My Worst Christmas was one of my Best

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grandma’s Magic

By Candy Lish Fowler

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

"Just a little homesick," I stuttered.

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

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

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

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

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

"What's the matter?" Bill asked.

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

"This is awful," complained Matthew.

"I hate this," sulked Kip.

"This is dumb," Betsy said in tears.

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

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

"Mom, how could you?" Katie questioned.

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

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

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

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

“Away in a manger no crib for a bed,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The little Lord Jesus asleep on the hay.”

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

Mrs. Schwartz's Ornaments

By F. Rex Nielsen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When Santa Wore Blue and Gold

By Mary D. James

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Tomato Plant Christmas Tree

By Aralee Scothern

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Or remember how he loved the county fair?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three Pieces of Chalk

By Mary Balagna

As I was listening to a radio show, the commentators were asking listeners to call in with their "worst Christmas gift ever" memories. Of course, the usual "wrong size," "ugly fabric or color," "not-my-style" and "various items termed useless junk" gifts were frequently mentioned. The conversation immediately took me to our annual Christmas party and gift exchange at our grade school, reminding me of what I had thought was "the worst gift I had ever received."

Students were asked to spend 50 cents on a gift, which would be anonymously given to a fellow student. Keep in mind this was the early ’60s and you could actually find a great gift for 50 cents. The gift needed to be gender-neutral — something that would be appropriate for either a boy or a girl.

My mom and I shopped for my gift and settled on a "Book of Lifesavers" — 10 rolls of assorted flavors of Lifesavers tucked away in a festive holiday gift book. It even contained an entire roll of Cherry Lifesavers — my absolute favorite! I was so thrilled with our purchase that if I could have chosen it as my own gift, I would have. But I knew that instead, one of my classmates would hit the jackpot when they opened my gift at our party.

We played games and ate treats and then when the time came, our teacher handed each of us one of the wrapped gifts from under our class Christmas tree. When we were finally given permission to open our gifts, the wrapping paper began to fly as each of us literally tore into our gifts. When I opened my package, I remember my heart sinking as I discovered three pieces of white chalk.

That was my gift. Three pieces of white chalk. That was what I received in exchange for 10 rolls of delicious Lifesavers in a beautiful holiday book. And the most difficult part: how could I possibly show genuine gratitude for such a gift, knowing it was the worst gift given to anyone in the class? Well, my mom always insisted that we be thankful for whatever we received, no matter what.

So, that's what I did. I pretended to be happy for my gift of three pieces of chalk, even though I wasn't. I pretended I actually needed my gift of three pieces of chalk, even though I didn't. I pretended not to mind that my beautiful holiday book of Lifesavers was going to someone else, even though I did mind. It probably took about 2½ minutes for the gifts to be opened and the festivities to end, but it was actually 2½ minutes of my life that I will never forget.

While I was "in the moment" of opening my gift, I didn't realize that someone was watching me. Actually, two people were watching me. My teacher approached me after the party and thanked me for accepting my gift graciously, even though she knew my gift was a bit disappointing to me. That made me feel better. Later I found out my gift came from a girl in my class who had several brothers and sisters. They were a poor family and purchasing a 50-cent gift for each of their children to take to school was nearly an impossible task. Dividing up a box of chalk between their children who would then take three pieces each and give them as their gift to their classmates was a true sacrifice. That little girl was watching me as well as I opened her gift.

Fortunately, my mom taught me well and I passed the "how to express your gratitude no matter what you receive" test. I can now only imagine what it would have done to her had I not been gracious. I guess that deep down, I knew the gift I was given was just that — a gift. A potentially negative situation actually created a good memory I will never forget. I have come to realize my gift of chalk really wasn't my worst gift ever … in fact, I don't believe I ever have had a "worst gift." Why? Because the words "worst" and "gift" just don't go together in my book.

Gifts, decorations, lights, music, trees, candy canes, cookies, peace on earth and goodwill toward men will always be synonymous with Christmas. But the very best gift … the FIRST gift of Christmas … will always be Him, our Savior, Jesus Christ.

“May I buy your groceries?”

By Catherine Wilkinson of wordcook.net 2015

Rather than buy ourselves and our young adult children gifts this Christmas, we decided to walk the walk. You know. That walk where you stop indulging yourself with increasingly frivolous items and actually reach out to help others not as fortunate.

We bought several Walmart gift cards with funds we would have used to buy our gifts for one another and our kids. Then our daughter and daughter-in-law (who is pregnant with twins, our 10th and 11th grandchildren, so yes, we have more than enough blessings in our life), Mr. Wilkinson and I went to our local Walmart yesterday, a beautiful Sunday morning. Not quite knowing how to do what we wanted to do, just praying we’d get it right and not embarrass anyone or get arrested. Our girls decided on an approach, took the gift cards, and my husband and I stood at a distance, ready to help if needed.

The girls walked along and watched the check-out lines, and when they felt a tug at their kind hearts, they went up to people ready to check out and asked, “May I buy your groceries?”

The initial responses were ones of shock and disbelief. No one was rude, or dismissive. They just wanted to know why. The girls answered that they were part of a family who decided this was the way they wanted to celebrate Christmas. Then a few asked if they were with a church or an organization. No, the girls said, we are just a regular family and this is our gift to you! No strings attached! From us!

Then the miracles came.

The first one, a young Mom, with a cart of food and just a couple of tiny presents for her little son, broke down in sobs, confiding that she “didn’t know how I could afford any of this”. Her hugs and her tears washed away all the nervousness our girls felt at first. They helped her bag her groceries and they all held one another for a long time, before this young woman left the store, trying hard not to sob.

The girls then quickly went to an obviously worn-out and defeated looking Dad, with 4 young sons. Beat down and broke, you can bet. In the check-out line, counting the bills in his wallet, nervously. “May I buy everything in your cart, sir?” they said. Again, the disbelief, the tears, the hugs, and the sincere, very heartfelt gratitude. That seismic shock you felt at 10:47 am yesterday? That was a huge crack opening in my cynical heart as I watched this.

Two elderly ladies, with one cart between them, barely full with just the most very basic things. A 2 pack of toilet paper. A small package of ham. A little pumpkin pie with red bow on top. Cans of cheap cat food. I doubt they had cats. They were the most unbelieving of all – they were literally paralyzed with shock. One had dementia and couldn’t really understand what was going on, but the other couldn’t believe “anyone cared about us” and “no one has been this kind to me in 75 years”.

There were people who smiled and merely told our girls, “No thank you! We are very blessed and in a good place, so please help someone who needs it!” Pay it forward without getting a thing. I like it.

The disabled veteran in a wheelchair, the lonely, unhappy looking girl, the young family with formula and diapers, the older lady who reminded our daughter of her beloved, departed grandma. Their surprise, their joy, their relief, their gratitude. All of them giving us more than we could ever give them.

It was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever experienced.

And then there was the guy with the tattoos and the swagger and the backward ball cap. My husband saw our daughter approach him and started to get upset because he thought this guy didn’t look “needy”. But it turned out, he was one of the most appreciative and gracious people she interacted with. He couldn’t believe anyone would do this for “Me? You’re doing this for ME?” A misfit, maybe. Who cares? Jesus didn’t. And either did our daughter. I saw him transformed by our daughter, who was smiling as big as I have ever seen. As he left, he keep stopping and looking back at her, shaking his head with disbelief, waving, and smiling. His gift was far more than a gift card.

This heaven on earth continued and each time, the glow from our girls got brighter and brighter.
Who was giving who what?

Me and Mr. Wilkinson? We just wept and tried to hold it together. And tried to stay anonymous. I did speak with a few lovely people, who noticed me watching (I guess I’m not as subtle as I thought…it was probably the wailing) and came up to me with such open and raw emotion, I could hardly speak. One woman, standing there holding my husband’s hand and telling him she lost her husband that very day, a few years ago. And my husband’s face as he remembered he lost his own father on that every same day.

The cashiers with their Santa hats wept, we wept, people we will never see again, wept, hugged, believing that, at least for a little while, people cared about them. We gave the cashiers the last of the gift cards and they promptly gave them back to their customers. How. Completely. Awesome.

I was one of those people who made fun of the “people of Walmart”. And I’m an idiot. I don’t know anyone’s story, their background, their pain or their journey in this world. I judge the badly dressed, the overweight, the sloppy, the ignorant, the ill-mannered. The same ones, yesterday, who cried when someone offered them a small kindness. The ones who, when they figured out what my husband and I were doing hiding in the jewelry section across from the check-out lanes, came running over, looked us right in the eye, thanked us and complimented on our wonderful girls. There’s MY gift, right there. I haven’t gotten anything as precious as that.

So, I ask again – who was giving who what??

I absolutely did not want to share this story. There seemed to be no way to tell it without it reeking of self-satisfaction and self-congratulation. Ugh. I was encouraged (forced) by a very close friend, whom I did share it with, to go ahead and write about it. So I’m sharing it with the hope and prayer that other people can find their own Holy Land, and make a pilgrimage there to honor the birth of Jesus Christ by actually living His sacred message of sharing and sacrifice for others.

It starts with a question. Ask it first. Let it be answered. “Ask and you shall receive.”
And boy, did we receive.

“May I buy your groceries?”