The Day Jesus Replaced Santa Claus

By Cinda Elmer

It was one of those mornings. It just seemed nothing was going right and time was passing way too fast. “Hurry Tony, we’re going to be late.” My four and a half year old grandson was spending the weekend and I had planned a special excursion to see Santa Claus. But plans have a way of taking a different direction. And that is exactly what happened on that special morning.

“Now hurry and finish your breakfast. Grammy has a surprise for you.” I could barely understand the mumbles coming from my grandson as he shoveled food down. “A surprise?” he responded with his big brown eyes finally showing some interest. “Yes, now go brush your teeth and let Grammy help you get dressed so we can go or we will miss the surprise”. With the last bite of breakfast down Tony looked up and said, “I already brushed my teeth”. As I looked at my grandson’s angelic face my mind was racing to figure out when he had accomplished this. “Honey, when did you brush your teeth?”

Then with the most serious and innocent voice he said, “Yesterday!” As I fought back the laughter I urged him to get going. Finally, after much prompting we were on our way to see Santa Claus.

I felt a sigh of relief as I buckled Tony into his car seat. I knew the hard part was over and we were on our way to have our wonderful adventure. As we traveled down the road I turned on the radio to Christmas music and thought, “What a wonderful time of year it is.” We would have just enough time to make it. We were going to see Santa Claus. But as you might have already guessed this was just too easy to be true. As I pulled into the parking lot, I gasped! It was full. I silently thought to myself, “This is just one of those days.” I quickly found a parking space across the street. Tony and I sprinted across the parking lot into the mall or as much as one can sprint with a four and a half year old in hand. And there we got in line to see Santa Claus. It was a long, long, long line.

Of course, we were at the end of the line. I couldn’t even see the entrance of the store much less view Santa visiting with the children. It was just going to be one of those days. But I was determined we were going to see Santa Claus! As we waited in line, I could see the parents and children ahead of us becoming tired and frustrated with the long wait. I decided I had better do something constructive with the time or it would soon be me and Tony becoming tired and frustrated. Hmm? I wondered what could I do? Then it came to me. I’ll tell the story about Santa Claus, the reindeer and the North Pole to keep him entertained and make the anticipation of seeing Santa even more fun.

“Well, Tony, this is going to be great.” Tony looked up at me with those big brown eyes, patiently tolerating another one of Grammy’s surprises. I looked down and said, “Santa only comes once a year on Christmas. We’re so lucky to get to see him.” I went on explaining that he comes from the North Pole that is far away. Tony didn’t say anything. He just patiently listened to me as I continued talking about the toy factory and the reindeer. By now the other families and children, bored by the wait, were also listening to my story. As we moved forward and inched closer to seeing Santa I continued my story. My plan was working. Tony was so involved in the story of Santa Claus that he wasn’t even complaining about the wait.

I was talking about the special presents that Santa would bring to good boys and girls when I was interrupted by Tony tugging on my hand, “Grammy? My teacher at church school says Jesus came at Christmas.”

Stunned and taken back for a minute I replied. “Well, yes Tony that’s true.”

Tony continued as though he had something really important that he had to tell me. “My teacher said Jesus is my present and that He is with me all the time.”

Caught by surprise, I began feeling uncomfortable as the families and children around us appeared to be awaiting my response. “Well, yes Tony, that is true too.”

As I struggled to think of something profound to say, Tony continued. “They gave presents to Jesus when He was a baby. Are we going to give Jesus a present?”

I answered, “Well, yes Tony but right now we are going to see Santa. You get to sit on his lap and tell him what you want for Christmas. Won’t that be fun?” There was no response.

Then once again I felt a tug on my hand and he said, “Grammy?” And I replied, “Yes Tony.” He then looked up at me with those big brown eyes and said, “I don’t want to see Santa.”

I thought to myself, “This is just what I was expecting. He is tired of waiting.” But I was determined that he would get to see Santa. I was wondering how I was going to make the wait easier when he said, “Grammy, I want to sit on Jesus’ lap and give Him a present.”

Suddenly my holiday world was put in perspective by a four and half year old child. Tears began to flow as I knelt down on my knees beside my grandson. Right there, in the middle of the shopping mall and in a Santa Claus line I found myself saying a prayer as I hugged God’s precious child. He had a greater understanding of Christmas than many of us in that Santa Claus line. As I hugged Tony, I whispered, “Do you want to go home? Grammy will read you a special story from a very special book that your church teacher uses?”

I felt his little arms hug me tight as he whispered, “Yeah.” As I stood up and looked around I saw parents with tears in their eyes, too. I took Tony’s hand. As we left I noticed we were not the only ones to leave the Santa Claus line that day. It was time to sit on Jesus’ lap and give Him a present. It had been one of those days, one of those days I hope I never forget.

How wonderful it would be if we would anxiously wait in long lines to sit on Jesus’ lap and give Him a present. As I thought of Santa Claus and the focus he receives from children and parents as well, an idea came to mind. What if all the churches had a small live Nativity? The children could give non-perishable food gifts and have their pictures taken within the Nativity scene. The food items could be donated to the needy and the children’s Nativity pictures could be shared with friends and family. And we could begin to put Christ back in Christmas. We could give Jesus a present.

If Wishes Were Horses

By Lori Jean Ness

“Oh, Mom, isn’t he beautiful?” Eight-year-old Kim trembled with excitement. “I’ve prayed every night for a horse for Christmas…and here he is!”

“He” was an Appaloosa that had galloped up our lane, nostrils flaring, before stopping at the barn door.

My husband, Bob led him into a stall and slapped the muscular shoulder. “I bet this fella belongs to Sue Martin,” he said. “This morning, at the feed store, she mentioned getting a barrel racer.”

Kim vigorously shook her head, insisting. “He’s my horse. God sent him!”

Refusing to be torn even for supper from “her” horse, Kim remained in the barn, currying the mud-splattered coat with a 5 cent comb bought at an auction.

I finally got Sue on the phone. She’d been driving around in search of her missing steed. Soon, she arrived with a horse trailer. “Silver Dollar just got spooked by a neighbor’s dog,” Sue explained. “Thanks for taking care of him.”

Kim stood by silently as the clop of hooves on the ramp drummed an end to her dream.

I put my arm around the narrow shoulders in the faded pink parka. “I’m sorry, Kim. But, even if someone did give us a horse for free, we couldn’t afford to feed it.”

Kim shrugged me off, weary of hearing how the drought a summer ago had left us barely able to make ends meet.

Later, as she pushed around vegetables in reheated soup, I noticed a tear splash into the bowl. We sat alone in the kitchen while Bob finished chores.

“I know you’re disappointed,” I soothed.  “Maybe next year…”

Kim stirred her untasted soup. “I need a horse now. You don’t have to buy me any more presents for the rest of my life. I’ll get a job to pay for his hay–”

“Kim, we can’t afford new shoes for you–and a horse needs two pair!”

She ignored my feeble attempt at humor.  “Christmas is supposed to be when you get what you want,” Kim sniffed. “And I want a horse!”

I sighed. “You have the wrong idea, darling. Christmas is when we celebrate God’s gift to us–His Son. And the best way to do that is by giving to others.”

Kim stared into her bowl. Platitudes were useless, I knew…at her age, she needed an example she could relate to.

I touched her hand. “For my seventh birthday,” I confided, “I wanted just one thing, more than anything in the world.”

No response. I pressed on valiantly. “It was a china tea set decorated with violets–a complete set with teapot, cups, sugar bowl and creamer.”

Grudgingly, Kim queried, “Did your parents get it for you?”

“They planned to. But then my little brother got sick, and his medicine was very expensive.”

Kim scowled. I continued. “Later, an aunt gave me $5 for a present. I was thrilled, because I could buy the set!”

Uninterested Kim squirmed. “I’m not hungry, Mom. May I be excused?”

“You know what, though?” I went on, ignoring her. “I didn’t buy it.”

Kim stopped halfway out of her chair. “Why? I thought you wanted it more than anything in the whole world.”

I nodded. “When my dad took me to the store, I picked up that set and imagined pouring tea for my dolls.” Even now, I could still recall the thrill of clutching that box close to me. “Then I saw a baseball glove and remembered Andy lying in bed at home.”

Sinking back, Kim really looked at me for the first time. “You bought the glove instead?  Did Andy like it?”

My vision blurred and I swallowed hard, once more engulfed by the anxiety and grief of that long-ago summer. “Andy never got well enough to play, Kim. But he slept with that glove in his arms. That made me happier than any tea set ever could.”

I saw the sparkle of tears in Kim’s eyes before she darted out of the kitchen, leaving me to my memories…and the hope she understood the message I’d tried to convey.

On Christmas morning, Kim didn’t once mention horses. She thanked us for her new parka and matching scarf.

“Open this next, Mom.” Eyes shining, Kim placed a big box in my lap.

I ripped away the tissue paper, then almost gasped. In the box was a child’s china tea set decorated with violets—complete with teapot, cups, sugar bowl and creamer.

Bob gave me a puzzled look as tears rolled down my cheeks. “Kim dragged me to 10 stores till we found that. And now you’re crying?”

I held the box close, exchanging a loving look with our daughter. “They’re tears of joy,” I explained. “Kim gave me what I wanted more than anything in the whole world.”

Whoever Takes the Son

Author Unknown

Remember that a gift should be treasured; not only the ones that are wrapped but ones that are bestowed upon you.

Years ago, there was a very wealthy man who, with his devoted young son, shared a passion for art collecting. Together, they traveled around the world, adding only the finest art treasures to their collection. Priceless works by Picasso, Van Gogh, Monet and many others adorned the walls of the family estate.

The widowed elder man looked on with satisfaction as his only child became an experienced art collector. The son's trained eye and sharp business mind caused his father to beam with pride as they dealt with art collectors around the world.

One year, as winter approached, war engulfed the nation, and the young man left to serve his country. After only a few short weeks, his father received a telegram. His beloved son was missing in action. The art collector anxiously awaited more news, fearing he would never see his son again. Within days, his fears were confirmed. The young man had died while rushing a fellow soldier to a medic.

Distraught and lonely, the old man faced the upcoming Christmas holidays with anguish and sadness. The joy of the season that he and his son had looked forward to would visit his house no longer.

On Christmas morning, a knock on the door awakened the depressed old man. As he walked to the door, the masterpieces of art on the walls only reminded him that his son was not coming home. As he opened the door, he was greeted by a soldier with a large package in his hands.

He introduced himself to the old man by saying, "I was a friend of your son. I was the one he was rescuing when he died. May I come in for a few moments? I have something to show you."

As the two began to talk, the soldier told of how the man's son had told everyone of his, not to mention his father's, love of fine art. "I am no artist," said the soldier, "but I want to give you this."

As the old man unwrapped the package, the paper gave way to reveal a portrait of the man's son. Though the world would never consider it the work of a genius, the painting featured the young man's face in striking detail.

Overcome with emotion, the man thanked the soldier, promising to hang the picture above the fireplace. A few hours later, after the soldier had departed, the old man set about his task. True to his word, the painting went above the fireplace, pushing aside thousands of dollars worth of art. His task completed, the old man sat in his chair and spent Christmas gazing at the gift he had been given.

During the days and weeks that followed, the man realized that, even though is son was no longer with him, the boy would live on because of those he had touched. He would soon learn that his son had rescued dozens of wounded soldiers before a bullet stifled his caring heart.

As the stories of his son's gallantry continued to reach him, fatherly pride and satisfaction began to ease his grief. The painting of his son soon became his most prized possession, far eclipsing any interest in the pieces for which museums around the world clamored. He told his neighbors it was the greatest gift he had ever received.

The following spring, the old man became ill and passed away. The art world was in anticipation that the collector's passing and his only son dead, those paintings would be sold at auction. According to the will of the old man, all art works would be auctioned on Christmas Day, the day he had received the greatest gift.

The day soon arrived and art collectors from around the world gathered to bid on some of the world's most spectacular paintings. Dreams would be fulfilled this day; greatness would be achieved as many would claim, "I have the greatest collection."

The auction began with a painting that was not on any museum's list. It was the painting of the man's son. The auctioneer asked for an opening bid, but the room was silent. "Who will open the bidding with $100?" he asked. Minutes passed, and no one spoke. From the back of the room came a voice, "Who cares about that painting? It's just a picture of his son." "Let's forget about it and move on to the good stuff," more voices echoed in agreement.

"No, we have to sell this one first," replied the auctioneer. "Now, who will take the son?" Finally, a neighbor of the old man spoke. "Will you take ten dollars for the painting? That's all I have. I knew the boy; so I would like to have it.

"I have ten dollars. Will anyone go higher?" asked the auctioneer. After more silence, the auctioneer said, "Going once, going twice, gone." The gavel fell.

Cheers filled the room and someone exclaimed, "Now we can get on with it and we can bid on the real treasures!" The auctioneer looked at the audience and announced that the auction was over.

Stunned disbelief quieted the room. Someone spoke up and asked, "What do you mean, it's over? We didn't come here for a picture of some old guy's son. What about all these paintings? There are millions of dollars worth of art here! I demand that you explain what is going on!"

The auctioneer replied, "It's very simple. According to the will of the father, whoever takes the son...gets it all."

Puts things into perspective, doesn't it? Just as those art collectors discovered on Christmas Day, the message is still the same: the love of a father, whose greatest joy came from his son who went away and gave his life rescuing others; and because of that father's love, whoever takes the Son gets it all.

In life, many things will catch your eye, but only a few will catch your heart.

A Christmas Present, Delayed

By Robert F. Walsh

Readers Digest

I was ten the summer my dad helped me buy my first ten-speed bicycle from Father Allen. I put up $60 of my grass cutting and snow shoveling money, and my dad put up the other half. I would pay him back in installments over the next six months. Although it was the kind of bike you’d expect a priest to have (dull silver, slightly worn, no baseball cards in the spokes), it was my ticket to the adult world.

I spent that summer and autumn riding as if to put Greg LeMond to shame. My sister Liz, a prisoner of her five-speed and banana seat, never had a chance to keep up. We’d always been stuck with hand-me-downs from our older brothers and sisters, a few of whom had notoriously bad taste in bikes. Now, however, I was able to ride to every corner of town, sometimes even as far as the beach. In those heady days before one acquires a driver’s license, a good bike is a magic carpet.

Just before the Christmas deadline to pay my dad back, we were hit with several snowstorms. This allowed me to shovel enough driveways to pay off my debt. I was now officially a bike owner; it was a feeling unlike any other.

It’s important to note that while my mom and dad were fantastic parents, they couldn’t be trusted with the awesome responsibility of buying appropriate Christmas presents. They were too quick to pass off gloves, sneakers, and shirts as “presents.” And while we might say a prayer over the Baby Jesus in the manger on our way to church, He seemed too busy at this time of year to leave presents under the tree. We outsourced our requests for the really good presents to Santa.

For her family of seven kids, my mom developed a system in which she decorated the outside of seven large boxes with different types of wallpaper. We each had our own box that contained six or so presents, and we’d close our eyes and reach in to grab one when it was our turn. This cut down on hours of wrapping and satisfied my dad’s Naval sense of order.

The downside was we opened one present at a time so everyone could “appreciate” each other’s gifts. Neither Liz nor I “appreciated” this system because we went last. After the obligatory “oohs” and “aahs,” each of us held up our present for family review, a process that averaged about five minutes or so. This meant Liz and I had to wait about forty-five minutes between each present, so patience was in short supply—when one of us pulled out a belt or package of underwear, we seethed the entire time.

My dad, a master showman, liked to keep a few of Santa’s better presents for the end. On that fateful Christmas morning, he gave me a used portable record player. I was ecstatic—I was finally untethered from the “family stereo” that all of us fought over.

Alas, my elation was short-lived after my dad called my sister to the kitchen. “We have one more gift for you,” he said as he opened the door that led to the garage. There, on the steps, stood a brand new ten-speed Schwinn. I didn’t hear her screams of joy—all I could hear was the sputtering engine of the lawnmower, the endless scraping of the metal snow shovel on concrete. I’d endured far too many hours of indentured servitude for my used bike; that Santa could give Liz this sparkling machine less than a week later was a sign that he was losing his touch. Could Mrs. Claus be putting something in his food?

I slumped onto the floor. My ten-speed chariot had turned into a pumpkin in the time it took my sister to hop on the gleaming leather seat.

“Let’s go for a ride, Rob!” she sang, my dad holding the bike upright as she put her feet on the pedals.

“Too snowy to ride,” I muttered, pushing the record player farther away from me. The symbolism seemed lost on my dad.

I seethed for the rest of the day, then the rest of the week. My dad was not someone to whom we complained about presents (not if we ever wanted to see another, anyway). Santa always seemed to lose interest after Christmas, rarely accepting returns or trade-ins. That left the Baby Jesus, but He wasn’t answering my prayers—I could tell because Liz’s bike had yet to crumble into a pile of rust flakes.

After a few weeks of watching me pout, my dad finally pulled me aside. “Everything okay?”

“It’s not fair,” I whined. “I worked so hard for my bike, and it’s not even new. Then Liz gets a brand new bike as soon as I make the final payment. She didn’t have to do anything for it.”

My dad smiled. “She didn’t have to do anything for it because it’s not really for her,” he said, and then left the room.

What did that mean? I didn’t want her bike—it had the girly bar that sloped down to the ground and a flowery white basket on the handlebars. I could turn it in for a new set of action figures, I figured, but she’d been on it every day since Christmas—no way they’d let me take it back now. I eventually got over it, chalking it up to elf error (the naughty and nice list can be cumbersome).

By spring Liz and I were riding all over town together now that she could keep up. Sure, I’d lose her on the steep slopes, but I always let her catch up when we went downhill. Initially, the youngest children in a large family form a bond out of necessity—older siblings can be taxing, and there are only so many locked doors one can hide behind. Sometimes, you need someone else in the foxhole with you.

As we grew, Liz and I became true friends. We biked down to swim at the local pool, then put in seven miles to take the free town tennis lessons together. We planned secret parties when my parents went on trips and played a game of “Who can leave less gas in the tank” when we finally got our drivers’ licenses. I relied on her to put names to faces when we were at parties, and she treated my best friends as her personal dating service. We ended up at the same college, and even graduated the same year.

Still, I wasn’t smart enough to figure out what my dad meant until years later. That brand new bike was not a gift for Liz—it was a gift for me. He’d given me the gift of my sister’s company, the ability to stay together rather than drift apart in the face of my ability to travel. He gave me my best friend.

It’s a gift I’ve treasured every day since.

December 13

White Christmas

By Dave Donaldson

Last night I was invited to attend an event at the prison. The invitation said that there was going to be a Christmas Concert put on by inmates, for staff and volunteers. I was allowed to bring a guest; I brought my wife Linda. 

We were entertained for about an hour and a half by 60 men, who had clearly practiced for this for a while. The men are separated in their day to day lives according to housing units, and events like this are some of the few times that they get to see each other during the year, as participants from different housing units are allowed to be together for this event.

For those of us that arrived a little early, the “band” and choir warmed up, and invited us to sing along to some familiar tunes. The band consisted of five men on guitars, one of them a beautiful 12 string played by a VERY accomplished musician, and one of whom also played keyboard. The man on the keyboard was a guy I’ve written about before, about a year or so ago. He is an older guy, about 10 years my senior, with long gray hair, and seriously strikingly handsome. He’s a bit of a legend in there. A woman who is in her 80’s I’d guess, sitting next to me in the chapel leaned over to me as the band was warming up and said, “Do you volunteer in here? A lot of the men seem to know you.” I smiled and nodded. She continued, pointing to my acquaintance on the keyboard, “You know, they say he used to play for Elvis”. I smiled. Later on, after the program, we were invited to have refreshments provided by the prison staff. One of the older women at our table mentioned, referring to the same man, “You know, I heard he used to play with Sinatra.” I couldn’t wait to see him again some Sunday, and tell him what a stir he was making with the older gals that night.

The men started out with the usual fun Christmas Carols that we all know, with some amazing arrangements, and improvisations (especially on keyboard) that were just plain awesome! They had the place rocking, and executed their talents to raucous applause. As the evening progressed, the choirs mixed and interchanged performers to highlight talents in different housing units, and different songs. By the middle of the program, the tone had switched from secular to sacred, and the voices…the voices. No choir I’ve ever heard had anything on these guys. There is something about a men’s choir with a beautiful tenor or two in the mix that just makes me say, “wow” out loud.

As I was being served by these men singing heartfelt praises to a Savior that some of them have only come to know for the first time in their lives inside of those walls, I studied their faces. As they were completely wrapped up in the joy of this moment – being able to sing praises at the top of their lungs without ridicule, while simultaneously being adored by hundreds of visitors from the outside – I imagined another moment in each of their lives. That moment in a courtroom, where the worst thing they ever did in their life was paraded before a jury and media, and the shame and humiliation they felt as judgment and sentencing was passed. The moment that some of them had, to come face to face with people whom they had harmed, while people who love them sat in the same gallery, weeping for the man they knew - the once innocent boy in whom they had high hopes. The moment in which some of them had to allocute to horrific things that they had done to themselves, or others, in open court. These men, who once stood in shackles in those circumstances, now stood in front of me, dressed in the pristine white uniforms of the corrections system, freely singing praises to a Savior who was, at that very moment, liberating them from who they once were. Tears wetted my eyes as I witnessed this.

I’ll never hear the song, “White Christmas” again, without conjuring this scene.

December 12

Pepper’s Last Gift

By Zach Hively

Readers Digest

Whatever life threw at us each year, come Christmas our family had one constant tradition: our dog Pepper opened our presents for us. When our beloved Black Lab mix had been a gangly adolescent puppy, we had only given her unbreakable gifts to unwrap—things like pajamas and steering wheel covers. She proved to be so careful that we soon gave her any gift that wasn’t edible. Every time, Pepper found the seam in the wrapping paper with her snout and held the present down gingerly with her forepaws. Her front teeth pried up the lip of paper with the utmost care. Then she removed every inch of wrapping paper before stepping back to lie in the midst of our gathering. She never bit or scratched the gifts themselves.

Friends and relatives who joined our family celebrations never believed Pepper could be so delicate until they witnessed her talents. Watching our sweet dog unwrap gifts always warmed the holiday, which was often a little bittersweet because college, studying abroad, or work commitments often kept my two sisters and me away.

One year, everyone made it home for a Christmas together. I was back from Ireland, Kaci flew in from Arizona, and Kara visited from college. Mom’s jubilance kept her busy baking cookies for us all. Our Christmas season should have been perfect.

It couldn’t feel perfect, though, because Pepper’s health was deteriorating. Her life had already been longer than we expected—she was fourteen—and yet her mind was still sharp. Her enthusiasm for life made us feel better. But her body could not keep up with her spirit. She’d already shown the usual signs of deafness and stiffness. That year, her hips and back legs started giving out on her. We knew we would soon have to make a difficult decision.

It was likely Pepper’s last Christmas, so we decided to make sure she enjoyed it. On Christmas Eve, we gathered around the tree to open an early present. We each took a turn and then called Pepper to open one more. But her tangled legs could not navigate the boxes and shredded wrapping paper on the floor. She stumbled over the obstacles, and soon she disappeared into the next room. She crumpled back to the floor, as out of the way as she could get.

We were heartbroken. Could Pepper even participate in her last Christmas?

Pepper stayed on the periphery of all our holiday activities. Throughout the day, we gave gifts but did not feel very giving. We shared stories over cinnamon rolls that tasted bland. We played games by the tree whose twinkles had dimmed.

That evening, Kaci said what we’d all been thinking: “I wish Pepper could have helped open presents this year.”

We all put down our mugs of spiced tea. “Maybe she still could,” Kara said.

“But there’s none left,” Mom reminded her.

Kara jumped up and left the room. We heard her opening drawers and cabinets in the kitchen. She returned with a box of dog biscuits, scissors, and a roll of tape.

“Hand me that green paper,” Kara told me, pointing at a large sheet at my feet. She cut a small section from the paper and wrapped a single dog treat in it. She held it up as if she had just struck gold. “Now there’s a present for her!”

I knelt on the floor next to Kara and wrapped another dog treat. Kaci and Mom joined in, too. Soon, we had four elegantly wrapped dog biscuits in a row on the floor. We cleared the floor of discarded wrapping paper. We tucked our legs under us as we perched out of the way on the furniture.

“Go get Pepper,” we urged Mom. We all bounced like eager children.

Mom went into the next room. “You want to open a present, girl?” she coaxed. In a moment, Pepper stuck her head into the room. Her ears were fully perked with anticipation and curiosity.

She skidded on stilted legs to the row of presents. She sniffed all four in order, and looked back and forth between them. She’d never had such a wide choice of gifts before.

Soon, Pepper selected her first Christmas gift. She nimbly turned the present with her forepaw, just like she was a spry young dog once more. She tugged every last scrap of paper off the dog treat before she chewed it with her customary grace.

Our family swelled with glee.

Pepper licked the last crumb from the floor. She eyed the remaining three presents, then turned to Mom as if asking, “May I please open another?”

“Go ahead, girl!” Mom encouraged.

For the next few minutes, Pepper opened each of her Christmas presents. While she did, she reminded us of the sheer joy of being together. Our family felt whole—not because we were in the same room, city, or country, but because our love bonded us together.

In the new year, Pepper let us know it was time to call the veterinarian. Her passing, while tearful, was peaceful. In its own way, her passing was also a celebration of life, because she gave my family so much love and laughter.

Long after I forgot each of my presents, I still cherish Pepper’s final Christmas gift. She taught me that no matter where we each spend the holidays, and no matter what the passing year brings, the smallest act of heartfelt giving can unite our family through our love. For me, that knowledge is the longest-lasting gift of all.

Ocean Depths Fail to Dampen the Spirit of Christmas

By Mark R. Clary

For the Deseret News, 2014

The Christmas that will remain forever etched in my memory was devoid of snow and sleigh bells. There were no chestnuts roasting on an open fire and no aroma of spicy apple cider. There was no turkey, no mistletoe and no Santa in the department store. There were no Christmas trees. There were no presents to unwrap. I witnessed the powerful impact of the spirit of Christmas many years ago — several hundred feet beneath the surface of the Atlantic Ocean.

Our submarine had just completed a seven-month tour of duty in the Mediterranean at the height of the Cold War. We were scheduled to return to our home port of Charleston, South Carolina, two days before Christmas. The thought of seeing family and friends after such a long absence made our excitement almost impossible to contain, and returning just in time for that wondrous holiday created unbearable feelings of anticipation. Unfortunately, our enthusiasm was short-lived. While passing through the Straits of Gibraltar, we received emergency orders to locate and track a Soviet submarine that had been detected near a strategic port in Spain.

The feeling of discouragement formed a huge black cloud that enveloped each man aboard. We knew full well that our window of opportunity for a return by Christmas was already extremely small and this detour would mean no hugs from loved ones on Christmas morning. Even though we performed our assigned task in a professional manner, it added five days to our schedule and the successful completion of the mission did little to relieve the pain of homesickness that seemed to consume everyone.

Shortly after completing that final mission, at a time when things felt especially gloomy, I picked up a colored grease pencil used for keeping the Maneuvering Room status board current, and in the lower right-hand corner I drew a small red and white candy cane. When I had finished, the twinkle in the rest of the eyes of the men in the room was unmistakable and there was just a hint of a smile in their countenances.

Over the next few days, I began to add bits and pieces of the season to the board. One morning I drew a tiny snowman, the next a Christmas tree with ornaments. The following day found Santa and his sleigh flying above rooftops. During each four-hour shift, I added a little something more until finally a shining star looked down on a small Nativity scene, and the work was complete.

And that’s when it happened. Men who had worked so hard for so long to maintain their rough exterior could be heard singing Christmas carols throughout the submarine. Men who had always taken a special pride in how callous they were began to ask, “Who remembers the second verse to ‘Silent Night’?” Men who had refused to acknowledge their spiritual side assisted one another in recalling the words to "Away in a Manger." The atmosphere aboard the submarine had changed completely. The feeling of depression and sadness had been transformed into one of peace on earth — good will to men.

Then, on Christmas Day, the unthinkable happened. The captain, who always stayed at the forward section of the boat to monitor sonar readings and maintain visual sightings from the periscope, walked aft to the rear of the submarine and entered the Maneuvering Room.

Even though we were surrounded by large pumps, motors, hydraulic systems, turbine generators and the main propulsion shaft, a deafening silence fell over us. I tried to envision life in the brig — the Navy’s term for jail. I thought of how simple grease pencils and a piece of Plexiglas may have just cost me a successful term of naval service because I knew that using the status board as a makeshift Christmas card was clearly a violation of Nuclear Regulatory Commission procedures.

For several more minutes not a word was spoken. Then the captain of the nuclear submarine, the commander of one of the world’s most powerful strategic military weapons, said in a soft and almost reverent voice, “Merry Christmas, men.” He turned and left the room, walked slowly back to the forward part of the boat, and quietly closed the door to his private stateroom.

I learned that day that the Spirit of Christmas could be felt by all men, even the most hardened sailors. I learned that the warm light of the season can be felt anywhere, even onboard a submarine far beneath a cold and dark sea. I learned that there is a sweet spirit that can be awakened within each of us through the simplest of means — even a small red and white candy cane.