by Sandra Bateman
It was but a few short days until Christmas in 1966. Two young elders of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints walked the streets of Laredo, Texas, knocking on doors in search of someone who would listen to their gospel message. No one, it seemed, in the entire city had time to hear the teachings of the Savior, so intent were they that the celebration of His birth should suit their own purposes.
Filled with discouragement, the two young men turned their backs to the approaching twilight and began the long walk home. Retracing their steps of the afternoon, they came upon a low, wind-swept riverbank. Jutting from its brow stood the barest means of a shelter, constructed of weathered wooden slats and large pieces of cardboard. Strangely, they felt moved to go to the door and knock.
A small, olive-skinned child with tangled black hair and large dark eyes answered. Her mother appeared behind her, a short, thin woman with a tired but warm smile. In her rich Spanish alto, she invited the young men to come in and rest a while. They were made welcome and seated on the clean-swept floor. The little one-room shanty seemed to be filled with shy, smiling, dark-eyed children. The mother proudly introduced each of them--eight in all--and each in turn quickly bobbed his or her head.
The young men were deeply moved at the extreme poverty they saw. No one in the family had shoes, and their clothes were ill-fitting and in condition beyond mending. The walls of the little home showed daylight between the wooden slats, and eight little rolls of bedding were pressed tightly into the cracks to help keep out the draft until they were needed for sleeping. A small round fire pit dug in one corner marked the kitchen. An odd assortment of chipped dishes and pots were stacked beside an old ice chest, and a curtained-off section with a cracked porcelain tub served as the bathing area. Except for these, the room was barren.
The mother told how her husband had gone north to find employment. He had written that he had found a job of manual labor and that it took most of his small wages to pay his board and room. But, she told the young men, he had managed to save fifty cents to send them for Christmas, with which she had purchased two boxes of fruit gelatin. It was one of the children's favorites and would make a special treat on Christmas day.
The next morning, as soon as the local shops opened, the young men hurried to the dime store and purchased as many crayons, cars, trucks and little inexpensive toys as they could afford. Each was carefully wrapped in brightly colored paper and all were put in a large grocery bag. That evening the two young men took their gifts to the shanty on the riverbank. When they knocked, the mother swung the door open wide and invited them in. They stepped inside and in halting Spanish explained to the children that they had seen Santa and he had been in such a hurry, he'd asked if they would deliver his gifts to the children for him.
With cries of delight the children scrambled for the bag, spilling its contents upon the floor and quickly dividing the treasured packages. Silently the mother's eyes filled with tears of gratitude. She stepped forward to clasp tightly one of each of the young men's hands in hers. For long moments she was unable to speak. Then, with tears still welling from her eyes, she smiled and said, "No one ever has been so kind. You have given us a special gift, the kind of love that lights Christmas in the heart. May we also give you a special gift?" From the corner of the room she drew out the two small boxes of fruit gelatin and handed them to the young men. Then all eyes were moist. All knew the true meaning of giving, and none would ever forget that at Christmas, the greatest gift of all was given.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Monday, December 7, 2009
Green Ink
by Laura Smith
The rush of Christmas was again upon me. I was opening a stack of Christmas cards, glancing quickly at photos of friends’ children while listening to my four-year-old daughter rehearse the Little Drummer Boy for her preschool Christmas program. My mind swirled with commitments, cookie recipes and carols, and then it froze.
Staring at the letter in my hand, I couldn’t draw oxygen. My ears burned as if I had just come from the December cold into a heated house.
I opened the envelope to find, not a Christmas card, but a letter signed by Helen’s four children letting me know of the unfortunate passing of their beloved mother. Forty-seven years had passed since Helen Tibbals walked into my mom’s living room. I dropped to my kitchen floor, shaking, while tears flowed down my face for the loss of this angel. And then I smiled. Helen was in heaven where she had always belonged and from where she certainly had come. My mom has told her tale so many times I can still smell the scent of spruce and hear the clang of ornaments in the living room of their house on Hollywood Place:
We heard the sound of someone knocking. Grandma opened the squeaky front door of her small home, where my three brothers, my sister, my mother, and I lived. A slim redheaded woman and her teenage boy stood smiling at us. I watched in awe as the two strangers carried arm loads of packages wrapped in red with our names written on white tags in green ink. They also lugged a pine tree, strings of colored lights and glass ornaments, transforming the drab room from black and white to Technicolor. I backed against the threadbare couch to allow her and her son room to unload these treasures. They brought Christmas into our living room.
The woman in the green silk dress introduced herself as Helen Tibbals and her awkward looking son as Todd Junior. She was a member of First Community Church, the same church we attended, and explained that she had taken a paper gift tag shaped like the star of Bethlehem off the Christmas tree standing in the church vestibule. It had our name on it. She was all lipstick and smiles and smelled like the department store downtown. The sharp scent of peppermint filled my nose as she opened a box of candy canes and invited us to join in decorating the evergreen. All the while, she asked questions about us kids as if we were her own. I had so many questions for her, but was too shy to ask them. Where had this angel and her elf come from, and why did she care so much about my family?
Helen was the gift of Christmas present, not past. A reminder that despite a father who had deserted us, a terminally ill mother and the fact that all five of us lived in a two-bedroom home with my mother and grandmother, God’s hope and love lived in the world.
Helen became much more than a Christmas gift; she became a part of Mom’s family. Until my mom and her siblings graduated from high school, Helen regularly brought them school supplies, new clothes and chocolates. She even sent them to summer camp each year. When my grandmother struggled with breast cancer, Helen brought candy bars and magazines to the small home as if she were Grandmother’s sister. When my mom, aunt and uncles were in college, Helen wrote them faithfully, always using her signature green pen. She attended my grandmother’s funeral, my mother’s graduation from high school and my parents’ wedding.
Helen’s generosity expanded to the next generation as she adopted my brother and me as grandchildren, including us in her umbrella of selfless giving. She invited us to her home each summer for a feast and a stroll around her goldfish pond. Every birthday, gifts arrived at our house, our names written across the top in green felt-tip marker. I remember the excitement of seeing an envelope with my name scrawled in Helen’s green ink every Easter and Valentine’s Day. Poinsettias in December would bear her green signature, and even the place cards at the annual Christmas dinner at her club, where she made sure that the waiter kept our Shirley Temples refilled, were written in green ink.
I was still weepy when my husband, Brett, came home from work. I pulled a boiling pot of pasta off the stove, placed it in the sink and scooped up our toddler, Max, whose hands reached to the sky. “Hold, Mama, hold.”
I pointed to the tear-spotted letter on the counter.
Brett set his keys down and scanned the note. He turned and wrapped his strong arms around my quaking body. Soon I was able to exhale and push a smile onto my streaked face.
“Honey, can you get an extra name off the Giving Tree at church this year?” I swallowed hard, then continued. “Helen came into my mom’s life by picking her name from a tree. I would like to follow her example.”
“Of course,” he smiled and kissed me on the tip of my nose.
The next day when Brett came home from work, he pulled two yellow pieces of paper cut in the shapes of mittens from the pocket of his parka.
“The directions said to put our name on the half of the tag still hanging on the tree so the church would know who was responsible for that gift,” Brett explained while easing his briefcase off his shoulder. “I guess that way no child will go unaccounted for.”
I nodded while drying my hands on the holly-embroidered towel by the kitchen sink.
“I wrote B. Smith on this tag, our tag,” he said, holding up one of the canary-colored cards. “And on this mitten,” my husband’s turquoise eyes twinkled, “I wrote ‘H. Tibbals’- in green ink.”
The rush of Christmas was again upon me. I was opening a stack of Christmas cards, glancing quickly at photos of friends’ children while listening to my four-year-old daughter rehearse the Little Drummer Boy for her preschool Christmas program. My mind swirled with commitments, cookie recipes and carols, and then it froze.
Staring at the letter in my hand, I couldn’t draw oxygen. My ears burned as if I had just come from the December cold into a heated house.
I opened the envelope to find, not a Christmas card, but a letter signed by Helen’s four children letting me know of the unfortunate passing of their beloved mother. Forty-seven years had passed since Helen Tibbals walked into my mom’s living room. I dropped to my kitchen floor, shaking, while tears flowed down my face for the loss of this angel. And then I smiled. Helen was in heaven where she had always belonged and from where she certainly had come. My mom has told her tale so many times I can still smell the scent of spruce and hear the clang of ornaments in the living room of their house on Hollywood Place:
We heard the sound of someone knocking. Grandma opened the squeaky front door of her small home, where my three brothers, my sister, my mother, and I lived. A slim redheaded woman and her teenage boy stood smiling at us. I watched in awe as the two strangers carried arm loads of packages wrapped in red with our names written on white tags in green ink. They also lugged a pine tree, strings of colored lights and glass ornaments, transforming the drab room from black and white to Technicolor. I backed against the threadbare couch to allow her and her son room to unload these treasures. They brought Christmas into our living room.
The woman in the green silk dress introduced herself as Helen Tibbals and her awkward looking son as Todd Junior. She was a member of First Community Church, the same church we attended, and explained that she had taken a paper gift tag shaped like the star of Bethlehem off the Christmas tree standing in the church vestibule. It had our name on it. She was all lipstick and smiles and smelled like the department store downtown. The sharp scent of peppermint filled my nose as she opened a box of candy canes and invited us to join in decorating the evergreen. All the while, she asked questions about us kids as if we were her own. I had so many questions for her, but was too shy to ask them. Where had this angel and her elf come from, and why did she care so much about my family?
Helen was the gift of Christmas present, not past. A reminder that despite a father who had deserted us, a terminally ill mother and the fact that all five of us lived in a two-bedroom home with my mother and grandmother, God’s hope and love lived in the world.
Helen became much more than a Christmas gift; she became a part of Mom’s family. Until my mom and her siblings graduated from high school, Helen regularly brought them school supplies, new clothes and chocolates. She even sent them to summer camp each year. When my grandmother struggled with breast cancer, Helen brought candy bars and magazines to the small home as if she were Grandmother’s sister. When my mom, aunt and uncles were in college, Helen wrote them faithfully, always using her signature green pen. She attended my grandmother’s funeral, my mother’s graduation from high school and my parents’ wedding.
Helen’s generosity expanded to the next generation as she adopted my brother and me as grandchildren, including us in her umbrella of selfless giving. She invited us to her home each summer for a feast and a stroll around her goldfish pond. Every birthday, gifts arrived at our house, our names written across the top in green felt-tip marker. I remember the excitement of seeing an envelope with my name scrawled in Helen’s green ink every Easter and Valentine’s Day. Poinsettias in December would bear her green signature, and even the place cards at the annual Christmas dinner at her club, where she made sure that the waiter kept our Shirley Temples refilled, were written in green ink.
I was still weepy when my husband, Brett, came home from work. I pulled a boiling pot of pasta off the stove, placed it in the sink and scooped up our toddler, Max, whose hands reached to the sky. “Hold, Mama, hold.”
I pointed to the tear-spotted letter on the counter.
Brett set his keys down and scanned the note. He turned and wrapped his strong arms around my quaking body. Soon I was able to exhale and push a smile onto my streaked face.
“Honey, can you get an extra name off the Giving Tree at church this year?” I swallowed hard, then continued. “Helen came into my mom’s life by picking her name from a tree. I would like to follow her example.”
“Of course,” he smiled and kissed me on the tip of my nose.
The next day when Brett came home from work, he pulled two yellow pieces of paper cut in the shapes of mittens from the pocket of his parka.
“The directions said to put our name on the half of the tag still hanging on the tree so the church would know who was responsible for that gift,” Brett explained while easing his briefcase off his shoulder. “I guess that way no child will go unaccounted for.”
I nodded while drying my hands on the holly-embroidered towel by the kitchen sink.
“I wrote B. Smith on this tag, our tag,” he said, holding up one of the canary-colored cards. “And on this mitten,” my husband’s turquoise eyes twinkled, “I wrote ‘H. Tibbals’- in green ink.”
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Rudolph - That Amazing Reindeer
Author Unknown
On a December night in Chicago several years ago, a little girl climbed onto her father's lap and asked a question. It was a simple question, asked in children's curiosity, yet it had a heartrending effect on Robert May.
"Daddy," four-year-old Barbara asked, "Why isn't my Mommy just like everybody else's mommy?"
Bob May stole a glance across his shabby two room apartment. On a couch lay his young wife, Evelyn, racked with cancer. For two years she had been bedridden; for two years, all Bob's income and smaller savings had gone to pay for treatments and medicines.
The terrible ordeal already had shattered two adult lives. Now Bob suddenly realized the happiness of his growing daughter was also in jeopardy. As he ran his fingers through Barbara's hair, he prayed for some satisfactory answer to her question.
Bob May knew only too well what it meant to be "different." As a child he had been weak and delicate. With the innocent cruelty of children, his playmates had continually goaded the stunted, skinny lad to tears. Later at Dartmouth, from which he was graduated in 1926, Bob May was so small that he was always being mistaken for someone's little brother.
Nor was his adult life much happier. Unlike many of his classmates who floated from college into plush jobs, Bob became a lowly copy writer for Montgomery Ward, the big Chicago mail order house. Now at 33 Bob was deep in debt, depressed and sad.
Although Bob did not know it at the time, the answer he gave the tousled haired child on his lap was to bring him to fame and fortune. It was also to bring joy to countless thousands of children like his own Barbara. On that December night in the shabby Chicago apartment, Bob cradled his little girl's head against his shoulder and began to tell a story...
"Once upon a time there was a reindeer named Rudolph, the only reindeer in the world that had a big red nose. Naturally people called him Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer." As Bob went on to tell about Rudolph, he tried desperately to communicate to Barbara the knowledge that, even though some creatures of God are strange and different, they often enjoy the miraculous power to make others happy.
Rudolph, Bob explained, was terribly embarrassed by his unique nose. Other reindeer laughed at him; his mother and father and sister were mortified too. Even Rudolph wallowed in self pity.
"Well," continued Bob, "one Christmas Eve, Santa Claus got his team of husky reindeer - Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, and Vixen ready for their yearly trip around the world. The entire reindeer community assembled to cheer these great heroes on their way. But a terrible fog engulfed the earth that evening, and Santa knew that the mist was so thick he wouldn't be able to find any chimneys.
Suddenly Rudolph appeared, his red nose glowing brighter than ever. Santa sensed at once that here was the answer to his perplexing problem. He led Rudolph to the front of the sleigh, fastened the harness and climbed in. They were off! Rudolph guided Santa safely to every chimney that night. Rain and fog, snow and sleet; nothing bothered Rudolph, for his bright nose penetrated the mist like a beacon.
And so it was that Rudolph became the most famous and beloved of all the reindeer. The huge red nose he once hid in shame was now the envy of every buck and doe in the reindeer world. Santa Claus told everyone that Rudolph had saved the day, and from that Christmas, Rudolph has been living serenely and happy."
Little Barbara laughed with glee when her father finished. Every night she begged him to repeat the tale until finally Bob could rattle it off in his sleep. Then, at Christmas time he decided to make the story into a poem like "The Night Before Christmas" and prepare it in bookish form, illustrated with pictures for Barbara's personal gift. Night after night, Bob worked on the verses after Barbara had gone to bed. For he was determined his daughter should have a worthwhile gift, even though he could not afford to buy one...
Then as Bob was about to put the finishing touches on Rudolph, tragedy struck. Evelyn May died. Bob, his hopes crushed, turned to Barbara as chief comfort. Yet, despite his grief, he sat at his desk in the quiet, now lonely apartment, and worked on "Rudolph" with tears in his eyes.
Shortly after Barbara had cried with joy over his handmade gift on Christmas morning, Bob was asked to an employee's holiday party at Montgomery Wards. He didn't want to go, but his office associates insisted. When Bob finally agreed, he took with him the poem and read it to the crowd. First the noisy throng listened in laughter and gaiety. Then they became silent, and at the end, broke into spontaneous applause. That was in 1938.
By Christmas of 1947, some 6,000,000 copies of the booklet had been given away or sold, making Rudolph one of the most widely distributed books in the world. The demand for Rudolph sponsored products increased so much in variety and number that educators and historians predicted Rudolph would come to occupy a permanent place in the Christmas legend.
Through the years of unhappiness, the tragedy of his wife's death and his ultimate success with Rudolph, Bob May has captured a sense of serenity. And as each Christmas rolls around he recalls with thankfulness the night when his daughter Barbara's questions inspired him to write the story.
On a December night in Chicago several years ago, a little girl climbed onto her father's lap and asked a question. It was a simple question, asked in children's curiosity, yet it had a heartrending effect on Robert May.
"Daddy," four-year-old Barbara asked, "Why isn't my Mommy just like everybody else's mommy?"
Bob May stole a glance across his shabby two room apartment. On a couch lay his young wife, Evelyn, racked with cancer. For two years she had been bedridden; for two years, all Bob's income and smaller savings had gone to pay for treatments and medicines.
The terrible ordeal already had shattered two adult lives. Now Bob suddenly realized the happiness of his growing daughter was also in jeopardy. As he ran his fingers through Barbara's hair, he prayed for some satisfactory answer to her question.
Bob May knew only too well what it meant to be "different." As a child he had been weak and delicate. With the innocent cruelty of children, his playmates had continually goaded the stunted, skinny lad to tears. Later at Dartmouth, from which he was graduated in 1926, Bob May was so small that he was always being mistaken for someone's little brother.
Nor was his adult life much happier. Unlike many of his classmates who floated from college into plush jobs, Bob became a lowly copy writer for Montgomery Ward, the big Chicago mail order house. Now at 33 Bob was deep in debt, depressed and sad.
Although Bob did not know it at the time, the answer he gave the tousled haired child on his lap was to bring him to fame and fortune. It was also to bring joy to countless thousands of children like his own Barbara. On that December night in the shabby Chicago apartment, Bob cradled his little girl's head against his shoulder and began to tell a story...
"Once upon a time there was a reindeer named Rudolph, the only reindeer in the world that had a big red nose. Naturally people called him Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer." As Bob went on to tell about Rudolph, he tried desperately to communicate to Barbara the knowledge that, even though some creatures of God are strange and different, they often enjoy the miraculous power to make others happy.
Rudolph, Bob explained, was terribly embarrassed by his unique nose. Other reindeer laughed at him; his mother and father and sister were mortified too. Even Rudolph wallowed in self pity.
"Well," continued Bob, "one Christmas Eve, Santa Claus got his team of husky reindeer - Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, and Vixen ready for their yearly trip around the world. The entire reindeer community assembled to cheer these great heroes on their way. But a terrible fog engulfed the earth that evening, and Santa knew that the mist was so thick he wouldn't be able to find any chimneys.
Suddenly Rudolph appeared, his red nose glowing brighter than ever. Santa sensed at once that here was the answer to his perplexing problem. He led Rudolph to the front of the sleigh, fastened the harness and climbed in. They were off! Rudolph guided Santa safely to every chimney that night. Rain and fog, snow and sleet; nothing bothered Rudolph, for his bright nose penetrated the mist like a beacon.
And so it was that Rudolph became the most famous and beloved of all the reindeer. The huge red nose he once hid in shame was now the envy of every buck and doe in the reindeer world. Santa Claus told everyone that Rudolph had saved the day, and from that Christmas, Rudolph has been living serenely and happy."
Little Barbara laughed with glee when her father finished. Every night she begged him to repeat the tale until finally Bob could rattle it off in his sleep. Then, at Christmas time he decided to make the story into a poem like "The Night Before Christmas" and prepare it in bookish form, illustrated with pictures for Barbara's personal gift. Night after night, Bob worked on the verses after Barbara had gone to bed. For he was determined his daughter should have a worthwhile gift, even though he could not afford to buy one...
Then as Bob was about to put the finishing touches on Rudolph, tragedy struck. Evelyn May died. Bob, his hopes crushed, turned to Barbara as chief comfort. Yet, despite his grief, he sat at his desk in the quiet, now lonely apartment, and worked on "Rudolph" with tears in his eyes.
Shortly after Barbara had cried with joy over his handmade gift on Christmas morning, Bob was asked to an employee's holiday party at Montgomery Wards. He didn't want to go, but his office associates insisted. When Bob finally agreed, he took with him the poem and read it to the crowd. First the noisy throng listened in laughter and gaiety. Then they became silent, and at the end, broke into spontaneous applause. That was in 1938.
By Christmas of 1947, some 6,000,000 copies of the booklet had been given away or sold, making Rudolph one of the most widely distributed books in the world. The demand for Rudolph sponsored products increased so much in variety and number that educators and historians predicted Rudolph would come to occupy a permanent place in the Christmas legend.
Through the years of unhappiness, the tragedy of his wife's death and his ultimate success with Rudolph, Bob May has captured a sense of serenity. And as each Christmas rolls around he recalls with thankfulness the night when his daughter Barbara's questions inspired him to write the story.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Christmas Loaves And Fishes
by Raynier Maharaj
On Christmas Eve, in homes everywhere, there is quiet excitement. Festive feelings and the warmth this holiday brings reminds me of a Christmas tale I love to relate each year. It is a true story, even though it might sound unbelievable. And it gives proof that miracles do happen.
A long time ago there was a group of young people who decided to spread some Christmas cheer. They had discovered that there were several children who would be spending Christmas in a community hospital near by. So they bought nice presents, wrapped them, and armed with guitars, sweet voices and one of the friends dressed as Santa Claus, dropped in at the hospital unexpectedly.
The children were overjoyed at seeing Santa, and by the time the group was handing out presents and singing Christmas Carols, there were tears everyone’s eyes. From then on, it was decided they would play Santa every year.
The next year, the ladies at the hospital were included in their rounds, and by the third year it was expanded to embrace some poor children. In the fourth year, however, after all the rounds were made, Santa looked into his bag to discover there were still a few extra toys left. So the friends mulled it over, trying to figure out what to do. Somebody mentioned a few squatters’ shacks nearby in which a couple of desperate poor families lived.
So the group decided to go there, thinking there were perhaps three families at most. But as they drove over the crest of the hill into this lonely area (it was around midnight now) the shocked group saw a large number standing at the side of the street.
There were children, more than thirty of them. Behind them were not three shacks, but rows and rows of them. As the car drew to a stop, the children came running out, shouting with joy. It turned out they had been waiting patiently all night for Santa Clause. Somebody that no one could remember had told them he was coming, although our Santa had decided to go there moments before.
Everyone was stunned, except for Santa. He was in a panic. He knew he didn’t have enough toys for all the children. Not wanting to disappoint the children, he decided to give whatever toys he had to the smallest. When the presents ran out, he’d just have to explain to the bigger kids what happened.
So moments later, he found himself perched on top of the car’s hood. These thirty or more sparkling, clean children, dressed in their best clothes, lined up in order according to height, with the smallest firs, were waiting for their moment with him. As each anxious child approached, Santa dipped into his bag, his heart heavy with dread, hoping to find at least one more toy. And, by some miracle, he found a toy each time he dipped into the bag. And as the last of the children received their presents, Santa looked into his deflated bag, it was toyless. It was empty - empty as it should have been 24 children ago.
With relief, he let out a hearty HO-HO-HO and bade the kids farewell. But as he was about to enter the car, (the reindeer apparently had the day off) he heard a child scream, “Santa, Santa, Wait!!” And out of the bushes rushed two little children, a boy and a girl. They had been asleep. Santa’s heart sank. This time he knew for sure he had no more toys. The bag was empty. But as the breathless kids approached, he summoned up some courage and dipped into the bag once more. And, lo and behold, there were two more presents in there.
The group of friends, now all grown adults, still talk about this miracle on Christmas morning. They still have no explanation for it, other than it happened. How do I know so much about this? Well I was the one playing Santa.
On Christmas Eve, in homes everywhere, there is quiet excitement. Festive feelings and the warmth this holiday brings reminds me of a Christmas tale I love to relate each year. It is a true story, even though it might sound unbelievable. And it gives proof that miracles do happen.
A long time ago there was a group of young people who decided to spread some Christmas cheer. They had discovered that there were several children who would be spending Christmas in a community hospital near by. So they bought nice presents, wrapped them, and armed with guitars, sweet voices and one of the friends dressed as Santa Claus, dropped in at the hospital unexpectedly.
The children were overjoyed at seeing Santa, and by the time the group was handing out presents and singing Christmas Carols, there were tears everyone’s eyes. From then on, it was decided they would play Santa every year.
The next year, the ladies at the hospital were included in their rounds, and by the third year it was expanded to embrace some poor children. In the fourth year, however, after all the rounds were made, Santa looked into his bag to discover there were still a few extra toys left. So the friends mulled it over, trying to figure out what to do. Somebody mentioned a few squatters’ shacks nearby in which a couple of desperate poor families lived.
So the group decided to go there, thinking there were perhaps three families at most. But as they drove over the crest of the hill into this lonely area (it was around midnight now) the shocked group saw a large number standing at the side of the street.
There were children, more than thirty of them. Behind them were not three shacks, but rows and rows of them. As the car drew to a stop, the children came running out, shouting with joy. It turned out they had been waiting patiently all night for Santa Clause. Somebody that no one could remember had told them he was coming, although our Santa had decided to go there moments before.
Everyone was stunned, except for Santa. He was in a panic. He knew he didn’t have enough toys for all the children. Not wanting to disappoint the children, he decided to give whatever toys he had to the smallest. When the presents ran out, he’d just have to explain to the bigger kids what happened.
So moments later, he found himself perched on top of the car’s hood. These thirty or more sparkling, clean children, dressed in their best clothes, lined up in order according to height, with the smallest firs, were waiting for their moment with him. As each anxious child approached, Santa dipped into his bag, his heart heavy with dread, hoping to find at least one more toy. And, by some miracle, he found a toy each time he dipped into the bag. And as the last of the children received their presents, Santa looked into his deflated bag, it was toyless. It was empty - empty as it should have been 24 children ago.
With relief, he let out a hearty HO-HO-HO and bade the kids farewell. But as he was about to enter the car, (the reindeer apparently had the day off) he heard a child scream, “Santa, Santa, Wait!!” And out of the bushes rushed two little children, a boy and a girl. They had been asleep. Santa’s heart sank. This time he knew for sure he had no more toys. The bag was empty. But as the breathless kids approached, he summoned up some courage and dipped into the bag once more. And, lo and behold, there were two more presents in there.
The group of friends, now all grown adults, still talk about this miracle on Christmas morning. They still have no explanation for it, other than it happened. How do I know so much about this? Well I was the one playing Santa.
Friday, December 4, 2009
A New Love
Author Unknown
The wind blew, the shutters rattled against their wooden frames, and the only thing that kept Gustavo from freezing was his thin overcoat. There was no fire in the fireplace, no food in the cupboards, and in his heart was the greatest emptiness of all.
His wife, Gracia, had died not more than two months ago, and as he sat in his dark living room holding an ornate gold frame containing her picture, a single tear streamed down his cheek.
What's to be had in Christmas without my love? he questioned. I can't live without her. I don't want to live anymore.
They had no children. That was something that was simply not meant to be. Gracia had wanted many children, but she was a cripple, and for that and other medical reasons, having children was impossible. Now with her gone, all that he held dear, and all that meant anything to him had also left.
It's Christmastime again. Oh, how I miss her. Oh, how I wish she were here with me. My life is empty and meaningless, and I pray that I can die. Sobs wracked his elderly frame as he dropped the picture to the table and buried his head in his hands. God, if You're there, if You really died for me those many years ago, please show Yourself to me. Send me Gracia, send me love, send me happiness or I will end it all!
Looking up and wiping his tear stained face, he peered out the window of his dark home into the city square. There were lights around the tree in the center of town. People were busily doing their last minute shopping and party preparations; there were carolers and musicians singing, and everyone looked so happy.
Maybe just going out and walking amongst happy folk will rub off on me. Gustavo thought. He grabbed his scarf and gloves, and walked out toward the center square.
* * * * *
"Mommy, I'm so cold and hungry," said Christina as she cuddled up to her mommy, who held her close.
"I know you are, dear. But last night, when I prayed, I heard the line, 'He will always care for His own.' God is going to provide for us. How about we warm up by walking around?"
Linda was tall and slender. Her long, black, wavy hair was held back with a clip. Her soft, olive skin was a beautiful complement to her almond colored eyes. She wore a white sweater over a long, navy blue skirt.
Christina and her mother Linda were alone. Linda's husband Hanzo had died three years ago, leaving Linda and their two year old daughter with a small house and some savings, but those only lasted for two years, and this last year, Linda made ends meet by selling embroidered works and working as a maid.
Combing Christina's beautiful brown hair reminded Linda of her dear husband who had died, and she started to cry. Dear God, please give us someone who will help us, take care of us, and who will take care of Christina when I die. Linda knew that her time was coming to a close: The cough she'd had for several months now was getting worse and she was feeling weaker. She was hiding the coughs from Christina as best she could, and tried to be as brave as possible, but her heart was breaking for her lovely little girl who would soon need someone to care for her.
"Come, let's go." They stepped out into the street. From where they stood they could hear music, and they wanted to see all the merriment, but right in front of their door sat a crumpled old man, who'd obviously been mugged and left for dead. Linda rushed to his side, then called out to her daughter, "Run inside, dear, and grab me a blanket and some towels!"
The old man moaned as they nursed his wounds and wiped his cuts clean. Cough, cough, cough! This was not the old man coughing, but Linda, who could feel her lungs would not hold much longer. Linda had been in nursing school for a time, and while she hadn't been able to complete her studies, she'd learned enough to know that she had tuberculosis, and that it was advancing much quicker than she'd hoped and prayed for.
"Dear, I think we will have to forgo watching the lights. We need to get this poor man to the hospital!" Christina nodded in agreement, and they struggled to get him to his feet. "Come on, sir. We need to help you to your feet!" Linda gasped, as she struggled to get the old man to his knees before attempting to lift him.
Again the old man moaned, but seemed unconscious.
"I don't think we can do this alone," Linda said. "Come, let's try to find help."
Running down the alley and into the busy main street they went, looking for someone, anyone who could help them to save the old man.
Crash! Christina had bumped into someone who was holding a large, glass vase and it went shattering to the ground. An elegantly dressed elderly woman, with silver white hair pulled back in a bun, big, blue eyes, and wearing a fur coat, first appeared startled, then, noticing that Christina was on the ground, she reached to help her and asked where she'd been going in such a hurry.
"Christina!" Linda called out. "Was I running too fast?"
"Is this girl with you, ma'am?" the woman asked.
"Yes, I'm so sorry! We found an unconscious man outside our home, but we couldn't carry him to a doctor, so we are looking for help!"
"Well! I'll say! I can help you. Where is the man? I can take you back in my car."
A few moments later they were all by the unnamed man lying by the side of the road.
"Sir? Sir? Are you able to hear me, sir?" the elderly woman (who'd introduced herself as Katrina) asked.
"Uh yes. Where am I?" the man moaned.
"You're on Mariana Street. These two young ladies found you, and in an odd manner found me as well. We need to get you to a hospital. What's your name?"
"Gustavo. I live not far away. I was on my way to listen to the carolers when I was hit on the head from behind. I guess when they saw I had no money, they gave me a thrashing and left me here to die."
"Well, those nasty brigands will get a thrashing themselves someday. I'm sure!" Katrina said, as she and Linda walked Gustavo to the car.
Cough! Cough! Cough! Covering her mouth and wheezing into a kerchief, Linda was coughing harder than she had in a long time. It must be the excitement and the exertion, she thought. Oh God, help me to last through Christmas, for Christina's sake.
"Mommy? Are you okay?"
"Yes, dear, I'm going to be all right."
Gustavo and Katrina stood beside Linda. No matter how bad Gustavo's bumps and bruises were, it was clear to all that Linda was the one more in need of a doctor.
Linda rose to her feet and, seeing the others' faces, she said, "I'm okay. Really, I'm okay!"
Katrina, ignoring her protests, placed her hand on Linda's forehead. "You're burning up! We're taking you in, too."
"But I don't have the money for a doctor."
"Nonsense and rubbish, I say! I'm going to see to it that you receive the care you deserve."
At the hospital, Katrina climbed out of the car and led the others to the director's office.
"Linda and Gustavo, meet my brother, Emilio. He and I own this hospital, so you'll be under excellent care here. Now, I must rush off, but I'll be back in an hour. Emilio, don't listen to this young lady's protests just get her a bed and see to it that she stays there!"
In the hours and days that followed as Gustavo's wounds were nursed and healed, he and Katrina found in each other the replacement of their lost loves (for Katrina had also lost her husband to heart failure, and just that day had prayed the same prayer that Gustavo had, asking God to turn her life around). In helping another, she'd found the greatest gift of all: the realization that God does answer prayer. In seeking the happiness of another, she'd found some for herself too. In helping someone, in doing what she could, she'd received so much more than she could have imagined.
For her part, Linda started on the road to a full recovery. Although she felt bad in a way that she wasn't able to pay for her treatment, her new friend Katrina insisted that she be given the best possible care, and continually expressed how happy and thankful she was to have gotten to know her and Christina.
Cling! Cling! Cling! Katrina tapped on her glass as Gustavo stood up to address those at the table in Katrina's dining room, which had a Christmas tree in the corner that Christina, with the oversight of Linda, had decorated, under which were presents for all. At the table were seated Katrina and Emilio, and their acquaintances and friends, including Gustavo, Linda, and Christina.
"Dear friends and loved ones," Gustavo began, "as you know, a few weeks ago, I was found beaten on the side of the road. Linda, her beautiful daughter Christina, and Katrina came to my aid. What you don't know is that on that same night I had prayed and asked God to send me love and a reason to live, or I would end it all.
"I was unjust in asking for a gift on His birthday, but I see now that He is love and He gives love all the time. He took away my wife, but in return He gave me another to replace that empty space in my heart. In return, I promise to commit, from this day on, my time and energy to helping others in the way that I was helped. While the means He used were different and strange, they were what I needed to show me the true meaning of life!
"Merry Christmas, and happy birthday to You, Jesus!"
Everyone joined in Gustavo's toast, replying, "Merry Christmas!"
It truly was a happy Christmas. God loves each one and He looks for any heart that is open and willing for a miracle! Miracles can happen, and they do, especially at Christmas!
The wind blew, the shutters rattled against their wooden frames, and the only thing that kept Gustavo from freezing was his thin overcoat. There was no fire in the fireplace, no food in the cupboards, and in his heart was the greatest emptiness of all.
His wife, Gracia, had died not more than two months ago, and as he sat in his dark living room holding an ornate gold frame containing her picture, a single tear streamed down his cheek.
What's to be had in Christmas without my love? he questioned. I can't live without her. I don't want to live anymore.
They had no children. That was something that was simply not meant to be. Gracia had wanted many children, but she was a cripple, and for that and other medical reasons, having children was impossible. Now with her gone, all that he held dear, and all that meant anything to him had also left.
It's Christmastime again. Oh, how I miss her. Oh, how I wish she were here with me. My life is empty and meaningless, and I pray that I can die. Sobs wracked his elderly frame as he dropped the picture to the table and buried his head in his hands. God, if You're there, if You really died for me those many years ago, please show Yourself to me. Send me Gracia, send me love, send me happiness or I will end it all!
Looking up and wiping his tear stained face, he peered out the window of his dark home into the city square. There were lights around the tree in the center of town. People were busily doing their last minute shopping and party preparations; there were carolers and musicians singing, and everyone looked so happy.
Maybe just going out and walking amongst happy folk will rub off on me. Gustavo thought. He grabbed his scarf and gloves, and walked out toward the center square.
* * * * *
"Mommy, I'm so cold and hungry," said Christina as she cuddled up to her mommy, who held her close.
"I know you are, dear. But last night, when I prayed, I heard the line, 'He will always care for His own.' God is going to provide for us. How about we warm up by walking around?"
Linda was tall and slender. Her long, black, wavy hair was held back with a clip. Her soft, olive skin was a beautiful complement to her almond colored eyes. She wore a white sweater over a long, navy blue skirt.
Christina and her mother Linda were alone. Linda's husband Hanzo had died three years ago, leaving Linda and their two year old daughter with a small house and some savings, but those only lasted for two years, and this last year, Linda made ends meet by selling embroidered works and working as a maid.
Combing Christina's beautiful brown hair reminded Linda of her dear husband who had died, and she started to cry. Dear God, please give us someone who will help us, take care of us, and who will take care of Christina when I die. Linda knew that her time was coming to a close: The cough she'd had for several months now was getting worse and she was feeling weaker. She was hiding the coughs from Christina as best she could, and tried to be as brave as possible, but her heart was breaking for her lovely little girl who would soon need someone to care for her.
"Come, let's go." They stepped out into the street. From where they stood they could hear music, and they wanted to see all the merriment, but right in front of their door sat a crumpled old man, who'd obviously been mugged and left for dead. Linda rushed to his side, then called out to her daughter, "Run inside, dear, and grab me a blanket and some towels!"
The old man moaned as they nursed his wounds and wiped his cuts clean. Cough, cough, cough! This was not the old man coughing, but Linda, who could feel her lungs would not hold much longer. Linda had been in nursing school for a time, and while she hadn't been able to complete her studies, she'd learned enough to know that she had tuberculosis, and that it was advancing much quicker than she'd hoped and prayed for.
"Dear, I think we will have to forgo watching the lights. We need to get this poor man to the hospital!" Christina nodded in agreement, and they struggled to get him to his feet. "Come on, sir. We need to help you to your feet!" Linda gasped, as she struggled to get the old man to his knees before attempting to lift him.
Again the old man moaned, but seemed unconscious.
"I don't think we can do this alone," Linda said. "Come, let's try to find help."
Running down the alley and into the busy main street they went, looking for someone, anyone who could help them to save the old man.
Crash! Christina had bumped into someone who was holding a large, glass vase and it went shattering to the ground. An elegantly dressed elderly woman, with silver white hair pulled back in a bun, big, blue eyes, and wearing a fur coat, first appeared startled, then, noticing that Christina was on the ground, she reached to help her and asked where she'd been going in such a hurry.
"Christina!" Linda called out. "Was I running too fast?"
"Is this girl with you, ma'am?" the woman asked.
"Yes, I'm so sorry! We found an unconscious man outside our home, but we couldn't carry him to a doctor, so we are looking for help!"
"Well! I'll say! I can help you. Where is the man? I can take you back in my car."
A few moments later they were all by the unnamed man lying by the side of the road.
"Sir? Sir? Are you able to hear me, sir?" the elderly woman (who'd introduced herself as Katrina) asked.
"Uh yes. Where am I?" the man moaned.
"You're on Mariana Street. These two young ladies found you, and in an odd manner found me as well. We need to get you to a hospital. What's your name?"
"Gustavo. I live not far away. I was on my way to listen to the carolers when I was hit on the head from behind. I guess when they saw I had no money, they gave me a thrashing and left me here to die."
"Well, those nasty brigands will get a thrashing themselves someday. I'm sure!" Katrina said, as she and Linda walked Gustavo to the car.
Cough! Cough! Cough! Covering her mouth and wheezing into a kerchief, Linda was coughing harder than she had in a long time. It must be the excitement and the exertion, she thought. Oh God, help me to last through Christmas, for Christina's sake.
"Mommy? Are you okay?"
"Yes, dear, I'm going to be all right."
Gustavo and Katrina stood beside Linda. No matter how bad Gustavo's bumps and bruises were, it was clear to all that Linda was the one more in need of a doctor.
Linda rose to her feet and, seeing the others' faces, she said, "I'm okay. Really, I'm okay!"
Katrina, ignoring her protests, placed her hand on Linda's forehead. "You're burning up! We're taking you in, too."
"But I don't have the money for a doctor."
"Nonsense and rubbish, I say! I'm going to see to it that you receive the care you deserve."
At the hospital, Katrina climbed out of the car and led the others to the director's office.
"Linda and Gustavo, meet my brother, Emilio. He and I own this hospital, so you'll be under excellent care here. Now, I must rush off, but I'll be back in an hour. Emilio, don't listen to this young lady's protests just get her a bed and see to it that she stays there!"
In the hours and days that followed as Gustavo's wounds were nursed and healed, he and Katrina found in each other the replacement of their lost loves (for Katrina had also lost her husband to heart failure, and just that day had prayed the same prayer that Gustavo had, asking God to turn her life around). In helping another, she'd found the greatest gift of all: the realization that God does answer prayer. In seeking the happiness of another, she'd found some for herself too. In helping someone, in doing what she could, she'd received so much more than she could have imagined.
For her part, Linda started on the road to a full recovery. Although she felt bad in a way that she wasn't able to pay for her treatment, her new friend Katrina insisted that she be given the best possible care, and continually expressed how happy and thankful she was to have gotten to know her and Christina.
Cling! Cling! Cling! Katrina tapped on her glass as Gustavo stood up to address those at the table in Katrina's dining room, which had a Christmas tree in the corner that Christina, with the oversight of Linda, had decorated, under which were presents for all. At the table were seated Katrina and Emilio, and their acquaintances and friends, including Gustavo, Linda, and Christina.
"Dear friends and loved ones," Gustavo began, "as you know, a few weeks ago, I was found beaten on the side of the road. Linda, her beautiful daughter Christina, and Katrina came to my aid. What you don't know is that on that same night I had prayed and asked God to send me love and a reason to live, or I would end it all.
"I was unjust in asking for a gift on His birthday, but I see now that He is love and He gives love all the time. He took away my wife, but in return He gave me another to replace that empty space in my heart. In return, I promise to commit, from this day on, my time and energy to helping others in the way that I was helped. While the means He used were different and strange, they were what I needed to show me the true meaning of life!
"Merry Christmas, and happy birthday to You, Jesus!"
Everyone joined in Gustavo's toast, replying, "Merry Christmas!"
It truly was a happy Christmas. God loves each one and He looks for any heart that is open and willing for a miracle! Miracles can happen, and they do, especially at Christmas!
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Misha Tells the Christmas Story
Author Unknown
In 1994, two Americans answered an invitation from the Russian Department of Education to teach morals and ethics (based on Biblical Principles) in the public schools. They were invited to teach at prisons, businesses, the fire and police departments and a large orphanage. About 100 boys and girls, who had been abandoned, abused and left in the care of a government-run program, were in the orphanage. They relate the following story in their own words.
It was nearing the holiday season, 1994, time for our orphans to hear for the first time, the traditional story of Christmas. We told them about Mary and Joseph arriving in Bethlehem. Finding no room in the Inn, the couple went to a stable where the baby Jesus was born and placed in a manger. Throughout the story, the children and orphanage staff sat in amazement as they listened. Some sat on the edges of their stools, trying to grasp every word.
Completing the story, we gave the children three small pieces of cardboard to make a crude manger. Each child was given a small paper square which had been cut from yellow napkins I had brought with me. No colored paper was available in the city. Following instructions, the children tore the paper and carefully laid strips in the manger for straw. Small squares of flannel, cut from a worn-out nightgown an American lady was throwing away as she had left Russia, were used for the baby’s blanket. A doll-like baby was cut from tan felt we had brought from the United States.
The orphans were busy assembling their mangers as I walked among them to see if they needed any help. All went well until I got to one table where Misha sat. He looked to be about six years old and had finished his project. As I looked at the little boy’s manger, I was startled to see not one, but two babies in the manger. Quickly I called for the translator to ask the lad why there were two babies in the manger. Crossing his arms in front of him and looking at the completed manger scene, the child began to repeat the story very seriously. For such a young boy, who had only heard the Christmas story once, he related the happenings accurately - until he came to the part where Mary put the baby Jesus in the manger. Then Misha started to ad-lib, he made up his own ending to the story as he said, “And when Maria laid the baby in the manger, Jesus looked at me and asked if I had a place to stay. I told him I have no mama and I have no papa, so I don’t have any place to stay. Then Jesus told me I could stay with him. But I told him I couldn’t because I didn’t have a gift to give him like everybody else did. But I wanted to stay with Jesus so much, so I thought about what I had that maybe I could use for a gift. I thought that maybe if I kept him warm, that would be a good gift. So I asked Jesus, ‘If I keep you warm, will that be a good enough gift?’ And Jesus said to me, “If you keep me warm, that will be the best gift anyone ever gave to me.” So I got into the manger, and then Jesus looked at me and He told me I could stay with Him - for always.”
As little Misha finished his story, his eyes brimmed full of tears that splashed down his cheeks. Putting his hand over his face, his head dropped to the table and his shoulders shook as he sobbed and sobbed.
This little orphan had found someone who would never abandon him or abuse him, and who would stay with him - FOR ALWAYS.
I’ve learned that it is not what you have in your life, but whom you have in your life that counts.
In 1994, two Americans answered an invitation from the Russian Department of Education to teach morals and ethics (based on Biblical Principles) in the public schools. They were invited to teach at prisons, businesses, the fire and police departments and a large orphanage. About 100 boys and girls, who had been abandoned, abused and left in the care of a government-run program, were in the orphanage. They relate the following story in their own words.
It was nearing the holiday season, 1994, time for our orphans to hear for the first time, the traditional story of Christmas. We told them about Mary and Joseph arriving in Bethlehem. Finding no room in the Inn, the couple went to a stable where the baby Jesus was born and placed in a manger. Throughout the story, the children and orphanage staff sat in amazement as they listened. Some sat on the edges of their stools, trying to grasp every word.
Completing the story, we gave the children three small pieces of cardboard to make a crude manger. Each child was given a small paper square which had been cut from yellow napkins I had brought with me. No colored paper was available in the city. Following instructions, the children tore the paper and carefully laid strips in the manger for straw. Small squares of flannel, cut from a worn-out nightgown an American lady was throwing away as she had left Russia, were used for the baby’s blanket. A doll-like baby was cut from tan felt we had brought from the United States.
The orphans were busy assembling their mangers as I walked among them to see if they needed any help. All went well until I got to one table where Misha sat. He looked to be about six years old and had finished his project. As I looked at the little boy’s manger, I was startled to see not one, but two babies in the manger. Quickly I called for the translator to ask the lad why there were two babies in the manger. Crossing his arms in front of him and looking at the completed manger scene, the child began to repeat the story very seriously. For such a young boy, who had only heard the Christmas story once, he related the happenings accurately - until he came to the part where Mary put the baby Jesus in the manger. Then Misha started to ad-lib, he made up his own ending to the story as he said, “And when Maria laid the baby in the manger, Jesus looked at me and asked if I had a place to stay. I told him I have no mama and I have no papa, so I don’t have any place to stay. Then Jesus told me I could stay with him. But I told him I couldn’t because I didn’t have a gift to give him like everybody else did. But I wanted to stay with Jesus so much, so I thought about what I had that maybe I could use for a gift. I thought that maybe if I kept him warm, that would be a good gift. So I asked Jesus, ‘If I keep you warm, will that be a good enough gift?’ And Jesus said to me, “If you keep me warm, that will be the best gift anyone ever gave to me.” So I got into the manger, and then Jesus looked at me and He told me I could stay with Him - for always.”
As little Misha finished his story, his eyes brimmed full of tears that splashed down his cheeks. Putting his hand over his face, his head dropped to the table and his shoulders shook as he sobbed and sobbed.
This little orphan had found someone who would never abandon him or abuse him, and who would stay with him - FOR ALWAYS.
I’ve learned that it is not what you have in your life, but whom you have in your life that counts.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
A Pre-Christmas Miracle
by Dawn M. Bryner
I try very hard to instill in my children that Christmas is not about presents and getting everything they want, but instead it is about Jesus' birth and being with family to rejoice. We purposely make Christmas a more conservative occasion. As a matter of fact, most of our family no longer exchanges gifts. We just get together and enjoy the day for what it is. I am certainly not a perfect parent, but if someone were to ask one of my kids why we celebrate Christmas, they will tell you we are celebrating Jesus' birthday. Ok, so here's where the "story" starts, since it's actually about giving gifts. It's very simple, yet extremely profound.
Last Thursday, I got a call from Jacque K., Senior Advisor of the Ambassadors of Hope (AOH). She was very upset. She called to get my opinion on what we could do to help the Salvation Army get presents for 35 children whose names were taken off of their Angel Tree but had not had gifts returned for them. All of the gifts were due back to the Salvation Army by Friday, December 10, to ensure they could be distributed to the children on time for Christmas. By Thursday, December 16, Linda G. from the Salvation Army was sure those gifts would not be dropped off, so 35 children were not going to have any gifts to open Christmas morning. Not knowing for sure how she would get her hands on toys for these children, she called Jacque to see if the AOH had any more gifts they could donate, as they had already given approximately 75 toys. Jacque assured her the AOH would be glad to help and then called me. The AOH did have some toys to donate but not enough for the specific age groups and sexes that were needed. So, AOH decided they would have to purchase the toys themselves with money they were saving for a scholarship. It looked as though everything was going to be OK after all.
I must say, I felt so outraged by what had happened - that people would take the names off the Angel Tree and not return the gifts for those poor children, that I wanted to help in any way I could. I didn't want Christmas day to arrive and know that those 35 children would not have presents to open. So, when I talked to Jacque again on Friday morning, I happily volunteered to be the one to go to the store and buy the toys. At that point they had a few more toys that had been donated, but there were still 19 children left with no presents at all. I needed to go to the store anyway, and thought this would be a fun project, so I went to Jacque's to pick up the money and the list. It was at that point I found out AOH only had $120.00 in their budget for these gifts. That's not very much, considering I needed to buy a total of 38 gifts for 19 children, but I was up to the challenge (or so I thought.)
This turned out to be a bigger challenge than I had anticipated. It was downright next to impossible. I did manage to get presents for all of the kids, but I was certain I had gone over the $120.00 budget, and held my breath as I headed for the checkout. I knew the AOH had no more money to spare, so I decided if I did in fact go over the budget I was going to just have to make up the difference with my own money. I wasn't exactly thrilled about it as I had already donated a worthy sum of toys and had given up a great deal of my time, but I was more worried about the children. So I finally reached the checkout line, and as I waited, I started going through my list, matching toys to each child to make sure everyone was covered. All along I kept thinking to myself "How could someone do this to a child? I mean, if you're going to take a name off the tree, you should buy that child the recommended gifts, otherwise don't take the name to begin with. It's not like people do not know what the names are for or what they are being asked to do." The more I stewed about it, the angrier I became.
By the time I had waited in line and reached the checkout counter, I was getting very upset. Here I thought this would be a lot of fun, and it was turning out to be quite the opposite. I was so frustrated about the people who had taken the names and not brought in the presents. In addition, as I placed each item on the conveyor belt, I had the mounting pressure that I might not have enough money to purchase all of the items. While the toys were being rung up and bagged, I was explaining to the checkout clerk at Wal-Mart why I was buying so many toys and the situation surrounding it. She too was outraged by what had happened. I told her that I was so upset about it, I was going to write a letter to the editor and let others know what had happened. She agreed that it was a good idea. Maybe it would make people stop and think before doing the same thing next year.
She finally rang up the last toy, looked at the total and announced, "It's $120.00." When she said it, I immediately stopped talking in mid-conversation and stared at her in utter disbelief. I looked at the screen, and sure enough, amazingly the total was exactly $120.00. Tears started streaming down my cheeks and she asked what was wrong. I hadn't yet told her at that point what my budget amount was, so I explained to her that AOH had given me $120.00 to purchase the toys. She looked at me, looked at the register again, and then said "I think SOMEONE is helping you out here."
It was undeniable. I most certainly had had some help with this. The most humbling feeling I have ever felt swept over me at that moment, and all of the anger drained away. My mom always tells me "God works in mysterious ways," but I had never felt it so close to home before. I still wanted to write a letter to the editor, but this time with a different angle. Christmas, for me this year, is going to be a little more joyous - not despite those people who took the names, but because of them.
"God bless us every one!"
I try very hard to instill in my children that Christmas is not about presents and getting everything they want, but instead it is about Jesus' birth and being with family to rejoice. We purposely make Christmas a more conservative occasion. As a matter of fact, most of our family no longer exchanges gifts. We just get together and enjoy the day for what it is. I am certainly not a perfect parent, but if someone were to ask one of my kids why we celebrate Christmas, they will tell you we are celebrating Jesus' birthday. Ok, so here's where the "story" starts, since it's actually about giving gifts. It's very simple, yet extremely profound.
Last Thursday, I got a call from Jacque K., Senior Advisor of the Ambassadors of Hope (AOH). She was very upset. She called to get my opinion on what we could do to help the Salvation Army get presents for 35 children whose names were taken off of their Angel Tree but had not had gifts returned for them. All of the gifts were due back to the Salvation Army by Friday, December 10, to ensure they could be distributed to the children on time for Christmas. By Thursday, December 16, Linda G. from the Salvation Army was sure those gifts would not be dropped off, so 35 children were not going to have any gifts to open Christmas morning. Not knowing for sure how she would get her hands on toys for these children, she called Jacque to see if the AOH had any more gifts they could donate, as they had already given approximately 75 toys. Jacque assured her the AOH would be glad to help and then called me. The AOH did have some toys to donate but not enough for the specific age groups and sexes that were needed. So, AOH decided they would have to purchase the toys themselves with money they were saving for a scholarship. It looked as though everything was going to be OK after all.
I must say, I felt so outraged by what had happened - that people would take the names off the Angel Tree and not return the gifts for those poor children, that I wanted to help in any way I could. I didn't want Christmas day to arrive and know that those 35 children would not have presents to open. So, when I talked to Jacque again on Friday morning, I happily volunteered to be the one to go to the store and buy the toys. At that point they had a few more toys that had been donated, but there were still 19 children left with no presents at all. I needed to go to the store anyway, and thought this would be a fun project, so I went to Jacque's to pick up the money and the list. It was at that point I found out AOH only had $120.00 in their budget for these gifts. That's not very much, considering I needed to buy a total of 38 gifts for 19 children, but I was up to the challenge (or so I thought.)
This turned out to be a bigger challenge than I had anticipated. It was downright next to impossible. I did manage to get presents for all of the kids, but I was certain I had gone over the $120.00 budget, and held my breath as I headed for the checkout. I knew the AOH had no more money to spare, so I decided if I did in fact go over the budget I was going to just have to make up the difference with my own money. I wasn't exactly thrilled about it as I had already donated a worthy sum of toys and had given up a great deal of my time, but I was more worried about the children. So I finally reached the checkout line, and as I waited, I started going through my list, matching toys to each child to make sure everyone was covered. All along I kept thinking to myself "How could someone do this to a child? I mean, if you're going to take a name off the tree, you should buy that child the recommended gifts, otherwise don't take the name to begin with. It's not like people do not know what the names are for or what they are being asked to do." The more I stewed about it, the angrier I became.
By the time I had waited in line and reached the checkout counter, I was getting very upset. Here I thought this would be a lot of fun, and it was turning out to be quite the opposite. I was so frustrated about the people who had taken the names and not brought in the presents. In addition, as I placed each item on the conveyor belt, I had the mounting pressure that I might not have enough money to purchase all of the items. While the toys were being rung up and bagged, I was explaining to the checkout clerk at Wal-Mart why I was buying so many toys and the situation surrounding it. She too was outraged by what had happened. I told her that I was so upset about it, I was going to write a letter to the editor and let others know what had happened. She agreed that it was a good idea. Maybe it would make people stop and think before doing the same thing next year.
She finally rang up the last toy, looked at the total and announced, "It's $120.00." When she said it, I immediately stopped talking in mid-conversation and stared at her in utter disbelief. I looked at the screen, and sure enough, amazingly the total was exactly $120.00. Tears started streaming down my cheeks and she asked what was wrong. I hadn't yet told her at that point what my budget amount was, so I explained to her that AOH had given me $120.00 to purchase the toys. She looked at me, looked at the register again, and then said "I think SOMEONE is helping you out here."
It was undeniable. I most certainly had had some help with this. The most humbling feeling I have ever felt swept over me at that moment, and all of the anger drained away. My mom always tells me "God works in mysterious ways," but I had never felt it so close to home before. I still wanted to write a letter to the editor, but this time with a different angle. Christmas, for me this year, is going to be a little more joyous - not despite those people who took the names, but because of them.
"God bless us every one!"
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