I shot to a cement floor into a feeding manger at the bottom of the barn.
I still remember the startling sensation of regaining consciousness, and the horrible frustration of not being able to cry. My brothers ran for Papa. How comforting and secure his sturdy, strong arms felt as he lifted me out of the hay manger and carried me into the house. Gently he placed me on my bed.
Several days later my headache had not subsided. The condition became even more complicated when I contracted a severe cold; to this day I remember the nightmare of the accompanying high fever. Later one afternoon when the doctor made his routine call, he shook his head as he read the thermometer, and Mama knew it was time to take action. She sent for Papa, and we prepared to leave for Provo, forty miles away, where I could be hospitalized. Neighbors and relatives gathered to offer their assistance and assure us that my four small brothers would be well cared for.
The journey through the winding roads in Provo Canyon was long and hard, as Papa pushed his Model T Ford through herds of sheep on the roadway. We arrived at the hospital late that night.
The pain was severe behind my left ear and after two more days of high fever, the doctors operated and discovered a deep-seated mastoid infection. By this time it had entered my blood stream. The next week the surgeons were compelled to lance my left arm, and the next week my right leg. For seven long weeks I endured the grueling ordeal of many operations.
Three days before Christmas the doctors called my father into the office and told him they could offer little hope for my recovery. Knowing of my intense longing for my brothers and home, my parents decided to take me home for Christmas. They located a truck to take me to the train (there were only a few trucks in the entire town) and lifted me onto a cot. In the hallway the hospital personnel gave me a lovely doll dressed in a pink hand-knit sweater and cap. I clutched the doll close to my body under the blankets, and when we came out into the refreshing night air, I was hysterically happy. I thought I was leaving the whole ordeal behind me in that hospital.
Slowly the truck made its way to the depot. We boarded the train, the conductor shoveled a huge lump of coal into the potbellied stove in the caboose, and the train began its three-hour journey home. The sleeping powder the doctor had administered before we left the hospital soon took effect, and I slept most of the way. When the train stopped, Papa stepped to the door of the car, then bent over me chuckling.
“You would never believe the crowd that is out there to welcome us,” he said. “My goodness, you would think a celebrity was getting off this train.” He chuckled again as he pulled a warm cap over my head. Mama tucked the covers under my chin, and my cot was lifted to Uncle Dode’s bobsled. Sleigh bells tinkled as the horses pranced down Center Street over the smooth, icy roads.
When we reached the tabernacle corner, the sleigh stopped with a merry “Whoa.” In the middle of the main street was a large Christmas tree, adorned with electric tree lights, the first I had ever seen. How colorful and sparkly they were! The children of my primary class stood beneath the tree, welcoming me with the sacred strains of “Silent Night, Holy Night.” With all the faith and meekness of a child, I felt the love of our Savior in the hearts of many gentle people. Mama’s tears were mingled with the soft snowflakes that fell on my face.
A short time later, at our own front door, Mama laughed and cried as she hugged her four little sons. Seven weeks without a mother had seemed an eternity to them. Then, with hushed excitement, they led the way into my bedroom which they had adorned with red and green paper chains. A large, deep red tissue bell hung from the single light globe. “Oh, see! The Christmas elves have been here!” Mama exclaimed, hugging the boys again.
But as the exertion of the trip took its toll, I realized the pain and suffering had not ended. By Christmas Eve my situation was critical, and the doctors told my parents that my chances of surviving the night were small. The elders administered to me, and for the first time my parents had the courage to say, “Thy will be done.”
After the blessing, a special peace descended over the household. Papa and Mama went into the living room with the four boys and helped them hang their Christmas stockings. Then they tucked each one into bed, assuring them that Santa was on his way.
Knowing that she was going to need strength for what lay ahead, Mama was persuaded to retire to an upstairs bedroom. I loved to hear her tell of lying in the stillness of the night and of the peace that came over her as she fell into a sound sleep. She awakened, startled, just as dawn was breaking Christmas morning. She turned to my bedroom door, a silent prayer on her lips. Papa was just coming out, his tired face bathed in a relieved smile. A miracle had happened. I had been given strength to survive the night, and Mama could even see a slight sparkle in my tired eyes.
“Has Santa been here yet?” I asked.
“You bet he has,” she cried, tears streaming from her eyes. “It looks like Santa just stumbled into our living room and all the toys fell out of his bag.”
“But the most precious gift of all,” Mama would say whenever she retold the story, “was the Savior’s gift to us that hallowed Christmas Eve.”
Although the illness left me with a physical handicap—one leg was much shorter than the other—I have been privileged to lead an active life. In 1977, before he passed away, my husband, Dr. George L. Strebel, and I served in Europe, where he was the coordinator of English-speaking seminaries and institutes. I now have four happily married children and fifteen beautiful grandchildren.
Four years ago I had total hip surgery—three and a half inches were added to my leg. I am now walking without crutches and with just a slight limp. My leg is getting better all the time—a modern installment to the miracle that began that Christmas Eve.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
The Christmas We Gave Away
Anonymous
What a year we had had! A new baby daughter, a job promotion for my husband, and a brand new home were among many blessings we had received and for which my husband and I were grateful.
We wanted no gifts for Christmas, because our cups were running over. But we knew our children still anticipated Christmas morning and gifts from Santa. We were concerned about giving the children too much. How could they learn to appreciate what they had if they just kept receiving more?
At family home evening, we talked about doing something special for someone else at Christmas. Our oldest son said, “Why don’t we find a family who needs help and give them presents?”
Soon all of us were excited about the idea. We decided to do our project anonymously. We didn’t know exactly how we would find our “Christmas family,” but we did know we wanted to help. The next morning I made calls to friends who might know of someone in need. That evening at dinner I described the family I had found. The father was a carpenter and out of work.
They had three children, one the same age as our new baby. Their baby had been undergoing many tests as doctors tried to determine why she wasn’t developing properly. Because the family had no insurance, their savings were gone, and with those savings had gone the prospect of having gifts at Christmas.
“Can we give them some of our clothes?” asked our daughter. We all agreed that her idea was good, and so the children ran to their bedrooms and began sorting out the clothes they had outgrown. But my husband and I knew that clothes were not enough.
The following day my husband asked the children if they would like to buy a special present for each member of our Christmas family. Excitement reigned as we departed for an evening of holiday shopping.
By family home evening the following week, we were ready to deliver gifts, clothing, and oranges to our Christmas family. But before we left, my husband gathered the children and said, “It sure is great to see all of you so excited to share your Christmas. Do you realize that by buying these gifts and this food, you are giving up part of your own Christmas?”
The children had not thought of their project that way before. Their eyes widened as their father took out a crisp, 100-dollar bill.
“Do you think we should give this money to the parents so they can buy other things they need?” he asked. “And do you understand that your Christmas will be very small this year because you are sharing it?”
Each of the children grinned and nodded. We tucked the money into a Christmas card and addressed the envelope to “Our Friends.” Then we were off to deliver Christmas to our special family.
We parked the car up the street from the house and planned our delivery strategy. Within seconds, it was all accomplished. We pulled away just as the door opened.
That evening, as we said our family prayer, our minds and hearts were truly one. Christmas was still a week away, but we felt we had just had ours.
The next morning the phone rang. “Just thought you’d like to know about a family that received a special gift last night,” my friend said. “They had been wondering if they should use their last twenty dollars to pay their tithing, or if they should keep it, because Christmas was nearing and they had no more money. They decided to pay their tithing. Last night their doorbell rang, and when the husband opened the door he found packages of clothes, gifts, and food. The next morning they noticed a white envelope on the floor, and when they opened it, a 100-dollar bill fell out. They know it was the Lord’s way of blessing them for paying their tithing, and their hearts are full of gratitude.”
I tearfully related the message to my husband and children. We felt we had already been blessed just by giving. To know that we had been the Lord’s instruments for a moment that special evening made us realize the true value of our Christmas project. Though the gifts under our tree were few, we had never been blessed with such abundance at Christmas.
What a year we had had! A new baby daughter, a job promotion for my husband, and a brand new home were among many blessings we had received and for which my husband and I were grateful.
We wanted no gifts for Christmas, because our cups were running over. But we knew our children still anticipated Christmas morning and gifts from Santa. We were concerned about giving the children too much. How could they learn to appreciate what they had if they just kept receiving more?
At family home evening, we talked about doing something special for someone else at Christmas. Our oldest son said, “Why don’t we find a family who needs help and give them presents?”
Soon all of us were excited about the idea. We decided to do our project anonymously. We didn’t know exactly how we would find our “Christmas family,” but we did know we wanted to help. The next morning I made calls to friends who might know of someone in need. That evening at dinner I described the family I had found. The father was a carpenter and out of work.
They had three children, one the same age as our new baby. Their baby had been undergoing many tests as doctors tried to determine why she wasn’t developing properly. Because the family had no insurance, their savings were gone, and with those savings had gone the prospect of having gifts at Christmas.
“Can we give them some of our clothes?” asked our daughter. We all agreed that her idea was good, and so the children ran to their bedrooms and began sorting out the clothes they had outgrown. But my husband and I knew that clothes were not enough.
The following day my husband asked the children if they would like to buy a special present for each member of our Christmas family. Excitement reigned as we departed for an evening of holiday shopping.
By family home evening the following week, we were ready to deliver gifts, clothing, and oranges to our Christmas family. But before we left, my husband gathered the children and said, “It sure is great to see all of you so excited to share your Christmas. Do you realize that by buying these gifts and this food, you are giving up part of your own Christmas?”
The children had not thought of their project that way before. Their eyes widened as their father took out a crisp, 100-dollar bill.
“Do you think we should give this money to the parents so they can buy other things they need?” he asked. “And do you understand that your Christmas will be very small this year because you are sharing it?”
Each of the children grinned and nodded. We tucked the money into a Christmas card and addressed the envelope to “Our Friends.” Then we were off to deliver Christmas to our special family.
We parked the car up the street from the house and planned our delivery strategy. Within seconds, it was all accomplished. We pulled away just as the door opened.
That evening, as we said our family prayer, our minds and hearts were truly one. Christmas was still a week away, but we felt we had just had ours.
The next morning the phone rang. “Just thought you’d like to know about a family that received a special gift last night,” my friend said. “They had been wondering if they should use their last twenty dollars to pay their tithing, or if they should keep it, because Christmas was nearing and they had no more money. They decided to pay their tithing. Last night their doorbell rang, and when the husband opened the door he found packages of clothes, gifts, and food. The next morning they noticed a white envelope on the floor, and when they opened it, a 100-dollar bill fell out. They know it was the Lord’s way of blessing them for paying their tithing, and their hearts are full of gratitude.”
I tearfully related the message to my husband and children. We felt we had already been blessed just by giving. To know that we had been the Lord’s instruments for a moment that special evening made us realize the true value of our Christmas project. Though the gifts under our tree were few, we had never been blessed with such abundance at Christmas.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Christmas Is Christmas
by Sherrie Johnson
Francoise watched quietly as her friend Hilda marched in the St. Nicholas parade. Hilda wore a large miter-shaped hat with a design of stars and snowflakes cut out in it. She carried a big horn that she blew often and loud. Hilda waved as she passed Francoise, but Francoise did not wave back. Instead she frowned at Hilda and the other children in the parade. Unhappy thoughts tumbled through Francoise’s mind as the St. Nicholas parade came to an end. Why did my father have to come here to Switzerland? Why didn’t he stay in France? They don’t celebrate Christmas here in this country the way they should! Hilda ran to meet Francoise. “Didn’t I tell you it would be fun?” she exclaimed, speaking very fast in German. “You should have worn the hat I made for you and marched in the parade with us.”
Francoise didn’t say anything.
“Well,” Hilda asked after a few silent moments had passed, “didn’t you like the parade?”
“It is not how we celebrate Christmas in France,” Francoise mumbled.
“I know. But I wanted you to see how we celebrate here in Switzerland.”
Silently the two girls walked to the bus stop. Hilda put her big hat and her horn on the bench and sat down. “You know,” Hilda said at last in French, trying to make Francoise feel better, “I’m glad there are so many ways to celebrate Christmas. In our country we have many customs from Germany, Italy, and France.”
Francoise sat down beside Hilda. “I think there should be only one way to celebrate Christmas, and I like our way best,” she insisted. “All of this about St. Nicholas is wrong. It is Christkindli who brings gifts.”
“He may bring gifts to your house, but it is St. Nicholas who comes to my house,” Hilda replied. “Anyway it doesn’t really matter. Christmas is Christmas!”
A big gray bus soon sputtered to a stop and the girls climbed into it. Neither of them spoke during the ride home, but mixed-up thoughts kept turning around in Francoise’s mind. What did Hilda mean by “Christmas is Christmas”? Of course Christmas is Christmas, and that is exactly why it should be celebrated in the right way as we’ve always done.
When Francoise arrived home, she sat in front of the Christmas tree and stared at Christkindli on top. “Now this is how Christmas should be,” she said out loud.
“What do you mean?” a voice asked.
“Oh, Mama,” Francoise gasped as she turned and saw her mother in the doorway. “You frightened me. I thought I was alone.”
“What were you talking about when you said, ‘This is how Christmas should be?'”
“I was talking to myself about Christmas. Hilda has a star on top of her tree, and St. Nicholas comes to her house instead of Christkindli. They don’t recite Christmas poems when they open their presents. And—well, they just do everything wrong.”
“Wrong?” Mother questioned.
“Yes. Everyone should celebrate Christmas the way we did when we were home in France,” Francoise insisted.
“But Francoise,” her mother explained, “although we still speak French, our home is here now. We are Swiss people. And besides, from the stories my father used to tell me, we do not celebrate Christmas at all as they used to do in France. Christkindli isn’t even a French word, you know. Many Swiss people have Christkindli in their homes at Christmas.”
Francoise felt bewildered. She stared at the tree for a moment and then spoke, “Well, maybe our way of celebrating is different from the old French way, but still I think it’s the right way.”
“Why should our way be right and Hilda’s way be wrong?”
Francoise started to answer, but she couldn’t think of anything to say. A big lump formed in her throat. She felt there must be some reason for her beliefs, but she couldn’t think of a single one. “Well, we all celebrate the birth of Jesus; so shouldn’t we celebrate it in the same way?” Francoise asked.
“Why?”
Again Francoise couldn’t answer. She only shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. “Christmas should be a time of love, and love can be shown in many different ways,” Mother said gently as she patted Francoise and left her alone to think about the events of the day. Maybe it is I who have been wrong and not Hilda, Francoise decided. Just then the doorbell rang, and Francoise went to answer it. But when Francoise opened the door, no one was there. Instead, on the step was a colorful box filled with tirggel, a delicious Christmas cookie. A tiny blue card tucked between the tirggel said, “Froehliche Weihnachten! (Merry Christmas!) From whoever brings presents!”
Francoise looked all around, but she could not see who had left the cookies. “Who is it?” Mother called.
“Only a box of tirggel,” Francoise answered.
“That is my favorite Christmas treat,” Mother said as she entered the room. “Do you know who left it?”
“It must have been Hilda.”
“How nice!” Mother smiled as she tasted the cookie.
Francoise wanted to smile, but she couldn’t. She thought about the way she had acted at the parade and on the way home. She must have made her friend sad by not marching in the parade with the hat Hilda had made for her.
Then Francoise remembered what her mother had said about Christmas being a time to show love. And that was just what Hilda had been trying to do. Slowly Francoise tasted a cookie. It was delicious.
“These are good,” she said.
“If we were still in France, we might never have tasted tirggel. And you’d never have had a friend like Hilda either,” Mother replied.
Francoise thought very hard. She had been selfish and she felt awful. “Christmas is Christmas,” Hilda had said, and looking at the cookies, Francoise knew exactly what she could do. “I’m going to celebrate Christmas the right way,” Francoise decided, and she hurried to her room. She took colored pencils and paper and wrote out her favorite Christmas poem. Then she drew pictures around the edges of the poem and framed it neatly in heavy colored paper. Her legs couldn’t carry her fast enough to Hilda’s house, but soon she found herself knocking at the front door. When Hilda answered the door, Francoise handed her the poem.
“Thank you for the tirggel,” Francoise said. “And now here is something from our Christmas tradition. We always read our favorite Christmas poems when we exchange gifts. I guess if we put the tirggel, Christkindli, St. Nicholas, poems, and parades all together, we’d have a lot of Swiss Christmas traditions.”
Hilda laughed. “Yes, after all, Christmas is Christmas!”
“I know what that means now,” Francoise said softly. “Christmas isn’t German or French or Italian or English or even Swiss. Christmas is Christmas, and Christmas is love no matter where you are.”
Francoise watched quietly as her friend Hilda marched in the St. Nicholas parade. Hilda wore a large miter-shaped hat with a design of stars and snowflakes cut out in it. She carried a big horn that she blew often and loud. Hilda waved as she passed Francoise, but Francoise did not wave back. Instead she frowned at Hilda and the other children in the parade. Unhappy thoughts tumbled through Francoise’s mind as the St. Nicholas parade came to an end. Why did my father have to come here to Switzerland? Why didn’t he stay in France? They don’t celebrate Christmas here in this country the way they should! Hilda ran to meet Francoise. “Didn’t I tell you it would be fun?” she exclaimed, speaking very fast in German. “You should have worn the hat I made for you and marched in the parade with us.”
Francoise didn’t say anything.
“Well,” Hilda asked after a few silent moments had passed, “didn’t you like the parade?”
“It is not how we celebrate Christmas in France,” Francoise mumbled.
“I know. But I wanted you to see how we celebrate here in Switzerland.”
Silently the two girls walked to the bus stop. Hilda put her big hat and her horn on the bench and sat down. “You know,” Hilda said at last in French, trying to make Francoise feel better, “I’m glad there are so many ways to celebrate Christmas. In our country we have many customs from Germany, Italy, and France.”
Francoise sat down beside Hilda. “I think there should be only one way to celebrate Christmas, and I like our way best,” she insisted. “All of this about St. Nicholas is wrong. It is Christkindli who brings gifts.”
“He may bring gifts to your house, but it is St. Nicholas who comes to my house,” Hilda replied. “Anyway it doesn’t really matter. Christmas is Christmas!”
A big gray bus soon sputtered to a stop and the girls climbed into it. Neither of them spoke during the ride home, but mixed-up thoughts kept turning around in Francoise’s mind. What did Hilda mean by “Christmas is Christmas”? Of course Christmas is Christmas, and that is exactly why it should be celebrated in the right way as we’ve always done.
When Francoise arrived home, she sat in front of the Christmas tree and stared at Christkindli on top. “Now this is how Christmas should be,” she said out loud.
“What do you mean?” a voice asked.
“Oh, Mama,” Francoise gasped as she turned and saw her mother in the doorway. “You frightened me. I thought I was alone.”
“What were you talking about when you said, ‘This is how Christmas should be?'”
“I was talking to myself about Christmas. Hilda has a star on top of her tree, and St. Nicholas comes to her house instead of Christkindli. They don’t recite Christmas poems when they open their presents. And—well, they just do everything wrong.”
“Wrong?” Mother questioned.
“Yes. Everyone should celebrate Christmas the way we did when we were home in France,” Francoise insisted.
“But Francoise,” her mother explained, “although we still speak French, our home is here now. We are Swiss people. And besides, from the stories my father used to tell me, we do not celebrate Christmas at all as they used to do in France. Christkindli isn’t even a French word, you know. Many Swiss people have Christkindli in their homes at Christmas.”
Francoise felt bewildered. She stared at the tree for a moment and then spoke, “Well, maybe our way of celebrating is different from the old French way, but still I think it’s the right way.”
“Why should our way be right and Hilda’s way be wrong?”
Francoise started to answer, but she couldn’t think of anything to say. A big lump formed in her throat. She felt there must be some reason for her beliefs, but she couldn’t think of a single one. “Well, we all celebrate the birth of Jesus; so shouldn’t we celebrate it in the same way?” Francoise asked.
“Why?”
Again Francoise couldn’t answer. She only shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. “Christmas should be a time of love, and love can be shown in many different ways,” Mother said gently as she patted Francoise and left her alone to think about the events of the day. Maybe it is I who have been wrong and not Hilda, Francoise decided. Just then the doorbell rang, and Francoise went to answer it. But when Francoise opened the door, no one was there. Instead, on the step was a colorful box filled with tirggel, a delicious Christmas cookie. A tiny blue card tucked between the tirggel said, “Froehliche Weihnachten! (Merry Christmas!) From whoever brings presents!”
Francoise looked all around, but she could not see who had left the cookies. “Who is it?” Mother called.
“Only a box of tirggel,” Francoise answered.
“That is my favorite Christmas treat,” Mother said as she entered the room. “Do you know who left it?”
“It must have been Hilda.”
“How nice!” Mother smiled as she tasted the cookie.
Francoise wanted to smile, but she couldn’t. She thought about the way she had acted at the parade and on the way home. She must have made her friend sad by not marching in the parade with the hat Hilda had made for her.
Then Francoise remembered what her mother had said about Christmas being a time to show love. And that was just what Hilda had been trying to do. Slowly Francoise tasted a cookie. It was delicious.
“These are good,” she said.
“If we were still in France, we might never have tasted tirggel. And you’d never have had a friend like Hilda either,” Mother replied.
Francoise thought very hard. She had been selfish and she felt awful. “Christmas is Christmas,” Hilda had said, and looking at the cookies, Francoise knew exactly what she could do. “I’m going to celebrate Christmas the right way,” Francoise decided, and she hurried to her room. She took colored pencils and paper and wrote out her favorite Christmas poem. Then she drew pictures around the edges of the poem and framed it neatly in heavy colored paper. Her legs couldn’t carry her fast enough to Hilda’s house, but soon she found herself knocking at the front door. When Hilda answered the door, Francoise handed her the poem.
“Thank you for the tirggel,” Francoise said. “And now here is something from our Christmas tradition. We always read our favorite Christmas poems when we exchange gifts. I guess if we put the tirggel, Christkindli, St. Nicholas, poems, and parades all together, we’d have a lot of Swiss Christmas traditions.”
Hilda laughed. “Yes, after all, Christmas is Christmas!”
“I know what that means now,” Francoise said softly. “Christmas isn’t German or French or Italian or English or even Swiss. Christmas is Christmas, and Christmas is love no matter where you are.”
Friday, December 11, 2009
We Didn’t Have a Tree, Until...
by Janet W. Sorensen
The Christmas Eve I remember best began with a glorious snowstorm that filled the streets so that even the streetcars had a hard time making it over the icy rails. It was great sledding weather, and when Mother asked my teenage brother to run an errand for her, I gladly accompanied him. I was nine, and sledding at that time was a life of ease for me, for Grant either had to pull me on the sled or run along behind while pushing me, hoping to jump on for a ride while we coasted.
The happy years of my childhood came during the Great Depression. For me, it was a time of learning and sharing. I was even encouraged to accompany Grant on his daily rounds after school while he sold cottage cheese from door to door to supplement the family income. You see, Dad was having a rough time of it. Our new store, which had been doing well right up to 1929, was closed now, and Dad found it difficult to keep a job as store after store and factories, too, closed their doors. We were gliding now, laughing as we went, to deliver some reports to the Relief Society president from our mother, who was her secretary. We were welcomed into a festively decorated, warm house, and before we left, we were each rewarded with a lovely big orange. What a treat! Before the age of transportation as we know it today, oranges were scarce where we lived, and to receive one in your Christmas stocking was something special. But to get one for doing practically nothing was an unexpected joy, and we traveled home with light hearts. Christmas was already a success!
Yet, at home, it was a bit hard to tell it was Christmas. For the first time in our lives no brightly lighted Christmas tree stood in the corner between the piano and the colonnades. Our family had talked it over and decided we could dispense with a tree this year. The tiny gifts I had made for Mom and Dad in school, wrapped in white tissue paper, rested uncomfortably on the sewing machine, alongside the small packages my brothers had managed to acquire with carefully hoarded pennies.
After a supper of hot soup and crusty bread, we lingered at the table a while, then washed up the supper dishes. And then we sat. What do you do on Christmas Eve when there are no presents to be wrapped, no pies to be made, no tree in the front room? We played a game. And then we sat some more. Finally Dad could stand it no longer. Jumping to his feet, he almost shouted, “I’ve got 50 cents in my pocket. Let’s go see if we can get a tree!” Fifty cents! And no payday in sight. What love and devotion must have determined that sudden decision!
Yet, at the very moment, before we could say anything, the doorbell rang. My brother and I ran to the door, and to our surprise no one was there. We looked around in disappointment, and then we saw it—a glorious tree! We looked in every direction but could find no one to claim the tree. It had to be ours!
I can still feel the thrill, the excitement. I can still see the tears on my dad’s cheeks as he helped us decorate it. We hadn’t told anyone that we didn’t have a tree, and we had been very careful not to invite friends to our home for them to discover it. Later the bishop of our ward disclaimed any knowledge of it; the Relief Society thought it was a wonderful gesture but refused any credit for it; the neighbors were no more friendly than usual—so, we never knew where the tree came from. But the road seemed brighter for us as a family because some good soul had brought us a Christmas tree—and love—on our darkest Christmas Eve.
The Christmas Eve I remember best began with a glorious snowstorm that filled the streets so that even the streetcars had a hard time making it over the icy rails. It was great sledding weather, and when Mother asked my teenage brother to run an errand for her, I gladly accompanied him. I was nine, and sledding at that time was a life of ease for me, for Grant either had to pull me on the sled or run along behind while pushing me, hoping to jump on for a ride while we coasted.
The happy years of my childhood came during the Great Depression. For me, it was a time of learning and sharing. I was even encouraged to accompany Grant on his daily rounds after school while he sold cottage cheese from door to door to supplement the family income. You see, Dad was having a rough time of it. Our new store, which had been doing well right up to 1929, was closed now, and Dad found it difficult to keep a job as store after store and factories, too, closed their doors. We were gliding now, laughing as we went, to deliver some reports to the Relief Society president from our mother, who was her secretary. We were welcomed into a festively decorated, warm house, and before we left, we were each rewarded with a lovely big orange. What a treat! Before the age of transportation as we know it today, oranges were scarce where we lived, and to receive one in your Christmas stocking was something special. But to get one for doing practically nothing was an unexpected joy, and we traveled home with light hearts. Christmas was already a success!
Yet, at home, it was a bit hard to tell it was Christmas. For the first time in our lives no brightly lighted Christmas tree stood in the corner between the piano and the colonnades. Our family had talked it over and decided we could dispense with a tree this year. The tiny gifts I had made for Mom and Dad in school, wrapped in white tissue paper, rested uncomfortably on the sewing machine, alongside the small packages my brothers had managed to acquire with carefully hoarded pennies.
After a supper of hot soup and crusty bread, we lingered at the table a while, then washed up the supper dishes. And then we sat. What do you do on Christmas Eve when there are no presents to be wrapped, no pies to be made, no tree in the front room? We played a game. And then we sat some more. Finally Dad could stand it no longer. Jumping to his feet, he almost shouted, “I’ve got 50 cents in my pocket. Let’s go see if we can get a tree!” Fifty cents! And no payday in sight. What love and devotion must have determined that sudden decision!
Yet, at the very moment, before we could say anything, the doorbell rang. My brother and I ran to the door, and to our surprise no one was there. We looked around in disappointment, and then we saw it—a glorious tree! We looked in every direction but could find no one to claim the tree. It had to be ours!
I can still feel the thrill, the excitement. I can still see the tears on my dad’s cheeks as he helped us decorate it. We hadn’t told anyone that we didn’t have a tree, and we had been very careful not to invite friends to our home for them to discover it. Later the bishop of our ward disclaimed any knowledge of it; the Relief Society thought it was a wonderful gesture but refused any credit for it; the neighbors were no more friendly than usual—so, we never knew where the tree came from. But the road seemed brighter for us as a family because some good soul had brought us a Christmas tree—and love—on our darkest Christmas Eve.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
A Doll from Santa
by Alice Ferguson
Alice's mother died when she was five years old. Although her nine brothers and sisters were loving and caring, they were no replacement for a mother's love.
The year was 1925, and life was hard. Alice, who grew up to be my mother, told me that her family was too poor to even afford to give her a doll.
In the aftermath of her loss, Alice vowed to care for others. First her father, then her husband, later her three children, and then her grandchildren were the main focus of her life. She felt that she could make up for her sad childhood through her dedication to her own family, but an unfilled void seemed to remain.
In December 1982, I had a job at a local bank. One afternoon, we were decorating the tree in the bank lobby and singing carols, getting ready for the Christmas season. One of my customers approached me with a sample of her handiwork: beautiful handmade dolls. She was taking orders for Christmas. I decided to get one for my daughter, Katie, who was almost five years old. Then I had an idea. I asked my customer if she could make me a special doll for my mother - one with gray hair and spectacles, a grandmother doll.
The doll maker felt that this idea was certainly unique and took it on as a creative challenge. So I placed my Christmas order: two dolls, one blonde and one gray-haired for Christmas morning!
Things really started to fall into place when a friend had told me that his dad - who played Santa Claus at various charitable functions in my area - would be willing to make a visit on Christmas morning to our home to deliver my Katie her presents! Knowing that my parents would be there as well, I began to get ready for what would turn out to be one of the most memorable days of my mother's life.
Christmas Day arrived and at the planned time, so did Santa Claus. I had prepared the presents for Santa to deliver, along with one for my mother tucked into the bottom of Santa's bag. Katie was surprised and elated that Santa had come to see her at her own house. It was the happiest I had ever seen her in her young life.
My mother was enjoying watching her granddaughter's reaction to the visit from this special guest. As Santa turned to leave, he looked once more into his knapsack and retrieved one more gift. As he asked who Alice was, my mother, taken aback by her name being called, indicated that she in fact was Alice. Santa handed her the gift, which was accompanied by a message card that read:
For Alice:
I was cleaning out my sleigh before my trip this year and came across this package that was supposed to be delivered on December 25, 1925. The present inside has aged, but I felt that you might still wish to have it. Many apologies for the lateness of the gift.
Love,
Santa Claus
My mother's reaction was one of the most profound and deeply emotional scenes I have ever witnessed. She couldn't speak but only clasped the doll she had waited fifty-seven years to receive as tears of joy coursed down her cheeks. That doll, given by "Santa," made my mother the happiest "child" alive.
Alice's mother died when she was five years old. Although her nine brothers and sisters were loving and caring, they were no replacement for a mother's love.
The year was 1925, and life was hard. Alice, who grew up to be my mother, told me that her family was too poor to even afford to give her a doll.
In the aftermath of her loss, Alice vowed to care for others. First her father, then her husband, later her three children, and then her grandchildren were the main focus of her life. She felt that she could make up for her sad childhood through her dedication to her own family, but an unfilled void seemed to remain.
In December 1982, I had a job at a local bank. One afternoon, we were decorating the tree in the bank lobby and singing carols, getting ready for the Christmas season. One of my customers approached me with a sample of her handiwork: beautiful handmade dolls. She was taking orders for Christmas. I decided to get one for my daughter, Katie, who was almost five years old. Then I had an idea. I asked my customer if she could make me a special doll for my mother - one with gray hair and spectacles, a grandmother doll.
The doll maker felt that this idea was certainly unique and took it on as a creative challenge. So I placed my Christmas order: two dolls, one blonde and one gray-haired for Christmas morning!
Things really started to fall into place when a friend had told me that his dad - who played Santa Claus at various charitable functions in my area - would be willing to make a visit on Christmas morning to our home to deliver my Katie her presents! Knowing that my parents would be there as well, I began to get ready for what would turn out to be one of the most memorable days of my mother's life.
Christmas Day arrived and at the planned time, so did Santa Claus. I had prepared the presents for Santa to deliver, along with one for my mother tucked into the bottom of Santa's bag. Katie was surprised and elated that Santa had come to see her at her own house. It was the happiest I had ever seen her in her young life.
My mother was enjoying watching her granddaughter's reaction to the visit from this special guest. As Santa turned to leave, he looked once more into his knapsack and retrieved one more gift. As he asked who Alice was, my mother, taken aback by her name being called, indicated that she in fact was Alice. Santa handed her the gift, which was accompanied by a message card that read:
For Alice:
I was cleaning out my sleigh before my trip this year and came across this package that was supposed to be delivered on December 25, 1925. The present inside has aged, but I felt that you might still wish to have it. Many apologies for the lateness of the gift.
Love,
Santa Claus
My mother's reaction was one of the most profound and deeply emotional scenes I have ever witnessed. She couldn't speak but only clasped the doll she had waited fifty-seven years to receive as tears of joy coursed down her cheeks. That doll, given by "Santa," made my mother the happiest "child" alive.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Father of Fortune
by Ted Bosley
Once again, the Christmas season was upon us. And once again, my daughter Tania was asking, "What do you want for Christmas, Dad?"
"The usual," I replied. After twenty-three years, she knew that this meant boxer shorts and some happy socks, the kind that help that tender old bunion. These were Christmas rituals for me.
In the small town of Peterborough, Ontario, where we lived, life had a certain rhythm, and the festive season was full of ritual. After living in Calgary for many years, I had returned to my hometown to be near my own aging dad, and life took on a fairly predictable sort of rhythm. But this particular year, my daughter, Tania, and her young husband, Barry, changed all that.
Every day for two weeks prior to Christmas, unable to contain her excitement, she repeatedly said, "You'll never guess, but you're going to love what we got you for Christmas!" The girl was relentless in her teasing and her quest for my reaction. She was determined that I should be impressed.
Now, I'm no Scrooge, so please don't get me wrong. I'm simply one of those individuals who's been around for some time and who's gotten a bit cynical and hard to impress. I must admit, however, that it was fun to watch and listen to her excitement and enthusiastic teasing day after day. Her joy and anticipation of my reaction to this special gift were contagious. By the morning of Christmas Eve, I had become more than a little curious.
At 11:00 a.m. on the 24th, my wife and I were asked to join the kids for some last-minute shopping. We elected to opt out. My wife wanted to finish up her own festive preparations, and old Dad, well, I just wanted a cold beer and a snooze. Four hours later, the kids were back at the door, shopping mission completed.
"We have your gift out in the car, Dad," Tania exclaimed, "and it's getting cold!"
We were then not asked, but ordered to vacate the premises. No, not just to another room, but upstairs and out of sight with an emphatic, "No peeking!" command. Heck, my old army sergeant was gentler. "Get out! Get out!" Tania ordered.
So, obediently, we retreated upstairs.
The minutes passed in that odd kind of anxious, wondering, quiet anticipation that makes butterflies in your stomach. We strained our ears but couldn't hear anything. "Big deal," I grumped to myself. "I'm still not impressed, but I'll play their silly game."
Then we heard them hollering, "Okay, you can come down now!"
Descending the stairs, we were directed into the front room where the surprise Christmas gift was waiting to be opened. Immediately, my excited daughter said, "No waiting until Christmas morning. Open it now!"
"Okay," I said. "This is highly irregular, this is breaking the ritual . . . but what the heck is it?" I wondered out loud. The three-foot-square, irregularly shaped lump over by the tree was smothered under blankets. Out came Tania's camera, and the guessing game started in earnest.
"Maybe it's a pinball machine," my wife offered.
"No, no," I said. "It's gotta be something perishable, otherwise they wouldn't have been so anxious to bring it in out of the cold. Maybe it's a crate of Florida oranges, or maybe it's a puppy!"
By now, my daughter was about to explode with excitement, and I had passed the stage of mildly curiosity, feeling somewhere between inquisitive and demanding.
"What on earth can it be?" I asked as I felt the lumpy object, looking for a clue. My daughter sharply rapped my knuckles with a classic, "Da-ad!"
Finally, we arrived at the unveiling. "Okay," Tania instructed us, "on the count of three both of you grab a corner of the blanket." She stood by with the camera, and even though I was trying my best to remain unimpressed, I'd by now reached an emotional state ranging from paranoia to frustration. My heartbeat sped. My wife and I lifted the blanket in one fell swoop, and the gift was exposed.
The next few minutes were a blur. My heart pounded. The blood rushed to my head. My stomach contracted. My mind was jumbled. Overwhelmed with astonishment, I thought, I can't believe my eyes! Perhaps I am delusional! This is just not possible!
The flash of my daughter's camera went off when, rising up out of that heap of blankets and wrapping me in an enormous bear hug was none other than my six-foot-two, one hundred and seventy-five-pound firstborn son Greg, home for Christmas for the first time in nineteen years!
Once again, the Christmas season was upon us. And once again, my daughter Tania was asking, "What do you want for Christmas, Dad?"
"The usual," I replied. After twenty-three years, she knew that this meant boxer shorts and some happy socks, the kind that help that tender old bunion. These were Christmas rituals for me.
In the small town of Peterborough, Ontario, where we lived, life had a certain rhythm, and the festive season was full of ritual. After living in Calgary for many years, I had returned to my hometown to be near my own aging dad, and life took on a fairly predictable sort of rhythm. But this particular year, my daughter, Tania, and her young husband, Barry, changed all that.
Every day for two weeks prior to Christmas, unable to contain her excitement, she repeatedly said, "You'll never guess, but you're going to love what we got you for Christmas!" The girl was relentless in her teasing and her quest for my reaction. She was determined that I should be impressed.
Now, I'm no Scrooge, so please don't get me wrong. I'm simply one of those individuals who's been around for some time and who's gotten a bit cynical and hard to impress. I must admit, however, that it was fun to watch and listen to her excitement and enthusiastic teasing day after day. Her joy and anticipation of my reaction to this special gift were contagious. By the morning of Christmas Eve, I had become more than a little curious.
At 11:00 a.m. on the 24th, my wife and I were asked to join the kids for some last-minute shopping. We elected to opt out. My wife wanted to finish up her own festive preparations, and old Dad, well, I just wanted a cold beer and a snooze. Four hours later, the kids were back at the door, shopping mission completed.
"We have your gift out in the car, Dad," Tania exclaimed, "and it's getting cold!"
We were then not asked, but ordered to vacate the premises. No, not just to another room, but upstairs and out of sight with an emphatic, "No peeking!" command. Heck, my old army sergeant was gentler. "Get out! Get out!" Tania ordered.
So, obediently, we retreated upstairs.
The minutes passed in that odd kind of anxious, wondering, quiet anticipation that makes butterflies in your stomach. We strained our ears but couldn't hear anything. "Big deal," I grumped to myself. "I'm still not impressed, but I'll play their silly game."
Then we heard them hollering, "Okay, you can come down now!"
Descending the stairs, we were directed into the front room where the surprise Christmas gift was waiting to be opened. Immediately, my excited daughter said, "No waiting until Christmas morning. Open it now!"
"Okay," I said. "This is highly irregular, this is breaking the ritual . . . but what the heck is it?" I wondered out loud. The three-foot-square, irregularly shaped lump over by the tree was smothered under blankets. Out came Tania's camera, and the guessing game started in earnest.
"Maybe it's a pinball machine," my wife offered.
"No, no," I said. "It's gotta be something perishable, otherwise they wouldn't have been so anxious to bring it in out of the cold. Maybe it's a crate of Florida oranges, or maybe it's a puppy!"
By now, my daughter was about to explode with excitement, and I had passed the stage of mildly curiosity, feeling somewhere between inquisitive and demanding.
"What on earth can it be?" I asked as I felt the lumpy object, looking for a clue. My daughter sharply rapped my knuckles with a classic, "Da-ad!"
Finally, we arrived at the unveiling. "Okay," Tania instructed us, "on the count of three both of you grab a corner of the blanket." She stood by with the camera, and even though I was trying my best to remain unimpressed, I'd by now reached an emotional state ranging from paranoia to frustration. My heartbeat sped. My wife and I lifted the blanket in one fell swoop, and the gift was exposed.
The next few minutes were a blur. My heart pounded. The blood rushed to my head. My stomach contracted. My mind was jumbled. Overwhelmed with astonishment, I thought, I can't believe my eyes! Perhaps I am delusional! This is just not possible!
The flash of my daughter's camera went off when, rising up out of that heap of blankets and wrapping me in an enormous bear hug was none other than my six-foot-two, one hundred and seventy-five-pound firstborn son Greg, home for Christmas for the first time in nineteen years!
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