by Rachel Dyer Montross
Last Christmas was a very difficult time for me. My family and all of my close friends were back home in Florida, and I was all alone in a rather cold California. I was working too many hours and became very sick.
I was working a double shift at the Southwest Airlines ticket counter. It was about 9:00 p.m. on Christmas Eve, and I was feeling really miserable inside. There were a few of us working and very few customers waiting to be helped. When it was time for me to call the next person to the counter, I looked out to see the sweetest looking old man standing with a cane. He walked very slowly over to the counter and in the faintest voice told me that he had to go to New Orleans. I tried to explain to him that there were no more flights that night and that he would have to go in the morning. He looked so confused and very worried. I tried to find out more information by asking if he had a reservation or if he remembered when he was supposed to travel, but he seemed to become more confused with each question. He just kept saying, “She said I have to go to New Orleans.”
After much time, I was able to at least find out that this old man was dropped off at the curb on Christmas Eve by his sister-in-law and told to go to New Orleans, where he had family. She had given him some cash and told him just to go inside and buy a ticket. When I asked if he could come back tomorrow, he said that she was gone and that he had no place to stay. He then said he would wait at the airport until tomorrow. Naturally, I felt a little ashamed. Here I was feeling very sorry for myself about being alone on Christmas, when this angel named Clarence MacDonald was sent to me to remind me of what being alone really meant. It broke my heart.
Immediately, I told him we would get it all straightened out, and our Customer Service agent helped to book him a seat for the earliest flight the next morning. We gave him the senior citizens’ fare, which gave him some extra money for traveling. About this time he started to look very tired, and when I stepped around the counter to ask him if he was all right, I saw that his leg was wrapped in a bandage. He had been standing on it that whole time, holding a plastic bag full of clothes.
I called for a wheelchair. When the wheelchair came, we all stepped around to help him in, and I noticed a small amount of blood on his bandage. I asked how he hurt his leg, and he said that he had just had bypass surgery and an artery was taken from his leg. Can you imagine? This man had had heart surgery, and then shortly afterward, was dropped off at the curb to buy a ticket with no reservation to fly to New Orleans, alone!
I never really had a situation like this, and I wasn’t sure what I could do. I went back to ask my supervisors if we could find a place for him to stay. They both said yes, and they obtained a hotel voucher for Mr. MacDonald for one night and a meal ticket for dinner and breakfast. When I came back out, we got his plastic bag of clothes and cane together and gave the porter a tip to take him downstairs to wait for the airport shuttle. I bent down to explain the hotel, food and itinerary again to Mr. MacDonald, and then patted him on the arm and told him everything would be just fine.
As he left, he said, “Thank you,” bent his head and started to cry. I cried too. When I went back to thank my supervisor, she just smiled and said, “I love stories like that. He is your Christmas Man.”
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Monday, December 21, 2009
Amy Angel
Author Unknown
There are advantages and disadvantages to living in a small town. One advantage is that everyone knows everyone else. One disadvantage is that everyone knows everyone else. Everyone knew Amy Williams, only child. She had been born seventeen years ago, crippled in body if not in spirit. No one expected her to live, but she had. Everyone knew Amy Williams. Her hunched back and twisted spine were recognizable at a distance. Here she sat outside the choral room door, agonizing.
What am I doing here? She thought to herself. I'll never be chosen for a part. One advantage to small towns is that they develop traditions. A Christmas tradition in Marysvale was the annual pageant performed in the school auditorium. It had been performed for so many years that no one could remember when it had begun or even who had written it. But it had become the focal point of the Christmas season for many of the townspeople.
I don't want to go through the rejection again, thought Amy. I try not to care, but I do. I don't want to be hurt anymore. More people tried out each year for parts in the pageant than could possibly be used. Young children hoped to be shepherd boys, older ones the shepherds or the Wise Men. Those who sang hoped to be part of the angelic choir; a chosen few the innkeeper, the angel of the Lord, Joseph, and Mary. Many were turned away, for the stage in the old schoolhouse was small. The choir was a dozen or so voices. There was room for only a half dozen shepherds and three wise men.
Mr. Simons will never choose me for a part. I just don't fit. But at least I don't have to audition in front of Mrs. Prendergast, mused Amy.
Mrs. Prendergast had been the music teacher at Marysvale High School for more than thirty years. She had cast, coached, directed and accompanied the pageant all those years. When Amy had been a freshman three years ago, she had tried out for the pageant. Mrs. Prendergast had taken one look at Amy's misshapen body and in her dragon voice said, "Child, you just don't fit. I don't remember anywhere in the script where it calls for a crippled girl. Everyone would stare at you and that would make you uncomfortable. It would make them uncomfortable, too."
Without singing a single note, Amy had been thrust back through the choral room door. She shuffled home, hurt and humiliated, and vowed never to try out again. Then Mrs. Prendergast retired.
This year they had a new choral teacher, Mr. Simons. He was the opposite of Mrs. Prendergast. She had ruled with fear and force. He led with love and compassion. Amy liked him from the first. He demanded perfection, but understood when it was not reached. He coached and corrected with kindness.
And he sang himself with such power. It was he who had asked Amy to see him after class and had suggested she audition for the pageant. I ought to leave now and avoid the pain. There's no place for a girl like me in the pageant. I don't want to be rejected again. Still, Mr. Simons asked me to try out. I owe it to him. But he'll never choose me. I'm going to leave before it's my turn. As Amy struggled to her feet, the door was pushed open and Mr. Simons called out, "Amy, you're next." He sat at the piano, waiting to accompany her.
When she finished singing, Mr. Simons said, "Thank you, Amy. The list will be posted tomorrow."
She struggled all night long. Back and forth her mind went between the reality of knowing she didn't fit and the great need to be accepted. By morning she had a knot in the pit of her stomach and could not bring herself to look at the list on the choral room door. But as her third-period music class approached, she knew that avoiding it would not change the outcome.
Timidly, fearfully, she looked at the list. At the bottom of the page was listed the heavenly choir. As she suspected, her name was not among those listed. Rejected again! She turned to enter the class when her eye caught her name posted at the top of the page. She, Amy Williams, had been chosen to sing the only solo part in the whole pageant. She was to be the angel of the Lord. She was to sing to the Christ child, the Son of God.
There had to be a mistake. Certainly Mr. Simons would not put her in that part. It was so visible. "Amy," called Mr. Simons from the piano, "we need to talk about your part after class."
Class seemed to last forever. Finally it ended, and she made her way to Mr. Simon's side. "You wanted to talk to me?"
"Amy, I hope this doesn't upset you, but I need to stage your part a little differently this year." Hidden offstage, she thought.
Mr. Simons continued, "I would like to have a pyramid built, place the other angels on it, and put you at the very top. I know in the past they've put the angel just a bit above the shepherds, but I think the message you sing is the central part of the pageant."
The years of hurt exploded. "You don't want me in the middle of the stage! Won't the way I look ruin the whole thing? You don't want me where everybody will stare at me!" Amy said.
"Amy, I chose you because you deserve the part. What you think of yourself, I cannot change. That is something only you can deal with. I have no problem with you singing this part, and in this pageant the angel of the Lord is center stage. You must come to peace with yourself or you must tell me to choose someone else for the part. It is your decision."
That night Amy made her decision. The rehearsals were exhausting. Her body ached after struggling to the top of the pyramid, but great joy filled her heart. One advantage to living in a small town is that when there is a community event, everyone attends. And so it was the Sunday before Christmas when the whole town of Marysvale attended the Christmas pageant. Amy Williams, only child, misshapen of body if not of spirit, stood on the top of a silver-white pyramid and sang her heart out to the Christ child and to his brother.
“Fear not; for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord."
“What Child is this, who, laid to rest, On Mary's lap is sleeping?”
Never had the angel sung more sweetly.
No one had realized how sick Amy really was, I suppose, because they were so used to seeing her broken body. So it was a shock when she died that next Tuesday. Her mother conveyed a last request from Amy to Mr. Simons. Would he please sing at her funeral? "I've never been in your church. It would be very difficult." The excuses continued, but in the end he agreed.
And so that Christmas Eve, two of Amy's classmates, two boys from the bass section, helped Mr. Simons from his wheelchair and supported him as he sang for a daughter of God, as she has sung for his Son. There are advantages to living in a small town.
There are advantages and disadvantages to living in a small town. One advantage is that everyone knows everyone else. One disadvantage is that everyone knows everyone else. Everyone knew Amy Williams, only child. She had been born seventeen years ago, crippled in body if not in spirit. No one expected her to live, but she had. Everyone knew Amy Williams. Her hunched back and twisted spine were recognizable at a distance. Here she sat outside the choral room door, agonizing.
What am I doing here? She thought to herself. I'll never be chosen for a part. One advantage to small towns is that they develop traditions. A Christmas tradition in Marysvale was the annual pageant performed in the school auditorium. It had been performed for so many years that no one could remember when it had begun or even who had written it. But it had become the focal point of the Christmas season for many of the townspeople.
I don't want to go through the rejection again, thought Amy. I try not to care, but I do. I don't want to be hurt anymore. More people tried out each year for parts in the pageant than could possibly be used. Young children hoped to be shepherd boys, older ones the shepherds or the Wise Men. Those who sang hoped to be part of the angelic choir; a chosen few the innkeeper, the angel of the Lord, Joseph, and Mary. Many were turned away, for the stage in the old schoolhouse was small. The choir was a dozen or so voices. There was room for only a half dozen shepherds and three wise men.
Mr. Simons will never choose me for a part. I just don't fit. But at least I don't have to audition in front of Mrs. Prendergast, mused Amy.
Mrs. Prendergast had been the music teacher at Marysvale High School for more than thirty years. She had cast, coached, directed and accompanied the pageant all those years. When Amy had been a freshman three years ago, she had tried out for the pageant. Mrs. Prendergast had taken one look at Amy's misshapen body and in her dragon voice said, "Child, you just don't fit. I don't remember anywhere in the script where it calls for a crippled girl. Everyone would stare at you and that would make you uncomfortable. It would make them uncomfortable, too."
Without singing a single note, Amy had been thrust back through the choral room door. She shuffled home, hurt and humiliated, and vowed never to try out again. Then Mrs. Prendergast retired.
This year they had a new choral teacher, Mr. Simons. He was the opposite of Mrs. Prendergast. She had ruled with fear and force. He led with love and compassion. Amy liked him from the first. He demanded perfection, but understood when it was not reached. He coached and corrected with kindness.
And he sang himself with such power. It was he who had asked Amy to see him after class and had suggested she audition for the pageant. I ought to leave now and avoid the pain. There's no place for a girl like me in the pageant. I don't want to be rejected again. Still, Mr. Simons asked me to try out. I owe it to him. But he'll never choose me. I'm going to leave before it's my turn. As Amy struggled to her feet, the door was pushed open and Mr. Simons called out, "Amy, you're next." He sat at the piano, waiting to accompany her.
When she finished singing, Mr. Simons said, "Thank you, Amy. The list will be posted tomorrow."
She struggled all night long. Back and forth her mind went between the reality of knowing she didn't fit and the great need to be accepted. By morning she had a knot in the pit of her stomach and could not bring herself to look at the list on the choral room door. But as her third-period music class approached, she knew that avoiding it would not change the outcome.
Timidly, fearfully, she looked at the list. At the bottom of the page was listed the heavenly choir. As she suspected, her name was not among those listed. Rejected again! She turned to enter the class when her eye caught her name posted at the top of the page. She, Amy Williams, had been chosen to sing the only solo part in the whole pageant. She was to be the angel of the Lord. She was to sing to the Christ child, the Son of God.
There had to be a mistake. Certainly Mr. Simons would not put her in that part. It was so visible. "Amy," called Mr. Simons from the piano, "we need to talk about your part after class."
Class seemed to last forever. Finally it ended, and she made her way to Mr. Simon's side. "You wanted to talk to me?"
"Amy, I hope this doesn't upset you, but I need to stage your part a little differently this year." Hidden offstage, she thought.
Mr. Simons continued, "I would like to have a pyramid built, place the other angels on it, and put you at the very top. I know in the past they've put the angel just a bit above the shepherds, but I think the message you sing is the central part of the pageant."
The years of hurt exploded. "You don't want me in the middle of the stage! Won't the way I look ruin the whole thing? You don't want me where everybody will stare at me!" Amy said.
"Amy, I chose you because you deserve the part. What you think of yourself, I cannot change. That is something only you can deal with. I have no problem with you singing this part, and in this pageant the angel of the Lord is center stage. You must come to peace with yourself or you must tell me to choose someone else for the part. It is your decision."
That night Amy made her decision. The rehearsals were exhausting. Her body ached after struggling to the top of the pyramid, but great joy filled her heart. One advantage to living in a small town is that when there is a community event, everyone attends. And so it was the Sunday before Christmas when the whole town of Marysvale attended the Christmas pageant. Amy Williams, only child, misshapen of body if not of spirit, stood on the top of a silver-white pyramid and sang her heart out to the Christ child and to his brother.
“Fear not; for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord."
“What Child is this, who, laid to rest, On Mary's lap is sleeping?”
Never had the angel sung more sweetly.
No one had realized how sick Amy really was, I suppose, because they were so used to seeing her broken body. So it was a shock when she died that next Tuesday. Her mother conveyed a last request from Amy to Mr. Simons. Would he please sing at her funeral? "I've never been in your church. It would be very difficult." The excuses continued, but in the end he agreed.
And so that Christmas Eve, two of Amy's classmates, two boys from the bass section, helped Mr. Simons from his wheelchair and supported him as he sang for a daughter of God, as she has sung for his Son. There are advantages to living in a small town.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
A Christmas Tale
by Christine Walker
For most people, Christmas is a time of rejoicing and of goodwill to all men, but as Christmas of 1952 approached, I was feeling the lowest I had ever felt. My marriage had just fallen apart and I was left a single mother with two kids: Jason, nine years old, and little Francis, who was just five. My ex-husband wasn't faithful with his alimony and child support payments, so I was forced to find work and get a babysitter to help with the children after school. I missed them a lot, as I had always been there for them before, but in this situation we found ourselves in, there wasn't much else we could do.
At the time we also had to move into a poorer neighborhood, because we couldn't afford to continue paying the high rent for our previous apartment in the nicer part of town. It felt like one bad thing after another was happening to me, and I couldn't see a way out.
I would come back from work and pick up the kids, arrive home late with just enough time to cook them a meal, tuck them into bed, and say their prayers with them. In our prayers, we always held onto the hope that things would get better.
Christmas was just around the corner. With the small salary I made, I had saved up enough to get presents for the children, and a few of the special treats that make Christmas what it is. Or so I thought!
We had already set up the Christmas tree in our house, and the decorations and lights, sparse though they were, would still get oohs and aahs of admiration from my children. Now all that was left was for the presents to be placed under the tree, and the children were looking forward to this with great anticipation.
On the morning of the 23rd, the last day of work before the Christmas holidays, I left home early, dropped the children off at my parents', and went on my way. With all that was on my mind, I was a bit oblivious to the world around me, and I hadn't noticed the car in front of me had slowed down and was signaling his intent to make a left turn. Before I had time to slam on the brakes, I'd rear-ended him.
Great! I thought. Just what I needed! It wasn't such a bad accident, and my insurance would pay for the damage to his car, but it wouldn't cover the cost of repairs for my car and my rates would go up. I was mad at myself! Now I probably wouldn't be able to afford to get any extras that I knew the children were hoping for. So much for my Christmas shopping! I murmured.
The day passed slowly, and by the time work had ended, it was all I could do to drag myself out of the office and pick up the children. That night Jason offered to say the prayers. "Jesus, we pray for Your blessings on us at this time of Christmas" and then he went on into the Lord's Prayer. Just when he finished, as if he'd had an afterthought, he added, "And Lord, we know that You will supply all of our needs, and I would really want that sled that I saw in the store window today, so if You could do that for me, I would be very happy. And please supply all of the rest of the things that we need too. Amen!"
Francis, not wanting to miss out on the opportunity of adding his request, chimed in. "And I would really like one of those toy trucks, like my friend Richard has. Amen."
As I got into bed, I questioned the Lord. I was beginning to feel bitter about the hand in life He had dealt me. Why? I began to brood. Why now? Why at this time of Christmas, which is meant to be a joyful season and one of remembering when You came to Earth for us? "Lord," I whispered, "please don't disappoint Your children's faith in You."
I awoke with the sunrise, feeling much more refreshed because of the restful sleep I'd had. I went about my work of fixing the children breakfast. I opened the front door to let the dog out, and noticed several boxes on my doorstep that hadn't been there before. Surprised, I quickly opened one, and to my surprise found a sled just like the one Jason had prayed for. In one box were clothes and warm jackets, and in another were food staples, groceries, and even a few special treats.
I felt overjoyed, and so grateful for whoever the angel was that had brought these here. I opened the last box and found toys and playthings for the children including a truck that was almost exactly identical to my son's friend Richard's model.
Tears came to my eyes. Not knowing who the angel who had done this was, all I could say was, "Thank You! Thank You!" I still found it odd that someone could have known exactly what we needed and when we needed it. The children excitedly joined me in looking through the boxes. Jason was beside himself with delight to get the sled and also for the recent snowfall, so he wanted to go to the park to try the sled out right away. So we all went together with hearts overwhelmed by joy!
My sons were having the time of their lives as they took turns sledding down the hill, building jump ramps, and playing around in the snow, while I watched and cheered. Then I noticed a man sitting on the bench beside mine. He looked friendly, so I introduced myself, and found out that his name was Melvin Brown.
"I came here to take my son to the park," he said, "as he wanted to try out the new sled he got for Christmas. It was quite the amazing thing that happened last night, but he was hoping for a sled and I wasn't able to get him one. But this morning when I opened my door, I found a box containing the sled he had hoped for!" We eventually realized that a local church charity had gone around to the schools in this poorer area of town, and had asked the children what they wanted for Christmas, and then had delivered the gifts.
"But how did they know about the other things we needed?" I asked. "I found boxes with groceries and food and clothes in them!"
"I don't know," said Melvin. "Maybe that part was from somebody else?"
"But who?" I asked.
"I have no idea. Probably the Christmas Angel!" he said half-jokingly.
My son Jason's prayer rang through in my mind, And please supply all of the rest of things that we need. Amen! A smile broke out on my face. "Of course. The Christmas Angel! Who else?" Then I started thinking about how Jesus came down on the first Christmas and was our Angel of mercy and love. My mind continued on in this train of thought as we watched our boys play together, each of them so happy and joyful. It was the best Christmas I could remember, because each of us carried the spirit of Christmas.
Times got better and I was able to find a well-paying job and move back into a better neighborhood. Also, Melvin and I had taken a liking to each other. I found out that he was a widower and single father, and my heart went out to him. One thing led to another, and in the fall of 1953 we were engaged and then married. Melvin's business took an upward turn, and things were starting to look up for us in more ways than one.
Looking back now, I always crack a smile, and think about how perfectly the Lord set everything up how He made me get to the end of my rope so that I had to cry out to Him to save me. And how He healed the bitterness I had in my heart towards Him and replaced it with gratitude and thankfulness.
Each Christmas, as I look at the angel atop the tree, I think back about the "miracle of the Christmas Angel," as we affectionately termed it, and it makes me remember how Jesus, the first "Christmas Angel," came to give His life for us, and to save us from our sins and teach us how to live in love. And with each passing Christmas, the angel on top of the tree continues to shine down on us, reminding us of Jesus' love and the miracles He does for each one of us, His children.
For most people, Christmas is a time of rejoicing and of goodwill to all men, but as Christmas of 1952 approached, I was feeling the lowest I had ever felt. My marriage had just fallen apart and I was left a single mother with two kids: Jason, nine years old, and little Francis, who was just five. My ex-husband wasn't faithful with his alimony and child support payments, so I was forced to find work and get a babysitter to help with the children after school. I missed them a lot, as I had always been there for them before, but in this situation we found ourselves in, there wasn't much else we could do.
At the time we also had to move into a poorer neighborhood, because we couldn't afford to continue paying the high rent for our previous apartment in the nicer part of town. It felt like one bad thing after another was happening to me, and I couldn't see a way out.
I would come back from work and pick up the kids, arrive home late with just enough time to cook them a meal, tuck them into bed, and say their prayers with them. In our prayers, we always held onto the hope that things would get better.
Christmas was just around the corner. With the small salary I made, I had saved up enough to get presents for the children, and a few of the special treats that make Christmas what it is. Or so I thought!
We had already set up the Christmas tree in our house, and the decorations and lights, sparse though they were, would still get oohs and aahs of admiration from my children. Now all that was left was for the presents to be placed under the tree, and the children were looking forward to this with great anticipation.
On the morning of the 23rd, the last day of work before the Christmas holidays, I left home early, dropped the children off at my parents', and went on my way. With all that was on my mind, I was a bit oblivious to the world around me, and I hadn't noticed the car in front of me had slowed down and was signaling his intent to make a left turn. Before I had time to slam on the brakes, I'd rear-ended him.
Great! I thought. Just what I needed! It wasn't such a bad accident, and my insurance would pay for the damage to his car, but it wouldn't cover the cost of repairs for my car and my rates would go up. I was mad at myself! Now I probably wouldn't be able to afford to get any extras that I knew the children were hoping for. So much for my Christmas shopping! I murmured.
The day passed slowly, and by the time work had ended, it was all I could do to drag myself out of the office and pick up the children. That night Jason offered to say the prayers. "Jesus, we pray for Your blessings on us at this time of Christmas" and then he went on into the Lord's Prayer. Just when he finished, as if he'd had an afterthought, he added, "And Lord, we know that You will supply all of our needs, and I would really want that sled that I saw in the store window today, so if You could do that for me, I would be very happy. And please supply all of the rest of the things that we need too. Amen!"
Francis, not wanting to miss out on the opportunity of adding his request, chimed in. "And I would really like one of those toy trucks, like my friend Richard has. Amen."
As I got into bed, I questioned the Lord. I was beginning to feel bitter about the hand in life He had dealt me. Why? I began to brood. Why now? Why at this time of Christmas, which is meant to be a joyful season and one of remembering when You came to Earth for us? "Lord," I whispered, "please don't disappoint Your children's faith in You."
I awoke with the sunrise, feeling much more refreshed because of the restful sleep I'd had. I went about my work of fixing the children breakfast. I opened the front door to let the dog out, and noticed several boxes on my doorstep that hadn't been there before. Surprised, I quickly opened one, and to my surprise found a sled just like the one Jason had prayed for. In one box were clothes and warm jackets, and in another were food staples, groceries, and even a few special treats.
I felt overjoyed, and so grateful for whoever the angel was that had brought these here. I opened the last box and found toys and playthings for the children including a truck that was almost exactly identical to my son's friend Richard's model.
Tears came to my eyes. Not knowing who the angel who had done this was, all I could say was, "Thank You! Thank You!" I still found it odd that someone could have known exactly what we needed and when we needed it. The children excitedly joined me in looking through the boxes. Jason was beside himself with delight to get the sled and also for the recent snowfall, so he wanted to go to the park to try the sled out right away. So we all went together with hearts overwhelmed by joy!
My sons were having the time of their lives as they took turns sledding down the hill, building jump ramps, and playing around in the snow, while I watched and cheered. Then I noticed a man sitting on the bench beside mine. He looked friendly, so I introduced myself, and found out that his name was Melvin Brown.
"I came here to take my son to the park," he said, "as he wanted to try out the new sled he got for Christmas. It was quite the amazing thing that happened last night, but he was hoping for a sled and I wasn't able to get him one. But this morning when I opened my door, I found a box containing the sled he had hoped for!" We eventually realized that a local church charity had gone around to the schools in this poorer area of town, and had asked the children what they wanted for Christmas, and then had delivered the gifts.
"But how did they know about the other things we needed?" I asked. "I found boxes with groceries and food and clothes in them!"
"I don't know," said Melvin. "Maybe that part was from somebody else?"
"But who?" I asked.
"I have no idea. Probably the Christmas Angel!" he said half-jokingly.
My son Jason's prayer rang through in my mind, And please supply all of the rest of things that we need. Amen! A smile broke out on my face. "Of course. The Christmas Angel! Who else?" Then I started thinking about how Jesus came down on the first Christmas and was our Angel of mercy and love. My mind continued on in this train of thought as we watched our boys play together, each of them so happy and joyful. It was the best Christmas I could remember, because each of us carried the spirit of Christmas.
Times got better and I was able to find a well-paying job and move back into a better neighborhood. Also, Melvin and I had taken a liking to each other. I found out that he was a widower and single father, and my heart went out to him. One thing led to another, and in the fall of 1953 we were engaged and then married. Melvin's business took an upward turn, and things were starting to look up for us in more ways than one.
Looking back now, I always crack a smile, and think about how perfectly the Lord set everything up how He made me get to the end of my rope so that I had to cry out to Him to save me. And how He healed the bitterness I had in my heart towards Him and replaced it with gratitude and thankfulness.
Each Christmas, as I look at the angel atop the tree, I think back about the "miracle of the Christmas Angel," as we affectionately termed it, and it makes me remember how Jesus, the first "Christmas Angel," came to give His life for us, and to save us from our sins and teach us how to live in love. And with each passing Christmas, the angel on top of the tree continues to shine down on us, reminding us of Jesus' love and the miracles He does for each one of us, His children.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Reptiles Reconciled
by Linda C. Raybern
I will never forget the Christmas of my seventh year. I was going to sing several carols with my classmates in the Christmas pageant at school. We had been practicing for about a month. A week before the pageant, my mother’s family had their Christmas celebration. Mother had been bragging about how I was to sing at school and I was cajoled into singing one of the carols for the Coulter clan gathered there.
Telling my aunt which carol to play, I sang out as sweetly and sincerely as only a seven-year-old can . . .
“Hark! Old Harold’s angel sings,
glory to the newborn King.
Peace on earth so mercy smiles’
cause God and reptiles reconciled . . .”
That is as far as I got because my aunt could no longer play the piano, she was laughing so hard. My uncle laughed so hard he spilled his drink on his lap and when he tried to mop it up; he lost his balance and slid out of his chair.
I was mortified. I had no idea why everyone was laughing at me. I burst into tears and ran upstairs to my bedroom crying. I really was surprised when my oldest and most straitlaced aunt came into my room. (I had always been a little afraid of her.) She tenderly took me in her arms and with loving words told me not to cry. Everyone was laughing because of the wonderful new words I had sung for that Christmas carol. And even though everyone else had learned it a different way, mine was so much better.
She kissed me and then washed my face and told me to come downstairs with her because there was a surprise waiting for me. Hand in hand we took the stairs down to the living room. Just as we got there, the music began to play and the whole Coulter clan began to sing my own words. As I stood listening to them sing my misconstrued version of “Hark the Herald Angels Sing,” I felt more loved than I ever had in my life.
My lips were still trembling as I stepped forward and began to sing. As my extended family sang carol after carol and arms slipped around each other in a warm familial glow, I realized Christmas wasn’t about festive decorations or the Christmas tree or even the gifts under it. Christmas was about love given freely and with joy.
As one of my older cousins gave me a squeeze and a smile, I was sure Hark, old Harold’s angel, was singing with us, and I had gotten the words right after all.
I will never forget the Christmas of my seventh year. I was going to sing several carols with my classmates in the Christmas pageant at school. We had been practicing for about a month. A week before the pageant, my mother’s family had their Christmas celebration. Mother had been bragging about how I was to sing at school and I was cajoled into singing one of the carols for the Coulter clan gathered there.
Telling my aunt which carol to play, I sang out as sweetly and sincerely as only a seven-year-old can . . .
“Hark! Old Harold’s angel sings,
glory to the newborn King.
Peace on earth so mercy smiles’
cause God and reptiles reconciled . . .”
That is as far as I got because my aunt could no longer play the piano, she was laughing so hard. My uncle laughed so hard he spilled his drink on his lap and when he tried to mop it up; he lost his balance and slid out of his chair.
I was mortified. I had no idea why everyone was laughing at me. I burst into tears and ran upstairs to my bedroom crying. I really was surprised when my oldest and most straitlaced aunt came into my room. (I had always been a little afraid of her.) She tenderly took me in her arms and with loving words told me not to cry. Everyone was laughing because of the wonderful new words I had sung for that Christmas carol. And even though everyone else had learned it a different way, mine was so much better.
She kissed me and then washed my face and told me to come downstairs with her because there was a surprise waiting for me. Hand in hand we took the stairs down to the living room. Just as we got there, the music began to play and the whole Coulter clan began to sing my own words. As I stood listening to them sing my misconstrued version of “Hark the Herald Angels Sing,” I felt more loved than I ever had in my life.
My lips were still trembling as I stepped forward and began to sing. As my extended family sang carol after carol and arms slipped around each other in a warm familial glow, I realized Christmas wasn’t about festive decorations or the Christmas tree or even the gifts under it. Christmas was about love given freely and with joy.
As one of my older cousins gave me a squeeze and a smile, I was sure Hark, old Harold’s angel, was singing with us, and I had gotten the words right after all.
Friday, December 18, 2009
The Best Christmas Eve
told by James E. Faust
A few years ago, Bill Lederer wrote to the Chief of Naval Operations in Washington, D.C. about a sailor who emulated the Christ, reaching out one Christmas Eve as one who would be Santa. He recalled:
Last year at Christmas time my wife, our three boys and I were in France, on our way from Paris to Nice in a rented car. For five wretched days everything had gone wrong. On Christmas Eve, when we checked into our hotel in Nice, there was no Christmas spirit in our hearts.
It was raining and cold when we went out to eat. We found a drab little restaurant shoddily decorated for the holiday. Only five tables were occupied. There were two German couples, two French families, and an American sailor. While eating, he was writing a letter.
My wife ordered our meal in French. The waiter brought us the wrong thing. I scolded my wife for being stupid.
Then, at the table with the French family on our left, the father slapped one of his children for some minor infraction and the boy began to cry.
On our right, the German wife began berating her husband.
All of us were interrupted by an unpleasant blast of cold air. Through the front door came an old flower woman. She wore a dripping, tattered overcoat, and shuffled in on wet, rundown shoes. She went from one table to the other.
"Flowers, Monsieur? Only one franc." No one bought any.
Wearily she sat down at a table between the sailor and us. To the waiter she said, "A bowl of soup. I haven't sold a flower all afternoon." To the piano player she said hoarsely, "Can you imagine, Joseph, soup on Christmas Eve?"
He pointed to his empty "tipping plate."
The young sailor finished his meal and got up. Putting on his coat, he walked over to the flower woman's table.
"Happy Christmas," he said, smiling and picking out two corsages. "How much are they?"
"Two francs, Monsieur."
Pressing one of the small corsages flat, he put it into the letter he had written, then handed the woman a 20-franc note.
"I don't have change, Monsieur," she said. "I'll get some from the waiter."
"No, Ma'am," said the sailor, leaning over and kissing the ancient cheek. "This is my Christmas present to you."
Then he came to our table, holding the other corsage in front of him. "Sir," he said to me, "may I have permission to present these flowers to your beautiful daughter?"
In one quick motion he gave my wife the corsage, wished us a Merry Christmas and departed. Everyone had stopped eating. Everyone had been watching the sailor.
A few seconds later Christmas exploded throughout the restaurant like a bomb.
The old flower woman jumped up, waving the 20-franc note, shouted to the piano player, "Joseph, my Christmas present! And you shall have half so you can have a feast too."
The piano player began to belt out Good King Wenceslaus.
My wife waved her corsage in time to the music. She appeared 20 years younger. She began to sing, and our three sons joined her, bellowing with enthusiasm.
"Gut! Gut!" shouted the Germans. They began singing in German.
The waiter embraced the flower woman. Waving their arms, they sang in French.
The Frenchman who had slapped the boy beat in rhythm with his fork against a glass. The lad, now on his lap, sang in a youthful soprano.
A few hours earlier 18 persons had been spending a miserable evening. It ended up being the happiest, the very best Christmas Eve they had ever experienced.
A few years ago, Bill Lederer wrote to the Chief of Naval Operations in Washington, D.C. about a sailor who emulated the Christ, reaching out one Christmas Eve as one who would be Santa. He recalled:
Last year at Christmas time my wife, our three boys and I were in France, on our way from Paris to Nice in a rented car. For five wretched days everything had gone wrong. On Christmas Eve, when we checked into our hotel in Nice, there was no Christmas spirit in our hearts.
It was raining and cold when we went out to eat. We found a drab little restaurant shoddily decorated for the holiday. Only five tables were occupied. There were two German couples, two French families, and an American sailor. While eating, he was writing a letter.
My wife ordered our meal in French. The waiter brought us the wrong thing. I scolded my wife for being stupid.
Then, at the table with the French family on our left, the father slapped one of his children for some minor infraction and the boy began to cry.
On our right, the German wife began berating her husband.
All of us were interrupted by an unpleasant blast of cold air. Through the front door came an old flower woman. She wore a dripping, tattered overcoat, and shuffled in on wet, rundown shoes. She went from one table to the other.
"Flowers, Monsieur? Only one franc." No one bought any.
Wearily she sat down at a table between the sailor and us. To the waiter she said, "A bowl of soup. I haven't sold a flower all afternoon." To the piano player she said hoarsely, "Can you imagine, Joseph, soup on Christmas Eve?"
He pointed to his empty "tipping plate."
The young sailor finished his meal and got up. Putting on his coat, he walked over to the flower woman's table.
"Happy Christmas," he said, smiling and picking out two corsages. "How much are they?"
"Two francs, Monsieur."
Pressing one of the small corsages flat, he put it into the letter he had written, then handed the woman a 20-franc note.
"I don't have change, Monsieur," she said. "I'll get some from the waiter."
"No, Ma'am," said the sailor, leaning over and kissing the ancient cheek. "This is my Christmas present to you."
Then he came to our table, holding the other corsage in front of him. "Sir," he said to me, "may I have permission to present these flowers to your beautiful daughter?"
In one quick motion he gave my wife the corsage, wished us a Merry Christmas and departed. Everyone had stopped eating. Everyone had been watching the sailor.
A few seconds later Christmas exploded throughout the restaurant like a bomb.
The old flower woman jumped up, waving the 20-franc note, shouted to the piano player, "Joseph, my Christmas present! And you shall have half so you can have a feast too."
The piano player began to belt out Good King Wenceslaus.
My wife waved her corsage in time to the music. She appeared 20 years younger. She began to sing, and our three sons joined her, bellowing with enthusiasm.
"Gut! Gut!" shouted the Germans. They began singing in German.
The waiter embraced the flower woman. Waving their arms, they sang in French.
The Frenchman who had slapped the boy beat in rhythm with his fork against a glass. The lad, now on his lap, sang in a youthful soprano.
A few hours earlier 18 persons had been spending a miserable evening. It ended up being the happiest, the very best Christmas Eve they had ever experienced.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
A Horse Trader's Christmas
Author Unknown
It was two days before Christmas and Sven Nickelson hoped he could make a few more good horse sales for Christmas because he knew business would be slim after that. Sven, locally known as, "Nick," was a horse trader who was known for his shrewd trades and high-priced horses. He always got all a horse was worth and more. He never traded without a bout, even if he was getting the best horse. He had a way of making his clients feel like they had to have the horse he was selling and they would have to pay the asking price.
Nick was sitting by his stove in the tack room when he heard a car pull up. He got up and watched as a young woman got out of an older car that looked like it was ready for the junk yard.
"She's not going to buy anything unless it is the old mare in the back," he thought to himself. It was obvious she didn't have the kind of money to buy the good stock in his corrals.
"Mr. Nickelson, I'm Mrs. Jackson and my son Jeff wants a horse for Christmas. He has been wanting that pretty little paint in your corral for a few months."
"We'll he must be a pretty good judge of horses because that little pony is registered and well broke," Nick informed her.
If she must have the pony, he thought he could surely jack up the price. So he told her it would the horse was $1,000. He told her in the right place, that horse would bring twice that much. She told him that all she had was $250 and she would need a saddle as well.
Nick was almost insulted that she would offer that price for such a fine animal. He chuckled and told her that wouldn't even buy the old mare out back.
Frustrated, Mrs. Jackson told him she had to get that horse for her ten year old son. She said he had wanted a horse all of his life and had fallen in love with this horse. Tears streamed down her face as she pleaded with him to consider selling the horse to her. He told her that he makes a living selling horses, not giving them away. He told her when she could afford more to come back and talk to him.
Slowly she walked back to her car as she brushed the tears off her cheeks with her coat sleeve. Nick shook his head as he watched her drive off. The nerve of some people thinking they could get the best of him!
Nick had to pick up some feed, so he climbed into his pickup and drove to town. He kept thinking about the lady and her reaction to his position. He wondered, what business do people with only $250 to spend, have buying horses? Her money would be better spent for groceries and shoes for her kids.
At the feed store, he ran into a fellow horse trader named Jack who asked him how business was going. Nick told him about the woman who wanted to buy his horse for $250. "Why that horse is worth at least $750," Jack replied. Then he asked Nick who had offered that for such a fine horse.
Nick told him it was Mrs. Jackson - the new family that moved into the Olsen home. "Well that explains it," Jack said. Then he added, "Their boy has a terminal illness and I heard they don't expect him to live more than a few months. Her husband has been out of work since early fall and when he was cutting wood for spending money, a tree fell and broke his leg."
That explained why she had reacted the way she had, Nick thought. She had about as much as one woman could handle. "If only I would have known, I sure wouldn't have talked to her the way I did," Nick said.
After getting his feed, Nick drove home. The whole way he kept thinking about the lady's problems and the hope she had for a horse to make her sick boy happy during his last Christmas.
That night and the next day were really tough for Nick. All he could think about was that lady and her sick son. Then he had an idea.
Christmas Eve night, Nick found himself cleaning up an old saddle that had been in the back room. Then he found a bridle and a blanket. With a halter in his hands, he walked out into the corral and caught the paint. After washing and trimming the pony, he put her in a box stall for the night.
"You are going to make a little boy real happy tomorrow," Nick said as he brushed her mane. All night he had a warm feeling. He couldn't sleep for the excitement he felt as he anticipated the events of the next morning.
Finally, when he couldn't stand to lay in bed any longer, he got up and hitched up his trailer to the back of his truck. The saddle and other tack were lifted up into the pick up along with three bales of hay and a sack of grain.
"It's time, let's go girl," Nick said as he put a halter on and led her out to the trailer.
The sun was just peaking over the ridge as he pulled into the Jackson's yard. The horse was unloaded and saddled before anyone heard him. As he was tying her up to the fence post, Tom Jackson came hobbling out to meet him.
"We can't afford your kind of horses Mr. Nickelson," he said.
"Call me Nick, Tom. I came as a friend. I heard about your son and I know you've come upon hard times. If you will let me, I will leave this horse for your boy as long as he needs him," replied Nick.
Tom started to argue with Nick that he couldn't let him do that because he knew he could sell the horse with no problem when he heard his son yell, "My horse! I knew the Lord wouldn't let me down!" Jeff ran over to the pony and threw his arms around her neck. The gentle horse just stood there as if she knew this little boy needed her more than anything right now.
Nick helped him up into the saddle and then watched as the paint walked him around the yard. Jeff was beaming and laughing as he sat proudly in the saddle.
This had been the best Christmas Nick had ever had and he knew he would never regret his decision to help a little boy on Christmas day.
It was two days before Christmas and Sven Nickelson hoped he could make a few more good horse sales for Christmas because he knew business would be slim after that. Sven, locally known as, "Nick," was a horse trader who was known for his shrewd trades and high-priced horses. He always got all a horse was worth and more. He never traded without a bout, even if he was getting the best horse. He had a way of making his clients feel like they had to have the horse he was selling and they would have to pay the asking price.
Nick was sitting by his stove in the tack room when he heard a car pull up. He got up and watched as a young woman got out of an older car that looked like it was ready for the junk yard.
"She's not going to buy anything unless it is the old mare in the back," he thought to himself. It was obvious she didn't have the kind of money to buy the good stock in his corrals.
"Mr. Nickelson, I'm Mrs. Jackson and my son Jeff wants a horse for Christmas. He has been wanting that pretty little paint in your corral for a few months."
"We'll he must be a pretty good judge of horses because that little pony is registered and well broke," Nick informed her.
If she must have the pony, he thought he could surely jack up the price. So he told her it would the horse was $1,000. He told her in the right place, that horse would bring twice that much. She told him that all she had was $250 and she would need a saddle as well.
Nick was almost insulted that she would offer that price for such a fine animal. He chuckled and told her that wouldn't even buy the old mare out back.
Frustrated, Mrs. Jackson told him she had to get that horse for her ten year old son. She said he had wanted a horse all of his life and had fallen in love with this horse. Tears streamed down her face as she pleaded with him to consider selling the horse to her. He told her that he makes a living selling horses, not giving them away. He told her when she could afford more to come back and talk to him.
Slowly she walked back to her car as she brushed the tears off her cheeks with her coat sleeve. Nick shook his head as he watched her drive off. The nerve of some people thinking they could get the best of him!
Nick had to pick up some feed, so he climbed into his pickup and drove to town. He kept thinking about the lady and her reaction to his position. He wondered, what business do people with only $250 to spend, have buying horses? Her money would be better spent for groceries and shoes for her kids.
At the feed store, he ran into a fellow horse trader named Jack who asked him how business was going. Nick told him about the woman who wanted to buy his horse for $250. "Why that horse is worth at least $750," Jack replied. Then he asked Nick who had offered that for such a fine horse.
Nick told him it was Mrs. Jackson - the new family that moved into the Olsen home. "Well that explains it," Jack said. Then he added, "Their boy has a terminal illness and I heard they don't expect him to live more than a few months. Her husband has been out of work since early fall and when he was cutting wood for spending money, a tree fell and broke his leg."
That explained why she had reacted the way she had, Nick thought. She had about as much as one woman could handle. "If only I would have known, I sure wouldn't have talked to her the way I did," Nick said.
After getting his feed, Nick drove home. The whole way he kept thinking about the lady's problems and the hope she had for a horse to make her sick boy happy during his last Christmas.
That night and the next day were really tough for Nick. All he could think about was that lady and her sick son. Then he had an idea.
Christmas Eve night, Nick found himself cleaning up an old saddle that had been in the back room. Then he found a bridle and a blanket. With a halter in his hands, he walked out into the corral and caught the paint. After washing and trimming the pony, he put her in a box stall for the night.
"You are going to make a little boy real happy tomorrow," Nick said as he brushed her mane. All night he had a warm feeling. He couldn't sleep for the excitement he felt as he anticipated the events of the next morning.
Finally, when he couldn't stand to lay in bed any longer, he got up and hitched up his trailer to the back of his truck. The saddle and other tack were lifted up into the pick up along with three bales of hay and a sack of grain.
"It's time, let's go girl," Nick said as he put a halter on and led her out to the trailer.
The sun was just peaking over the ridge as he pulled into the Jackson's yard. The horse was unloaded and saddled before anyone heard him. As he was tying her up to the fence post, Tom Jackson came hobbling out to meet him.
"We can't afford your kind of horses Mr. Nickelson," he said.
"Call me Nick, Tom. I came as a friend. I heard about your son and I know you've come upon hard times. If you will let me, I will leave this horse for your boy as long as he needs him," replied Nick.
Tom started to argue with Nick that he couldn't let him do that because he knew he could sell the horse with no problem when he heard his son yell, "My horse! I knew the Lord wouldn't let me down!" Jeff ran over to the pony and threw his arms around her neck. The gentle horse just stood there as if she knew this little boy needed her more than anything right now.
Nick helped him up into the saddle and then watched as the paint walked him around the yard. Jeff was beaming and laughing as he sat proudly in the saddle.
This had been the best Christmas Nick had ever had and he knew he would never regret his decision to help a little boy on Christmas day.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Finding the Christmas Spirit
by Sandi Schureman
Time was running out. It was December 24, Christmas Eve, and I still hadn’t found that magical feeling, the spirit of Christmas. I had done the things that I thought would bring it—attended my children’s school performance of Christmas carols, decorated our tree, baked, shopped, wrapped. Yet nothing seemed to spark the Christmas spirit within me. I had resigned myself to the fact that this just might not be a very good Christmas.
My husband, Steve, a firefighter, was on his routine 24-hour shift at the firehouse, which meant he would not be home for either Christmas Eve or Christmas morning. Our four children and I were eager to spend what time we could with him, so we all drove down to the station.
As we arrived, the firefighters had just returned from a first-aid call to a nearby motel, where they had rendered care to a young boy with a fever and other symptoms. My husband expressed to us his feelings of concern and his desire to do something more for the boy and his brother and their mother. They had fled an abusive, alcoholic situation and were now hundreds of miles from home, with one change of clothes each, very little money, and now an ill child on Christmas Eve.
Steve looked at me and at each of our children and asked, “What else can we do to help them? We picked up a small tree on the way back to the station that we want to decorate for them, but what more can we do this late?” It was 9:25 P.M. Our children began a clamor of ideas. My daughter was sure a toy store somewhere was still open.
My oldest son, then fifteen years old, offered a prayer and asked Heavenly Father to guide us to a place where we would find the gifts we needed. This filled the children with hope that we could find a toy store still open. I didn’t share their hope, largely because even if we did find a store open, I didn’t know how we would pay for anything we found. I wanted to share, as much as my children did, but this Christmas was already our leanest ever.
Our own children were receiving only two gifts each. Still, we drove eagerly around looking for anything open, planning to meet Steve and the other firefighters back at the motel room before the little family returned from the hospital, where they’d gone for medicine.
Every store we saw was closed. Then one of my sons said, “Hey, I know somewhere that’s open.”
“Yeah, and they’ve got presents already wrapped!” declared the other son.
Wondering what they were talking about, I pulled the car to the side of the street, and in frustration I turned to the kids and asked, “Oh, yeah, just where is this great place?”
Their answer was so enthusiastic and genuine that it instantly ignited within me the flame of the Christmas spirit. “We can go to our house,” they chimed together. “The presents are already wrapped and under the tree.”
I asked them each if they really wanted to do this, and their eager response was, “Yes! Yes! Now hurry!” Once we were home, I watched with wonder as each pulled name tags off of their presents and each picked certain ornaments from our tree. At first, I was surprised to see that the ornaments they picked were the ones they themselves had made over the years. Then I realized that they were giving of themselves, and these had special value.
Two of my boys came out of their bedroom with their baseball gloves, their “pride and joy” mitts. We loaded the presents, some tree lights, and candy and goodies that were our family’s stocking stuffers, and we were off to the motel. The manager let us into the austere little room, and we set right to work with the firefighters, who had also brought things. We set the tree on the tabletop and adorned it with lights and the ornaments. Some of the firefighters hung candy bars and twenty-dollar bills on it with paper clips. Presents were in place under the tree, canned goods stacked in the corner, and clothes for the mother and children folded neatly on the night stand. The room had been transformed.
On each of the bed pillows lay a somewhat used baseball glove from our boys, and I saw my fifteen year old place between the mitts one of his most prized possessions. It was his home run baseball. I doubted that the little boys receiving this prize could possibly know what a sacrifice this was or what a revered spot it had held in my son’s room for the past six months. But that moment I knew that in my son’s heart, the spirit of Christmas flamed brightly, lighting that little room even after we turned off all the lights except the diamond-like ones on the tree.
I had almost given up on finding that precious spirit of Christmas. But it was given to me by my dear husband who recognized a need when he saw it, my children who so eagerly responded, and my Savior, whose love for all mankind serves to remind me that I’ll never need to be without the Christmas spirit again. I realized as never before that the Christmas spirit comes to us as we give of ourselves to others.
Time was running out. It was December 24, Christmas Eve, and I still hadn’t found that magical feeling, the spirit of Christmas. I had done the things that I thought would bring it—attended my children’s school performance of Christmas carols, decorated our tree, baked, shopped, wrapped. Yet nothing seemed to spark the Christmas spirit within me. I had resigned myself to the fact that this just might not be a very good Christmas.
My husband, Steve, a firefighter, was on his routine 24-hour shift at the firehouse, which meant he would not be home for either Christmas Eve or Christmas morning. Our four children and I were eager to spend what time we could with him, so we all drove down to the station.
As we arrived, the firefighters had just returned from a first-aid call to a nearby motel, where they had rendered care to a young boy with a fever and other symptoms. My husband expressed to us his feelings of concern and his desire to do something more for the boy and his brother and their mother. They had fled an abusive, alcoholic situation and were now hundreds of miles from home, with one change of clothes each, very little money, and now an ill child on Christmas Eve.
Steve looked at me and at each of our children and asked, “What else can we do to help them? We picked up a small tree on the way back to the station that we want to decorate for them, but what more can we do this late?” It was 9:25 P.M. Our children began a clamor of ideas. My daughter was sure a toy store somewhere was still open.
My oldest son, then fifteen years old, offered a prayer and asked Heavenly Father to guide us to a place where we would find the gifts we needed. This filled the children with hope that we could find a toy store still open. I didn’t share their hope, largely because even if we did find a store open, I didn’t know how we would pay for anything we found. I wanted to share, as much as my children did, but this Christmas was already our leanest ever.
Our own children were receiving only two gifts each. Still, we drove eagerly around looking for anything open, planning to meet Steve and the other firefighters back at the motel room before the little family returned from the hospital, where they’d gone for medicine.
Every store we saw was closed. Then one of my sons said, “Hey, I know somewhere that’s open.”
“Yeah, and they’ve got presents already wrapped!” declared the other son.
Wondering what they were talking about, I pulled the car to the side of the street, and in frustration I turned to the kids and asked, “Oh, yeah, just where is this great place?”
Their answer was so enthusiastic and genuine that it instantly ignited within me the flame of the Christmas spirit. “We can go to our house,” they chimed together. “The presents are already wrapped and under the tree.”
I asked them each if they really wanted to do this, and their eager response was, “Yes! Yes! Now hurry!” Once we were home, I watched with wonder as each pulled name tags off of their presents and each picked certain ornaments from our tree. At first, I was surprised to see that the ornaments they picked were the ones they themselves had made over the years. Then I realized that they were giving of themselves, and these had special value.
Two of my boys came out of their bedroom with their baseball gloves, their “pride and joy” mitts. We loaded the presents, some tree lights, and candy and goodies that were our family’s stocking stuffers, and we were off to the motel. The manager let us into the austere little room, and we set right to work with the firefighters, who had also brought things. We set the tree on the tabletop and adorned it with lights and the ornaments. Some of the firefighters hung candy bars and twenty-dollar bills on it with paper clips. Presents were in place under the tree, canned goods stacked in the corner, and clothes for the mother and children folded neatly on the night stand. The room had been transformed.
On each of the bed pillows lay a somewhat used baseball glove from our boys, and I saw my fifteen year old place between the mitts one of his most prized possessions. It was his home run baseball. I doubted that the little boys receiving this prize could possibly know what a sacrifice this was or what a revered spot it had held in my son’s room for the past six months. But that moment I knew that in my son’s heart, the spirit of Christmas flamed brightly, lighting that little room even after we turned off all the lights except the diamond-like ones on the tree.
I had almost given up on finding that precious spirit of Christmas. But it was given to me by my dear husband who recognized a need when he saw it, my children who so eagerly responded, and my Savior, whose love for all mankind serves to remind me that I’ll never need to be without the Christmas spirit again. I realized as never before that the Christmas spirit comes to us as we give of ourselves to others.
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