Buckets of Christmas Stories

Story # 57 A Brtother Like That

2011-12-17T21:19:00.001-08:00

A Brother Like That
A friend of mine named Paul received a new car from his brother as a pre-Christmas present. On Christmas Eve, when Paul came out of his office, a street urchin was walking around the shiny new car, admiring it. "Is this your car, mister?" he asked. Paul nodded. "My brother gave it to me for Christmas."

The boy looked astounded. "You mean your brother gave it to you, and it didn't cost you anything? Gosh, I wish...." He hesitated, and Paul knew what he was going to wish. He was going to wish he had a brother like that. But what the lad said jarred Paul all the way down to his heels.
"I wish," the boy went on, "that I could be a brother like that." Paul looked at the boy in astonishment, then impulsively added, "Would you like a ride in my new car?" "Oh, yes, I'd love that!"

After a short ride the urchin turned, and with his eyes aglow said. "Mister, would you mind driving in front of my house?"
Paul smiled a little. He thought he knew what the lad wanted. He wanted to show his neighbors that he could ride home in a big automobile. But Paul was wrong again. "Will you stop right where those steps are?" the boy asked. He ran up the steps. Then in a little while, Paul heard him coming back, but he was not coming fast. He was carrying his little polio-crippled brother. He sat down on the bottom step, then sort of squeezed up right against him and pointed to the car.
"There she is, Buddy, just like I told you upstairs. His brother gave it to him for Christmas, and it didn't cost him a cent, and someday I'm gonna give you one just like it; then you can see for yourself all the pretty things in the Christmas windows that I've been trying to tell you about."
Paul got out and lifted the little lad into the front seat of his car. The shining-eyed older brother climbed in beside him and the three of them began a memorable holiday ride. That Christmas Eve, Paul learned what Jesus meant when He said, "(It is more blessed to give... "

Story #56 The Old One

2011-12-17T21:17:00.000-08:00

A brother and sister had made their usual hurried, obligatory pre- Christmas visit to the little farm where dwelt their elderly parents with their small herd of horses. The farm was where they had grown up and had been named Lone Pine Farm because of the huge pine, which topped the hill behind the farm.
Through the years the tree had become a talisman to the old man and his wife, and a landmark in the countryside. The young siblings had fond memories of their childhood here, but the city hustle and bustle added more excitement to their lives, and called them away to a different life.
The old folks no longer showed their horses, for the years had taken their toll, and getting out to the barn on those frosty mornings was getting harder, but it gave them a reason to get up in the mornings and a reason to live. They sold a few foals each year, and the horses were their reason for joy in the morning and contentment at day's end.
Angry, as they prepared to leave, the young couple confronted the old folks "Why do you not at least dispose of The Old One." She is no longer of use to you. It's been years since you've had foals from her. You should cut corners and save so you can have more for yourselves. How can this old worn out horse bring you anything but expense and work? Why do you keep her anyway?" The old man looked down at his worn boots, holes in the toes, scuffed at the barn floor and replied, " Yes, I could use a pair of new boots. His arm slid defensively about the Old One's neck as he drew her near with gentle caressing he rubbed her softly behind her ears. He replied softly, "We keep her because of love. Nothing else, just love." Baffled and irritated, the young folks wished the old man and his wife a Merry Christmas and headed back toward the city as darkness stole through the valley.
The old couple shook their heads in sorrow that it had not been a happy visit. A tear fell upon their cheeks. How is it that these young folks do not understand the peace of the love that filled their hearts? So it was, that because of the unhappy leave-taking, no one noticed the insulation smoldering on the frayed wires in the old barn. None saw the first spark fall. None but the "Old One". In a matter of minutes, the whole barn was ablaze and the hungry flames were licking at the loft full of hay.With a cry of horror and despair, the old man shouted to his wife to call for help as he raced to the barn to save their beloved horses. But the flames were roaring now, and the blazing heat drove him back. He sank sobbing to the ground, helpless before the fire's fury. His wife back from calling for help cradled him in her arms, clinging to each other, they wept at their ruins were left, and the old man and his wife, exhausted from their grief, huddled together before the barn.
They were speechless as they rose from the cold snow covered ground. They nodded thanks to the firemen as there was nothing anyone could do now.The old man turned to his wife, resting her white head upon his shoulders as his shaking old hands clumsily dried her tears with a frayed red bandana.Brokenly he whispered, "We have lost much, but God has spared our home on this eve of Christmas. Let us gather strength and climb the hill to the old pine where we have sought comfort in times of despair. We will look down upon our home and give thanks to God that it has been spared and pray for our beloved most precious gifts that have been taken from us. And so, he took her by the hand and slowly helped her up the snowy hill as he brushed aside his own tears with the back of his old and withered hand.
The journey up the hill was hard for their old bodies in the steep snow. As they stepped over the little knoll at the crest of the hill, they paused to rest, looking up to the top of the hill the old couple gasped and fell to their knees in amazement at the incredible beauty before them. Seemingly, every glorious, brilliant star in the heavens was caught up in the glittering, snow-frosted branches of their beloved pine, and it was aglow with heavenly candles. And poised on its top most bough, a crystal crescent moon glistened like spun glass. Never had a mere mortal created a Christmas tree such as this. They were breathless as the old man held his wife tighter in his arms.

Suddenly, the old man gave a cry of wonder and incredible joy. Amazed and mystified, he took his wife by the hand and pulled her forward. There, beneath the tree, in resplendent glory, a mist hovering over and glowing in the darkness was their Christmas gift. Shadows glistening in the night light. Bedded down about the "Old One" close to the trunk of the tree, was the entire herd, safe. At the first hint of smoke, she had pushed the door ajar with her muzzle and had led the horses through it. Slowly and with great dignity, never looking back, she had led them up the hill, stepping cautiously through the snow. The foals were frightened and dashed about. The skittish yearlings looked back at the crackling, hungry flames, and tucked their tails under them as they licked their lips and hopped like rabbits. The mares that were in foal with a new years crop of babies, pressed uneasily against the "Old One" as she moved calmly up the hill and to safety beneath the pine. And now she lay among them and gazed at the faces of the old man and his wife.

Those she loved she had not disappointed. Her body was brittle with years, tired from the climb, but the golden eyes were filled with devotion as she offered her gift--- Because of love. Only Because of love. Tears flowed as the old couple shouted their praise and joy... And again the peace of love filled their hearts.

Story # 55 The Christmas Doll

2011-12-17T21:08:00.001-08:00

The Christmas Doll
Author Unknown
On the last day before Christmas, I hurried to go to the store to buy the remaining gifts I didn't manage to buy earlier.When I saw all the people there, I started to complain to myself. It is going to take forever here and I still have so many other places to go... Christmas really is getting more and more annoying every year. How I wish I could just lie down, go to sleep and only wake up after it...Nonetheless, I made my way to the toy section, and there I started to curse the prices, wondering if all kids really play with such expensive toys.While looking in the toy section, I noticed a small boy of about 5 years old, pressing a doll against his chest. He kept on touching the hair of the doll and looked so sad. I wondered who was this doll for. Then the little boy turned to the old woman next to him and said: Granny, are you sure I don't have enough money?The old lady replied: You know that you don't have enough money to buy this doll, my dear. Then she asked him to stay here for 5 minutes while she went to look around. She left quickly.The little boy was still holding the doll in his hand. Finally, I started to walk toward him and I asked him who did he want to give this doll to. It is the doll that my sister loved most and wanted so much for this Christmas. She was so sure that Santa Claus would bring it to her.I replied to him that maybe Santa Claus will bring it to her, after all, and not to worry. But he replied to me sadly. No, Santa Claus cannot bring it to her where she is now. I have to give the doll to my mother so that she can give it to her when she goes there.His eyes were so sad while saying this.My sister has gone to be with God. Daddy said that Mommy will also go to see God very soon, so I thought that she could bring the doll with her to give it to my sister.My heart nearly stopped.The little boy looked up at me and said: I told daddy to tell mommy not to go yet. I asked him to wait until I come back from the store.Then he showed me a very nice photo of him where he was laughing. He then told me: I also want mommy to take this photo with her so that she will not forget me.I love my mommy and I wish she didn't have to leave me but daddy says that she has to go to be with my little sister.Then he looked again at the doll with sad eyes, very quietly.I quickly reached for my wallet and took a few dollars out and said to the boy. What if we checked again, just in case, to see if you have enough money?OK he said. I hope that I have enough.I added some of my money to his without him seeing and we started to count it. There was enough for the doll, and even some spare money.The little boy said: Thank you God for giving me enough money.Then he looked at me and added: I asked yesterday before I slept for God to make sure I have enough money to buy this doll so that mommy can give it to my sister. He heard me.I also wanted to have enough money to buy a white rose for my mommy, but I didn't dare to ask God for too much. but He gave me enough to buy the doll and the white rose. You know, my mommy loves white roses.A few minutes later, the old lady came again and I left.I finished my shopping in a totally different state from when I started. I couldn't get the little boy out of my mind.Then I remembered a local newspaper article 2 days ago, which mentioned of a drunk man in a truck who hit a car where there was one young lady and a little girl.The little girl died right away, and the mother was left in a critical state. The family had to decide whether to pull the plug on the life-assisting machine, because the young lady would not be able to get out of the coma.Was this the family of the little boy?Two days after this encounter with the little boy, I read in the newspaper that the young lady had passed away.I couldn't stop myself and went to buy a bunch of white roses and I went to the mortuary where the body of the young woman was exposed for people to see before burial.She was there, in her coffin, holding a beautiful white rose in her hand with the photo of the little boy and the doll placed over her chest.I left the place crying, feeling that my life had been changed forever.The love that this little boy had for his mother and his sister is still, to this day, hard to imagine.And in a fraction of a second, a drunk man had taken all this away from him.

Story #54 The Story Behind Rudolph

2011-12-17T21:07:00.001-08:00

A child's innocent question sparks a father to create 'the most famous reindeer of all!' On a December night in Chicago, a little girl climbed onto her father's lap and asked a question. It was a simple question, asked in childlike curiosity, yet it had a heart-rending 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 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 tousle-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 chimney. "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 Christmastime, he decided to make the story into a poem like "The Night Before Christmas" and prepare it in book 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. His hopes crushed, Bob 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. Barbara cried with joy over his handmade gift on Christmas morning.Shortly after, Bob was asked to an employee holiday party at Montgomery Ward. 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 with 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 million 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 his years of unhappiness, the tragedy of his first 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 question inspired him to write the poem that closes with these lines: "But Rudolph was bashful, despite being a hero!"

Story #53 - An Exchange of Gifts

2011-12-17T21:06:00.001-08:00

I grew up believing that Christmas was a time when strange and wonderfulthings happened; when wise and royal visitors came riding, when atmidnight in the barnyard animals talked to one another, and in the lightof a fabulous star, God came down to us as a baby. Christmas to me hasalways been a time of enchantment, and never more so than the year whenmy son Marty was eight. That was the year that my children and I movedinto a cozy trailer home in a forested area just outside of Redmond,Washington.As the holidays approached, our spirits were light, unhampered even bythe winter rains that swept down Puget Sound, dousing our home andmaking our floors muddy. Throughout that December, Marty had been themost spirited, and busiest of us all. He was my youngest; a cheerfulboy, blond-haired and playful, with a quaint habit of looking up at youand cocking his head like a puppy when you talked to him. Actually, thereason for this was that Marty was deaf in his left ear, but it was acondition which he never complained about.For weeks, I had been watching Marty. I knew that something was going onwith him that he was not telling me about. I saw how eagerly he made hisbed, took out the trash, carefully set the table and helped Rick and Pamprepare dinner before I got home from work. I saw how he silentlycollected his tiny allowance and tucked it away, not spending a cent ofit. I had no idea what all this quiet activity was about, but Isuspected that somehow it had something to do with Kenny. Kenny wasMarty's friend, and ever since they found each other in the springtime,they were seldom apart. If you called to one, you got them both. Theirworld was in a meadow, a pasture broken by a small winding stream, wherethe boys caught frogs and snakes, where they searched for arrowheads orhidden treasure, or where they would spend an afternoon feedingsquirrels peanuts.Times were hard for our little family, and we had scrimped and saved toget by. With my job as a meat wrapper and with a lot of ingenuity aroundthe house, we were much better off than Kenny's family. They weredesperately poor, and his mother struggled to feed and clothe her twochildren. They were a good, solid family. But Kenny's mom was a proudwoman, very proud, and she had strict rules.How we worked, as we did each year, to make our home festive for theholiday! Ours was a handcrafted Christmas of gifts hidden away andornaments strung about the place. Marty and Kenny would sometimes sitstill at the table long enough to help make cornucopias or weave littlebaskets for the tree. But then, in a flash, one whispered to the other,and they would be out the door and sliding cautiously under the electricfence into the horse pasture that separated our home from Kenny's.One night, shortly before Christmas, when my hands were deep inPeppernoder dough, shaping tiny nut-like Danish cookies heavily spicedwith cinnamon, Marty came to me and said in a tone mixed with pleasureand pride, "Mom, I've bought Kenny a Christmas present. Want to see it?"So that's what he's been up to, I said to myself. "It's something he'swanted for a long, long time, Mom." After wiping his hands on a dishtowel carefully, he pulled from his pocket a small box. Lifting the lid,I gazed at the pocket compass that my son had been saving all thoseallowances to buy. A little compass to point an eight-year-oldadventurer through the woods."It's a lovely gift, Martin," I said, but even as I spoke, a disturbingthought came to mind: I knew how Kenny's mother felt about theirpoverty. They could barely afford to exchange gifts among themselves,and giving presents to others was out of the question. I was sure thatKenny's proud mother would not permit her son to receive something thathe could not return in kind. Gently, carefully, I talked over theproblem with Marty. He understood what I was saying. "I know, Mom, Iknow! But what if it was a secret? What if they never found out who gaveit?" I didn't know how to answer him. I just didn't know.The day before Christmas was rainy and cold and gray. The three kids andI all but fell over one another as we elbowed our way about our littlehome, putting finishing touches on Christmas secrets and preparing forfamily and friends who would be dropping by. Night came. The raincontinued. I looked out the window over the sink and felt an oddsadness. How mundane the rain seemed for a Christmas Eve! Would wise androyal men come riding on such a night? I doubted it. It seemed to methat strange and wonderful things happened only on clear nights, nightswhen one could at least see a star in the heavens.I turned from the window, and as I checked on the ham and bread warmingin the oven, I saw Marty slip out the door. He wore his coat over hispajamas, and he clutched a tiny, colorfully wrapped box in his hand.Down through the soggy pasture he went, then a quick slide under theelectric fence and across the yard to Kenny's house. Up the steps ontiptoe, shoes squishing, he opened the screen door just a crack; placedthe gift on the doorstep, took a deep breath, and reached for thedoorbell, and pressed on it hard.Quickly Marty turned, ran down the steps and across the yard in a wildeffort to get away unnoticed. Then, suddenly, he banged into theelectric fence. The shock sent him reeling. He lay stunned on the wetground. His body quivered and he gasped for breath. Then slowly, weakly,confused and frightened, he began the grueling trip back home. "Marty,"we cried as he stumbled through the door, "what happened?" His lower lipquivered, his eyes brimmed. "I forgot about the fence, and it knocked medown!" I hugged his muddy little body to me. He was still dazed andthere was a red mark blistering on his face from his mouth to his ear.Quickly I treated the blister and, with a warm cup of cocoa, Marty'sbright spirits returned. I tucked him into bed and just before he fellasleep, he looked up at me and said, "Mom, Kenny didn't see me. I'm surehe didn't see me."That Christmas Eve I went to bed unhappy and puzzled. It seemed such acruel thing to happen to a little boy on the purest kind of Christmasmission -- doing what the Lord wants us to do -- giving to others -- andgiving in secret at that. I did not sleep well that night. Somewheredeep inside I think I must have been feeling the disappointment that thenight of Christmas had come and it had been just an ordinary,problem-filled night, no mysterious enchantment at all. However, I waswrong.By morning the rain had stopped and the sun shone. The streak on Marty'sface was very red, but I could tell that the burn was not serious. Weopened our presents, and soon, not unexpectedly, Kenny was knocking onthe door, eager to show Marty his new compass and tell about the mysteryof its arrival. It was plain that Kenny didn't suspect Marty at all, andwhile the two of them talked, Marty just smiled and smiled. Then Inoticed that while the two boys were comparing their Christmases,nodding, gesturing and chattering away, Marty was not cocking his head.While Kenny was talking, Marty seemed to be listening with his deaf ear.Weeks later, a report came from the school nurse, verifying what Martyand I already knew: "Marty now has complete hearing in both ears." Themystery of how Marty regained his hearing, and still has it, remainsjust that -- a mystery. Doctors suspect, of course, that the shock fromthe electric fence was somehow responsible. Perhaps so. Whatever thereason, I just remained thankful to God for the good exchange of giftsmade that night.So you see, strange and wonderful things still happen on the night of our Lord's birth. And one does not have to have a clear night either, tofollow a fabulous star.

Story #52 Why the Chimes Rang

2011-12-17T21:05:00.001-08:00

by Raymond MacDonald Alden
There was once, in a far-away country where few people have ever traveled, a wonderful church. It stood on a high hill in the midst of a great city; and every Sunday, as well as on sacred days like Christmas, thousands of people climbed the hill to its great archways, looking like lines of ants all moving in the same direction.
When you came to the building itself, you found stone columns and dark passages, and a grand entrance leading to the main room of the church. This room was so long that one standing at the doorway could scarcely see the other end, where the choir stood by the marble altar. In the farthest corner was the organ; and this organ was so loud, that sometimes when it played, the people for miles around would close their shutters and prepare for a great thunderstorm. Altogether, no such church as this was ever seen before, especially when it was lighted up for some festival, and crowded with people, young and old. But the strangest thing about the whole building was the wonderful chime of bells.

At one corner of the church was a great gray tower, with ivy growing over it as far up as one could see. I say as far as one could see, because the tower was quite great enough to fit a great church, and it rose so far into the sky that it was only in very fair weather that any one claimed to be able to see the top. Even then one could not be certain that it was in sight. Up, and up, and up climbed the stones and the ivy; and, as the men who built the church had been dead for hundreds of years, every one had forgotten how high the tower was supposed to be.

Now all the people knew that at the top of the tower were chimes of Christmas bells. They had hung there ever since the church had been built, and were the most beautiful bells in the world. Some thought it was because a great musician had cast them and arranged them in their place; others said it was because of the great height, which reached up where the air was clearest and purest; however that might be, no one who had ever heard the chimes denied that they were the sweetest in the world. Some described them as sounding like angels far up in the sky; others, as sounding like strange winds singing through the trees. But the fact was that no one had heard them for years and years. There was an old man living not far for the church, who said that his mother had spoken of hearing them when she was a little girl, and he was the only one who was sure of as much as that. They were Christmas chimes, you see, and were not meant to be played by men on common days.

It was a custom on Christmas Eve for all the people to bring to the church their offerings to the Christ-child; and when the greatest and best offering was laid on the altar, there used to come, sounding through the music of the choir, the Christmas chimes far up in the tower. Some said that the wind rang them, and others that they were so high that the angles could set them swinging, but for many long years they had never been heard. It was said that people had been growing less careful of their gifts for the Christ-child, and that no offering was brought, great enough to deserve the music of the chimes. Every Christmas Eve the rich people still crowded to the altar, each one trying to bring some better gift than any other, without giving anything that he wanted for himself; and the church was crowded with those who thought the offerings were plenty, but only the roar of the wind could be heard, far up in the stone tower.

Now, a number of miles from the city, in a little country village, where nothing could be seen of the great church but glimpses of the tower when the weather was fine, lived a boy named Pedro, and his little brother. They knew very little about the Christmas chimes, but they had heard of the service in the church on Christmas Eve, and had a secret plan, in which they had often talked over when by themselves, to go to see the beautiful celebration.

"Nobody can guess, Little Brother, " Pedro would say, "all the fine things there are to see and hear; and I have even heard it said that the Christ-child sometimes come down to bless the service. What if we could see Him?"

The day before Christmas was bitterly cold, with a few lonely snowflakes flying in the air, and a hard white crust on the ground. Sure enough, Pedro and Little Brother were able to slip quietly away early in the afternoon; and although the walking was hard in the frosty air, before nightfall they had trudged so far, hand in hand, that they saw the lights of the big city just ahead of them. Indeed, they were about to enter on of the great gates in the wall that surrounded it, when they saw something dark on the snow near their path, and stepped aside to look at it. It was a poor woman, who had fallen just outside the city, too sick and tired to get in where she might have found shelter. The soft snow made of a drift a sort of pillow for her, and she would soon be so sound asleep, in the wintery air, that no one could ever waken her again. All this Pedro saw in a moment, and he knelt down beside her and tried to rouse her, even tugging at her arm a little, as though he would have tried to carry her away. He turned her face toward him, so that he could rub some of the snow on it, and when he had looked at her silently a moment he stood up again, and said: "It's no use, Little Brother. You will have to go on alone."

"Alone?" cried Little Brother. "And you not see the Christmas festival?

"No," said Pedro, and he could not keep back a bit of a choking sound in his throat.

"See this poor woman. Her face looks like the Madonna in the chapel window, and she will freeze to death if nobody cares for her. Every one has gone to the church now, but when you come back you can bring some on to help her. I will rub her to keep her from freezing, and perhaps get her to eat the bun that is left in my pocket."

"But I can not bear to leave you, and go on along, " said Little Brother.

"Both of us need not miss the service," said Pedro, "and it had better be I then you. You can easily find your way to the church; and you must see and hear everything twice, Little Brother--one for you and one for me. I am sure the Christ-child must know how I should love to come with you and worship Him; and oh! if you get a chance, Little Brother, to slip up to the altar without getting in any one's way, take this little silver piece of mine, and lay it down for my offering, when no one is looking. Do not forget where you have left me, and forgive me for not going with you."

In this way he hurried Little Brother off to the city, and winked hard to keep back the tears, as he heard the crunching footsteps sounding farther and farther away in the twilight. It was pretty hard to lose the music and splendor of the Christmas celebration that he had been planning for so long, and spend that time instead in that lonely place in the snow.

The great church was a wonderful place that night. Every one said that it had never looked so bright and beautiful before. When the organ played and thousands of people sang, the wall shook with sound, and little Pedro, away outside the city wall, felt the earth tremble around him. At the close of the service came the procession of the offerings to be laid on the altar. Rich men and great men march proudly up to lay down their gifts to the Christ-child. Some brought wonderful jewels, some baskets of gold so heavy that they could scarcely carry them down the aisle. A great writer laid down a book that he had been making for years and years, and last of all walked the king of the country, hoping with all the rest to win for himself the chime of the Christmas bells. The went a great murmur through the church, as the people saw the king take from is head the royal crown, all set with precious stones, and lay it gleaming on the altar, as his offering to the Holy Child.

"Surely," everyone said, "we shall her the bells now, for nothing like this has ever happened before." But still only the old wind was heard in the tower, and the people shook their heads; and some of them said, as they had before, that they never really believe the story of the chimes, and doubted if they ever rang at all. The procession was over, and the choir began the closing hymn.

Suddenly the organist stopped playing as though he had been shot, and every one looked at the old minister, who was standing by the altar, holding up his hand for silence. Not a sound could be heard from any one in the church, but as all the people stained their ears to listen, there came softly, but distinctly, swinging through the air, the sound of the chimes in the tower. So far away, and yet so clear the music seemed--so much sweeter were the notes than anything that had been heard before, rising and falling away up there in the sky, that the people in the church sat for a moment as still as though something held each of them by the shoulders. Then they all stood up together and stared straight at the altar, to see what great gift had awakened the long-silent bells. But all that the nearest of them saw was the childish figure of Little Brother, who had crept softly down the aisle when on one was looking, and had laid Pedro's little piece of silver on the altar.

Story #51 The Best Christmas Ever

2011-12-17T21:01:00.001-08:00

From Mark's List

The Best Christmas Ever
In the early 1930s, Margaret Kisilevich and her sister Nellie gave a

Christmas gift to their neighbors, the Kozicki family, which was remembered

by them all their lives and which has become an inspiration to their

families.

Home to Margaret back then was Two Hills, Alberta, Canada—a farming

community populated largely by Ukrainian and Polish immigrants who

generally had large families and were very poor. It was the time of the

Great Depression.

Margaret’s family consisted of her mother and father and their 15 children.

Margaret’s mother was industrious and her father was enterprising— and with

all those children, they had a built-in labor force. Consequently, their

home was always warm, and despite their humble circumstances, they were

never hungry. In the summer they grew an enormous garden, made sauerkraut,

cottage cheese, sour cream, and dill pickles for barter. They also raised

chickens, pigs, and beef cattle. They had very little cash, but these goods

could be exchanged for other commodities they could not produce themselves.

Margaret’s mother had friends with whom she had emigrated from the old

country. These friends owned a general store, and the store became a depot

for folks in the area to donate or trade surplus hand-me-down clothing,

shoes, etc. Many of these used items were passed along to Margaret’s family.

Alberta winters were cold, long, and hard, and one particularly cold and

difficult winter, Margaret and her sister Nellie noticed the poverty of

their neighbors, the Kozicki family, whose farm was a few miles away. When

the Kozicki father would take his children to school on his homemade

sleigh, he would always go into the school to warm himself by the potbelly

stove before returning home. The family’s footwear consisted of rags and

gunny sacks cut into strips and wrapped about the legs and feet, stuffed

with straw, and bound with twine.

Margaret and Nellie decided to invite the Kozicki family, by way of the

children, for Christmas dinner. They also decided not to tell anyone in

their family of the invitation.

Christmas morning dawned, and everyone in Margaret’s family was busy with

the preparations for the midday feast. The huge pork roast had been put in

the oven the night before. The cabbage rolls, doughnuts, prune buns, and

special burnt sugar punch had been prepared earlier. The menu would be

rounded out with sauerkraut, dill pickles, and vegetables. Margaret and

Nellie were in charge of getting the fresh vegetables ready, and their

mother kept asking them why they were peeling so many potatoes, carrots,

and beets. But they just kept peeling.

Their father was the first to notice a team of horses and a sleigh packed

with 13 people coming down their lane. He, being a horse lover, could

recognize a team from a long distance. He asked his wife, “Why are the

Kozickis coming here?” Her response to him was, “I don’t know.”

They arrived, and Margaret’s father helped Mr. Kozicki stable the horses.

Mrs. Kozicki embraced Margaret’s mother and thanked her for inviting them

for Christmas. Then they all piled into the house, and the festivities

began.

The adults ate first, and then the plates and cutlery were washed, and the

children ate in shifts. It was a glorious feast, made better by the sharing

of it. After everyone had eaten, they sang Christmas carols together, and

then the adults settled down for another chat.

Margaret and Nellie took the children into the bedroom and pulled from

under the beds several boxes filled with hand-me-downs they had been given

by their mother’s merchant friends. It was heavenly chaos, with an instant

fashion show and everyone picking whatever clothes and footwear they

wanted. They made such a racket that Margaret’s father came in to see what

all the noise was about. When he saw their happiness and the joy of the

Kozicki children with their “new” clothes, he smiled and said, “Carry on.”

Early in the afternoon, before it got too cold and dark with the setting

sun, Margaret’s family bid farewell to their friends, who left well fed,

well clothed, and well shod.

Margaret and Nellie never told anyone about their invitation to the

Kozickis, and the secret remained until Margaret Kisilevich Wright’s 77th

Christmas, in 1998, when she shared it with her family for the first time.

She said it was her very best Christmas ever

Story #50 Christmas Day in the Morning

2011-12-17T20:56:00.003-08:00

This is one of my all time favorites!

Christmas Day in the Morning
Pearl S. Buck

Why did he feel so awake tonight? He slipped back in time, as he did so

easily nowadays. He was fifteen years old and still on his father's farm.

He loved his father. He had not known it until one day a few days before

Christmas when he had overheard what his father was saying to his mother.

"Mary, I hate to call Rob in the mornings. He's growing so fast and he

needs his sleep. If you could see how he sleeps when I go in to wake him

up! I wish I could manage alone."

"Well, you can't, Adam." His mother's voice was brisk, "Besides, he isn't a

child anymore. It's time he took his turn."

"Yes," his father said slowly, "But I sure do hate to wake him."

When he heard these words, something in him woke; his father loved him! He

had never thought of it before, taking for granted the tie of their blood.

Neither his father nor his mother talked about loving their children, they

had no time for such things. There was always so much to do on the farm.

Now that he knew his father loved him, there would be no more loitering in

the mornings and having to be called again.

He got up after that, stumbling blind with sleep, and pulled on his

clothes, his eyes tight shut, but he got up. And then on the night before

Christmas, that year when he was fifteen, he lay for a few minutes thinking

about the next day. They were poor and most of the excitement was in the

turkey they had raised themselves and the mince pies his mother made. His

sisters sewed presents, and his mother and father always bought something

he needed, not only a warm jacket, but something more, such as a book. He

had saved up and bought them each something, too.

He wished, that Christmas he was fifteen, he had a better present for his

father. As usual he had gone to the ten-cent store and bought a tie. It had

seemed nice enough until he lay thinking that night before Christmas. He

looked out of his attic window, the stars were bright.

"Dad", he had once asked when he was a little boy, "What is a stable?"

"It's just a barn," his father had replied, "like ours."

"Then Jesus had been born in a barn, and to a barn the shepherds had

come..."

The though struck him like a silver dagger. Why should he not give his

father a special gift too, out there in the barn? He could get up early,

earlier than four, and he could creep into the barn and get all the milking

done. He'd do it alone, milk and clean up. And then, when his father went

to start the milking, he'd see it all done, and he would know who had done

it. He laughed to himself as he gazed at the stars. It was what he would

do, and he mustn't sleep too soundly.

He must have awakened twenty times, scratching a match each time to look at

his old watch; midnight, and half past one, and then two o'clock. At a

quarter to three he got up and put on his clothes. He crept downstairs,

careful of the creaky boards, and let himself out. The cows looked at him,

sleepy and surprised. It was too early for them too.

He had never milked all alone before, but it seemed almost easy. He kept

thinking about his father's surprise. His father would come in and get him,

saying he would get things started while Rob was getting dressed. He'd go

to the barn, open the door, and then he'd go to the two empty milk cans,

but they wouldn't be waiting or empty; they'd be standing in the milk

house, filled. "What the....," he could hear his father exclaiming. He

smiled and milked steadily, two strong streams rushing into the pail,

frothing and fragrant.

The task went more easily than he had ever known it to go before. Milking

for once was not a chore. It was something else, a gift to his father who

loved him. He finished, the two milk cans were full, and he covered them

and closed the milk house door carefully.

Back in his room he had only a minute to pull off his clothes in the

darkness and jump into bed, for he heard his father up. He put the cover

over his head to silence his quick breathing. The door opened.

"Rob!" his father called. "We have to get up son, even if it is Christmas."

"Aw-right," he said sleepily.

The door closed and he lay still, laughing to himself. In just a few

minutes his father would know. His dancing heart was ready to jump from his

body. The minutes were endless; ten, fifteen, he did not know how many, and

he heard his father's footsteps again. The door opened and he lay still.

"Rob!"

"Yes, Dad..."

His father was laughing, a queer, sobbing sort of laugh. "Thought you'd

fool me, did you?" His father was standing beside his bed, feeling for him,

pulling away the cover.

"It's for Christmas, Dad!" He found his father and clutched him in a great

hug. He felt his father's arms go around him. It was dark and they could

not see each other's faces.

"Rob, I thank you. Nobody ever did a nicer thing!"

"Oh, dad, I want you to know, I do want to be good!" The words broke from

him of their own will. He did not know what to say. His heart was bursting

with love. He got up and pulled on his clothes again, and they went down to

the Christmas tree. Oh, what a Christmas it was, and how his heart had

nearly burst again with shyness and pride as his father told his mother and

made the three younger children listen about how he, Rob, had got up all by

himself.

"The best Christmas gift I ever had, and I'11 remember it, son, every year

on Christmas morning, so long as I live."

They had both remembered it, and now that his father was dead, he

remembered it alone; that blessed Christmas dawn, when, alone with the cows

in the barn, he had made his first gift of true love

Story #49 - Funny Funny Mother

2011-12-17T20:56:00.001-08:00

A Good friend of mine shared this story with me

See Mother... Funny, Funny Mother
See Mother, see mother laugh. Mother is happy.

Mother is happy about Christmas.

Mother has many plans. Mother has many plans for Christmas.

Mother is organized. Mother smiles all the time.

Funny, funny mother.

See Mother. See mother smile.

Mother is happy. The shopping is done.

See the children watch TV. Watch children, watch.

See the children change their minds.

See them ask Santa for different toys.

Look. Look. Mother is not smiling.

Funny, funny mother.

See mother. See mother sew.

Mother will make dresses.

Mother will make robes.

Mother will make shirts.

See mother put the zipper in wrong.

See mother sew the dress on the wrong side.

See mother cut the skirt to short.

See mother put the material away until January.

Look. Look, see mother take a two asprin.

Funny, funny mother.

See mother. See mother buy raisins and nuts.

See mother buy candied pineapple and powdered sugar.

See mother buy flour, and dates, and pecans, and brown sugar,

And bananas, and spices and vanilla.

Look. Look. Mother is mixing everything together.

See the children press out cookies

See the flour on their elbows.

See the cookies burn. See the cakes fall.

See the children pull taffy. See mother pull her hair.

See mother clean the kitchen with the garden hose.

Funny, funny mother.

See mother. See mother wrap presents.

See mother look for the end on the tape roll.

See mother bite her finger nails.

See mother go. See mother go to the store 12 times in one hour.

Go mother go. See mother go faster. Run mother run.

See mother trim the tree. See mother have a party. See mother make popcorn.

See mother wash the walls. See mother scrub the rug.

See mother tear up her organized plan.

See mother forget a gift for Uncle Harry. See mother get hives.

Go mother go. See the far away look in mother's eyes.

Mother has become disorganized. Mother has become dis-oriented.

Funny, funny mother.

It is finally Christmas morning. See the happy family.

See father smile. Father is happy. Smile father smile.

Father loves the fruit cake. Father loves the Christmas pudding.

Father loves all his new neckties.

Look. Look. See the happy children. See the children's toys.

Santa was very good to the children.

The children will remember this Christmas.

See mother. Mother is slumped in a chair.

Mother is crying uncontrollably.

Mother does not look well.

Mother has ugly dark circles under her blood shot eyes.

Everyone helps mother to her bed.

See mother sleep quietly for hours.

See mother smile.

Funny, funny mother.

Story #48 Legend of the Candy Cane

2011-12-17T20:53:00.001-08:00

The Legend of the Candy Cane Lori Walburg
One dreary evening in the depths of November, a stranger rode into town. He

stopped his horse in front of a lonely storefront. The windows were boarded

shut and the door was locked fast. But the man looked at it, smiled, and

said, “It will do.”

All through the gray, short days and the long, dark nights of November, the

man worked. The townspeople could hear the faint pam, pam, pam of his

hammer and the shish, shish, shish of his saw. They could smell the sweet,

clean scent of new lumber and the deep, oily smell of new paint. But no one

knew who the man was or what he was doing.

The mayor hoped he was a doctor to heal his illness. The young wives hoped

he was a tailor to make beautiful dresses. The farmers hoped he was a

trader to exchange their grain for goods. But the children had the

strongest, deepest wish of all. A wish they did not tell their parents. A

deep, quiet secret wish that none of them said out loud.

No one spoke to the man. No one asked if he needed help. They just waited.

And watched. And wondered. And wished.

But one small girl watched and wondered, waited and wished longer than she

could stand. And one snowy day she knocked at the stranger’s door. “Hello,”

she said. “My name is Lucy. Do you need some help?”

The man smiled warmly and nodded. Then he opened the door, and Lucy stepped

inside. A long counter ran down the side of the room. Bare shelves filled

the opposite walls. In the back were dozens and dozens of barrels and

crates.

“Could you help me unpack?” the man asked.

Lucy’s heart sank at the sight of all the boxes. What if there were only

barrels of nails and bags of flour? But she removed her dripping boots and

hung her coat on a peg. On stocking feet, she crossed the rough floor and

knelt beside a crate.

“Please. Open it,” the man urged.

Slowly, Lucy put her hand into the box and pulled out an object wrapped in

tissue. Round and heavy, it almost slipped through her fingers. Lucy

trembled a little as she unwrapped it. It was a glass jar. Lucy gave the

man a puzzled look. “Go on,” his nod said.

So she unpacked another glass jar, and another, and another, until she was

completely surrounded by jars of all shapes and sizes. Tall and thin. Round

and squat. Jars with lids and jars without.

“Now,” the man said, “for something to put inside.” And he pulled over a

huge crate stamped with a strange word. ...CONFECTIONS. ..

As Lucy unpacked, her eyes lit up. It was candy. Her favorite candy.

Gumdrops!

“Try some,” the man said.

She popped one in her mouth. Now she could hardly unwrap fast enough.

Peppermint sticks! Taffy! Lollipops! Chewing gum! Wide-eyed, she looked at

the man.

“We wished.....,” Lucy said.

“Yes, I know,” said the man, “and here it is. Welcome to Sonneman’s Candy

Store. I am John Sonneman.

Soon the small store was filled with candies, gleaming in their glass jars.

Raspberry suckers and tiny lemon drops. Brightly colored jawbreakers and

long tangles of licorice. Pink and white peppermints for church and

butterscotch balls for company. Then in the very last package in the very

last crate was a candy Lucy had never seen before, a red and white striped

candy stick with a crook on the end. “What is this?” Lucy asked.

“This,” Mr. Sonneman explained, “is a candy cane. It is a very special

Christmas candy.”

“Why?” Lucy asked.

“Tell me,” Mr. Sonneman said, “what letter does it look like?”

Lucy took the candy and turned it in her hand. “J!” she said.

“Yes,” Mr. Sonneman smiled. “J is for Jesus, who was born on Christmas Day.

Now turn it over. What does it remind you of?”

Lucy turned the candy in her hand. She peered down intently. “I know!” she

said finally. “It’s like a shepherd’s staff.”

“Who were the first to find out about Jesus’ birth?” Mr. Sonneman asked.

“Shepherds in the field,” Lucy answered, “watching over their flocks by

night.”

“But Mr. Sonneman, what are the stripes for?” Lucy asked.

The man’s eyes grew sad. “The prophet Isaiah said, ‘By his stripes we are

healed.’ Before he died on the cross, Jesus was whipped. He bled terribly.

The red reminds us of his suffering and his blood. But then, the candy is

white as well. When we give our lives to Jesus, his blood washes away our

sins, making us white and pure as snow. That is the story of the candy

cane.”

“Is it a secret?” Lucy asked.

Mr. Sonneman looked at her for a long moment. “It’s a story that needs to

be told,” he said. “Will you help me share it?”

It was now the depths of December. The town was whipped round by blizzard

winds. For days, the sun hid itself. But every morning, Mr. Sonneman and

Lucy ventured out. They wore heavy woolen coats and bright hand knit

scarves. And in their stiff, mittened fingers, they each held a bag. They

went to every house in town. They traveled to every farm in the country.

They knocked on every door. In every home, they told the story, they left a

small gift, and they gave an invitation.

On the afternoon of Christmas Eve, the sun finally broke through the

clouds. And Sonneman’s Candy Store officially opened. The mayor came,

feeling better than he’d felt in days. The young wives came, eager to trade

grain for Christmas gifts. The children ran in dizzy circles. Yes, their

wish had come true. Yes, they had come to share in the opening of the candy

store. But they shared something more. Something bigger. Something better.

On that Christmas Eve, they shared the story of the candy cane. They told

of the miracle of Christ’s birth. The misery of his death. And the mercy of

his love.

Story # 47 Hero at the Grocery Store

2011-12-17T20:51:00.000-08:00

From Mark's List by Stephenie Meyer
Christmas stories happen in the most everyday places. I was part of one not long ago at the grocery store. I hope I never forget it, though the memory is bittersweet.
I had been shopping for almost an hour by the time I got to the checkout lines. My two youngest sons were with me, the four-year-old refusing to hold onto the cart, the two-year-old trying to climb out of the basket and jump down to play with his brother. Both got progressively whinier and ouder as I tried to keep them under control, so I was looking for the fastest lane possible. I had two choices. In the first line were three customers, and they all had just a few purchases. In the second line was only one man, a harried young father with his own crying baby, but his cart was overflowing with groceries.
I quickly looked over the three-person line again. The woman in the front was very elderly, white haired and rail thin, and her hands were shaking as she tried unsuccessfully to unlatch her big purse. In the other line, the young father was throwing his food onto the conveyor belt with superhumanspeed. I got in line behind him.
It was the right choice. I was able to start unloading my groceries before the elderly woman was even finished paying. My four-year-old was pulling candy from the shelf, and my little one was trying to help by lobbing cans of soup at me. I felt I couldn’t get out of the store fast enough.
And then, over the sound of the store’s cheery holiday music, I heard the checker in the other line talking loudly, too loudly. I glanced over as my hands kept working.

“No, I’m sorry,” the checker was almost shouting at the old woman, who didn’t seem to understand. “That card won’t work. You are past your limit. Do you have another way to pay?” The tiny old woman blinked at the checker with a confused expression. Not only were her hands shaking now, but her shoulders too. The teenage bagger rolled her eyes and sighed.
As I caught a soup can just before it hit my face, I thought to myself: “Boy, did I choose the right line! Those three are going to be there forever.” My mood was positively smug as my checker began scanning my food.

But the smiling woman directly in line behind the elderly lady had a different reaction. Quietly, with no fanfare, she moved to the older woman’s side and ran her own credit card through the reader. “Merry Christmas,” she said softly, still smiling.

Suddenly everyone was quiet. Even my rowdy children paused, feeling the change in the atmosphere. It took a minute for the older woman to understand what had happened. The checker, her face thoughtful, hesitated with the receipt in her hand, not sure whom to give it to. The smiling woman took it and tucked it into the elderly woman’s bag.
“I can’t accept …” the older woman began to protest, with tears forming in her eyes. The smiling woman interrupted her. “I can afford to do it. What I can’t afford is not to do it.” “Let me help you out,” the suddenly respectful bagger insisted, taking the basket and also taking the old woman’s arm, the way she might have helped her own grandmother. I watched the checker in my line pause before she pressed the total key to dab at the corner of her eyes with a tissue.

Paying for my groceries and gathering my children, I made it out of the store before the smiling woman. I had made the right choice of lanes, it seemed. But as I walked out into the bright December sunshine, I was not thinking about my luck but about what I could not afford. I could not afford my current, self-absorbed frame of mind. I could not afford to have my children learn lessons of compassion onlyfrom strangers.

I could not afford to be so distant from the spirit of Christ at any time of the year—especially during this great season of giving. I could not afford to let another stranger, another brother or sister, cross my path in need of help without doing something about it.

And that is why I hope never to forget the Christmas hero in the grocery store. The next time I have a chance to be that kind of a hero, I can’t afford to miss it.

Story #46 Two Babies

2010-12-25T07:37:00.000-08:00

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 related 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, 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 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 manger as I walked among them to see if they needed any help. All went well until I got to one table where little Misha sat -- he looked to be about 6 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 this 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 me if I had a place to stay. I told him I have no mamma 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 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 told me, "If you keep me warm, that will be the best gift anybody ever gave me." "So I got into the manger, and then Jesus looked at me and he told me I could stay with him--for always."

The little orphan had found someone who would never abandon nor abuse him, someone who would stay with him-FOR ALWAYS. I've learned that it's not what you have in your life, but who you have in your life that counts.

Story #45 Is There a Santa Claus?

2010-12-25T07:36:00.000-08:00

Is There a Santa Claus?
by Francis P. Church
an editorial from the New York Sun
September 21, 1897

Dear Editor:

I am eight years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says, "lf you see it in the Sun it 's so. " Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus? Virginia O'Hanlan 115 West 95th Street, New York City

Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be man's or children's are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty ad joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias. There would be no childlike faith, then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies. You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

No Santa Claus! Thank God he lives, and he lives forever, a thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten time ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.

Story #44 The Christmas I Remember Best

2010-12-25T06:22:00.000-08:00

As a young girl, I survived World War II in Berlin, Germany. Our country had been pretty much destroyed. I had a chance as the only member of my family to leave Germany for a better life in America, in the city of Salt Lake City in Utah. I've lived in this beautiful land since 1955 and have never been sorry about the decision I made so long ago.

Left behind were my parents, a younger sister and brother. Saying goodbye was very difficult. Would we ever see each other again? On Mother's Day my father died. He was only 50 years old. In August 1961, the infamous wall went up, dividing not only the country of Germany into east and west, but also keeping millions of families apart. I was extremely concerned about the safety of my family and I suggested to them, with the support of my dear husband, that they join us here in America. My sister had gotten married and so we needed to come up with four sponsorships. With the help of some very dear friends, we managed.
My family of four boarded the ocean liner "America" in Bremerhaven and arrived in New York City after only a five-day voyage across the Atlantic. It was there in New York that they got on the train for Salt Lake City. The calendar said December 1961. The arrival date for them had been set for a couple of days before Christmas Eve.

I don't think that I had ever been more nervous or excited and thrilled all at the same time. It had been six long years since we had last seen each other. Even a phone call had been impossible because my family had been phoneless. My husband and my family had never met. How would it all play out?

At this time we lived in a very small but warm and cozy home. Many dear friends donated bedding and other necessary items so that we were able to provide quite comfortable accommodations for our foursome.

During the nail-biting wait period, my husband and I made a major shopping trip to THE store at the time — Grand Central. During the Christmas shopping season, ,Grand Central provided brown paper shopping bags that were at least four feet tall. These were simply huge! There was absolutely nothing this store did not have. We filled two of these amazing bags with many electric appliance and household goods, up to the very top.

Our house was all decked-out for Christmas. Colored outside strands of lights gave our house a look of a Hansel and Gretel Cottage. The outside lights would be a real hit because Germany didn't know about this custom and I just knew that our travelers would be in awe. We had also purchased enough food to feed an army.

In the meantime, while we were up to our ears with making preparations for their arrival, Father Winter played a vicious, cruel joke on us. The train from New York City had turned into the Polar Express. It was being bombarded by a once-in-a-century snowstorm. The train was completely stuck and stranded in the middle of nowhere. It snowed so heavily that the tracks could not be cleared. My 17-year-old brother had learned English in school. This helped the family to at least understand a little about their predicament. It became a very serious situation. Passengers were freezing cold and many other problems kept developing. There was talk about an evacuation but some guardian angel must have done double duty. It's sort of ironic because of this major delay, the arrival time of "our" train ended up being right on Christmas Eve — Christmas morning. Even though our newcomers were utterly exhausted, we all experienced enormous joy. We were elated, ecstatic and so immensely grateful that this roving odyssey had culminated on such a high note.

Many friends and relatives had joined us at the Union Pacific Railroad Station in the middle of the night, giving up their own plans to welcome our globetrotters. Once at home, we just couldn't get enough living in during this Christmas Night. How can one possibly fit six long years of separation into one long night? We were trying to just get used to each other's voices again.

Of course, we had a turkey feast with all the trimmings on the very next day. This would be my family's first exposure to a roasted turkey and most other foods on the table. Before we started to eat, the three men had a crazy idea. They all stepped on to a scale before and after the meal and yes, they had each gained five pounds. I would guess that we were most likely one of the very happiest families in the Salt Lake Valley on this rapturous Christmas day.

"Frohliche Weihnachten" or Merry Christmas!
~~~~~~~~~~
Inge Ettrich Salt Lake City
Inge was born in Berlin, Germany. She came to the United States in 1955 at the age of 19 by herself, leaving her family behind. She attended Stevens-Henager College majoring in office management. Inge was married to Frederick Ettrich for 48 years. They have two daughters and six grandchildren. Frederick passed away four years ago. Inge likes music, the performing arts, reading books and writing. She has read stories to first graders for 16 years.

http://www.deseretnews.com/article/700094783/Christmas-I-Remember-Best-Reunion-with-family-capped-special-Christmas.html

Story #43 - December 2008 - Reflections of Chirst Story

2009-01-30T07:09:00.000-08:00

I just realized that I need to tell everyone about a story we experienced over Christmas. I think it is something important to share, especially because we received so many tender mercies throughout the whole season.
Brent and I have been very tight financially for the last few months, as you know. Experiencing the ups and downs of being entreprenuers! I think everyone can understand those moments. This season we talked about whether or not to do 12 Days of Christmas for a family because we were having a hard time just keeping the lights on. But we felt very strongly we needed to still provide service... most especially for us because if we stop serving then it is easy to become more and more self centered and we knew that was the last thing we needed.
So we did 12 Days for a family of a single mom in our ward who has 5 kids. Something that Brent could relate to very well! there were so many ways we were provided to be able to give them gifts, it is hard to fit it all in the email. But the story that I need to tell everyone is about the last gift. it was just a few days before Christmas and we didn't have any money left. We used what we had left to pay utilities and get a few groceries then we had no more money in our bank account and didn't know when we were going to get some more. We were just distraught trying to figure out how we were going to take care of the last few days for our 12 Days family.
Then, of course, the bishop rang our doorbell. He told us that he felt that we needed some help and gave us an envelope with $50 in it. What a miracle! We had enough so we could take care of our family. We discussed what we wanted to get them for the final gift. Brent said we needed to get them the 'Reflections of Christ' book (you have seen it right?? Beautiful! If you haven't, go check it out... the pictures in there are amazing). So we went to Wal Mart, got the book and then some stuff for breakfast to put in the final gift basket all together. It was so nice to be able to get them such a nice gift and what a tender mercy that the Bishop came just in time so we could get it for them. Well, Christmas came and went.
The Sunday after New Years our Relief Society President called me after church. She said, "Andrea, I have to tell you something that happened today. Sharon (the mom of the family we did 12 days for) came up to me and asked me if I knew everything that went on in the ward for Christmas time. I said that I knew some things, but probably didn't know everything. She then told me "Brenda, I had such a miracle happen that I have to tell you about. I went into Deseret Book a few days before Christmas and saw 'Reflections of Christ' book and wanted it so badly. But it was too much money and I couldn't afford it. I was heartbroken, but I wanted to save all the money I could for my kids. Well, someone did 12 Days of Christmas for us and guess what? The last gift was the Reflections of Christ' book. I couldn't believe it. I just started crying when I saw it on the door step."' Isn't that wonderful!!
When she called and told me that and I told Brent he just started to cry. I love how Heavenly Father answers prayers. The Bishop knew we needed something, then we knew what Sandy needed! Anyway, I just wanted you all to know that story. We missed you during the holidays and love you all so much.

Story #42 - The Pageant

2008-12-27T13:07:00.001-08:00

My husband and I had been happily married (most of the time) for five years but hadn't been blessed with a baby. I decided to do some serious praying and promised God that if he would give us a child,I would be a perfect mother,love it with all my heartand raise it with His word as my guide.God answered my prayersand blessed us with a son.The next year God blessed us with another son.The following year,He blessed us with yet another son. The year after that wewere blessed with a daughter.My husband thought we'dbeen blessed right into poverty.We now had four children,and the oldest was onlyfour years old.I learned never to ask God for anything unless I meant itAs a minister once told me,"If you pray for rain,make sure you carry an umbrella."I began reading a few versesof the Bible to the children each day as they lay in their cribs. I was off to a good start.God had entrusted mewith four children andI didn't want to disappoint Him.I tried to be patient the daythe children smashedtwo dozen eggs onthe kitchen floor searching for baby chicks.I tried to be understanding...when they started a hotel forhomeless frogs in the spare bedroom, although it took me nearly two hoursto catch all twenty-three frogs.When my daughter pouredketchup all over herself and rolled up in a blanket to seehow it felt to be a hot dog,I tried to see the humorrather than the mess. In spite of changing overtwenty-five thousand diapers,never eating a hot meal and never sleeping for morethan thirty minutes at a time,I still thank God daily for my children.While I couldn't keep my promise to be a perfect mother -I didn't even come close...I did keep my promiseto raise them in the Word of God. I knew I was missing the markjust a little when I toldmy daughter we were going to church to worship God,and she wanted to bringa bar of soap along to"wash up" Jesus, too.Something was lostin the translation whenI explained thatGod gave us everlasting life, and my son thought it wasgenerous of God to giveus his "last wife."My proudest moment cameduring the children'sChristmas pageant.My daughter was playing Mary,two of my sons were shepherds and my youngest son was a wise man.This was their moment to shine.My five-year-old shepherdhad practiced his line,"We found the babe wrappedin swaddling clothes." But he was nervous and said, "The baby was wrappedin wrinkled clothes." My four-year-old "Mary" said,"That's not 'wrinkled clothes,' silly.That's dirty, rotten clothes."A wrestling match broke outbetween Mary and the shepherdand was stopped by an angel,who bent her halo and lost her left wing. I slouched a little lowerin my seat when Marydropped the doll representingBaby Jesus, and it bounceddown the aisle crying, "Mama-mama." Mary grabbed the doll,wrapped it back upand held it tightly asthe wise men arrived.My other son stepped forwardwearing a bathrobe and a paper crown,knelt at the manger and announced,"We are the three wise men,and we are bringing giftsof gold, common sense and fur."The congregationdissolved into laughter,and the pageantgot a standing ovation. "I've never enjoyed a Christmas program as much as this one,"laughed the pastor, wiping tears from his eyes "For the rest of my life,I'll never hear theChristmas story withoutthinking of gold, common sense and fur.""My children are my pride and my joy and my greatestblessing," I said as I dugthrough my purse for an aspirin.Jesus had no servants,yet they called Him Master.Had no degree,yet they called Him Teacher.Had no medicines,yet they called Him Healer.Had no army,yet kings feared Him.He won no military battles,yet He conquered the world.He committed no crime,yet they crucified Him.He was buried in a tomb,yet He lives today.Feel honoredto serve such a Leader who loves us

Story #41 - The Most Beautiful Thing

2008-12-27T07:37:00.000-08:00

The sides of the path were covered with rugs of white snow. But, in the center, its whiteness was crushed and churned into a foaming brown by the tramp, tramp of hundreds of hurrying feet. It as the day before Christmas. People rushed up and down the path carrying armloads of bundles. They laughed and called to each other as they pushed their was through the crowds.
Above the path, the long arms of an ancient tree reached upward to the sky. It swayed and moaned as a strong wind grasped its branches, and bent them toward the earth. Down below a haughty laugh sounds, as a lovely fir tree stretches and preens its thick green branches, sending a fine spray of snow shimmering downward to the ground.
"I should think," said the fir, in a high smug voice, "that you'd try a little harder to stand still. Goodness knows you're ugly enough with leaves you've already lost. If you move around any more, you'll soon be quite bare."
"I know," answered the old tree. "Everything has put on its most beautiful clothes for the celebration of the birth of Christ. Even from here I can see the decorations shining from each street corner. And Yesterday some men can and put the brightest, loveliest lights on every tree along the path--except me, of course." He sighed softly, and flake of snow melted in the form of a teardrop and ran down his gnarled trunk.
"Oh, indeed! and did you expect they'd put lights upon you so your ugliness would stand out even more?" smirked the fir.
"I guess you're right," replied the old three in a sad voice. "If there were only somewhere I could hide until after the celebrations are over, but here I stand...the only ugly thing among all this beauty. If they would only come and chop me down," and he sighed sorrowfully.
"Well, I don't wish you any ill will," replied the fir, "but you are an eyesore. Perhaps it would be better for us all if they come and chopped you down." Once again he stretch his lovely thick branches. "You might try to hold onto those three small leaves you still have. At least you wouldn't be completely bare."
"Oh, I've tried so hard," cried the old tree. "Each fall I say to myself, 'this year I won't give up a single leaf, no matter what the cause', but someone always comes along who seems to need them more then I," and he sighed once again.
"I told you not to give away so many to that dirty little paper boy," said the fir. "Why you even lowered your branched a little, so that he could reach them. You can't say I didn't warn you then."
"Yes, you did at that," the old tree replied. "But they made him so happy. I heard him say he would pick some for his invalid mother."
"Oh they all had good causes," mocked the fir. "That young girl, for instance, colored leaves for her party, indeed! They were your leaves!"
"She took a lot, didn't she?" said the old tree, and he seemed to smile.
Just then a cold wind blew down the path and a tiny brown bird fell to the ground at the foot of the old tree and lay there shivering, to cold to lift it wings. The old tree looked down in pity, and then quickly he let go of his last three leaves. The golden leaves fluttered down and settled softly over the shivering little bird, and it lay there quietly under the warmth of them.
"Now you've done it!" shrieked the fir. "You've given away every single leaf! Christmas morning you'll make our path the ugliest sight in the whole city! " The old tree said nothing. Instead, he stretch out his branches to gather what snowflakes he could that they might not fall on the tiny bird.
The young fir turned away in anger, and it was then he noticed a painter sitting quietly a few feet from the path, intent upon his long brushes and his canvas. His clothes were old and tattered, his face wore a sad expression. He was thinking of his loved ones and the empty, cheerless Christmas morning they would face, for he had sold not a single painting in the last few months.
But the little tree didn't see this. Instead, he turned back to the old tree and said in a haughty voice, a least keep those bare branches as far away from me as possible. I'm being painted and your hideousness will mar the background.
"I'll try," replied the old tree. And he raised his branches as high as possible. It was almost dark when the painter picked up his easel and left. And the little fir was tired and cross from all his preening and posing. Christmas morning he awoke late, and as he proudly shook away the snow from his lovely branches, he was amazed to see a huge crowd of people surrounding the old tree, ah-ing and oh-ing as they stood back and gazed upward. And even those hurrying along the path had to stop from a moment to sigh before they went on. "Whatever could it be?" thought the haughty fir, and he too looked up to see if perhaps the top of the old tree had been broken off dunng the night.
Just then a paper blew away from the hands of an enraptured newsboy and sailed straight into the young fir. The fir gasped in amazement, for there on the front page was a picture of the painter holding his painting of a great white tree whose leafless branches, laden with snow, stretch upward into the sky. While below lay a tiny brown bird almost covered by three golden leaves. And beneath the picture were the words, "The Most Beautiful Thing Is That Which Hath Given All." The young fir quietly bowed its head beneath the great beauty of the humble old tree.

Story #40 - The Legend of the Silver PineCone

2008-12-27T07:35:00.000-08:00

There once lived a poor family without enough food to eat or enough wood for their fire. The mother decided to go into the forest to search for pinecones. She was planning to use the pine cones to build a fire for her family, and she was also hoping she could sell some of them to get money to buy food.After walking for hours, the mother finally reached the forest and started gathering pinecones into her basket. Suddenly, she heard a voice say, "Why are you stealing my pinecones?" With that, an elf appeared beside her.She explained her sad story to the elf. With a crooked smile, the elf said, "Go into the next forest. The pine cones there are much better."Hesitantly, the mother set off to the next forest, which was even farther away. When she reached it, she was very tired. She leaned against a tree and sat her basket on the ground.No sooner had she set down her basket, and dozens of pinecones started falling to the ground. Filled with renewed energy, she gathered all the pinecones into her basket and returned home.Exhausted, she returned home and set the basket on her doorstep. When she looked down at the basket of pinecones, they had all turned to silver!!The family would never be poor again.
Silver Pinecones are Very Lucky.According to legend, it is customary to keep one on your dresser and desk. If you have a fireplace, put a basket of them on the mantle.Good fortune will surely come your way!!! see http://pineconelady.com/silvercone.html

Story #39 - A Different Kind of Christmas

2008-12-27T07:22:00.000-08:00

Martha had tried to ignore the approach of Christmas. She would have kept it almost entirely out of her thoughts if Jed had not come eagerly into the cabin one day, stomping the snow from his cold feet as he said in an excited voice, "Martha, we're going to have a Christmas tree this year, anyway. I spotted a cedar on the rise out south of the wheat field, over near the Nortons place. It's a scrubby thing, but it will do since we can't get a pine. Maybe Christmas will be a little different here, but it will still be the kind of Christmas we used to have."
As she shook her head, Martha noticed that Daniel glanced quickly up from the corner where he was playing, patiently tying together some sticks with bits of string left over from the quilt she had tied a few days earlier. She drew Jed as far away from the boy as possible.
"I don't want a tree," she said. "We won't be celebrating Christmas. Even a tree couldn't make it the kind of Christmas we used to have."
"Martha, we've got to do something for the boy at least. Children set such store by Christmas."
"Don't you think I know? All those years of fixing things for Marybell and Stellie. I know all about kids and Christmas." She stopped and drew a deep breath, glancing over to see that Daniel was occupied and not listening. "But I can't do those things for him. It would be like a knife in the heart, fixing a tree and baking cookies and making things for another woman's child when my own girls are back there on that prairie."
"Martha, Martha," Jed said softly. "It's been almost a year and a half. That's over, and Danny needs you. He needs a Christmas like he remembers."
She turned her back to his pleading face. "I can't," she said.
Jed touched her shoulder gently, "I know how hard it is for you, Martha. But think of the boy." He turned and went back out into the snowy weather.
Think of the boy. Why should she think of him, when her own children, her two blue-eyed, golden-curled daughters, had been left beside the trail back there on that endless, empty prairie? The boy came to her not because she wanted him, but because she couldn't say 'no' to the bishop back in Salt Lake City last April before they came to settle in this valley.
Bishop Clay had brought Daniel to her and Jed one day and said, "I want you to care for this lad. His mother died on the trek last summer, and his Pa passed away last week. He needs a good home."
Jed had gripped the bishop's hand and with tears in his eyes, thanked him, but Martha had turned away from the sight of the thin, ragged, six-year- old boy who stood before them; not fast enough, however, to miss the sudden brief smile he flashed at her. A smile that should have caught her heart and opened it wide. Her heart was closed, though, locked tightly around the memory of her two gentle little girls. She didn't want a noisy, rowdy boy hanging around disturbing those memories, filling the cabin with a boy's loud games.
Yet she had taken him, because she felt she had no choice. Faced with the bishop's request--more of an order, really--and Jed's obvious joy, she couldn't refuse.
He came with them out to the new valley west of Salt Lake settlement and had proved himself a great help to Jed, despite his young age. Sometimes Martha felt pity for him, but she didn't love him. With Jed it was different. He had accepted Daniel immediately as his own son and enjoyed having a boy with him. They had a special relationship.
Daniel mentioned Christmas only once. One day it was too cold and snowy to play outside, and he been humming softly to himself as he played in his corner. Suddenly, he look up at Martha and asked, "Can you sing, Aunt Martha?"
Martha paused and straightened up from the table where she was kneading bread. She used to sing for her girls all the time. "No, I can't Daniel," she said, "not any more."
"My mother used to sing a pretty song at Christmas," he said. "I wish I could remember it."
On the day before Christmas, Jed went through the deep snow to do some chores for Brother Norton, who was ill. Daniel was alone outside most of the day, although he made several rather furtive trips in and out of the cabin. On one trip, he took the sticks he had been tying together.
Toward evening, Martha went out to the stable to milk Rosie, since Jed had not yet returned. As she approached, she saw there was light inside. Opening the door softly, she peered within. Daniel had lit the barn lantern, and within its glow, he knelt in the straw by Rosie's stall. In front of him were the sticks he had tied together, which Martha recognized now as a crude cradle. It held Stellie's rag doll, all wrapped up in the white shawl Martha kept in her trunk.
Her first impulse was to rush in and snatch it, but she stopped, because the scene was strangely beautiful in the soft light from the lantern. Rosie and the two sheep stood close by, watching Daniel. He seemed to be addressing them when he spoke.
"The shepherds came following the star," he was saying, "and they found the baby Jesus who had been born in a stable." He paused for a moment, then went on. "And his mother loved him."
Martha felt suddenly that she couldn't breathe. Another mother, another day, had loved her boy and had told him the beautiful story of the Christ Child with such love that he hadn't forgot it, young as he was; and she, Martha, had failed that mother. In the silence she began to sing.
"Silent night," she sang. "Holy night..."
Daniel didn't move until the song was finished. Then he turned with that quick, heart-melting smile. "That's the one," he whispered. "That's the song my mother used to sing to me."
Martha ran forward and gathered the boy into her arms. He responded immediately, clasping his arms tightly around her.
"Danny," she said, shifting on the edge of Rosie's manger, "let's go in and get the cabin ready for Christmas. Maybe it isn't too late for Jed--Pa to get that tree. It might be a little different kind of Christmas, but it will still be a little like the Christmases we used to know."
"Do you mind it being different?" Danny asked. "I mean with a boy instead of your girls?"
Martha wondered how long it would take her to make up to him for the hurt she had inflicted these many months. "No." she said. "After all, the Baby Jesus was a boy."
"That's right," he said wonderingly.
She set him down on the floor and put her arm around his shoulders. "Merry Christmas." she said. "Merry Christmas, Danny."
He looked up at her with a smile that did not fade quickly away this time, a sweet smile full of the love he had been waiting to give her. "Merry Christmas," he said, and then added softly, "Mother."

Story #38 - Teddy

2008-12-26T21:06:00.001-08:00

As she stood in front of her 5th grade class on the very first day of school, she told the children an untruth. Like most teachers, she looked at her students and said that she loved them all the same. However, that was impossible, because there in the front row, slumped in his seat, was a little boy named Teddy Stoddard
Mrs. Thompson had watched Teddy the year before and noticed that he did not play well with the other children, that his clothes were messy and that he constantly needed a bath. In addition, Teddy could be unpleasant. It got to the point where Mrs. Thompson would actually take delight in marking his papers with a broad red pen, making bold X's and then putting a big "F" at the top of his papers.
At the school where Mrs. Thompson taught, she was required to review each child's past records and she put Teddy's off until last. However, when she reviewed his file, she was in for a surprise.
Teddy's first grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is a bright child with a ready laugh. He does his work neatly and has good manners... he is a joy to be around.."
His second grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is an excellent student, well liked by his classmates, but he is troubled because his mother has a terminal illness and life at home must be a struggle."
His third grade teacher wrote, "His mother's death has been hard on him. He tries to do his best, but his father doesn't show much interest, and his home life will soon affect him if some steps aren't taken."
Teddy's fourth grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is withdrawn and doesn't show much interest in school. He doesn't have many friends and he sometimes sleeps in class."
By now, Mrs. Thompson realized the problem and she was ashamed of herself. She felt even worse when her students brought her Christmas presents, wrapped in beautiful ribbons and bright paper, except for Teddy's. His present was clumsily wrapped in the heavy, brown paper that he got from a grocery bag. Mrs. Thompson took pains to open it in the middle of the other presents. Some of the children started to laugh when she found a rhinestone bracelet with some of the stones missing, and a bottle that was one-quarter full of perfume. But she stifled the children's laughter when she exclaimed how pretty the bracelet was, putting it on, and dabbing some of the perfume on her wrist. Teddy Stoddard stayed after school that day just long enough to say, "Mrs. Thompson, today you smelled just like my Mom used to."
After the children left, she cried for at least an hour. On that very day, she quit teaching reading, writing and arithmetic. Instead, she began to teach children. Mrs. Thompson paid particular attention to Teddy. As she worked with him, his mind seemed to come alive. The more she encouraged him, the faster he responded. By the end of the year, Teddy had become one of the smartest children in the class and, despite her lie that she would love all the children the same, Teddy became one of her "teacher's pets.."
A year later, she found a note under her door, from Teddy, telling her that she was the best teacher he ever had in his whole life.
Six years went by before she got another note from Teddy. He then wrote that he had finished high school, third in his class, and she was still the best teacher he ever had in life.
Four years after that, she got another letter, saying that while things had been tough at times, he'd stayed in school, had stuck with it, and would soon graduate from college with the highest of honours. He assured Mrs. Thompson that she was still the best and favourite teacher he had ever had in his whole life.
Then four more years passed and yet another letter came. This time he explained that after he got his bachelor's degree, he decided to go a little further. The letter explained that she was still the best and favourite teacher he ever had. But now his name was a little longer.... The letter was signed, Theodore F. Stoddard, MD.
The story does not end there. You see, there was yet another letter that spring. Teddy said he had met this girl and was going to be married. He explained that his father had died a couple of years ago and he was wondering if Mrs. Thompson might agree to sit at the wedding in the place that was usually reserved for the mother of the groom. Of course, Mrs. Thompson did. And guess what? She wore that bracelet, the one with several rhinestones missing. Moreover, she made sure she was wearing the perfume that Teddy remembered his mother wearing on their last Christmas together.
They hugged each other, and Dr. Stoddard whispered in Mrs. Thompson's ear, "Thank you Mrs. Thompson for believing in me. Thank you so much for making me feel important and showing me that I could make a difference."
Mrs. Thompson, with tears in her eyes, whispered back. She said, "Teddy, you have it all wrong. You were the one who taught me that I could make a difference. I didn't know how to teach until I met you."
(For you that don't know, Teddy Stoddard is the Dr. at Iowa Methodist in Des Moines that has the Stoddard Cancer Wing.)
Warm someone's heart today. . . pass this along. I love this story so very much, I cry every time I read it. Just try to make a difference in someone's life today? tomorrow? just "do it".
Random acts of kindness, I think they call it!
"Believe in Angels, then return the favour"

Story #37 - A West Side Christmas

2008-12-26T21:01:00.001-08:00

by Pat Sullivan
My husband, Chuck, and my sister, Lee, are partners in a heating company in Chicago. Lee is the buyer, hirer, firer, phone answerer, typist, bookkeeper, and office girl. She will bring hot soup and sandwiches to a crew in an icy basement at three o'clock in the morning, but she is Hard-Hearted Hannah when it comes to spending company money. When she says "No" to an expense account item, or something she thinks is a luxury, her eyes shoot fire ... and Chuck, who is usually a very verbal man, starts to tiptoe around her desk.One day about a week before Christmas, all the phones in the office seemed to start ringing at once. There were more broken boilers, burned-out fire-pots, and stuck stack switches than there had ever been before, and the men were working around the clock. I went into the office to help out on the phones, and it was all I could do just to write down the names and addresses of the people without heat. Worst of all, it seemed that everyone who called either had a new baby, an old grandmother, or had just gotten out of the hospital themselves.One woman called in tears. She lived in a section of Chicago where rioting, looting, and burning had taken place a few months earlier. She had been phoning for several hours, one heating company after another, trying in vain to get a serviceman to work in a black neighborhood. I took the order and promised that a man would be there within the hour. Then she asked if she could pay a little money each week for the service call, and I looked at Lee and repeated the question. She nodded, "Okay," and when I told the customer, Mrs. Jenkins, not to worry, she said, "God bless you, miss," and hung up.Lee turned the call over to Chuck, as all the other men were out. "Bump that other call I gave you; they only have a noisy burner. This one is a no-heat. Better get right on it." Chuck left and was gone for several hours. When he came back, he told Lee, "Forget the billing on that one."She looked at him, "Since when are we in the charity business?"Then Chuck told us that Mrs. Jenkins was a widow with seven little children. Her house was clean and bare with very few furnishings. The children were thin and hungry-eyed, wearing worn and much patched clothes. After Chuck had gotten the heat going, one of the smaller boys had shyly come over to watch him pick up his tools, and Chuck patted him on the head and asked, "What did you tell Santa Claus you wanted for Christmas?"The child looked him right in the eye and answered, "Ain't no more Santa Claus. Mama say he die, no use to ask him for any toys, cause he is dead, and we ain't gonna get nothing anyways.”Lee never said a word, but brusquely handed Chuck another call and told him to get going. We worked, all three of us, most of the night. The next morning Lee called in to tell us that she hadn't heard the alarm and would be in late. Chuck seemed strangely happy to hear this and asked one of the men to watch the phones for a while, then hustled me into my coat. "Can't spend a dime with that woman looking over my shoulder," he grumbled. When we pulled up in front of a large toy store, I knew what he was up to. He hummed and whistled while he loaded the shopping cart with dolls, games, trucks, and space ships. Then we headed to the candy store for filled stockings, striped red-and-white peppermint canes, and sugar figures of pigs, soldiers, and ballerinas. We drove through thick snowflakes, bumper to bumper, all the way to the West Side, unloaded the piles of presents and rang Mrs. Jenkins' doorbell.In we trotted, behind the whooping children, to find a red-cheeked Lee pinning a Christmas Star of Bethlehem on the top of a fragrant pine tree.Nearby was Mrs. Jenkins, smiling through her tears, as she carefully unpacked a Nativity scene and reverently placed the figures of the Holy Family in the middle of her dining-room table."Well, don't just stand there ... get busy!" said Lee, handing a box of tinsel to my open-mouthed husband. "What took you so long?"

Story #36 - The 12 Days of Christmas

2008-12-26T21:00:00.001-08:00

There is one Christmas Carol that has always baffled me. What in the world do leaping lords, French hens, swimming swans, and especially the partridge, who won't come outof the pear tree, have to do with Christmas?

This week, I found out.

From 1558 until 1829, Roman Catholics in England
were not permitted to practice their faith openly.Someone, during that era, wrote this carol as aCatechism song for young Catholics. It has two levels of meaning: the surface meaning plus a hidden meaning known only to members of their church.Each element in the carol has a code word for areligious reality which the children could remember.

-The partridge in a pear tree was Jesus Christ.

-Two turtle doves were the Old and New Testaments.

-Three French hens stood for faith, hope and love.

-The four calling birds were the four gospels ofMatthew, Mark, Luke & John.

-The five golden rings recalled the Torah or Law,the first five books of the Old Testament.

-The six geese a-laying stood for the six days of creation.

-Seven swans a-swimming represented thesevenfold gifts of the Holy Spirit--Prophesy, Serving, Teaching, Exhortation, Contribution, Leadership, and Mercy.

-The eight maids a-milking were the eight beatitudes.

-Nine ladies dancing were the nine fruits of the Holy Spirit--Love, Joy, Peace, Patience, Kindness, Goodness,Faithfulness, Gentleness, and Self Control.

-The ten lords a-leaping were the ten commandments.

-The eleven pipers piping stood for the eleven faithful disciples.

-The twelve drummers drumming symbolized thetwelve points of belief in the Apostles' Creed.

So there is your history for today.
This knowledge was shared with me and I found it interestingand enlightening and now I know how that strange song
became a Christmas Carol...so pass it on if you wish.

Story #35 - The Tablecloth

2008-12-26T20:58:00.001-08:00

The brand new pastor and his wife, newly assigned to their first ministry, to reopen a church in suburban Brooklyn, arrived in early October excited about their opportunities.
When they saw their church, it was very run down and needed much work. They set a goal to have everything done in time to have their first service on Christmas Eve.
They worked hard, repairing pews, plastering walls, painting, etc., and on December 18 were ahead of schedule and just about finished.
On December 19 a terrible tempest - a driving rainstorm hit the area and lasted for two days.
On the 21st, the pastor went over to the church. His heart sank when he saw that the roof had leaked, causing a large area of plaster about 20 feet by 8 feet to fall off the front wall of the sanctuary just behind the pulpit, beginning about head high.
The pastor cleaned up the mess on the floor, and not knowing what else to do but postpone the Christmas Eve service, headed home. On the way he noticed that a local business was having a flea market type sale for charity so he stopped in. One of the items was a beautiful, handmade, ivory colored, crocheted tablecloth with exquisite work, fine colors and a Cross embroidered right in the center. It was just the right size to cover up the hole in the front wall. He bought it and headed back to the church.
By this time it had started to snow. An older woman running from the opposite direction was trying to catch the bus. She missed it. The pastor invited her to wait in the warm church for the next bus 45 minutes later.
She sat in a pew and paid no attention to the pastor while he got a ladder, hangers, etc., to put up the tablecloth as a wall tapestry. The pastor could hardly believe how beautiful it looked and it covered up the entire problem area.
Then he noticed the woman walking down the center aisle. Her face was like a sheet. "Pastor," she asked, "where did you get that tablecloth?" The pastor explained. The woman asked him to check the lower right corner to see if the initials, EBG were crocheted into it there. They were. These were the initials of the woman, and she had made this tablecloth 35 years before, in Austria.
The woman could hardly believe it as the pastor told how he had just gotten the tablecloth. The woman explained that before the war she and her husband were well-to-do people in Austria. When the Nazis came, she was forced to leave. Her husband was going to follow her the next week. She was captured, sent to prison and never saw her husband or her home again...
The pastor wanted to give her the tablecloth; but she made the pastor keep it for the church. The pastor insisted on driving her home, that was the least he could do. She lived on the other side of Staten Island and was only in Brooklyn for the day for a housecleaning job.
What a wonderful service they had on Christmas Eve. The church was almost full. The music and the spirit were great. At the end of the service, the pastor and his wife greeted everyone at the door and many said that they would return.
One older man, whom the pastor recognized from the neighborhood, continued to sit in one of the pews and stare, and the pastor wondered why he wasn't leaving.
The man asked him where he got the tablecloth on the front wall because it was identical to one that his wife had made years ago when they lived in Austria before the war and how could there be two tablecloths so much alike.
He told the pastor how the Nazis came, how he forced his wife to flee for her safety, and he was supposed to follow her, but he was arrested and put in a prison.. He never saw his wife or his home again all the 35 years in between.
The pastor asked him if he would allow him to take him for a little ride. They drove to Staten Island and to the same house where the pastor had taken the woman three days earlier.
He helped the man climb the three flights of stairs to the woman's apartment knocked on the door and he saw the greatest Christmas reunion he could ever imagine.
A True Story -by Pastor Rob Reid

Story #34 - A Kidnapped Santa Claus

2008-12-26T20:56:00.000-08:00

by L. Frank BaumL. Frank Baum, creator of "The Wizard of Oz" and many other delightful stories wrote this story about Santa Claus.
Santa Claus lives in the Laughing Valley, where stands the big, rambling castle in which his toys are manufactured. His workmen, selected from the ryls, knooks, pixies and fairies, live with him, and every one is as busy as can be from one year's end to another. It is called the Laughing Valley because everything there is happy and gay. The brook chuckles to itself as it leaps rollicking between its green banks; the wind whistles merrily in the trees; the sunbeams dance lightly over the soft grass, and the violets and wild flowers look smilingly up from their green nests. To laugh one needs to be happy; to be happy one needs to be content. And throughout the Laughing Valley of Santa Claus contentment reigns supreme. On one side is the mighty Forest of Burzee. At the other side stands the huge mountain that contains the Caves of the Daemons. And between them the Valley lies smiling and peaceful. One would thing that our good old Santa Claus, who devotes his days to making children happy, would have no enemies on all the earth; and, as a matter of fact, for a long period of time he encountered nothing but love wherever he might go. But the Daemons who live in the mountain caves grew to hate Santa Claus very much, and all for the simple reason that he made children happy. We have hundreds more books for your enjoyment. Read them all!The Caves of the Daemons are five in number. A broad pathway leads up to the first cave, which is a finely arched cavern at the foot of the mountain, the entrance being beautifully carved and decorated. In it resides the Daemon of Selfishness. Back of this is another cavern inhabited by the Daemon of Envy. The cave of the Daemon of Hatred is next in order, and through this one passes to the home of the Daemon of Malice--situated in a dark and fearful cave in the very heart of the mountain. I do not know what lies beyond this. Some say there are terrible pitfalls leading to death and destruction, and this may very well be true. However, from each one of the four caves mentioned there is a small, narrow tunnel leading to the fifth cave--a cozy little room occupied by the Daemon of Repentance. And as the rocky floors of these passages are well worn by the track of passing feet, I judge that many wanderers in the Caves of the Daemons have escaped through the tunnels to the abode of the Daemon of Repentance, who is said to be a pleasant sort of fellow who gladly opens for one a little door admitting you into fresh air and sunshine again. Well, these Daemons of the Caves, thinking they had great cause to dislike old Santa Claus, held a meeting one day to discuss the matter. "I'm really getting lonesome," said the Daemon of Selfishness. "For Santa Claus distributes so many pretty Christmas gifts to all the children that they become happy and generous, through his example, and keep away from my cave." I'm having the same trouble," rejoined the Daemon of Envy. "The little ones seem quite content with Santa Claus, and there are few, indeed, that I can coax to become envious." "And that makes it bad for me!" declared the Daemon of Hatred. "For if no children pass through the Caves of Selfishness and Envy, none can get to MY cavern." "Or to mine," added the Daemon of Malice. "For my part," said the Daemon of Repentance, "it is easily seen that if children do not visit your caves they have no need to visit mine; so that I am quite as neglected as you are." "And all because of this person they call Santa Claus!" exclaimed the Daemon of Envy. "He is simply ruining our business, and something must be done at once." To this they readily agreed; but what to do was another and more difficult matter to settle. They knew that Santa Claus worked all through the year at his castle in the Laughing Valley, preparing the gifts he was to distribute on Christmas Eve; and at first they resolved to try to tempt him into their caves, that they might lead him on to the terrible pitfalls that ended in destruction. So the very next day, while Santa Claus was busily at work, surrounded by his little band of assistants, the Daemon of Selfishness came to him and said:"These toys are wonderfully bright and pretty. Why do you not keep them for yourself? It's a pity to give them to those noisy boys and fretful girls, who break and destroy them so quickly." "Nonsense!" cried the old graybeard, his bright eyes twinkling merrily as he turned toward the tempting Daemon. "The boys and girls are never so noisy and fretful after receiving my presents, and if I can make them happy for one day in the year I am quite content." So the Daemon went back to the others, who awaited him in their caves, and said: "I have failed, for Santa Claus is not at all selfish." The following day the Daemon of Envy visited Santa Claus. Said he: "The toy shops are full of playthings quite as pretty as those you are making. What a shame it is that they should interfere with your business! They make toys by machinery much quicker than you can make them by hand; and they sell them for money, while you get nothing at all for your work." But Santa Claus refused to be envious of the toy shops. "I can supply the little ones but once a year--on Christmas Eve," he answered; "for the children are many, and I am but one. And as my work is one of love and kindness I would be ashamed to receive money for my little gifts. But throughout all the year the children must be amused in some way, and so the toy shops are able to bring much happiness to my little friends. I like the toy shops, and am glad to see them prosper." In spite of the second rebuff, the Daemon of Hatred thought he would try to influence Santa Claus. So the next day he entered the busy workshop and said: "Good morning, Santa! I have bad news for you." "Then run away, like a good fellow," answered Santa Claus. "Bad news is something that should be kept secret and never told." "You cannot escape this, however," declared the Daemon; "for in the world are a good many who do not believe in Santa Claus, and these you are bound to hate bitterly, since they have so wronged you." "Stuff and rubbish!" cried Santa. "And there are others who resent your making children happy and who sneer at you and call you a foolish old rattlepate! You are quite right to hate such base slanderers, and you ought to be revenged upon them for their evil words." "But I don't hate 'em!" exclaimed Santa Claus positively. "Such people do me no real harm, but merely render themselves and their children unhappy. Poor things! I'd much rather help them any day than injure them." Indeed, the Daemons could not tempt old Santa Claus in any way. On the contrary, he was shrewd enough to see that their object in visiting him was to make mischief and trouble, and his cheery laughter disconcerted the evil ones and showed to them the folly of such an undertaking. So they abandoned honeyed words and determined to use force. It was well known that no harm can come to Santa Claus while he is in the Laughing Valley, for the fairies, and ryls, and knooks all protect him. But on Christmas Eve he drives his reindeer out into the big world, carrying a sleighload of toys and pretty gifts to the children; and this was the time and the occasion when his enemies had the best chance to injure him. So the Daemons laid their plans and awaited the arrival of Christmas Eve. The moon shone big and white in the sky, and the snow lay crisp and sparkling on the ground as Santa Claus cracked his whip and sped away out of the Valley into the great world beyond. The roomy sleigh was packed full with huge sacks of toys, and as the reindeer dashed onward our jolly old Santa laughed and whistled and sang for very joy. For in all his merry life this was the one day in the year when he was happiest--the day he lovingly bestowed the treasures of his workshop upon the little children. It would be a busy night for him, he well knew. As he whistled and shouted and cracked his whip again, he reviewed in mind all the towns and cities and farmhouses where he was expected, and figured that he had just enough presents to go around and make every child happy. The reindeer knew exactly what was expected of them, and dashed along so swiftly that their feet scarcely seemed to touch the snow-covered ground. Suddenly a strange thing happened: a rope shot through the moonlight and a big noose that was in the end of it settled over the arms and body of Santa Claus and drew tight. Before he could resist or even cry out he was jerked from the seat of the sleigh and tumbled head foremost into a snowbank, while the reindeer rushed onward with the load of toys and carried it quickly out of sight and sound. Such a surprising experience confused old Santa for a moment, and when he had collected his senses he found that the wicked Daemons had pulled him from the snowdrift and bound him tightly with many coils of the stout rope. And then they carried the kidnapped Santa Claus away to their mountain, where they thrust the prisoner into a secret cave and chained him to the rocky wall so that he could not escape. "Ha, ha!" laughed the Daemons, rubbing their hands together with cruel glee. "What will the children do now? How they will cry and scold and storm when they find there are no toys in their stockings and no gifts on their Christmas trees! And what a lot of punishment they will receive from their parents, and how they will flock to our Caves of Selfishness, and Envy, and Hatred, and Malice! We have done a mighty clever thing, we Daemons of the Caves!" Now it so chanced that on this Christmas Eve the good Santa Claus had taken with him in his sleigh Nuter the Ryl, Peter the Knook, Kilter the Pixie, and a small fairy named Wisk--his four favorite assistants. These little people he had often found very useful in helping him to distribute his gifts to the children, and when their master was so suddenly dragged from the sleigh they were all snugly tucked underneath the seat, where the sharp wind could not reach them. The tiny immortals knew nothing of the capture of Santa Claus until some time after he had disappeared. But finally they missed his cheery voice, and as their master always sang or whistled on his journeys, the silence warned them that something was wrong. Little Wisk stuck out his head from underneath the seat and found Santa Claus gone and no one to direct the flight of the reindeer. "Whoa!" he called out, and the deer obediently slackened speed and came to a halt. Peter and Nuter and Kilter all jumped upon the seat and looked back over the track made by the sleigh. But Santa Claus had been left miles and miles behind. "What shall we do?" asked Wisk anxiously, all the mirth and mischief banished from his wee face by this great calamity. "We must go back at once and find our master," said Nuter the Ryl, who thought and spoke with much deliberation. "No, no!" exclaimed Peter the Knook, who, cross and crabbed though he was, might always be depended upon in an emergency. "If we delay, or go back, there will not be time to get the toys to the children before morning; and that would grieve Santa Claus more than anything else." "It is certain that some wicked creatures have captured him," added Kilter thoughtfully, "and their object must be to make the children unhappy. So our first duty is to get the toys distributed as carefully as if Santa Claus were himself present. Afterward we can search for our master and easily secure his freedom." This seemed such good and sensible advice that the others at once resolved to adopt it. So Peter the Knook called to the reindeer, and the faithful animals again sprang forward and dashed over hill and valley, through forest and plain, until they came to the houses wherein children lay sleeping and dreaming of the pretty gifts they would find on Christmas morning. The little immortals had set themselves a difficult task; for although they had assisted Santa Claus on many of his journeys, their master had always directed and guided them and told them exactly what he wished them to do. But now they had to distribute the toys according to their own judgment, and they did not understand children as well as did old Santa. So it is no wonder they made some laughable errors. Mamie Brown, who wanted a doll, got a drum instead; and a drum is of no use to a girl who loves dolls. And Charlie Smith, who delights to romp and play out of doors, and who wanted some new rubber boots to keep his feet dry, received a sewing box filled with colored worsteds and threads and needles, which made him so provoked that he thoughtlessly called our dear Santa Claus a fraud. Had there been many such mistakes the Daemons would have accomplished their evil purpose and made the children unhappy. But the little friends of the absent Santa Claus labored faithfully and intelligently to carry out their master's ideas, and they made fewer errors than might be expected under such unusual circumstances. And, although they worked as swiftly as possible, day had begun to break before the toys and other presents were all distributed; so for the first time in many years the reindeer trotted into the Laughing Valley, on their return, in broad daylight, with the brilliant sun peeping over the edge of the forest to prove they were far behind their accustomed hours. Having put the deer in the stable, the little folk began to wonder how they might rescue their master; and they realized they must discover, first of all, what had happened to him and where he was. So Wisk the Fairy transported himself to the bower of the Fairy Queen, which was located deep in the heart of the Forest of Burzee; and once there, it did not take him long to find out all about the naughty Daemons and how they had kidnapped the good Santa Claus to prevent his making children happy. The Fairy Queen also promised her assistance, and then, fortified by this powerful support, Wisk flew back to where Nuter and Peter and Kilter awaited him, and the four counseled together and laid plans to rescue their master from his enemies. It is possible that Santa Claus was not as merry as usual during the night that succeeded his capture. For although he had faith in the judgment of his little friends he could not avoid a certain amount of worry, and an anxious look would creep at times into his kind old eyes as he thought of the disappointment that might await his dear little children. And the Daemons, who guarded him by turns, one after another, did not neglect to taunt him with contemptuous words in his helpless condition. When Christmas Day dawned the Daemon of Malice was guarding the prisoner, and his tongue was sharper than that of any of the others. "The children are waking up, Santa!" he cried. "They are waking up to find their stockings empty! Ho, ho! How they will quarrel, and wail, and stamp their feet in anger! Our caves will be full today, old Santa! Our caves are sure to be full!" But to this, as to other like taunts, Santa Claus answered nothing. He was much grieved by his capture, it is true; but his courage did not forsake him. And, finding that the prisoner would not reply to his jeers, the Daemon of Malice presently went away, and sent the Daemon of Repentance to take his place. This last personage was not so disagreeable as the others. He had gentle and refined features, and his voice was soft and pleasant in tone. "My brother Daemons do not trust me overmuch," said he, as he entered the cavern; "but it is morning, now, and the mischief is done. You cannot visit the children again for another year." "That is true," answered Santa Claus, almost cheerfully; "Christmas Eve is past, and for the first time in centuries I have not visited my children." "The little ones will be greatly disappointed, " murmured the Daemon of Repentance, almost regretfully; "but that cannot be helped now. Their grief is likely to make the children selfish and envious and hateful, and if they come to the Caves of the Daemons today I shall get a chance to lead some of them to my Cave of Repentance." "Do you never repent, yourself?" asked Santa Claus, curiously. "Oh, yes, indeed," answered the Daemon. "I am even now repenting that I assisted in your capture. Of course it is too late to remedy the evil that has been done; but repentance, you know, can come only after an evil thought or deed, for in the beginning there is nothing to repent of." "So I understand," said Santa Claus. "Those who avoid evil need never visit your cave." "As a rule, that is true," replied the Daemon; "yet you, who have done no evil, are about to visit my cave at once; for to prove that I sincerely regret my share in your capture I am going to permit you to escape." This speech greatly surprised the prisoner, until he reflected that it was just what might be expected of the Daemon of Repentance. The fellow at once busied himself untying the knots that bound Santa Claus and unlocking the chains that fastened him to the wall. Then he led the way through a long tunnel until they both emerged in the Cave of Repentance. "I hope you will forgive me," said the Daemon pleadingly. "I am not really a bad person, you know; and I believe I accomplish a great deal of good in the world." With this he opened a back door that let in a flood of sunshine, and Santa Claus sniffed the fresh air gratefully. "I bear no malice," said he to the Daemon, in a gentle voice; "and I am sure the world would be a dreary place without you. So, good morning, and a Merry Christmas to you!" With these words he stepped out to greet the bright morning, and a moment later he was trudging along, whistling softly to himself, on his way to his home in the Laughing Valley. Marching over the snow toward the mountain was a vast army, made up of the most curious creatures imaginable. There were numberless knooks from the forest, as rough and crooked in appearance as the gnarled branches of the trees they ministered to. And there were dainty ryls from the fields, each one bearing the emblem of the flower or plant it guarded. Behind these were many ranks of pixies, gnomes and nymphs, and in the rear a thousand beautiful fairies floated along in gorgeous array. This wonderful army was led by Wisk, Peter, Nuter, and Kilter, who had assembled it to rescue Santa Claus from captivity and to punish the Daemons who had dared to take him away from his beloved children. And, although they looked so bright and peaceful, the little immortals were armed with powers that would be very terrible to those who had incurred their anger. Woe to the Daemons of the Caves if this mighty army of vengeance ever met them! But lo! coming to meet his loyal friends appeared the imposing form of Santa Claus, his white beard floating in the breeze and his bright eyes sparkling with pleasure at this proof of the love and veneration he had inspired in the hearts of the most powerful creatures in existence. And while they clustered around him and danced with glee at his safe return, he gave them earnest thanks for their support. But Wisk, and Nuter, and Peter, and Kilter, he embraced affectionately. "It is useless to pursue the Daemons," said Santa Claus to the army. "They have their place in the world, and can never be destroyed. But that is a great pity, nevertheless, " he continued musingly. So the fairies, and knooks, and pixies, and ryls all escorted the good man to his castle, and there left him to talk over the events of the night with his little assistants. Wisk had already rendered himself invisible and flown through the big world to see how the children were getting along on this bright Christmas morning; and by the time he returned, Peter had finished telling Santa Claus of how they had distributed the toys. "We really did very well," cried the fairy, in a pleased voice; "for I found little unhappiness among the children this morning. Still, you must not get captured again, my dear master; for we might not be so fortunate another time in carrying out your ideas." He then related the mistakes that had been made, and which he had not discovered until his tour of inspection. And Santa Claus at once sent him with rubber boots for Charlie Smith, and a doll for Mamie Brown; so that even those two disappointed ones became happy. As for the wicked Daemons of the Caves, they were filled with anger and chagrin when they found that their clever capture of Santa Claus had come to naught. Indeed, no one on that Christmas Day appeared to be at all selfish, or envious, or hateful. And, realizing that while the children's saint had so many powerful friends it was folly to oppose him, the Daemons never again attempted to interfere with his journeys on Christmas Eve.

Story #33 - The Legend of the Poinsettia

2008-12-26T20:48:00.000-08:00

In a certain village in Mexico, many years ago, it wascustomary on Christmas Eve to take gifts to the churchand place the before the crèche. One evening there was asmall boy standing outside the church door. How he wishedhe could enter the church and present a gift to Jesus, buthe was poor. He had nothing to give. "I can at least pray,"he thought to himself. He knelt silently outside the churchwindow and listened to the voices raised in song. When herose to his feet again, he was amazed, at what he saw inthe spot where he had knelt. It was a beautiful plant withscarlet leaves and yellow flower in the center. He hadnever seen anything like it. Realizing it was a miracle, hecarefully plucked it and took it into the church. As heplaced the beautiful flower before the manger, hewhispered, "This is my gif to the Christ Child. My ownprecious gift."

Story #32 - Unexpected Christmas

2008-12-26T20:46:00.002-08:00

Unexpected ChristmasMarguerite NixonWe were well over half way to our farm in East Texas when the storm broke. Lightning flashed, thunder crashed and a tree fell with a great ripping noise. When the rain poured in such a flood that we could not see the road, my husband drove on to what seemed to be a bit of clearing deep in the piney woods. As we waited I sensed we would not get to the farm that night to celebrate Christmas with our family. We were sitting there, miserable and dejected, when I heard a knocking on my window. A man with a lantern stood there beckoning us to follow him. My husband and I splashed after him up the path to his house.A woman with a lamp in her hand stood in the doorway of an old house; a boy of about twelve and a little girl stood beside her. We went in soaked and dripping, and the family moved aside in order that we might have the warmth of the fire. With the volubility of city people, my husband and I began to talk, explaining our plans. And with the quietness of people who live in the silence of the woods, they listened. "The bridge on Caney Creek is out. You are welcome to spend the night with us," the man said. And though we told them we thought it was an imposition, especially on Christmas Eve, they insisted. After we had visited a while longer, the man got up and took the Bible from the mantle. "It's our custom to read the story from St. Luke on Christmas Eve," he said, and without another word he began: "And she brought forth her firstborn Son, and wrapped Him in swaddling clothes, and laid Him in a manger ... " The children sat up eagerly, their eyes bright in anticipation, while their father read on: "And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flocks by night." I looked at his strong face. He could have been one of them. When he finished reading and closed the Bible, the little children knelt by their chairs. The mother and father were kneeling, and without any conscious will of my own I found myself joining them. Then I saw my husband, without any embarrassment at all, kneel also. When we arose, I looked around the room. There were no bright-wrapped packages or cards, only a small, unadorned holly tree on the mantle. Yet the spirit of Christmas was never more real to me. The little boy broke the silence. "We always feed the cattle at 12 o'clock on Christmas Eve. Come with us." The barn was warm and fragrant with the smell of hay and dried corn. A cow and a horse greeted us, and there was a goat with a tiny, wooly kid that came up to be petted. This is like the stable where the Baby was born, I thought. Here is the manger, and the gentle animals keep watch.When we returned to the house there was an air of festivity and the serving of juice and fruitcake. Later, we bedded down on a mattress made of corn shucks. As I turned into a comfortable position, they rustled under me and sent up a faint fragrance exactly like that in the barn. My heart said, "You are sleeping in the stable like the Christ Child did."As I drifted into a profound sleep, I knew that the light coming through the old pine shutters was the Star shining on that quiet house. The family all walked down the path to the car with us the next morning. I was so filled with the Spirit of Christmas they had given me that I could find no words. Suddenly I thought of the gifts in the back seat of our car for our family.I began to hand them out. My husband's gray woolen socks went to the man. The red sweater I had bought for my sister went to the mother. I gave away two boxes of candy, the white mittens and the leather gloves while my husband nodded approval.And when I was breathless from reaching in and out of the car and the family stood there loaded with the gaiety of Christmas packages, the mother spoke for all of them. "We thank you," she said simply. And then she said, "Wait."She hurried up the path to the house and came back with a quilt folded across her arms. It was beautifully handmade; the pattern was the Star of Bethlehem. I looked up at the tall beautiful pines because my throat hurt and I could not speak. It was indeed Christmas. Every Christmas Eve since then, I sleep under that quilt, the Star of Bethlehem, and in memory I visit the stable and smell again the corn shucks, and the meaning of Christmas abides with me once more.

Story #31 - A White Envelope

2008-12-26T20:46:00.001-08:00

It's just a small, white envelope stuck among the branches of our Christmastree. No name, no identification, no inscription. It has peeked through thebranches of our tree for the past 10 years or so. It all began because myhusband Mike hatedChristmas--- oh, not the true meaning of Christmas, but the commercialaspectsof it overspending ... the frantic running around at the last minute to getatie for Uncle Harry and the dusting powder for Grandma---the gifts given indesperation because you couldn't think of anything else.Knowing he felt this way, I decided one year to bypass the ususal shirts,sweaters, ties and so forth. I reached for something special just for Mike.The inspiration came in an unusual way. Our son Kevin, who was 12 that year,was wrestling at the junior level at the school he attended; and shortlybefore Christmas, there was a non-league match against a team sponsored byaninner-city church, mostly black. These youngsters, dressed in sneakers soragged that shoestrings seemed to be the only thing holding them together,presented a sharp contrast to our boys in their spiffy blue and golduniformsand sparkling new wrestling shoes.As the match began, I was alarmed to see that the other team was wrestlingwithout headgear, a kind of light helmet designed to protect a wrestler'sears. It was a luxury the ragtag team obviously could not afford. Well, weended up walloping them. We took every weight class. And as each of theirboys got up from the mat, he swaggered around in his tatters with falsebravado, a kind of street pride that couldn't acknowledge defeat.Mike, seated beside me, shook his head sadly, "I wish just one of them couldhave won," he said. "They have a lot of potential, but losing like thiscouldtake the heart right out of them." Mike loved kids --- all kids --- and heknew them, having coached little league football, baseball and lacrosse.That's when the idea for his present came. That afternoon, I went to a localsporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear andshoesand sent them anonymously to the inner-city church.On Christmas Eve, I placed the envelope on the tree, the note inside tellingMike what I had done and that this was his gift from me. His smile was thebrightest thing about Christmas that year and in succeeding years. For eachChristmas, I followed the tradition --- one year sending a group of mentallyhandicapped youngsters, to a hockey game, another year a check to a pair ofelderly brothers whose home had burned to the ground the week beforeChristmas, and on and on.The envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always the lastthing opened on Christmas morning and our children, ignoring their new toys,would stand with wide-eyed anticipation as their dad lifted the envelopefromthe tree to reveal its contents. As the children grew, the toys gave way tomore practical presents, but the envelope never lost its allure.The story doesn't end there. You see, we lost Mike last year due to dreadedcancer. When Christmas rolled around, I was still so wrapped in grief that Ibarely got the tree up. But Christmas Eve found me placing an envelope onthetree, and in the morning, it was joined by three more. Each of our children,unbeknownst to the others, had placed an envelope on the tree for their dad.The tradition has grown and someday will expand even further with ourgrandchildren standing around the tree with wide-eyed anticipation watchingastheir fathers take down the envelope. Mike's spirit, like the Christmasspirit, will always be with us.May we all remember Christ, who is the reason for the season, and the trueChristmas spirit this year and always. God bless---pass this along to yourfriends and loved ones.

Story # 30 - TheBest Christmas Ever

2008-12-26T19:11:00.001-08:00

In the early 1930s, Margaret Kisilevich and her sister Nellie gave a Christmas gift to their neighbors, the Kozicki family, which was remembered by them all their lives and which has become an inspiration to their families.Home to Margaret back then was Two Hills, Alberta, Canada—a farming community populated largely by Ukrainian and Polish immigrants who generally had large families and were very poor. It was the time of the Great Depression.Margaret’s family consisted of her mother and father and their 15 children. Margaret’s mother was industrious and her father was enterprising— and with all those children, they had a built-in labor force. Consequently, their home was always warm, and despite their humble circumstances, they were never hungry. In the summer they grew an enormous garden, made sauerkraut, cottage cheese, sour cream, and dill pickles for barter. They also raised chickens, pigs, and beef cattle. They had very little cash, but these goods could be exchanged for other commodities they could not produce themselves.Margaret’s mother had friends with whom she had emigrated from the old country. These friends owned a general store, and the store became a depot for folks in the area to donate or trade surplus hand-me-down clothing, shoes, etc. Many of these used items were passed along to Margaret’s family.Alberta winters were cold, long, and hard, and one particularly cold and difficult winter, Margaret and her sister Nellie noticed the poverty of their neighbors, the Kozicki family, whose farm was a few miles away. When the Kozicki father would take his children to school on his homemade sleigh, he would always go into the school to warm himself by the potbelly stove before returning home. The family’s footwear consisted of rags and gunny sacks cut into strips and wrapped about the legs and feet, stuffed with straw, and bound with twine.Margaret and Nellie decided to invite the Kozicki family, by way of the children, for Christmas dinner. They also decided not to tell anyone in their family of the invitation.Christmas morning dawned, and everyone in Margaret’s family was busy with the preparations for the midday feast. The huge pork roast had been put in the oven the night before. The cabbage rolls, doughnuts, prune buns, and special burnt sugar punch had been prepared earlier. The menu would be rounded out with sauerkraut, dill pickles, and vegetables. Margaret and Nellie were in charge of getting the fresh vegetables ready, and their mother kept asking them why they were peeling so many potatoes, carrots, and beets. But they just kept peeling.Their father was the first to notice a team of horses and a sleigh packed with 13 people coming down their lane. He, being a horse lover, could recognize a team from a long distance. He asked his wife, “Why are the Kozickis coming here?” Her response to him was, “I don’t know.”They arrived, and Margaret’s father helped Mr. Kozicki stable the horses. Mrs. Kozicki embraced Margaret’s mother and thanked her for inviting them for Christmas. Then they all piled into the house, and the festivities began.The adults ate first, and then the plates and cutlery were washed, and the children ate in shifts. It was a glorious feast, made better by the sharing of it. After everyone had eaten, they sang Christmas carols together, and then the adults settled down for another chat.Margaret and Nellie took the children into the bedroom and pulled from under the beds several boxes filled with hand-me-downs they had been given by their mother’s merchant friends. It was heavenly chaos, with an instant fashion show and everyone picking whatever clothes and footwear they wanted. They made such a racket that Margaret’s father came in to see what all the noise was about. When he saw their happiness and the joy of the Kozicki children with their “new” clothes, he smiled and said, “Carry on.”Early in the afternoon, before it got too cold and dark with the setting sun, Margaret’s family bid farewell to their friends, who left well fed, well clothed, and well shod.Margaret and Nellie never told anyone about their invitation to the Kozickis, and the secret remained until Margaret Kisilevich Wright’s 77th Christmas, in 1998, when she shared it with her family for the first time. She said it was her very best Christmas ever.

Story #29 - Teach the Children

2008-12-26T19:10:00.001-08:00

Just a week before Christmas, I had a visitor. This is how it happened. I had just finished the household chores for the night and was preparing to go to bed when I heard a noise in the front of the house. I opened the door of the front room, and to my surprise, Santa Claus himself stepped out from behind the Christmas tree. He placed his finger over his mouth so I would not cry out.

"What are you doing...?" I started to ask, but the words choked up in my throat as I saw he had tears in his eyes. His usual jolly manner was gone--gone was the eager, boisterous soul we all know.

He then answered me with a simple statement of, "teach the children." I was puzzled. What did he mean? He anticipated my question and with one quick movement brought forth a miniature toy bag from behind the tree. As I stood there bewildered, Santa said again, "Teach the children. Teach them the old meaning of Christmas--the meanings that Christmas nowadays has forgotten."

I started to say, "How can I...?" when Santa reached into the toy bag and pulled out a brilliant shiny star.

"Teach the children the star was the heavenly sign of promise long ages ago. God promised a savior for the world, and the star was a sign of the fulfillment of that promise. The countless shining stars at night--one for each man--now show the burning hope of all mankind." Santa gently laid the star upon the fireplace mantle and drew forth from the bag a glittering red Christmas tree ornament.

"Teach the children red is the first color of Christmas. It was first used by the faithful people to remind them of the blood which was shed for all the people by the Savior. Christ gave His life and shed His blood that every man might have God's gift of Eternal Life. Red is deep, intense, vivid--it is the greatest color of all. It is the symbol of the gift of God."

"Teach the children," he said as he dislodged a small Christmas tree from the depths of the toy bag. He placed it before the mantle and gently hung the red ornament on it. The deep green of the fir tree was a perfect background for the ornament. Here was the second color of Christmas.

"The pure green color of the stately fir tree remains green all year around," he said. "This depicts the everlasting hope of mankind. Green is the youthful, hopeful, abundant color of nature. All the needles point heavenward-- symbols of Man's returning thoughts toward heaven. The great tree has been man's best friend. It has sheltered him, warmed him, and made beauty for him. Suddenly, I heard a soft tinkling sound.

"Teach the children that as the lost sheep are found by the sound of the bell, it should ring for man to return to the fold--it means guidance and return. It further signifies that all are precious in the eyes of the Lord." As the soft sound of the bell faded into the night, Santa drew forth a candle. He placed it on the mantle, and the soft glow from its tiny flame cast a glow about the darkened room. Odd shapes in shadows slowly danced and waved upon the walls.

"Teach the children," whispered Santa, "that the candle shows man's thanks for the star of long ago. Its small light is the mirror of starlight. At first, candles were placed on the trees---they were like many glowing stars shining against the dark green. The colored lights have now taken over in remembrance.

Santa turned the small Christmas tree lights on and picked up a gift from under the tree. He pointed to the large bow and said, "A bow is placed on a present to remind us of the spirit of the brotherhood of man. We should remember that the bow is tied as men should be tied, all of us together, with the bonds of good will toward each other. Good will forever is the message of the bow."

Santa slung his bag over his shoulder and began to reach for the candy cane placed high on the tree. He unfastened it and reached out toward me with it.

"Teach the children that the candy can represents the shepherd's crook. The crook on the staff helps bring back the strayed sheep to the flock. The candy cane represents the helping hand we should show at Christmas time. The candy cane is the symbol that we are our brother's keepers."

As Santa looked about the room, a feeling of satisfaction shone in his face. He read wonderment in my eyes, and I am sure he sensed admiration for this night.

He reached into his bag and brought forth a large holly wreath. He placed it on the door and said, "Please teach the children that the wreath symbolizes the eternal nature of love; it never ceases, stops or ends. It is one continuous round of affection. The wreath does double duty. It is made of many things and in many colors. It should remind us of all the things of Christmas. Please teach the children."

Story #28 - This is what Christmas is all about...

2008-12-26T18:59:00.001-08:00

Pa never had much compassion for the lazy or those who squandered their means and then never had enough forthe necessities. But for those who were genuinely in need, his heart was as big as all outdoors. It was from himthat I learned the greatest joy in life comes from giving, not from receiving.It was Christmas Eve 1881. I was fifteen years old and feeling like the world had caved in on me because therejust hadn't been enough money to buy me the rifle that I'd wanted for Christmas. We did the chores early thatnight for some reason. I just figured Pa wanted a little extra time so we could read in the BibleAfter supper was over I took my boots off and stretched out in front of the fireplace and waited for Pa to get downthe old Bible. I was still feeling sorry for myself and, to be honest, I wasn't in much of a mood to read Scriptures.But Pa didn't get the Bible, instead he bundled up again and went outside. I couldn't figure it out because we hadalready done all the chores. I didn't worry about it long though. I was too busy wallowing in self-pity. Soon Pa came back in. It was a cold clear night out and there was ice in his beard."Come on, Matt," he said. "Bundle up good, it's cold out tonight."I was really upset then. Not only wasn't I getting the rifle for Christmas, now Pa was dragging me out in the cold,and for no earthly reason that I could see. We'd already done all the chores, and I couldn't think of anything elsethat needed doing, especially not on a night like this. But I knew Pa was not very patient at one dragging one'sfeet when he'd told them to do something, so I got up and put my boots back on and got my cap, coat, andmittens. Ma gave me a mysterious smile as I opened the door to leave the house. Something was up, but I didn'tknow what.Outside, I became even more dismayed. There in front of the house was the work team, already hitched to the bigsled. Whatever it was we were going to do wasn't going to be a short, quick, little job. I could tell. We neverhitched up this sled unless we were going to haul a big load. Pa was already up on the seat, reins in hand. Ireluctantly climbed up beside him. The cold was already biting at me. I wasn't happy. When I was on, Pa pulledthe sled around the house and stopped in front of the woodshed. He got off and I followed. "I think we'll put on thehigh sideboards," he said. Here, help me." The high sideboards! It had been a bigger job than I wanted to dowith just the low sideboards on, but whatever it was we were going to do would be a lot bigger with the high sideboards on.After we had exchanged the sideboards, Pa went into the woodshed and came out with an armload of wood - thewood I'd spent all summer hauling down from the mountain, and then all Fall sawing into blocks and splitting.What was he doing? Finally I said something."Pa," I asked, "what are you doing?""You been by the Widow Jensen's lately?" he asked.The Widow Jensen lived about two miles down the road. Her husband had died a year or so before and left herwith three children, the oldest being eight. Sure, I'd been by, but so what?Yeah," I said,"Why?""I rode by just today," Pa said. "Little Jakey was out digging around in the woodpile trying to find a few chips.They're out of wood, Matt."That was all he said and then he turned and went back into the woodshed for another armload of wood. I followedhim. We loaded the sled so high that I began to wonder if the horses would be able to pull it. Finally, Pa called ahalt to our loading, then we went to the smoke house and Pa took down a big ham and a side of bacon. He handedthem to me and told me to put them in the sled and wait. When he returned he was carrying a sack of flour overhis right shoulder and a smaller sack of something in his left hand."What's in the little sack?" I asked."Shoes, they're out of shoes. Little Jakey just had gunny sacks wrapped around his feet when he was out in thewoodpile this morning. I got the children a little candy too. It just wouldn't be Christmas without a little candy."We rode the two miles to Widow Jensen's pretty much in silence. I tried to think through what Pa was doing. Wedidn't have much by worldly standards. Of course, we did have a big woodpile, though most of what was left nowwas still in the form of logs that I would have to saw into blocks and split before we could use it. We also hadmeat and flour, so we could spare that, but I knew we didn't have any money, so why was Pa buying them shoesand candy? Really, why was he doing any of this? Widow Jensen had closer neighbors than us; it shouldn'thave been our concern.We came in from the blind side of the Jensen house and unloaded the wood as quietly as possible then, we tookthe meat and flour and shoes to the door. We knocked. The door opened a crack and a timid voice said,"Who is it?""Lucas Miles, Ma'am, and my son, Matt, could we come in for a bit?"Widow Jensen opened the door and let us in. She had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The childrenwere wrapped in another and were sitting in front of the fireplace by a very small fire that hardly gave off any heatat all. Widow Jensen fumbled with a match and finally lit the lamp."We brought you a few things, Ma'am," Pa said and set down the sack of flour. I put the meat on the table. ThenPa handed her the sack that had the shoes in it. She opened it hesitantly and took the shoes out one pair at atime. There was a pair for her and one for each of the children - sturdy shoes, the best, shoes that would last. Iwatched her carefully. She bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling and then tears filled her eyes and startedrunning down her cheeks. She looked up at Pa like she wanted to say something, but it wouldn't comeout."We brought a load of wood too, Ma'am," Pa said. He turned to me and said, "Matt, go bring in enough to lastawhile. Let's get that fire up to size and heat this place up." I wasn't the same person when I went back out tobring in the wood. I had a big lump in my throat and as much as I hate to admit it, there were tears in my eyestoo. In my mind I kept seeing those three kids h uddled around the fireplace and their mother standing there withtears running down her cheeks with so much gratitude in her heart that she couldn't speak.My heart swelled within me and a joy that I'd never known before filled my soul. I had given at Christmas manytimes before, but never when it had made so much difference. I could see we were literally saving the lives ofthese people.I soon had the fire blazing and everyone's spirits soared. The kids started giggling when Pa handed them each apiece of candy and Widow Jensen looked on with a smile that probably hadn't crossed her face for a long time.She finally turned to us."God bless you," she said."I know the Lord has sent you. The children and I have been praying that he would send one of his angels tospare us."In spite of myself, the lump returned to my throat and the tears welled up in my eyes again. I'd never thought ofPa in those exact terms before, but after Widow Jensen mentioned it I could see that it was probably true. Iwas20sure that a better man than Pa had never walked the earth. I started remembering all the times he hadgone out of his way for Ma and me, and many others. The list seemed endless as I thought on it.Pa insisted that everyone try on the shoes before we left. I was amazed when they all fit and I wondered how hehad known what sizes to get. Then I guessed that if he was on an errand for the Lord that the Lord would makesure he got the right sizes.Tears were running down Widow Jensen's face again when we stood up to leave. Pa took each of the kids in hisbig arms and gave them a hug. They clung to him and didn't want us to go. I could see that they missed their Pa,and I was glad that I still had mine.At the door Pa turned to Widow Jensen and said, "The Mrs. wanted me to invite you and the children over forChristmas dinner tomorrow. The turkey will be more than the three of us can eat, and a man can get cantankerousif he has to eat turkey for too many meals. We'll be by to get you about eleven. It'll be nice to have some littleones around again. Matt, here, hasn't been little for quite a spell." I was the youngest. My two brothers and twosisters had all married and had moved away.Widow Jensen nodded and said, "Thank you, Brother Miles. I don't have to say, May the Lord bless you, I knowfor certain that He will."Out on the sled I felt a warmth that came from deep within and I didn't even notice the cold. When we had gone aways, Pa turned to me and said, "Matt, I want you to know something. Your ma and me have been tucking a littlemoney away here and there all year so we could buy that rifle for you, but we didn't have quite enough. Thenyesterday a man who owed me a little money from years back came by to make things square. Your ma and mewere real excited, thinking that now we could get you that rifle, and I started into town this morning to do just that,but on the way I saw little Jakey out scratching in the woodpile with his feet wrapped in those gunny sacks and Iknew what I had to do. Son, I spent the money for shoes and a little candy for those children. I hope youunderstand."I understood, and my eyes became wet with tears again. I understood very well, and I was so glad Pa had doneit. Now the rifle seemed very low on my list of priorities. Pa had given me a lot more. He had given me the lookon Widow Jensen's face and the radiant smiles of her three children.For the rest of my life, whenever I saw any of the Jensens, or split a block of wood, I remembered, andremembering brought back that same joy I felt riding home beside Pa that night. Pa had given me much more thana rifle that night, he had given me the best Christmas of my life.

Story #27 - Wisdom of Children

2008-12-26T18:55:00.000-08:00

Some time ago, a friend of mine punished his 3-year-old daughter forwasting a roll of gold wrapping paper. Money was tight, and he becameinfuriated when the child tried to decorate a box to put under the tree.Nevertheless, the little girl brought the gift to her father the nextmorning and said, "This is for you, Daddy." He was embarrassed by his earlier overreaction, but his anger flared again when he found that the box was empty. He yelled at her, "Don't you know that when you give someone a present, there's supposed to be something inside of it?" The little girl looked up at him with tears in her eyes and said, "Oh, Daddy it's not empty. I blew kisses into the box. All for you, Daddy." The father was crushed. He put his arms around his little girl, and he begged her forgiveness. My friend told me that he kept that gold box by his bed foryears. Whenever he was discouraged, he would take out an imaginary kissand remember the love of the child who had put it there.

Story #26 - "And So It Is Christmas"

2008-12-26T18:51:00.001-08:00

To object indignantly to the commercialization of Christmas and to bemoan the loss of the true meaning of Christmas has become a cliche. So I am risking being trite when I choose to discuss "the true meaning of Christmas." I would not have chosen this topic if I did not think that the true meaning of Christmas has become obscured. But it is not the materialism and commercialization of Christmas that I want to oppose here. My objection is to how the "true meaning of Christmas" popularly offered in its place obscures the true meaning of Christmas.If we read the clues in our culture--Hollywood Christmas stories, casual comments, Christmas cards, even some sermons--it becomes apparent what the "true meaning of Christmas" is supposed to be. Christmas is the celebration of love, generosity, benevolence, kindness, brotherhood, and familial bonding, and the celebration of the joy, peace, and security that those things promote. The true meaning of Christmas--according to this way of thinking--is a kind of Hallmark sentimentality about a world where there is no strife, no anger, no hatred, and no criticism; a world in which there is no warfare in any of its forms.Is that, in fact, the true meaning of Christmas? No, it is not. The true meaning of Christmas is not about man loving man--or, if you were confused, human loving human. The true meaning of Christmas is about God loving man. It is about God giving the most amazing and spectacular gift to a certain chosen few. It is about God giving us the promise of the coming Kingdom and a salvaged heart out of which to desire it.Three concepts are meant to capture the true meaning of Christmas as popularly understood: peace, joy, and love. It would be instructive to look at all three of these concepts, but I will look at only one to see if it accurately captures the true meaning of Christmas. Let's look at "peace."As popularly understood, Christmas means the coming of peace between men. If we could simply imbibe the spirit of Christmas, there would be no more war or strife or hostility between us and other fellow-humans. If we could simply grasp the meaning of Jesus' life, Jesus would eliminate the hatred and cruelty that exists between people.But is this true? Not exactly. Jesus himself said, "Do not think that I came to bring peace on the earth; I did not come to bring peace, but a sword. For I came to set a man against his father and a daughter against her mother, and a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law; and a man's enemies will be members of his household." God's gift to us, in part, is a transformed heart--a transformation of our deepest being. It is a transformation that leads us to know and to love our creator. But such a gift makes us outcasts in this world. It makes us misunderstood and hated and persecuted. It does not bring peace; it brings antagonism and strife. It does not bring us happiness in human relationship; it brings us sorrow and grief.Ah, "But the angels," you say. The angels sang, "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace among those men who are the objects of God's choice." They did sing of peace, but they did not sing of peace between men; they sang of peace between a man and his creator. For those few who have been chosen to receive life in God's kingdom, the birth of Jesus brought about the end of their alienation from God. It brought about reconciliation. This reconciliation to God is the peace of which the angels sang.But peace between men? Jesus did not come to bring that. He came to bring war. He came to wage a decisive battle in the war between good and evil, and he came to bring the hope of victory to those of us who are in the midst of that battle. Christmas does not mean peace; it means victory. Christmas does not mean the cessation of strife; it means the encouragement to continue the strife. The day will come when we can lay down our arms--when the war is over finally and permanently. But that day lies ahead--in the coming Kingdom. It is not now. In the meantime, the true meaning of Christmas is that our heroic captain has come to us in the midst of the battle for our lives and souls and has sent the enemy fleeing. That is the true meaning of Christmas. That is why we celebrate. Christmas does not make life any easier, nor any smoother. Life is full of hardship, the hardship and sacrifice of the battlefield. Our joy is not the joy of going home when the enemy has been subdued. Our joy is the joy that comes as we are engaged in combat and see our enemy turn and run. Our joy is the joy of the hope of victory. Good will triumph over evil. The Kingdom of Heaven will be secured. My soul will--once and for all--be delivered from the evil that has held it captive all my life. There will be freedom. There will be liberation. Rejoice! Our King and conquering Hero has come!As the magi and the shepherds and Mary and Joseph looked down on a baby lying in the manger, what brought them joy was not the vision of a world where everyone was as gentle and innocent as a baby. What brought them joy was the vision of the final and ultimate defeat of sin and death. They did not see a gentle baby; they saw a fierce warrior, a mighty king--a king who would subdue every enemy, conquer every foe, and bring about total and unfailing allegiance to God and the goodness which He is. He would bring about peace between people; but only after a long, hard, protracted struggle in which we must fight. The more immediate meaning of Christmas is not the joy of PEACE ON EARTH; it is the joy of the promise of VICTORY OVER EVIL

Story #25 - True Meaning Of Christmas

2008-12-26T18:49:00.000-08:00

The old man sat in his gas station on a cold Christmas Eve. He hadn't been anywhere in years since his wife had passed away. He had no decorations, no tree, no lights. It was just another day to him. He didn't hate Christmas, just couldn't find a reason to celebrate. There were no children in his life. His wife had gone. He was sitting there looking at the snow that had been falling for the last hour and wondering what it was all about when the door opened up and a homeless man stepped through. Instead of throwing the man out, George, Old George as he was known by his customers, told the man to come in and sit by the space heater and warm up. "Thank you, but I don't mean to intrude," said the stranger. "I see you're busy. I'll just go." "Not without something hot in your belly," George said. He turned and opened a wide mouth Thermos and handed it to the stranger. "It ain't much, but it's hot and tasty. Stew. Made it myself. When you're done, there's coffee and it's fresh." Just at that moment he heard the "ding" of the driveway bell. "Excuse me, be right back," George said. There in the driveway was an old '53 Chevy. Steam was rolling out of the front. The driver was panicked. "Mister, can you help me?" said the driver with a deep Spanish accent. "My wife is with child and my car is broken." George opened the hood. It was bad. The block looked cracked from the cold; the car was dead. "You ain't going in this thing. George said as he turned away. "But mister. Please help..." The door of the office closed behind George as he went in. George went to the office wall and got the keys to his old truck, and went back outside. He walked around the building and opened the garage, started the truck and drove it around to where the couple was waiting. "Here, take my truck," he said. "She ain't the best thing you've ever looked at, but she runs real good." George helped put the woman in the truck and watched as it sped off into the night. George turned and walked back inside the office. "Glad I gave 'em the truck. Their tires were shot, too. That 'ol truck has brand new..." George thought he was talking to the stranger, but the man had gone. The Thermos was on the desk, empty with a used coffee cup beside it. "Well, at least he got something in his belly," George thought. George went back outside to see if the old Chevy would start. It cranked slowly, but it started. He pulled it into the garage where the truck had been. He thought he would tinker with it for something to do. Christmas Eve meant no customers. He discovered the block hadn't cracked, it was just the bottom hose on the radiator. "Well, shoot, I can fix this," he said to himself. So he put a new one on. "Those tires ain't gonna get 'em through the winter either." He took the snow treads off of his wife's old Lincoln. They were like new and he wasn't going to drive the car.
As he was working, he heard shots being fired. He ran outside and beside a police car an officer lay on the cold ground. Bleeding from the left shoulder, the officer moaned, "Help me!" George helped the officer inside as he remembered the training he had received in the Army as a medic. He knew the wound needed attention. "Pressure to stop the bleeding," he thought. The uniform company had been there that morning and had left clean shop towels. He used those and duct tape to bind the wound. "Hey, they say duct tape can fix anything," he said, trying to make the policeman feel at ease. "Something for the pain," George thought. All he had was the pills he used for his back. "These oughta work." He put some water in a cup and gave the policeman the pills. "You hang in there. I'm gonna get you an ambulance." The phone was dead. "Maybe I can get one of your buddies on that there talk box out in your car." He went out only to find that a bullet had gone into the dashboard destroying the two-way radio. He went back in to find the policeman sitting up. "Thanks," said the officer. "You could've left me out there. The guy that shot me is still in the area." George sat down beside him. "I would never leave an injured man in the Army and I ain't gonna leave you." George pulled back the bandage to check for bleeding. "Looks worse than it is. Bullet passed right through ya. Good thing it missed the important stuff though. I think with time you're gonna be right as rain." George got up and poured a cup of coffee.. "How do you take it?" he asked. "None for me," said the officer. "Oh, yer gonna drink this. Best in the city. Too bad I ain't got no donuts." The officer laughed and winced at the same time. The front door of the office flew open. In burst a young man with a gun. "Give me all your cash! Do it now!" the young man yelled. His hand was shaking and George could tell that he had never done anything like this before. "That's the guy that shot me!" exclaimed the officer. "Son, why are you doing this?" asked George. "You need to put the cannon away. Somebody else might get hurt." The young man was confused. "Shut up old man, or I'll shoot you, too. Now give me the cash!" The cop was reaching for his gun. "Put that thing away," George said to the cop. "We got one too many in here now." He turned his attention to the young man. "Son, it's Christmas Eve. If you need the money, well then, here. It ain't much but it's all I got. Now put that pea shooter away." George pulled $150 out of his pocket and handed it to the young man, reaching for the barrel of the gun at the same time. The young man released his grip on the gun, fell to his knees and began to cry. "I'm not very good at this am I? All I wanted was to buy something for my wife and son," he went on. "I've lost my job. My rent is due. My car got repossessed last week..." George handed the gun to the cop. "Son, we all get in a bit of squeeze now and then. The road gets hard sometimes, but we make it through the best we can." He got the young man to his feet, and sat him down on a chair across from the cop. "Sometimes we do stupid things." George handed the young man a cup of coffee. "Being stupid is one of the things that makes us human. Comin' in here with a gun ain't the answer. Now sit there and get warm and we'll sort this thing out." The young man had stopped crying. He looked over to the cop. "Sorry I shot you. It just went off. I'm sorry, officer." "Shut up and drink your coffee," the cop said. George could hear the sounds of sirens outside. A police car and an ambulance skidded to a halt. Two cops came through the door, guns drawn. "Chuck! You ok?" one of the cops asked the wounded officer. "Not bad for a guy who took a bullet. How did you find me?" "GPS locator in the car. Best thing since sliced bread. Who did this?" the other cop asked as he approached the young man. Chuck answered him, "I don't know. The guy ran off into the dark. Just dropped his gun and ran." George and the young man both looked puzzled at each other. "That guy work here?" the wounded cop continued. "Yep," George said. "Just hired him this morning. Boy lost his job." The paramedics came in and loaded Chuck onto the stretcher. The young man leaned over the wounded cop and whispered, "Why?" Chuck just said, "Merry Christmas, boy. And you too, George, and thanks for everything." "Well, looks like you got one doozy of a break there. That ought to solve some of your problems." George went into the back room and came out with a box. He pulled out a ring box. "Here you go. Something for the little woman. I don't think Martha would mind. She said it would come in handy some day." The young man looked inside to see the biggest diamond ring he ever saw. "I can't take this," said the young man. "It means something to you." "And now it means something to you," replied George. "I got my memories. That's all I need." George reached into the box again. An airplane, a car and a truck appeared next. They were toys that the oil company had left for him to sell. "Here's something for that little man of yours." The young man began to cry again as he handed back the $150 that the old man had handed him earlier. "And what are you supposed to buy Christmas dinner with? You keep that too," George said. "Now git home to your family." The young man turned with tears streaming down his face. "I'll be here in the morning for work, if that job offer is still good." "Nope. I'm closed Christmas day," George said. "See ya the day after." George turned around to find that the stranger had returned. "Where'd you come from? I thought you left?" "I have been here. I have always been here," said the stranger. "You say you don't celebrate Christmas. Why?" "Well, after my wife passed away I just couldn't see what all the bother was. Puttin' up a tree and all seemed a waste of a good pine tree. Bakin' cookies like I used to with Martha just wasn't the same by myself and besides I was getting a little chubby." The stranger put his hand on George's shoulder. "But you do celebrate the holiday, George. You gave me food and drink and warmed me when I was cold and hungry. The woman with child will bear a son and he will become a great doctor. The policeman you helped will go on to save 19 people from being killed by terrorists. The young man who tried to rob you will make you a rich man and not take any for himself. That is the spirit of the season and you keep it as good as any man." George was taken aback by all this stranger had said. "And how do you know all this?" asked the old man. "Trust me, George. I have the inside track on this sort of thing. And when your days are done you will be with Martha again." The stranger moved toward the door. "If you will excuse me, George, I have to go now. I have to go home where there is a big celebration planned." George watched as the old leather jacket and the torn pants that the stranger was wearing turned into a white robe. A golden light began to fill the room. "You see, George... it's my birthday. Merry Christmas." George fell to his knees and replied, "Happy Birthday, Lord."
"What you do today, right now, will have an accumulated effect on all your tomorrows

Story #24 - An Adventure With Grandma

2008-12-26T18:43:00.002-08:00

I remember my first Christmas adventure with Grandma. I was just a kid. I remember tearing across town on my bike to visit her on the day my big sister dropped the bomb: "There is no Santa Claus," she jeered. "Even dummies know that!" My Grandma was not the gushy kind, never had been. I fled to her that day because I knew she would be straight with me. I knew Grandma always told the truth, and I knew that the truth always went down a whole lot easier when swallowed with one of her world_famous cinnamon buns. I knew they were world_famous, because Grandma said so. It had to be true.

Grandma was home, and the buns were still warm. Between bites, I told her everything. She was ready for me. "No Santa Claus!" she snorted. "Ridiculous! Don't believe it. That rumor has been going around for years, and it makes me mad, plain mad. Now, put on your coat, and let's go." "Go? Go where, Grandma?" I asked. I hadn't even finished my second world_famous, cinnamon bun.

"Where" turned out to be Kerby's General Store, the one store in town that had a little bit of just about everything. As we walked through its doors, Grandma handed me ten dollars. That was a bundle in those days. 'Take this money," she said, "and buy something for someone who needs it. I'll wait for you in the car." Then she turned and walked out of Kerby's.

I was only eight years old. I'd often gone shopping with my mother, but never had I shopped for anything all by myself. The store seemed big and crowded, full of people scrambling to finish their Christmas shopping. For a few moments I just stood there, confused, clutching that ten_dollar bill, wondering what to buy, and who on earth to buy it for.

I thought of everybody I knew: my family, my friends, my neighbors, the kids at school, the people who went to my church. I was just about thought out, when I suddenly thought of Bobby Decker. He was a kid with bad breath and messy hair, and he sat right behind me in Mrs. Pollock's grade_two class. Bobby Decker didn't have a coat. I knew that because he never went out or recess during the winter. His mother always wrote a note, telling the teacher that he had a cough, but all we kids knew that Bobby Decker didn't have a cough, and he didn't have a coat. I fingered the ten_dollar bill with growing excitement. I would buy Bobby Decker a coat!

I settled on a red corduroy one that had a hood to it. It looked real warm, and he would like that. "Is this a Christmas present for someone?" the lady behind the counter asked kindly, as I laid my ten dollars down. "Yes," I replied shyly. "It's .... for Bobby." The nice lady smiled at me. I didn't get any change, but she put the coat in a bag and wished me a Merry Christmas.

That evening, Grandma helped me wrap the coat in Christmas paper and ribbons (a little tag fell out of the coat, and Grandma tucked it in her Bible) and write, "To Bobby, From Santa Claus" on it __ Grandma said that Santa always insisted on secrecy. Then she drove me over to Bobby Decker's house, explaining as we went that I was now and forever officially one of Santa's helpers.

Grandma parked down the street from Bobby's house, and she and I crept noiselessly and hid in the bushes by his front walk. Then Grandma gave me a nudge. "All right, Santa Claus," she whispered, "get going." I took a deep breath, dashed for his front door, threw the present down on his step, pounded his doorbell and flew back to the safety of the bushes and Grandma. Together we waited breathlessly in the darkness for the front door to open. Finally it did, and there stood Bobby. Fifty years haven't dimmed the thrill of those moments spent shivering, beside my Grandma, in Bobby Decker's bushes. That night, I realized that those awful rumors about Santa Claus were just what Grandma said they were: ridiculous. Santa was alive and well, and we were on his team. I still have the Bible, with the tag tucked inside: $19.95.

Anonymous

Story #23 - A Holy Night to Remember

2008-12-26T18:40:00.000-08:00

By Sharon Espeseth

As northern Canadians we share many memories of cold winters. At Christmas time, I often reflect upon one particular evening of a prairie winter in the early sixties. Though the frost was cruel, the reminiscence is warm.

We were students at college in Prince Albert , Saskatchewan , most of us living away from home for the first time. Hanging a few strips of tinsel in our rooms didn't relieve the feeling of homesickness that had overtaken our dorm. What could we do to bring on the Christmas spirit, stave off our longing for home and maybe brighten someone else's life? One of my friends suggested going caroling. That was it! Every student at our small college was rousted out for the occasion. No auditions. No voice lessons. No excuses. Warmth of spirit was the only requirement. And our enthusiasm served as an electric soul-warmer for those who seemed lacking in spirit.

We divided into groups so our music would resound over most of our college town. The group I joined had nothing resembling four-part harmony, but we could collectively make a joyful noise. Bounding boisterously and carrying a tune in our hearts, we made our first call. "Deck the Halls," we tra-la-la-ed.

Soon we discovered that caroling brings a variety of responses. When you carol for people you know, you can be sure of open doors and open hearts; when you carol for strangers, you can't be sure of what kind of reception you will get. Some folks remained in the safety and coziness of their homes, watching and listening passively through living room windows. Others cautiously propped the door open enough to hear us, but not enough to let in the cold - or their unknown guests. Some flung wide their doors and sang along; others watched in silent reverie.

One of the stops on our journey was a three-story apartment building. With no intercoms or security cameras to deter us in those days, we walked right in. Starting our performance in the basement, we sang mostly to closed doors. After a couple of songs we headed for the main floor. Two doors swung open. One doorway framed a young couple, obviously expecting a child. In another doorway, two preschoolers clung to their parent's legs. Surprise? Wonder? Curiosity? Their faces seemed to ask, Who are these strange, bundled-up people? And why are they doing this?

We sang "Away in a Manger" for the young ones. We continued with "Oh, Little Town of Bethlehem" for our seemingly appreciative gathering. Mounting the stairs to the third floor, we burst into "It Came upon the Midnight Clear," a song that suited the night.

One door on the top floor creaked open. A stately gentleman, grey-haired and thin, held onto his doorknob. He became our audience of one. As we murmured about what to sing next, the elderly fellow asked, "Would you come into our apartment and sing for my wife? She's bedridden. I know she'd love to hear you. My wife used to be an opera singer," he added proudly, "and she's always loved music."

All eight of us stepped timidly into the couple's tiny, crowded bachelor suite. Books, records, china, antique furniture and mementoes whispered stories to us. I reminded myself not to stare for fear of invading their privacy. This was their home, their sanctuary and a hallowed place where the old-timer watched over his fragile partner. Her silver bed-mussed head made only a small dent in her pillow.

Without a word, he adjusted his wife's headrest so she could see and hear us better. Then he gave a nod. Our voices rose and warbled through "Hark the Herald Angels Sing." Had our voices been given extra grace and beauty for this occasion? Perhaps they had - we sang rather well for such a motley, impromptu crew.

A smile flickered on the lady's gaunt, wrinkled, yet beautiful, face. Her eyes sparkled softly. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Her husband requested "Joy to the World" and "Silent Night," two of her favorites. As we finished our performance, her eyes closed. Now the man shed his own tears. Quietly we turned to leave, closing the door softly on the housebound couple.

The winter moon and stars shone down upon us. It had become a silent night, a holy night, for we had been in the presence of love that was gentle and mild. All was calm; all was bright as we headed back to our residence. We had found, and maybe even given, the Christmas spirit.

Story #22 - The Littlest Angel

2008-12-26T18:35:00.002-08:00

from the story by Charles Tazewell

Once upon time--many, many years ago as time is calculated by men, but only Yesterday in the Celestial Calendar of Heaven--there was, in Paradise , a thoroughly unhappy, and dejected cherub who was know throughout Heaven as the Littlest Angel. He was exactly four years, six months, five days, seven hours and forty-two minutes of age when he presented himself to the Gate-Keeper and waited for admittance to the Glorious Kingdom of God.

Standing defiantly, he tried to pretend that he wasn't at all afraid. But his lower lip trembled, and tear disgraced him by making a new furrow down his already tear-streaked face. But that wasn't all. While the kindly Gate-Keeper was entering the name in his great Book, the Littlest Angel, having left home as usual, without a handkerchief, tried to hide the tell-tail evidence by sniffing. A most unangelic sound, which so startled the good Gate-Keeper that he did something he had never done before in all Eternity. He blotted the page!

From that moment on, the Heavenly Peace was never quite the same. The shrill, ear-splitting whistle of the littlest Angel could be heard at all hours through the golden Streets. It startled the Patriarch Prophets and disturbed their meditations. Yes, and on top of that, he sang off-key at the singing practice of the Heavenly Choir, spoiling it eternal effect. And, being so small that it seemed to take him just twice as long as anyone else to get to nightly prayers, the Littlest Angel always arrived late, and knocked everyone's wings askew as he darted into his place. Although his behavior might have been overlooked, his appearance was even worse.

It was first whispered among the Seraphim and Cherubim, and then said aloud among the Angels and Archangels, that he didn't look like an angel! And they were all quite correct. He didn't. His halo was permanently tarnished where he held onto it with one hot little hand when he ran, and he was always running. Even when he stood very still, it never behaved as a halo should. It was always slipping down over his right eye. Or over his left eye. Or else, just for pure meanness, slipping off the back of his head and rolling away down some Golden street just so he'd have to chase after it! Yes, and his wings were neither useful nor ornamental. All Paradise held its breath when the Littlest Angel perched himself like a sparrow on the very edge of a cloud and prepared to take off. He would teeter this way--and that way--but, after much coaxing and a few false starts, he would shut both of his eyes, hold his freckled nose, count up to three hundred and three and then hurl himself slowly into space! However, owing to the fact that he forgot to move his wings, the Littlest Angel always fell head over halo! It was also reported that whenever he was nervous, which was most of the time, he bit his wind-tips!

Now anyone can easily understand why the Littlest Angel would sooner or later have to be disciplined. And so, on and Eternal Day of Eternal Month in theYear Eternal, he was directed to present his small self before an Angel of the Peace. The Littlest Angel combed his hair, dusted his wings and donned an almost clean garment, and then, with a heavy heart, trudged his way to the place of judgment. He tried to postpone the ordeal by pausing a few moments to read the long list of new arrivals, although all Heaven knew he couldn't read a word. But as last he slowly approached a doorway on which was mounted a pair of golden scales, signifying that Heavenly justice was dispensed within.

To the Littlest Angel's great surprise, he heard a merry voice inside--singing! The Littlest Angel removed his halo and breathed upon it heavily, then polished it upon his garment, which added nothing to his already untidy appearance, and then tip-toed in! The Singer, who was known as the Understanding Angel, looked down at the small culprit, and the Littlest Angel instantly tried to make himself invisible by the ingenious process of pulling his head into the collar of his garment, very much like a snapping turtle. At that, the singer laughed, a jolly, heartwarming sound, and said "Oh! So you're the one who's been making Heaven so unheavenly! Come here, Cherub, and tell me all about it!"

The Littlest Angel ventured a look. First one eye. And then the other eye. Suddenly, almost before he knew it, he was perched on the lap of the Understanding Angel, and was explaining how very difficult it was for a boy who suddenly finds himself transformed into an angel. Yes, and no matter what the Archangels said, he'd only swung once. Well, twice. Oh, all right then, he'd swung three times on the Golden Gates. But that was just for something to do! That was the whole trouble. There wasn't anything for a small angel to do. And he was very homesick. On, not that Paradise wasn't beautiful! But the Earth was beautiful, too! Wasn't it created by God, Himself!

Why, there were trees to climb, and brooks to fish, and caves to play a pirate chief, the swimming hole, and sun, and rain, and dark, and dawn, and thick brown dust, so soft and warm beneath your feet! The Understanding Angel smiled, and in his eyes shown a memory of another small boy from long ago. Then he asked the Littlest Angel what would make him most happy in Paradise . The Cherub thought for a moment, and whispered in his ear. "There's a box. I left under my bed back home. If only I could have that?"

Then Understanding angel nodded his head. "You shall have it," he promised. And a fleet-winged Heavenly Messenger was instantly dispatched to bring the box to Paradise . An then, in all those timeless days that followed, everyone wondered at the great change in the Littlest Angel, for, among all the cherubs in God's Kingdom, he was the most happy. He conduct and appearance was all that any angel could wish for. And it could be said, and truly said, that he flew like an angel.

Then it came to pass that Jesus, the Son of God, was to be born of Mary, of Bethlehem , of Judea . And as the Glorious tidings spread through Paradise , all the angles rejoiced and their voices were lifted to herald the Miracle of Miracles, the coming of the Christ Child. The Angels and Archangels, the Seraphim and Cherubim, the Gate-Keeper, the Wing-Maker, yes, and even the Halo-smith put aside usual tasks to prepare their gifts for the Blessed Infant. All but the Littlest Angel. He sat himself down on the top-most step of Paradise and thought. What could he give that would be most acceptable to the Son of God? At one time, he dreamed of composing a hymn of adoration. But the Littlest Angel was lacking in musical talent. Then he grew excited over writing a prayer! A prayer that would live forever in the hearts of men, because it would be the first prayer ever to be heard by the Christ Child. But the Littlest Angel was too small to read or write. "What, oh what, could a small angel give that would please the Holy Infant?"

The time of the Miracle was very close at hand when the Littlest Angel at last decided on his gift. Then, on Day of Days, he proudly brought it from its hiding place behind a cloud, and humbly placed it before the Throne of God. It was only a small, rough, unsightly box, but inside were all those wonderful things that even a Child of God would treasure! A small, rough, unsightly box, lying among all those other glorious gifts from all the Angels of Paradise ! Gifts of such radiant splendor and beauty that Heaven and all the Universe were lighted by their glory. And when the Littlest Angel saw this, he suddenly wished he might reclaim his shabby gift. It was ugly. It was worthless. If only he could hide it away from the sight of God before it was even noticed! But it was too late! The Hand of God moved slowly over all the bright arrays of shining gifts, then paused, then dropped, then came to rest on the lowly gift of the Littlest Angel.

The Littlest Angel trembled as the box was opened, and there, before the Eyes of God and all His Heavenly Host, was what he offered to the Christ Child. And what was his gift to the Blessed Infant? Well, there was a butterfly with golden wings, captured one bright summer day on the hill above Jerusalem , and a sky-blue egg from a bird's nest in the olive tree that stood to shade his mother's kitchen door. Yes, and two white stones, found on a muddy river bank, where he and his friends had played like small brown beavers, and, at the bottom of the box, a limp, tooth-marked leather strap, once worn as a collar by his mongrel dog, who had died as he had lived, in absolute love and infinite devotion. The Littlest Angel wept. Why had he ever though the box was so wonderful? Why had he dreamed that such utterly useless things would be loved by the Blessed Infant?

He turned to run and hide, but he stumbled and fell, and with a cry and clatter of halo, rolled in a ball to the very foot of the Heavenly Throne! There was an ominous silence in the Celestial City , a silence complete and undisturbed save for the sobbing of the Littlest Angel. Then, suddenly, The Voice of God, like Divine Music, rose and swelled through Paradise ! And the Voice of God spoke, saying, "Of all the gifts of all the angels, I find that this small box pleases me most. It contents are of the Earth and of men, and My Son is born to be King of both. These are the things My Son, too, will know and love and cherish and then, regretfully, will leave behind Him when His task is done. I accept this gift in the Name of the Child, Jesus, born of Mary this night in Bethlehem ."

There was a breathless pause, and then the rough box of the Littlest Angel began to glow with a bright, unearthly light, then the light became a lustrous flame, and the flame became a radiant brilliance that blinded the eye of all the angels! None but the Littlest Angel saw it rise from its place before the Throne of God. And he, and only he, watched it arch the firmament to stand and shed its clear, white, beckoning light over a Stable where a Child was Born. There it shone on the Night of Miracles, and it light was reflected down the centuries deep in the heart of all mankind. Yet, earthly eyes, blinded, too, by it splendor, could never know that the lowly gift of the Littlest Angel was what men would call forever "The shining star of Bethlehem !"

Stoy #21 - A New Love

2008-12-26T18:35:00.001-08:00

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 that very 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!

Story #20 - Mayfair Mall Santa

2008-12-26T18:26:00.000-08:00

Three years ago, a little boy and his grandmother came to see Santa at Mayfair Mall in Wisconsin . The child climbed up on his lap, holding a picture of a little girl. "Who is this?" asked Santa, smiling. "Your friend? Your sister?"
"Yes, Santa," he replied. "My sister, Sarah, who is very sick," he said sadly. Santa glanced over at the grandmother who was waiting nearby, and saw her dabbing her eyes with a tissue.
"She wanted to come with me to see you, oh, so very much, Santa!" the child exclaimed. "She misses you," he added softly.
Santa tried to be cheerful and encouraged a smile to the boy's face, asking him what he wanted Santa to bring him for Christmas. When they finished their visit, the Grandmother came over to help the child off his lap, and started to say something to Santa, but halted.
"What is it?" Santa asked warmly.
"Well, I know it's really too much to ask you, Santa, but ...." the old woman began, shooing her grandson over to one of Santa's elves to collect the little gift which Santa gave all his young visitors.
"The girl in the photograph ... my granddaughter ... well, you see ... she has leukemia and isn't expected to make it even through the holidays," she said through tear-filled eyes. "Is there any way, Santa ... any possible way that you could come see Sarah? That's all she's asked for, for Christmas, is to see Santa."
Santa blinked and swallowed hard and told the woman to leave information with his elves as to where Sarah was, and he would see what he could do.
Santa thought of little else the rest of that afternoon. He knew what he had to do. "What if it were MY child lying in that hospital bed, dying," he thought with a sinking heart, "this is the least I can do."
When Santa finished visiting with all the boys and girls that evening, he retrieved from his helper the name of the hospital where Sarah was staying. He asked the assistant location manager how to get to Children's Hospital.
"Why?" Rick asked, with a puzzled look on his face. Santa relayed to him the conversation with Sarah's grandmother earlier that day.
"C'mon .... I'll take you there," Rick said softly.
Rick drove them to the hospital and came inside with Santa. They found out which room Sarah was in. A pale Rick said he would wait out in the hall.
Santa quietly peeked into the room through the half-closed door and saw little Sarah on the bed. The room was full of what appeared to be her family; there was the Grandmother and the girl's brother he had met earlier that day. A woman whom he guessed was Sarah's mother stood by the bed, gently pushing Sarah's thin hair off her forehead. And another woman who he discovered later was Sarah's aunt, sat in a chair near the bed with weary, sad look on her face. They were talking quietly, and Santa could sense the warmth and closeness of the family, and their love and concern for Sarah.
Taking a deep breath, and forcing a smile on his face, Santa entered the room, bellowing a hearty, "Ho, ho, ho!"
"Santa!" shrieked little Sarah weakly, as she tried to escape her bed to run to him, IV tubes in tact. Santa rushed to her side and gave her a warm hug. A child the tender age of his own son -- 9 years old -- gazed up at him with wonder and excitement. Her skin was pale and her short tresses bore telltale bald patches from the effects of chemotherapy.
But all he saw when he looked at her was a pair of huge, blue eyes. His heart melted, and he had to force himself to choke back tears. Though his eyes were riveted upon Sarah's face, he could hear the gasps and quiet sobbing of the women in the room. As he and Sarah began talking, the family crept quietly to the bedside one by one, squeezing Santa's shoulder or his hand gratefully, whispering "thank you" as they gazed sincerely at him with shining eyes.
Santa and Sarah talked and talked, and she told him excitedly all the toys she wanted for Christmas, assuring him she'd been a very good girl that year. As their time together dwindled, Santa felt led in his spirit to pray for Sarah, and asked for permission from the girl's mother. She nodded in agreement and the entire family circled around Sarah's bed, holding hands.
Santa looked intensely at Sarah and asked her if she believed in angels.
"Oh, yes, Santa ... I do!" she exclaimed.
"Well, I'm going to ask that angels watch over you," he said. Laying one hand on the child's head, Santa closed his eyes and prayed. He asked that God touch little Sarah, and heal her body from this disease. He asked that angels minister to her, watch and keep her. And when he finished praying, still with eyes closed, he started singing softly, "Silent Night, Holy Night .... all is calm, all is bright." The family joined in, still holding hands, smiling at Sarah, and crying tears of hope, tears of joy for this moment, as Sarah beamed at them all.
When the song ended, Santa sat on the side of the bed again and held Sarah's frail, small hands in his own. "Now, Sarah," he said authoritatively, "you have a job to do, and that is to concentrate on getting well. I want you to have fun playing with your friends this summer, and I expect to see you at my house at Mayfair Mall this time next year!"
He knew it was risky proclaiming that, to this little girl who had terminal cancer, but he “had” to. He had to give her the greatest gift he could -- not dolls or games or toys -- but the gift of HOPE.
"Yes, Santa!" Sarah exclaimed, her eyes bright. He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead and left the room.
Out in the hall, the minute Santa's eyes met Rick's, a look passed between them and they wept unashamed. Sarah's mother and grandmother slipped out of the room quickly and rushed to Santa's side to thank him.
"My only child is the same age as Sarah," he explained quietly. "This is the least I could do." They nodded with understanding and hugged him.
One year later, Santa Mark was again back on the set in Milwaukee for his six-week, seasonal job which he so loves to do.
Several weeks went by and then one day a child came up to sit on his lap. "Hi, Santa! Remember me?!"
"Of course, I do," Santa proclaimed (as he always does), smiling down at her. After all, the secret to being a “good” Santa is to always make each child feel as if they are the “only” child in the world at that moment.
"You came to see me in the hospital last year!"
Santa's jaw dropped. Tears immediately sprang in his eyes, and he grabbed this little miracle and held her to his chest.
"Sarah!" he exclaimed. He scarcely recognized her, for her hair was long and silky and her cheeks were rosy -- much different from the little girl he had visited just a year before. He looked over and saw Sarah's mother and grandmother in the sidelines smiling and waving and wiping their eyes.
That was the best Christmas ever for Santa Claus. He had witnessed --and been blessed to be instrumental in bringing about -- this miracle of hope.
This precious little child was healed. Cancer-free. Alive and well. He silently looked up to Heaven and humbly whispered, "Thank you, Father. 'Tis a very, Merry Christmas!"

Story # 19 - Brown Bag Christmas

2008-12-22T05:36:00.000-08:00

BROWN BAG CHRISTMAS

When I asked our newlywed Sunday School class to share a favorite Christmas story, Carrie Fuller said, "Our family has one we call the 'brown bag Christmas.'" When she finished, I had to hear more. Two days later, I called a member of her family for more details.
It was the early 1930s during the Dust Bowl days of Kansas, in the heart of the Depression. The Canaday family---Mom, Dad, 7 children---were having a tough time existing, so there would be no luxuries at Christmas that year. Mom told the children to go outside and find a Christmas tree and decorate it. After a lengthy search, they returned with a dead branch, the only thing they had been able to find. They stood it up in a bucket of sand and decorated it with pieces of paper tied with string. Little Judy, almost four, did not know how a Christmas tree was supposed to look, but somehow she knew it was not like that!
As Christmas approached, the Canaday children, like children everywhere, pestered Mom and Dad about what presents they might get under their "tree." Dad pointed out that the pantry was bare, that they did not have enough to live on, and there certainly would be no money for gifts. But Mom was a woman of faith and told her children, "Say your prayers. Ask God to send us what He wants us to have." Dad said, "Now, Mother, don't be getting the children's hopes up. You're just setting them up for a disappointment." Mom said, "Pray, children. Tell Jesus." And pray they did.
On Christmas Eve, the children watched out the window for visitors, but no one came. "Blow out the lamp and go to bed", Dad said. "Nobody is going to come. No one even knows we're out here."
The children turned out the lamp and got in bed, but they were too excited to sleep. Was this not Christmas? Had they not asked God to send them the presents He wanted them to have? Did Mom not say God answers prayer?
Late that night, when one of the children spotted headlights coming down the dirt road, everyone jumped out of bed and ran to the window. The commotion woke up Mom and Dad. "Don't get excited, children," Dad said. "They're probably not coming here. It's just someone who got lost." The children kept hoping and the car kept coming. Then, Dad lit a lamp. They all wanted to rush to the door at the same time, but Mr. Canaday said, "Stay back. I'll go." Someone got out of the car and called, "I was wondering if someone here can help me unload these bags." The children dashed out the door to lend a hand. Mom said to her youngest, "Stay here, Judy, and help Mom open the bags and put up the gifts."
A deacon from the church in town had gone to bed that Christmas Eve, and lay there tossing and turning, unable to get the Canaday family off his mind. Later, he said, "I didn't know what kind of shape you folks were in, but I knew you had all those kids." He had gotten up and dressed and went around town, rousing people from their sleep to ask for a contribution for the Canaday family. He filled his car with bags of groceries, canned goods, toys, and clothing. Little Judy got a rag doll which remained her favorite for years.
With so much food, Dad wanted to have a Christmas feast, to spread it all out and eat as they had never eaten before. Mom, ever the caretaker, said, "No, we need to make this last." And it did last, for weeks.
The next Sunday, Mrs. Canaday stood in church and told what the members---and one deacon in particular---had done for her family. There was not a dry eye in the house.
Years later, the oldest sister Eva wrote up this story about her family for a school project. Eva said, "We were so thrilled by all the wonderful things in the bags, for a while ;we lost sight of the most special gift. The best gift that Christmas was not in brown bags at all.
It was Mom's faith, as she taught her children to bring their needs to Jesus and trust Him to meet them. And a Dad's love that wanted only to protect his children from hurt and disappointment."
When Carrie finished telling her story, she added, "Little Judy is my wonderful grandmother." Today, Judy Canaday Dryden lives in Sanger, Texas. As she relived this event from seventy years ago over the phone, one could hear the tear in her voice and feel her pride in being the recipient of such a precious heritage from her mother and father.
At Christmas, we celebrate praying mothers and caring fathers and believing children. We give thanks for sensitive deacons and generous friends and sleepless nights. And we praise God for the hard times that teach unforgettable lessons, stories of faithfulness that get told and retold through the years inspiring each new generation to place their faith in a loving Savior.

Jesus, I Trust in You!
AUTHOR UNKNOWN TO ME.

Story #18 - Ornaments

2008-12-21T15:12:00.001-08:00

ORNAMENT
MIKE MARSHALL
December 2002

Anyone who knew Kelly Paries wasn't surprised by what she did on Christmas Eve morning, hours after she learned her 16-year-old son, Kory, had died in a one-car wreck on Jeff Road .

Sitting in the waiting room of the Neurological Intensive Care Unit at Huntsville Hospital , where another son, Kris, lay unconscious with head injuries from the same accident, Paries turned to longtime friend Mary Howard.

"I've got to turn this around," Paries said. "I'm concerned that all of this has happened at this time of year."

This was a time when Paries and her family usually spent Christmas Eve in matching pajamas, a holiday tradition. At the family's home on Shoalford Drive in Monrovia were 15 unopened presents for Kory, scattered under a tree in the den.

Kory and Kris had bought a cheese grater for their mom on Dec. 23, the night of the wreck. They had driven to Parkway Place mall to shop, then to Hollywood Stadium 18 cinemas for a late showing of "The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers."

Around 11:30 p.m., Kory, Kris and Ryse Anderson, a friend from Sparkman High School , were riding home when Kory lost control of his 1992 Mazda. He hydroplaned on the rain-slick road and slammed into a tree. The impact killed him instantly.

The next morning, Kelly Paries became consumed with the grief on the faces of family and friends in the Neurological ICU. How could she lift them out of this tragedy?

She also wondered what she could do to prevent her family's future Christmases from being ruined. Around 11 a.m. on Christmas Eve, she told Howard, one of her best friends, of her desire to salvage the holiday spirit.

"I want Christmas to be wonderful, like it always is," Paries said. "I've got to turn it into an uplifting experience."

Ultimately, Paries began to focus on Christmas ornaments. When friends asked what they could do for her, the answer was always the same: Bring an ornament to the visitation or funeral. Her plan was to put the ornaments on a tree that would be displayed at Spry Funeral Home and at the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints on Slaughter Road , where Kory's funeral was to be held the morning of Dec. 28.

She also wanted those ornaments to be among her primary holiday decorations for as long as her family celebrates Christmas.

"Next year," she said, "I won't take out any of our old, traditional ones."

Howard wasn't surprised by Paries' response. She considered Paries, a friend and fellow church member for 14 years, one of the spiritually strongest people she has known.

"How do you think of these things when you've lost a child?" Howard asked. "It's only through inspiration."

233 different ornaments

The result of Paries' inspiration now covers her dining room table: 233 ornaments, all carefully arranged by Paries and Kris, home from the hospital since Christmas Day.

Christmas balls and glass ornaments are on the left side of the table. Ice skates and hockey players are in the middle. Angels are on the right.

"Each of them has a story behind them," Paries said.

One of her favorite stories is about the grade-school daughter of her lawn-care man. After learning of Paries' request for ornaments, the girl gave Paries a cluster of gold bells. The girl's choice of ornaments came from a line from "It's a Wonderful Life," the classic holiday movie: Every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings.

Another favorite story: the strangers who ring her door bell, hand her an ornament and leave without identifying themselves.

"I've learned how good people are," she said. "It was amazing. I had no idea about the depth people felt in our loss."

A tree at the funeral home

Early on the morning of Dec. 26, Paries bought a 5-foot tree, a tangle of fiber optics that cost $39 at Target.

The next afternoon, she placed the tree in the north foyer of Spry Funeral Home. One by one, Kory's classmates, students and hockey teammates passed by the tree and hung their ornaments.

Members of the Sparkman basketball team brought an orange Christmas ball. Members of the Bob Jones High School hockey team hung a red ball.

Mary Howard's 15-year-old daughter, Cardin, hung a crystal snowflake - a tribute to a Christmas story Paries had written two years ago for her family and friends. The story, "Teddy Bears from the Kingdom of Light ," is about a little girl who hears a bedside story from her father. It's a story about eternal life and the strength of a dying parent. The little girl's father had been severely injured during the holidays, when chemicals exploded in a factory. Paries' own father had died in a chemical explosion when she was a little girl.

At the end of the story, the little girl learns of her father's death.

"It will be OK, mommy," she whispers to her mother. "Daddy is in the Kingdom of Light ."

Paries knows that's where Kory is, too. That's why she had the strength to come up with the idea about the ornaments and why she was able to buy the tree the day after Christmas.

But a 5-foot tree wasn't big enough to hold the ornaments brought to the funeral home. On the day of the funeral, Paries' aunt exchanged the 5-foot tree for a 6-foot tree.

Next Christmas, the Parieses will place the 6-foot tree in front of the window in the den and hang the 233 ornaments. One of those will be a silver heart with tiny cracks.

The heart was purchased the same day Paries bought the tree.

"That's my ornament," she said. "It's my broken heart. I thought that was appropriate."

Story #17 - The Wreath

2008-12-21T15:11:00.001-08:00

The WreathBy Sherri Andervich
For their Christmas holiday project, Cassie's Blue Bird troop planned to visit a nursing home. "Folks in nursing homes are often too old or too sick to be home alone," Mrs. Peters, the group leader, told the little girls. "Maybe they have no relatives; maybe families are far away or unable to help. We're going to cheer them with carols and bring them gifts we've made." Placing the last flower on her wreath, Cassie wondered about the person whose name she drew - Mabel - somewhere between sixty and eighty. Not yet ten, Cassie had difficulty identifying with "old." Her grandparents played golf, traveled a lot and had plenty of loving relatives. Outside, a car horn blared. Cassie scooped up her wreath and rushed to join her friends. The Blue Birds, a junior version of Camp Fire Girls, soon arrived at a modest cottage. A matron greeted them enthusiastically. "The folks are just so looking forward to your visit," she said with a smile. Stepping onto the cottage's smooth linoleum floor, Cassie sniffed a strong disinfectant odor. Mrs. Peters sounded a pitch on her harmonica and led the troop in "We Wish You a Merry Christmas." Singing along, Cassie gazed at one wrinkled face after another: some smiling, some sad, some apathetic. One elderly woman turned her face to the wall. As the matron announced the little girls would be circulating among the residents with gifts, a man in a wheelchair spun forward. He wagged his finger fiercely at the visitors. "What right do you have coming here, reminding us of families we don't have?" he shouted. "Once a year somebody comes here. Take your do-gooding pity and get out!" Wide-eyed, some of the girls backed away, but Mrs. Peters coaxed them forward again as the matron calmed the grumbling man. Shaken but determined, Cassie asked a group of card-players, "Please, where can I find Mabel?" A lady with bright orange hair gestured toward the window. "Over there," she said cheerfully. "And don't pay these grouches any mind. You kids are okay." Timidly clutching her wreath , Cassie approached the straight-backed figure surrounded by soft winter light. "Mabel?" The gray head with a proud French roll at its crown didn't move. Mabel - if this was Mabel - continued gazing out the window at the darkening California desert. Cassie set her wreath on the worn, polished surface of a table by her side. Taking a deep breath, she stared at it, as if memorizing every leaf. "I made this wreath for you," she said. "I know it's just homemade, but there is a story for every twig and flower. I came to tell you about them. "The base is made from pine branches - some were easy to bend, and some I had to soak in water to shape the frame. It's all natural and gathering the flowers was fun, because I remember where each one grew." Her courage up now, Cassie talked faster, touching the wreath as she spoke. "The wild sunflowers are from a vacant lot by my house. Someone is going to build new homes there, so by spring the sunflowers will be all gone. These dried desert flowers - the mustard, sage and lavender - smell so good, and they'll last a long time. Rabbit foot fern is from my patio garden, and so is the baby's breath. I caught the gold and red maple leaves when they blew across our lawn. I found a few little pinecones, too. And in the center is a star white cactus flower. Mom says it's kind of unusual for this time of year." Slowly, Mabel turned around. Eyes undimmed by age searched Cassie's. "I sit by this window," she said quietly, "because I miss the outdoors so. Thank you for bringing it inside." A trembling hand, clustered with brown spots, reached over and grasped Cassie's. "I, too, remember where the flowers grew. Merry Christmas, child."Reprinted by permission Sherri Andervich (c) 1994 from Chicken Soup for the Gardener's Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Cynthia Brian, Cindy Buck, Marion Owen, Pat Stone and Carol Sturgulewski. In order to protect the rights of the copyright holder, no portion of this publication may be reproduced without prior written consent. All rights reserved.

Story #16 - The filling Station

2008-12-21T15:10:00.001-08:00

The Filling Station

The old man sat in his gas station on a cold Christmas Eve. He hadn't been anywhere in years since his wife had passed away. He had no decorations, no tree, no lights. It was just another day to him. He didn't hate Christmas, just couldn't find a reason to celebrate. There were no children in his life. His wife had gone.

He was sitting there looking at the snow that had been falling for the last hour and wondering what it was all about when the door opened and a homeless man stepped through. Instead of throwing the man out, George, Old George as he was known by his customers, told the man to come and sit by the space heater and warmup.

"Thank you, but I don't mean to intrude," said the stranger. "I see you're busy. I'll just go"

"Not without something hot in your belly," George turned and opened a wide mouth Thermos and handed it to the stranger. "It ain't much, but it's hot and tasty. Stew. Made it myself. When you're done there's coffee and it's fresh."

Just at that moment he heard the "ding" of the driveway bell. "Excuse me, be right back," George said.

There in the driveway was an old 53 Chevy. Steam was rolling out of the front. The driver was panicked.

"Mister can you help me!" said the driver with a deep Spanish accent. "My wife is with child and my car is broken."

George opened the hood. It was bad. The block looked cracked from the cold; the car was dead. "You ain't going in this thing," George said as he turned away.

"But mister. Please help...."The door of the office closed behind George as he went in. George went to the office wall and got the keys to his old truck, and went back outside. He walked around the building and opened the garage, started the truck and drove it around to where the couple was waiting.

"Here, you can borrow my truck," he said. "She ain't the best thing you ever looked at, but she runs real good."

George helped put the woman in the truck and watched as it sped off into the night. George turned and walked back inside the office.

"Glad I loaned em the truck. Their tires were shot too. That 'ol truck has brand new tires....... ." George thought he was talking to the stranger, but the man had gone. The thermos was on the desk, empty with a used coffee cup beside it.

"Well, at least he got something in his belly," George thought. George went back outside to see if the old Chevy would start. It cranked slowly, but it started. He pulled it into the garage where the truck had been. He thought he would tinker with it for something to do. Christmas Eve meant no customers. He discovered the block hadn't cracked, it was just the bottom hose on the radiator.

"Well, I can fix this," he said to himself. So he put a new one on. "Those tires ain't gonna get 'em through the winter either." He took the snow treads off of his wife's old Lincoln . They were like new and he wasn't going to drive the car.

As he was working he heard a shot being fired. He ran outside and beside a police car an officer lay on the cold ground. Bleeding from the left shoulder, the officer moaned, "Help me." George helped the officer inside as he remembered the training he had received in the Army as a medic. He knew the wound needed attention.

"Pressure to stop the bleeding," he thought. The laundry company had been there that morning and had left clean shop towels. He used those and duct tape to bind the wound.

"Hey, they say duct tape can fix anythin'," he said, trying to make the policeman feel at ease. "Something for pain," George thought. All he had was the pills he used for his back. "These ought to work." He put some water in a cup and gave the policeman the pills.

"You hang in there. I'm going to get you an ambulance." George said, but the phone was dead. "Maybe I can get one of your buddies on that there talk box out in your police car."

He went out only to find that a bullet had gone into the dashboard destroying the two way radio. He went back in to find the policeman sitting up.

"Thanks," said the officer. "You could have left me there. The guy that shot me is still in the area."

George sat down beside him. "I would never leave an injured man in the Army and I ain't gonna leave you." George pulled back the bandage to check for bleeding. "Looks worse than what it is. Bullet passed right through 'ya. Good thing it missed the important stuff though. I think with time your gonna be right as rain."

George got up and poured a cup of coffee. "How do you take it?" he asked.

"None for me," said the officer.

"Oh, yer gonna drink this. Best in the city." Then George added: "Too bad I ain't got no donuts."

The officer laughed and winced at the same time. The front door of the office flew open. In burst a young man with a gun.

"Give me all your cash! Do it now!" the young man yelled. His hand was shaking and George could tell that he had never done anything like this before.

"That's the guy that shot me!" exclaimed the officer.

"Son, why are you doing this?" asked George. "You need to put the cannon away. Somebody else might get hurt."

The young man was confused. "Shut up old man, or I'll shoot you, too. Now give me the cash!" The cop was reaching for his gun.

"Put that thing away," George said to the cop. "We got one too many in here now."

He turned his attention to the young man. "Son, it's Christmas Eve. If you need the money, well then, here. It ain't much but it's all I got. Now put that pee shooter away."

George pulled $150 out of his pocket and handed it to the young man, reaching for the barrel of the gun at the same time. The young man released his grip on the gun, fell to his knees and began to cry.

"I'm not very good at this am I? All I wanted was to buy something for my wife and son," he went on. "I've lost my job. My rent is due. My car got repossessed last week..."

George handed the gun to the cop. "Son, we all get in a bit of squeeze now and then. The road gets hard sometimes, but we make it through the best we can."

He got the young man to his feet, and sat him down on a chair across from the cop. "Sometimes we do stupid things." George handed the young man a cup of coffee. "Being stupid is one of the things that makes us human. Comin' in here with a gun ain't the answer. Now sit there and get warm and we'll sort this thing out."

The young man had stopped crying. He looked over to the cop. "Sorry I shot you. It just went off. I'm sorry officer."

"Shut up and drink your coffee." the cop said.

George could hear the sounds of sirens outside. A police car and an ambulance skidded to a halt. Two cops came through the door, guns drawn.

"Chuck! You ok?" one of the cops asked the wounded officer.

"Not bad for a guy who took a bullet. How did you find me?"

"GPS locator in the car. Best thing since sliced bread. Who did this?" the other cop asked as he approached the young man.

Chuck answered him, "I don't know. The guy ran off into the dark. Just dropped his gun and ran."

George and the young man both looked puzzled at each other. "That guy works here," the wounded cop continued.

"Yep," George said. "Just hired him this morning. Boy lost his job."

The paramedics came in and loaded Chuck onto the stretcher. The young man leaned over the wounded cop and whispered, "Why?"

Chuck just said, "Merry Christmas, boy. And you too, George, and thanks for everything."

"Well, looks like you got one doozy of a break there. That ought to solve some of your problems." George went into the back room and came out with a box. He pulled out a ring box.

"Here you go. Something for the little woman. I don't think Martha would mind. She said it would come in handy some day."

The young man looked inside to see the biggest diamond ring he ever saw. "I can't take this," said the young man. "It means something to you."

"And now it means something to you," replied George. "I got my memories. That's all I need."

George reached into the box again. A toy airplane, a racing car and a little metal truck appeared next. They were toys that the oil company had left for him to sell. "Here's something for that little man of yours."

The young man began to cry again as he handed back the $150 that the old man had handed him earlier. "And what are you supposed to buy Christmas dinner with? You keep that, too. Count it as part of your first week's pay." George said. "Now git home to your family."

The young man turned with tears streaming down his face. "I'll be here in the morning for work, if that job offer is still good."

"Nope. I'm closed Christmas day," George said. "See ya the day after."

George turned around to find that the stranger had returned. "Where'd you come from? I thought you left?"

"I have been here. I have always been here," said the stranger. "You say you don't celebrate Christmas. Why?"

"Well, after my wife passed away I just couldn't see what all the bother was. Puttin' up a tree and all seemed a waste of a good pine tree. Bakin' cookies like I used to with Martha just wasn't the same by myself and besides I was getting a little chubby."
The stranger put his hand on George's shoulder. "But you do celebrate the holiday, George. You gave me food and drink and warmed me when I was cold and hungry. The woman with child will bear a son and he will become a great doctor.

The policeman you helped will go on to save 19 people from being killed by terrorists. The young man who tried to rob you will become a rich man and share his wealth with many people.

That is the spirit of the season and you keep it as good as any man."

George was taken aback by all this stranger had said. "And how do you know all this?" asked the old man.

"Trust me, George. I have the inside track on this sort of thing. And when your days are done you will be with Martha again." The stranger moved toward the door.

"If you will excuse me, George, I have to go now. I have to go home where there is a big celebration planned."

George watched as the man's old leather jacket and his torn pants turned into a white robe. A golden light began to fill the room.

"You see, George, it's My birthday. Merry Christmas."

Author Unknown

Story #15 - a Christmas Tale

2008-12-21T15:09:00.001-08:00

A Christmas Tale Christine Walker
For most people, Christmas is a time of rejoicing and of goodwill to all men, but as Christmas of 1952 approached, I was feeling the lowest I had ever felt. My marriage had just fallen apart and I was left a single mother with two kids: Jason, nine years old, and little Francis, who was just five. My ex-husband wasn't faithful with his alimony and child support payments, so I was forced to find work and get a babysitter to help with the children after school. I missed them a lot, as I had always been there for them before, but in this situation we found ourselves in, there wasn't much else we could do.
At the time we also had to move into a poorer neighborhood, because we couldn't afford to continue paying the high rent for our previous apartment in the nicer part of town. It felt like one bad thing after another was happening to me, and I couldn't see a way out.
I would come back from work and pick up the kids, arrive home late with just enough time to cook them a meal, tuck them into bed, and say their prayers with them. In our prayers, we always held onto the hope that things would get better.
Christmas was just around the corner. With the small salary I made, I had saved up enough to get presents for the children, and a few of the special treats that make Christmas what it is.—Or so I thought!
We had already set up the Christmas tree in our house, and the decorations and lights, sparse though they were, would still get oohs and aahs of admiration from my children. Now all that was left was for the presents to be placed under the tree, and the children were looking forward to this with great anticipation.
On the morning of the 23rd, the last day of work before the Christmas holidays, I left home early, dropped the children off at my parents', and went on my way. With all that was on my mind, I was a bit oblivious to the world around me, and I hadn't noticed the car in front of me had slowed down and was signaling his intent to make a left turn. Before I had time to slam on the brakes, I'd rear-ended him.
Great! I thought. Just what I needed! It wasn't such a bad accident, and my insurance would pay for the damage to his car, but it wouldn't cover the cost of repairs for my car—and my rates would go up. I was mad at myself! Now I probably wouldn't be able to afford to get any extras that I knew the children were hoping for. So much for my Christmas shopping! I murmured.
The day passed slowly, and by the time work had ended, it was all I could do to drag myself out of the office and pick up the children. That night Jason offered to say the prayers. "Jesus, we pray for Your blessings on us at this time of Christmas"—and then he went on into the Lord's Prayer. Just when he finished, as if he'd had an afterthought, he added, "And Lord, we know that You will supply all of our needs, and I would really want that sled that I saw in the store window today, so if You could do that for me, I would be very happy.—And please supply all of the rest of the things that we need too. Amen!"
Francis, not wanting to miss out on the opportunity of adding his request, chimed in. "And I would really like one of those toy trucks, like my friend Richard has. Amen."
As I got into bed, I questioned the Lord. I was beginning to feel bitter about the hand in life He had dealt me. Why? I began to brood. Why now? Why at this time of Christmas, which is meant to be a joyful season and one of remembering when You came to Earth for us? "Lord," I whispered, "please don't disappoint Your children's faith in You."
I awoke with the sunrise, feeling much more refreshed because of the restful sleep I'd had. I went about my work of fixing the children breakfast. I opened the front door to let the dog out, and noticed several boxes on my doorstep that hadn't been there before. Surprised, I quickly opened one, and to my surprise found a sled just like the one Jason had prayed for. In one box were clothes and warm jackets, and in another were food staples, groceries, and even a few special treats.
I felt overjoyed, and so grateful for whoever the angel was that had brought these here. I opened the last box and found toys and playthings for the children—including a truck that was almost exactly identical to my son's friend Richard's model.
Tears came to my eyes. Not knowing who the angel who had done this was, all I could say was, "Thank You! Thank You!" I still found it odd that someone could have known exactly what we needed and when we needed it. The children excitedly joined me in looking through the boxes. Jason was beside himself with delight to get the sled and also for the recent snowfall, so he wanted to go to the park to try the sled out right away. So we all went together with hearts overwhelmed by joy!
My sons were having the time of their lives as they took turns sledding down the hill, building jump ramps, and playing around in the snow, while I watched and cheered. Then I noticed a man sitting on the bench beside mine. He looked friendly, so I introduced myself, and found out that his name was Melvin Brown.
"I came here to take my son to the park," he said, "as he wanted to try out the new sled he got for Christmas. It was quite the amazing thing that happened last night, but he was hoping for a sled and I wasn't able to get him one. But this morning when I opened my door, I found a box containing the sled he had hoped for!" We eventually realized that a local church charity had gone around to the schools in this poorer area of town, and had asked the children what they wanted for Christmas, and then had delivered the gifts.
"But how did they know about the other things we needed?" I asked. "I found boxes with groceries and food and clothes in them!"
"I don't know," said Melvin. "Maybe that part was from somebody else?"
"But who?" I asked.
"I have no idea. Probably the Christmas Angel!" he said half-jokingly.
My son Jason's prayer rang through in my mind, And please supply all of the rest of things that we need. Amen! A smile broke out on my face. "Of course. The Christmas Angel! Who else?" Then I started thinking about how Jesus came down on the first Christmas and was our Angel of mercy and love. My mind continued on in this train of thought as we watched our boys play together, each of them so happy and joyful. It was the best Christmas I could remember, because each of us carried the spirit of Christmas.
Times got better and I was able to find a well-paying job and move back into a better neighborhood. Also, Melvin and I had taken a liking to each other. I found out that he was a widower and single father, and my heart went out to him. One thing led to another, and in the fall of 1953 we were engaged and then married. Melvin's business took an upward turn, and things were starting to look up for us in more ways than one.
Looking back now, I always crack a smile, and think about how perfectly the Lord set everything up—how He made me get to the end of my rope so that I had to cry out to Him to save me. And how He healed the bitterness I had in my heart towards Him and replaced it with gratitude and thankfulness.
Each Christmas, as I look at the angel atop the tree, I think back about the "miracle of the Christmas Angel," as we affectionately termed it, and it makes me remember how Jesus, the first "Christmas Angel," came to give His life for us, and to save us from our sins and teach us how to live in love. And with each passing Christmas, the angel on top of the tree continues to shine down on us, reminding us of Jesus' love and the miracles He does for each one of us, His children.

Story #`14 - The Bracelet Promise

2008-12-21T15:07:00.001-08:00

The Bracelet Promise by: Carmen Leal-PockFaces of Huntington's The glitter of green stones drew me to the solitary display case. Thelight bounced off the silver and glass. Amidst the jumble of holidayshoppers, I made my way to the corner area reserved for fine jewelry andgazed upon the bracelet, noticing the unique handiwork. The beatensilver, fashioned in such a way as to resemble diamond chips, wasdelightful. Seeing dozens of dark green emeralds, I knew this was aone-of-a-kind treasure. As I stared in wonder at the intricate piece, I remembered a promise myhusband had made. David had bought me a lovely gift four years before onour honeymoon. He had selected an emerald green Austrian crystal andseed pearl bracelet in honor of my May birth stone. As he fastened it onmy wrist, he lovingly said, "I promise you that soon I will buy you realemeralds. Just wait." Though I loved the honeymoon gift, deep down Ilooked forward to David's promise.Until that time however, I still delighted in wearing the delicatecreation. I wore it frequently, each time remembering the islandboutique. Whenever David saw the bracelet, he remembered his promise,and would reassure me that the time was coming soon when he would keepit.It became our habit over the years to look in every jewelry store windowas if searching for the Holy Grail. We wandered in and out of countlessshops, becoming discouraged when we realized the cost of the promise waswell beyond our means. I soon wavered in my belief that I would ever ownwhat David desired to give me. However David never lost faith.Now we were in the mall to during the last week before Christmas to buygifts for our children. Finances were tight; we had agreed there wouldbe no exchange of gifts between us. We had just completed one of themost stressful years possible. With David's diagnosis of Huntington'sDisease, our lives had forever changed. This terminal, neurologicaldisorder had pitched us into a panic, not to mention near bankruptcy. I looked up from the case into David's eyes and saw love shining evenbrighter than the stones. I could tell in his mind that nothing short ofthis bracelet would satisfy his honeymoon promise, but I knew there wasno way we could possibly afford it. I tried to tell him but the wordsdied on my lips. He he'd had so many disappointments this year, I didn'thave the heart to tell him the answer was no.Thinking fast, I came up with a reason to decline what I knew was anoffer I could not accept. I have large wrists and normally braceletsdon't fit. As the store clerk reverently lifted the object out of thecase, I knew it would be too small.The silver and green made a colorful contrast against my brown skin. Isilently acknowledged how much I wanted this bracelet while hoping itwould not fit. As the clerk reached around my wrist and closed theintricate clasp, my heart both plummeted and leapt. It fit! It wasperfect, yet I knew there was no way we could afford it. The unpaidbills, with more looming in the future, had placed a vise around ourcheckbook. I glanced at my best friend and saw his shining smile burst forth. Thisman, who had never hurt anyone, was now the victim of one of thecruelest diseases known to man. His was a sentence with only oneverdict. Death. My eyes brimmed with tears as I realized we would notlive out our dream of growing old together. To David, this was not just one more bauble in an already overcrowdedjewelry box. Rather, this was his love displayed on my arm for all theworld to see. To David, a promise made was a promise kept. I sadlyrealized that he might not have many more months or years to keep hispromise. Suddenly it became the most important covenant ever made.Somehow I had to juggle the bills to let him have the honor of keepinghis promise. "Do you like it?" he whispered. Hearing the hope in his voice, mingledwith seeing the love in his eyes, was something I am sure few women everhave the privilege of experiencing. It was clear that David cherishedme. All he ever wanted, from the day we met, was to please me."Yes, honey, I love it." I answered. "It's exactly what I want." The clerk reached for my arm to remove the bracelet. I could not believethis little object had worked its way into my heart so quickly. "Howmuch is it?" I finally asked. Slowly the man turned over the littlewhite tag. Two-hundred fifty dollars it read. Surely it was a mistake! Ihad seen enough to know that price was only a fraction of its worth. The man began to extol the virtues of the item pointing out the onehundred and eighty emeralds in a hand made Brazilian setting. But eventhough two hundred fifty dollars was an incredible price, it might aswell have been $2,500.00, for all we could stretch our meager budget.Without thinking I asked, "Would you take two hundred twenty-fivedollars, tax included?" I surprised myself at that question becauseshops in malls do not normally bargain. He looked at me in surprise andanswered, "That will be fine." Before he could change his mind I whipped out my credit card, all thewhile watching as David beamed with pride. The man quickly handled thetransaction and we were on our way. Every few steps we would stop andlook at the bracelet. Before we reached the car, David said, "When I getsicker and eventually die, you need to look at each emerald. Each onewill remind you of something special we've done. A trip we took, a moviewe saw, or a moment we shared. This will be your memory bracelet." Ibegan to cry. David's concern was not his own failing health but for howI would handle life without him. As we worked our way home in the bumper to bumper traffic in rush hour,I wondered just how we could pay for the bracelet. Oddly enough I neverreally panicked, I was just somehow curious how it would all work out.We talked as we traveled and every so often looked at the miracle of thepromise kept. On the way into the house I grabbed the mail and began to open it as wewalked inside. Amidst the usual bills were two cards. I opened the firstwhich was from a church where I had sung several times that year. It wasa thank you note for my music ministry along with a gift. I wasspeechless. I was looking at a check for two hundred dollars! I reachedfor the second card and slit it open. Out fell two bills; a twenty and afive. The card was simply signed, "A friend in Christ." I looked up at David and we both began to laugh. I remembered how I hadfelt the need to ask the clerk if he would take two hundred twenty-fivedollars, tax included. Even as we were in the mall, the payment forDavid's promise was in the mailbox. God had already taken care of everydetail, including the twenty-five dollars plus tax. It is just a piece of jewelry. Something I could have lived without. Butthe memories attached to our time together have helped to make me thewoman I am today. The exquisite joy and the unspeakable grief of thisrelationship have grown me in ways I could never have anticipated. Thepromise David spoke on our honeymoon had been fulfilled. It was onlythrough God that we stopped at that shop on that day to find thatspecific bracelet. The pastor of a small church, coupled with an unknownfriend, listened to God as they decided their holiday giving. Before I was ever born, God made another promise. He promised me eternalsalvation. He promised He would be with me every step of the way. All Ihad to do was ask. Just as God never stopped believing I would claimthat first promise, David never stopped believing in his braceletpromise. When I wear my emeralds, I pull out memories I have tucked awayin my heart. I also remember David's faith and God's promises.

Story #13 - A Christmas Story

2008-12-21T15:05:00.000-08:00

Have a wonderful Wednesday.
Cheree'
Subject: Fw: Christmas Story

We were the only family with children in the restaurant. I sat Erik in a high chair and noticed everyone was quietly sitting and talking. Suddenly, Erik squealed with glee and said, 'Hi.' He pounded his fat baby hands on the high chair tray. His eyes were crinkled in laughter and his mouth was bared in a toothless grin, as he wriggled and giggled with ! merriment.

I looked around and saw the source of his merriment. It was a man whose pants were baggy with a zipper at half-mast and his toes poked out of would-be shoes His shirt was dirty and his hair was uncombed and unwashed. His whiskers were too short to be called a beard and his nose was so varicose it looked like a road map.

We were too far from him to smell, but I was sure he smelled. His hands waved and flapped on loose wrists. 'Hi there, baby; hi there, big boy. I see ya, buster,' the man said to Erik.

My husband and I exchanged looks, 'What do we do?'

Erik continued to laugh and answer, 'Hi.'

Everyone in the restaurant noticed and looked at us and then at the man. The old geezer was creating a nuisance with my beautiful baby. Our meal came and the man began shouting from across the room, 'Do ya patty cake? Do you know peek-a-boo? Hey, look, he knows peek- a-boo.'

Nobody thought the old man was cute. He was obviously drunk.

My husband and I were embarrassed. We ate in
silence; all except for Erik, who was running through
his repertoire for the admiring skid-row bum, who in
turn, reciprocated with his cute comments.

We finally got through the meal and headed for
the door. My husband went to pay the check and told me
to meet him in the parking lot. The old man sat poised
between me and the door. 'Lord, just let me out of
here before he speaks to me or Erik,' I prayed. As I
drew closer to the man, I turned my back trying to
sidestep him and avoid any air he might be breathing.
As I did, Erik leaned over my arm, reaching with both
arms in a baby's 'pick-me-up' position. Before I could
stop him, Erik had propelled himself from my arms to
the man.

Suddenly a very old smelly man and a very young baby consummated their love and kinship. Erik in an act of total trust, love, and submission laid his tiny head upon the man's ragged shoulder. The man's eyes closed, and I saw tears hover beneath his lashes. His aged hands full of grime, pain, and hard labor, cradled my baby's bottom and stroked his back. No two beings have ever loved so deeply for so short a time.

I stood awestruck. The old man rocked and cradled Erik in his arms and his eyes opened and set squarely on mine. He said in a firm commanding voice, 'You take care of this baby.'

Somehow I managed, 'I will,' from a throat that contained a stone.

He pried Erik from his chest, lovingly and longingly, as though he were in pain. I received my baby, and the man said, 'God bless you, ma'am, you've given me my Christmas gift.'

I said nothing more than a muttered thanks. With Erik in my arms, I ran for the car. My husband was wondering why I was crying and holding Erik so tightly, and why I was saying, 'My God, my God, forgive me.

I had just witnessed Christ's love shown through the innocence of a tiny child who saw no sin, who made no judgment; a child who saw a soul, and a mother who saw a suit of clothes. I was a Christian who was blind, holding a child who was not. I felt it was God asking, 'Are you willing to share your son for a moment?' when He shared His for all eternity.

The ragged old man, unwittingly, had reminded me, 'To enter the Kingdom of God , we must become as little children.'

If this has blessed you, please bless others by sending it on. Sometimes, it takes a child to remind us of what is really important. We must always remember who we are, where we came from and, most importantly, how we feel about others. The clothes on your back or the car that you drive or the house that you live in does not define you at all; it is how you treat your fellow man that identifies who you are

Story #12 - Yes Virginia, There Is A Santa Claus

2008-12-21T15:04:00.000-08:00

Eight-year-old Virginia O'Hanlon wrote a letter to the editor of NewYork's Sun, and the quick response was printed as an unsigned editorialSept. 21, 1897. The work of veteran newsman Francis Pharcellus Churchhas since become history's most reprinted newspaper editorial, appearingin part or whole in dozens of languages in books, movies, and othereditorials, and on posters and stamps.DEAR EDITOR: I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is noSanta Claus. Papa says, 'If you see it in THE SUN it's so.' Please tellme the truth; is there a Santa Claus? VIRGINIA O'HANLON. 115 WEST NINETY-FIFTH STREET.VIRGINIA, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by theskepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except [what] theysee. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by theirlittle minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's,are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant,in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, asmeasure by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth andknowledge.Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists certainly as love andgenerosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give toyour life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! How dreary would be theworld if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as dreary as if therewere no VIRGINIAS. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, noromance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment,except in sense and sight. The eternal light which childhood fills theworld would be extinguished.Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies!You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys onChristmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see SantaClaus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, butthat is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things inthe world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you eversee fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof thatthey are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders thereare unseen and unseeable in the world.You tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside,but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongestman, nor even the united strength of all the strongest man that everlived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance canpush aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty andglory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this world there isnothing else real and abiding. No Santa Claus! Thank GOD! He lives, andhe lives forever. A thousand years from now, nay, ten times ten thousandyears from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.

Story #11 - The Letter

2008-12-21T15:03:00.001-08:00

Dear Children,
It has come to my attention that some of you are upset that folks are taking My name out of the season. Maybe you've forgotten that I wasn't actually born during this time of the year and that it was some of your predecessors who decided to celebrate My birthday on what was actually a time of pagan festival. Although I do appreciate being remembered anytime.
How I personally feel about this celebration can probably be most easily understood by those of you who have been blessed with children of your own. I don't care what you call the day. If you want to celebrate My birth, just GET ALONG AND LOVE ONE ANOTHER.
Now, having said that let Me go on. If it bothers you that the town in which you live doesn't allow a scene depicting My birth, then just get rid of a couple of Santa's and snowmen and put in a small Nativity scene on your own front lawn. If all My followers did that there wouldn't be any need for such a scene on the town square because there would be many of them all around town.
Stop worrying about the fact that people are calling the tree a holiday tree, instead of a Christmas tree. It was I who made all trees. You can remember Me anytime you see any tree. Decorate a grape vine if you wish: I actually spoke of that one in a teaching, explaining who I am in relation to you and what each of our tasks were. If you have forgotten that one, look up John 15: 1 - 8.
If you want to give Me a present in remembrance of My birth here is my wish list. Choose something from it:
1. Instead of writing protest letters objecting to the way My birthday is being celebrated, write letters of love and hope to soldiers away from home. They are terribly afraid and lonely this time of year. I know, they tell Me all the time.
2. Visit someone in a nursing home. You don't have to know them personally. They just need to know that someone cares about them.
3. Instead of writing George complaining about the wording on the cards his staff sent out this year, why don't you write and tell him that you'll be praying for him and his family this year. Then follow up. It will be nice hearing from you again.
4. Instead of giving your children a lot of gifts you can't afford and they don't need, spend time with them. Tell them the story of My birth, and why I came to live with you down here. Hold them in your arms and remind them that I love them.
5. Pick someone that has hurt you in the past and forgive him or her.
6. Did you know that someone in your town will attempt to take their own life this season because they feel so alone and hopeless? Since you don't know who that person is, try giving everyone you meet a warm smile; it could make the difference.
7. Instead of nit picking about what the retailer in your town calls the holiday, be patient with the people who work there. Give them a warm smile and a kind word. Even if they aren't allowed to wish you a 'Merry Christmas' that doesn't keep you from wishing them one. Then stop shopping there on Sunday. If the store didn't make so much money on that day they'd close and let their employees spend the day at home with their families
8. If you really want to make a difference, support a missionary-- especially one who takes My love and Good News to those who have never heard My name.
9. Here's a good one. There are individuals and whole families in your town who not only will have no 'Christmas' tree, but neither will they have any presents to give or receive. If you don't know them, buy some food and a few gifts and give them to the Salvation Army or some other charity which believes in Me and they will make the delivery for you.
10. Finally, if you want to make a statement about your belief in and loyalty to Me, then behave like a Christian. Don't do things in secret that you wouldn't do in My presence. Let people know by your actions that you are one of mine.
Don't forget; I am God and can take care of Myself. Just love Me and do what I have told you to do. I'll take care of all the rest. Check out the list above and get to work; time is short. I'll help you, but the ball is now in your court. And do have a most Blessed Christmas with all those whom you love and remember.
I LOVE YOU,
JESUS

Story #10 - gift of the Magi

2008-12-21T14:58:00.000-08:00

Story #1 - The Gift of the Magi from the story by O.Henry
One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas. There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. When Della finished her cry, she attended to her cheeks with a powder puff. She stood by the window and looked out dully. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Somethingfine and rare and sterling--something just a bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the looking glass. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall into its full length. Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Young's in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and grandfather' s. The other was Della's hair. So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her, rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. She did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet. On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.There she stopped where the sign read: "Mme. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds.” One flight up Della ran and collected herself, panting. "Will you by my hair?" asked Della. "I buy hair," said Madame. "Take your hat off and let's have a sight of it.” Down rippled the brown cascade. "Twenty dollars, " said Madame, lifting the mass with a practiced hand. "Give it to me quick," said Della. Oh, the next two hours were rosy as she ransacked the stores for Jim's present. She found it at last. It surely has been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out.It was a platinum watch-chain, simple in design, properly proclaiming it’s value by substance alone and not by ornamentation- -as all good things should do. It was even worthy of "The Watch". As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim's. Quietness and value--the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the eighty-seven cents. With that chain on his watch, Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap he used in place of a chain. When Della reached home, she got out her curling irons and went to work. Within forty minutes her head was covered with close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a school-boy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically."If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he take a second look at me--But what could I do with a dollar and eighty-seven cents?"Jim was never late. Della held the watch chain in her hand. She heard his step on the stair and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit of saying little silent prayers about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: "Please, God, make him think I am still pretty."The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two-- and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.Jim's eyes were fixed on Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her."Jim darling", she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold it, because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again--you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say "Merry Christmas!” Jim and let's be happy. You don't know what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you.""You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, as if he had not arrived at that fact yet. “Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well anyhow? I'm me without my hair, aren't I?"Jim looked about the room curiously. "You say your hair is gone?"“You needn't look for it." said Della. “It's sold and gone, I told you. Be good to me, for it went to you."Out of his trance Jim seemed to quickly wake. He enfolded his Della in his arms. Jim then drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table."Don't make any mistake about me Deli," he said. “I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first."White fingers tore at the string and paper and then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to tears and wails, necessitating all of Jim's comforting powers. For there lay The Combs--the set of combs that Della had wanted for so long. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell with jeweled rims--just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had yearned for them without the least hope of possession. And now they were hers---but the hair was gone. She hugged them to her, and at length was able to look up with a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"And then Della leaped up and cried, "Oh, oh!"Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her own bright spirit."Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day. Now, give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it."Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled."Deli," he said, "Let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em awhile. They're too nice to use just now. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now, suppose you put dinner on."Eight dollars a week or a million a year---What is the difference? The Magi, as you know, were wise men--who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days, let it be said that of all who give gifts, these too were the wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the Magi.

Story #9 - Most wonderful Christmas

2008-12-21T14:57:00.001-08:00

The day after Christmas a number of years ago, I was driving down a country road in Texas. And it was a bitter cold, cold morning. And walking ahead of me on the gravel road was a little bare-footed boy with non-descript ragged overalls and a makeshift sleeved sweater tied around his little ears. I stopped and picked him up. Looked like he was about 12 years old and his little feet were blue with the cold. He was carrying an orange.
And he got in and had the brightest blue eyes one ever saw. And he turned a bright smile on my face and says, "I'm-a going down the road about two miles to my cousins. I want to show him my orange old Santa Claus brought me." But I wasn't going to mention Christmas to him because I figured he came from a family -- the kind that don't have Christmas. But he brought it up himself. He said, "Did old Santa Claus come to see you, Mister?" And I said, "Yes. We had a real nice Christmas at our house and I hope you had the same."
He paused for a moment, looked at me. And then with all the sincerity in the world said, "Mister, we had the wonderfulest Christmas in the United States down to our place. Lordy, it was the first one we ever had had there. See, we never do have them out there much. Don't notice when Christmastime comes. We heared about it, but never did have one 'cause -- well, you know, it's just papa says that old Santa Claus -- papa hoorahs a lot and said old Santa Claus was scared to bring his reindeer down into our section of the county because folks down there so hard up that they liable to catch one of his reindeer and butcher him for meat. But just several days before Christmas, a lady come out from town and she told all the families through there, our family, too, that they was -- old Santa Claus was come in town to leave some things for us and if papa'd go in town, he could get some Christmastime for all of us. And papa hooked up the mule and wagon. He went in town. But he told us children, said, "Now don't ya'll get all worked up and excited because there might not be nothing to this yarn that lady told."
And--but, shucks, she hadn't got out of sight up the lane there till we was done a-watching for him to come back. We couldn't get our minds on nothing else, you know. And mama, she'd come to the door once in a while and say, "Now ya'll quit that looking up the lane because papa told you there might not be nothing." And -- but long about the middle of the afternoon, well, we heared the team a-jangling harness a-coming and we ran out in the front yard, and Ernie, my little brother, called out and said, "Yonder come papa." And here come them mules just in a big trot, you know, and papa standing upright in the bed of that wagon holding two big old chickens, all the feathers picked off. And he was just yelling, "Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas." And the team stopped right in front of the gate. And all us children just went a-swarming out there like a flock of chichis, you know, and just a-crawling over that wagon and a-looking in.
And, Mister, I wish you could have seen what was in that wagon. It's bags of stripety candy and apples and oranges and sacks of flour and some real coffee, you know, and just all tinselly and pretty and we couldn't say nothing. Just kind of held our breath and looked at it, you know. And papa standing there just waving them two chickens, a-yelling, "Merry Christmas to you. Merry Christmas to you," and a-laughing that big old grin on his face. And mama, she come a-hurrying out with the baby in her arms, you know. And when she looked in that wagon, she just stopped, and then papa, he dropped them two chickens and reached and caught the baby out of her arms, you know, and held him up and said, "Merry Christmas to you, Santa Claus." And baby, little old Alvie Lee, he just laughed like he knowed it was Christmas, too, you know. And mama, she started telling us the name of all of them nuts. They wasn't just peanuts. They was -- she had names for all of them. She -- mama knows a heap of things like that. She'd seen that stuff before, you know? And we was, all of us, just a-chattering and a-going on at the same time, us young'uns, a-looking in there.
And all of a sudden, we heared papa call out, "Merry Christmas to you, Sam Jackson." And we stopped and looked. And here comes Sam Jackson a-leading that old cripple-legged mule of his up the lane. And papa said, "Sam Jackson, did you get in town to get some Christmas this year?" Sam Jackson, you know, he sharecrops over there across the creek from our place. And he shook his head and said, "Well, no, sir, Mister. Well, I didn't go in town. I heared about that, but I didn't know it was for colored folks, too. I thought it was just for you white families." All of a sudden, none of us children were saying nothing. Papa, he looked down at mama and mama looked up at him and they didn't say nothing, like they don't a heap of times, but they know what the other one's a-thinking. They're like that, you know. And all of a sudden, papa, he broke out in a big grin again. He said, "Dad-blame-it, Sam Jackson, it's a sure a good thing you come by here. Lord have mercy, I liked to forgot. Old Santa Claus would have me in court if he heared about this. The last thing he asked me if I lived out here near you. Said he hadn't seen you around and said he wanted me to bring part of this out here to you and your family, your woman and your children."
Well, sir, Sam Jackson, he broke out in a big grin. Papa says, "I'll tell you what to do. You get your wife and children and you come down here tomorrow morning. It's going to be Christmastime all day long. Come early and stay late." Sam Jackson said, "You reckon?" And mama called out to him and said, "Yes, and you tell your wife to be sure and bring some pots and pans because we're going to have a heap of cookin' to do and I ain't sure I've got enough to take care of all of it." Well, sir, old Sam Jackson, he started off a-leading that mule up the lane in a full trot, you know, and he was a-heading home to get the word to his folks and his children, you know.
And next morning, it just -- you remember how it was yesterday morning, just rosy red and looked like Christmastime. It was cold, but you didn't notice the cold, you know, when the sun just come up, just all rosy red. And us young'uns were all out of bed before daylight seemed like, just running in the kitchen and smelling and looking. And it was all there sure enough. And here come Sam Jackson and his team and his wife and his five young'uns in there. And they's all lookin' over the edge. And we run out and yelled, "Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas." And papa said, "Christmas gift to you, Sam Jackson. Ya'll come on in." And they come in and mama and Sister Jackson, they got in the kitchen and they started a-cooking things up. And us young'uns started playing Christmastime. And it's a lot of fun, you know. We'd just play Christmas Gift with one another and run around and around the house and just roll in the dirt, you know, and then we started playing Go Up To The Kitchen Door And Smell. And we'd run up and smell inside that kitchen door where mama and Sister Jackson was a-cooking at, and then we'd just die laughing and roll in the dirt, you know, and go chasing around and playing Christmas Gift.
And we played Christmastime till we just wore ourselves out. And papa and Sam Jackson--they put a table up and put some sheets over it, some boards up over some sawhorses. And everybody had a place, even the baby. And mama and Sister Jackson said, "Well, now it's ready to come on in. We're going to have Christmas dinner." And I sit right next to Willy Jackson, you know, and he just rolled his eyes at me and I'd roll mine at him. And we'd just die laughing, you know, and there was an apple and an orange and some stripety candy at everybody's place. And that was just dessert, see. That wasn't the real Christmas dinner. Mama and them had done cooked that up. And they just had it spread up and down the table.
And so papa and Sam Jackson, they'd been sitting on the front porch and they come in. Papa, he sit at one end of the table, Sam Jackson sit at the other. And it was just a beautiful table like you never had seen. And I didn't know nothing could ever look like that and smell that good, you know. And Sam Jackson, you know, he's real black and he had on that white clean shirt of his and then them overalls. Everything had been washed and was real clean. Papa, he said, "Brother Jackson, I believe you're a deacon in the church. I ain't much of a church man myself, but I believe you're a deacon. Maybe you'd be willing to give grace." Well, Sam Jackson, he stood up there and his hands is real big and he kind of held onto the side of the table, you know. But he didn't bow his head like a heap of folks do when they're saying the blessing. He just looked up and smiled. And he said, "Lord, I hope you having as nice a Christmas up there with your angels as we're having down here because it sure is Christmastime down here. And I just wanted to say Merry Christmas to you, Lord.
Like I say, Mister, I believe that was the wonderfulest Christmas in the United States of America."'

Stroy #8 - Erma Bombeck Letter to Martha Stewart

2008-12-21T14:55:00.001-08:00

Erma Bombeck's Christmas letter to Martha Stewart:
Dear Martha,
I'm writing this on the back of an old shopping list, pay no attention to the coffee and jelly stains. I'm 20 minutes late getting my daughter up for school, packing a lunch with one hand, on the phone with the dog pound, seems old Ruff needs bailing out, again.
Burnt my arm on the curling iron when I was trying to make those cute curly fries, how DO they do that?
Still can't find the scissors to cut out some snowflakes, tried using an old disposable razor ... trashed the tablecloth. Tried that cranberry thing, frozen cranberries mushed up after I defrosted them in the microwave.
Oh, and don't use Fruity Pebbles as a substitute in that Rice Krispie snowball recipe, unless you happen to like a disgusting shade that resembles puke!
The smoke alarm is going off, talk to ya later.
Love, Erma

Martha Stewart's Christmas letter to Erma Bombeck:
Hi Erma,
This perfectly delightful note is being sent on paper I made myself to tell you what I have been up to.
Since it snowed last night, I got up early and made a sled with old barn wood and a glue gun. I hand painted it in gold leaf, got out my loom, and made a blanket in peaches and mauves. Then to make the sled complete, I made a white horse to pull it, from DNA that I had just sitting around in my craft room.
By then, it was time to start making the place mats and napkins for my 20 breakfast guests. I'm serving the old standard Stewart twelve-course breakfast, but I'll let you in on a little secret: I didn't have time to make the tables and chairs this morning, so I used the ones I had on hand. Before I moved the table into the dining room, I decided to add just a touch of the holidays. So I repainted the room in pinks and stenciled gold stars on the ceiling. Then, while the homemade bread was rising, I took antique candle molds and made the dishes (exactly the same shade of pink) to use for breakfast. These were made from Hungarian clay, which you can get at almost any Hungarian craft store.
Well, I must run. I need to finish the buttonholes on the dress I'm wearing for breakfast. I'll get out the sled and drive this note to the post office as soon as the glue dries on the envelope I'll be making. Hope my breakfast guests don't stay too long, I have 40,000 cranberries to string with bay leaves before my speaking engagement at noon. It's a good thing.
Love, Martha Stewart
P.S. When I made the ribbon for this typewriter, I used 1/8-inch gold gauze. I soaked the gauze in a mixture of white grapes and blackberries, which I grew, picked, and crushed last week just for fun.

Story #7 - A different Kind of Christmas

2008-12-21T14:48:00.000-08:00

A Different Kind of ChristmasMartha had tried to ignore the approach of Christmas. She would have kept it almost entirely out of her thoughts if Jed had not come eagerly into the cabin one day, stomping the snow from his cold feet as he said in an excited voice, "Martha, we're going to have a Christmas tree this year, anyway. I spotted a cedar on the rise out south of the wheat field, over near the Nortons place. It's a scrubby thing, but it will do since we can't get a pine. Maybe Christmas will be a little different here, but it will still be the kind of Christmas we used to have."As she shook her head, Martha noticed that Daniel glanced quickly up from the corner where he was playing, patiently tying together some sticks with bits of string left over from the quilt she had tied a few days earlier. She drew Jed as far away from the boy as possible."I don't want a tree," she said. "We won't be celebrating Christmas. Even a tree couldn't make it the kind of Christmas we used to have." "Martha, we've got to do something for the boy at least. Children set such store by Christmas.""Don't you think I know? All those years of fixing things for Marybell and Stellie. I know all about kids and Christmas." She stopped and drew a deep breath, glancing over to see that Daniel was occupied and not listening. "But I can't do those things for him. It would be like a knife in the heart, fixing a tree and baking cookies and making things for another woman's child when my own girls are back there on that prairie.""Martha, Martha," Jed said softly. "It's been almost a year and a half. That's over, and Danny needs you. He needs a Christmas like he remembers."She turned her back to his pleading face. "I can't," she said.Jed touched her shoulder gently, "I know how hard it is for you, Martha. But think of the boy." He turned and went back out into the snowy weather.Think of the boy. Why should she think of him, when her own children, her two blue-eyed, golden-curled daughters, had been left beside the trail back there on that endless, empty prairie? The boy came to her not because she wanted him, but because she couldn't say 'no' to the bishop back in Salt Lake City last April before they came to settle in this valley.Bishop Clay had brought Daniel to her and Jed one day and said, "I want you to care for this lad. His mother died on the trek last summer, and his Pa passed away last week. He needs a good home."Jed had gripped the bishop's hand and with tears in his eyes, thanked him, but Martha had turned away from the sight of the thin, ragged, six-year- old boy who stood before them; not fast enough, however, to miss the sudden brief smile he flashed at her. A smile that should have caught her heart and opened it wide. Her heart was closed, though, locked tightly around the memory of her two gentle little girls. She didn't want a noisy, rowdy boy hanging around disturbing those memories, filling the cabin with a boy's loud games.Yet she had taken him, because she felt she had no choice. Faced with the bishop's request-- more of an order, really--and Jed's obvious joy, she couldn't refuse.He came with them out to the new valley west of Salt Lake settlement and had proved himself a great help to Jed, despite his young age. Sometimes Martha felt pity for him, but she didn't love him. With Jed it was different. He had accepted Daniel immediately as his own son and enjoyed having a boy with him. They had a special relationship.Daniel mentioned Christmas only once. One day it was too cold and snowy to play outside, and he been humming softly to himself as he played in his corner. Suddenly, he look up at Martha and asked, "Can you sing, Aunt Martha?"Martha paused and straightened up from the table where she was kneading bread. She used to sing for her girls all the time. "No, I can't Daniel," she said, "not any more.""My mother used to sing a pretty song at Christmas," he said. "I wish I could remember it."On the day before Christmas, Jed went through the deep snow to do some chores for Brother Norton, who was ill. Daniel was alone outside most of the day, although he made several rather furtive trips in and out of the cabin. On one trip, he took the sticks he had been tying together.Toward evening, Martha went out to the stable to milk Rosie, since Jed had not yet returned. As she approached, she saw there was light inside. Opening the door softly, she peered within. Daniel had lit the barn lantern, and within its glow, he knelt in the straw by Rosie's stall. In front of him were the sticks he had tied together, which Martha recognized now as a crude cradle. It held Stellie's rag doll, all wrapped up in the white shawl Martha kept in her trunk.Her first impulse was to rush in and snatch it, but she stopped, because the scene was strangely beautiful in the soft light from the lantern. Rosie and the two sheep stood close by, watching Daniel. He seemed to be addressing them when he spoke."The shepherds came following the star," he was saying, "and they found the baby Jesus who had been born in a stable." He paused for a moment, then went on. "And his mother loved him."Martha felt suddenly that she couldn't breathe. Another mother, another day, had loved her boy and had told him the beautiful story of the Christ Child with such love that he hadn't forgot it, young as he was; and she, Martha, had failed that mother. In the silence she began to sing."Silent night," she sang. "Holy night..."Daniel didn't move until the song was finished. Then he turned with that quick, heart-melting smile. "That's the one," he whispered. "That's the song my mother used to sing to me."Martha ran forward and gathered the boy into her arms. He responded immediately, clasping his arms tightly around her. "Danny," she said, shifting on the edge of Rosie's manger, "let's go in and get the cabin ready for Christmas. Maybe it isn't too late for Jed--Pa to get that tree. It might be a little different kind of Christmas, but it will still be a little like the Christmases we used to know.""Do you mind it being different?" Danny asked. "I mean with a boy instead of your girls?"Martha wondered how long it would take her to make up to him for the hurt she had inflicted these many months. "No." she said. "After all, the Baby Jesus was a boy.""That's right," he said wonderingly.She set him down on the floor and put her arm around his shoulders. "Merry Christmas." she said. "Merry Christmas, Danny."He looked up at her with a smile that did not fade quickly away this time, a sweet smile full of the love he had been waiting to give her. "Merry Christmas," he said, and then added softly, "Mother."

Story #6 - Why Father Christmas Comes Each Year

2008-12-21T14:47:00.000-08:00

Why Father Christmas comes each yearby Eric GreenHave you ever noticed that nothing stops Father Christmas? Mild sunny winters don’t make him shave his beard or too hot to travel in bright read clothing and big boots. Wet muddy winters don’t bog down the reindeer. Heavy snow doesn’t make him pull over and wait on somebody’s roof for the snowplough to arrive. Furthermore, Father Christmas always seems to know exactly what his children would like. The latest gifts? He has them all, and gives them away. With Father Christmas as good as this, who needs more? Well, there is a problem: the trouble is that Christmas presents wear out, or become obsolete. (When have you ever said: ‘I don’t want anything more at all this year, I still have last year’s presents’?)So really, when you think about, Father Christmas needs to come once a year because his presents wouldn't last much longer.There is Someone else, who may not be so concerned to give us a play-station or whatever this year, but whose gift lasts a lifetime – and beyond. When we are battered by the rough weather of life, or find that our misplaced actions of the past have blown us off life’s course, the Lord has a very simple way of putting things right again. He asks for no scribbled notes, no stockings to fill, and no glass of wine left for him on the mantelpiece. Instead, He asks us to stay awake, sit up and take notice, and welcome his arrival. His promise? All we shall ever need shall be ours, forever. Seek ye first the kingdom of God and all these things shall be added unto you.

Story #5 - Away in the Manger

2008-12-21T14:44:00.001-08:00

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[marks-christmas-list] 2008 Christmas Story #16: Away In A Manger (new)
Tuesday, December 16, 2008 10:12 PM
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Away In A MangerBy Laei LittkeNathaniel arrived at our house in September with a duffel bag and a supply of put-downs. “I hate it here,” he announced immediately. He looked first at our surrounding fields, then at Laverne, me Darwin, Rula Mae, Tootie, and Max, standing there in stair-step order of age. Last, he looked at our black and white dog, Sport, who as usual was nipping at his tail. “There’s nothing here but cows and hayseeds, and fleas,” Nathaniel continued. “I wish I could go back home to New York City.”Within two days, the rest of the kids wished the same thing. Nathaniel did nothing except complain and haunt the mailboxes out on the road, looking for a letter from his mother.“She said she’d write soon and tell me when I can come home,” he said every day.And every day Darwin whispered, “I hope it comes soon.”“Well, now,” Mama soothed, “your mother never was much of a letter writer, Nathaniel. You just be patient.”To us Mama said, “Be nice. He’ll blend in eventually.”Nathaniel was the son of Aunt Delia, Mama’s sister, who had run away with a rock singer when she was seventeen. The only things Mama had received from her in eleven years were a couple of phone calls and Nathaniel. The last phone call was about her getting married again, her third time. Soon after that, Nathaniel arrived.He was still with us at Christmastime, and we hoped that the season would work some kind of magic on him, like in the story about Scrooge. But Scrooge was a pushover compared to Nathaniel. When mama started her Christmas baking, Nathaniel said he preferred the smell of hot pretzels in the New York subway. He said our little Christmas tree was nothing compared to the sky-tail wonder that was put up in Rockefeller Plaza each year. And, when we went to the nearby town of Pratt to do our Christmas shopping at the J.C. Penny store, he ruined our excitement by sneering, “You could put this whole hick town inside Macy’s department store in New York City.”We were helping Mama make cookies on the day he told us about the store windows in New York. “They have winter scenes with skaters on ponds and toy shops and whole towns right there in the windows, and everything moves.” The best our little village could do was a lighted, plastic manger scene on the church lawn.Laverne, who was rolling out cookie dough, put her chin up. “Well, here we go caroling and put on a show on Christmas Eve.” She whacked at the dough with the rolling pin. The caroling and the show were news to the rest of us kids. We had never done anything except make popcorn and maybe sing carols around the piano on Christmas Eve. We had only three neighbors within walking distance, and the snow was always deep at Christmas. We had never thought of caroling.“Oh?” Nathaniel said. “What kind of a show do you do?” He seemed interested, maybe because he was always saying he was going to be an actor on Broadway when he went home to New York.“We do a big show.” Laverne’s eyes glazed over a little. “This year we’re going to have Joseph and Mary and the Christ Child and costumes, and we’ll read from the Bible. It will be the most wonderful Christmas show ever.”Rula Mae’s face lit up. “I’ll be Mary,” she volunteered. “I can wear my long dress.” Rula Mae’s most prized possession was a tattered chiffon formal Mama had worn, before any of us were born, when she played the part of a society girl in a community play.Laverne frowned. “That dress is red, with silver sequins all over the top. Mary wouldn’t wear a dress like that.”“She would if she had one,” Rula Mae said.“When we put on Christmas shows in New York,” Nathaniel said, “we always have a Mary dressed in blue robes. And a halo that’s lighted by radiant beams from heaven afar.”“You’re making that up,” Laverne said. “You got that from ‘Silent Night’.”“No, I didn’t,” Nathaniel said hotly. “The halo had batteries.”Laverne sniffed. “Well, our Mary is going to wear a red dress with a wreath of holly on her head.” She jabbed at the rolled out cookie dough with a cutter, making a row of big winged angels. “Rula Mae, you can be Mary. And Darwin can be Joseph and wear his bathrobe for a costume. And Tootie can...”“Oh, no, I can’t,” Darwin interrupted. “I’m not going no place in my bathrobe. Nathaniel can be Joseph.”“If I have to be in this hick show,” Nathaniel said, “I’m going to be the Bible reader. I always got to be the reader in New York.”Darwin shrugged. “Then Max can be Joseph.”“That’s dumb, Darwin,” Laverne said, “Max is only two years old.”“Well, the only other guy is Sport.” Darwin pointed at our dog who, on cue, sat down to nip at his tail.Nathaniel groaned “I’m not going to be in any stupid show where Joseph is biting fleas all the time.”Laverne scooped up angels with a spatula and slapped them onto a baking sheet. “Fine! I wanted to be the reader anyway. You can stay here and sulk.”“Be nice,” Mama whispered.Laverne sighed. “All right. Max will be Joseph. Jenny,” she said to me, “you and Tootle can be angels. I’ll be the shepherds watching their flocks, and Darwin can be the Three Wise Men.” She sighed again. “Nathaniel, you can be the reader.”“Back in New York we had multitudes of angels,” Nathaniel said.Laverne ignored him and looked down at Tootle who was yanking at her sleeve. “Can we sing the songs about Harold and Gloria?” Tootle whispered.The Harold and Gloria carols were Tootie’s favorites. The year before she had named our two cats Harold and Gloria, and when Gloria had two kittens, she named them Hark and Excelsis Deo. Later she gave Hark to our neighbors, the Nelsons, but we still had Excelsis Deo.Laverne nodded. “We’ll use all the good songs, Tootie.”“You ought to see the Christmas show at Radio City Music Hall in New York,” Nathaniel said.We didn’t have many rehearsals because Max was always napping when the rest of us were available, but by Christmas Eve, we were ready. It was a cold night, and there had been snow flurries on and off all day. Rula Mae wanted to go without a coat to show off her red dress, but Mama said absolutely not. She made us all, including Rula Mae, wear coats and mittens and stocking caps. Nathaniel said it was a relief because Mary in a red, sequined dress was really embarrassing. Laverne got mad and said that just because Mary wore blue robes in New York City there was not reason it had to be that way. Mama whispered, “Be nice.” Laverne gave a gusty sigh and told Rula Mae that people could still admire the bottom of her dress that showed under her coat, and Nathaniel said Mary certainly wouldn’t wear a dress as tattered as the bottom part of that red dress was. Laverne yelled that Joseph and Mary were poor, for heaven’s sake, and probably a tattered dress was no news to them.“Be nice!” Mama said, not bothering to whisper this time.Laverne sighed again as she pinned some tinsel along the sleeves of Tootie’s and my coats and told us to flap our arms up and down when we were supposed to be angels. For her own shepherd costume, she took a gunny sack and split it part way to make a hood. A few kernels of wheat fell out when she put it on her head. Nathaniel groaned.Darwin insisted on wearing a pointed black hat Mama had made for Tootie when she was a witch in the second grade Halloween play. He said that’s what a wizard would wear, and he couldn’t see any difference between a wizard and a Wise Man. He also said he was taking Sport along to be a camel. He said it didn’t matter if camels had fleas. Laverne got our emergency kerosene lantern from its shelf because she said it was more appropriate for our play than a flashlight. When we were all ready to go, Nathaniel said, “We don’t have a Baby Jesus.”“I’ll get one,” Tootie said. She brought forth Excelsis Deo and wrapped him in a blanker and laid him in an orange crate. The kitten must not have been theatrically inclined, because he jumped out and ran away to the barn. We took the orange crate along with us anyway to be a manger bed. We went first to the Blazers’ house because they were the closest, and we were anxious for our debut. But their house was dark.“They probably turned out the lights and hid when they saw us coming,” Nathaniel muttered.Nobody else said anything, and we went on through the deep snow to the Smiths’ house. They were having a party. Nervously, we set up our tableau by the light of the kerosene lantern. When Max saw Darwin set down the orange crate, he crawled into it.“You can’t be in the manger bed,” Rula Mae said. “You’re supposed to be Joseph, Max.” She tried to lift him out, but Max cried.“Let him stay,” Laverne said. “He can be Baby Jesus instead of Joseph.”“He’s too big,” Nathaniel protested. “Baby Jesus is a little baby, just born. He can’t be sitting up like that.”Laverne put her hands on her hips. “Well, we can’t have everything perfect. Now take your places and get ready.”She yanked Nathaniel over beside Rula Mae who sat in the snow, the shreds of her red skirt spread around her.“Okay,” Laverne said, “start singing. They’ll all come out to watch.” She led us in Away in a Manger, then Nathaniel read from St. Luke. “‘And suddenly there was with the angel...’”“Flap your arm, Tootie,” Laverne said in a loud whisper.“‘...A multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest.’”We were half way through Hark the Herald Angels Sing when a man inside looked out through the window. We put new enthusiasm into our performance, but the man turned away. Nobody came out. None of us said anything as we completed our show.We went to the Nelsons’ house where we set up our show outside the kitchen window. Inside we could see Mr. and Mrs. Nelson and their two teenage kids playing Monopoly.“They don’t want to watch us,” Nathaniel said.“Sing!” Laverne sounded cross.“‘Away in a manger, no crib for a bed...’” Our voices crackled in the frosty air.The kitchen door flew open. “What’s going on?” Mrs. Nelson bellowed.Our song faltered to a stop. “We came to put on a show for you,” Laverne said.“Well, thanks, but you’ll catch your death of cold,” Mrs. Nelson declared. “Go on home where it’s warm.”“Ma,” somebody yelled in the background, “do you want to buy Baltic Avenue or don’t you?”“Thanks for coming,” Mrs. Nelson said, shutting the door.We stared at the closed door. Sport barded at a shadow, but the rest of us didn’t say a word as we gathered up the orange crate and started for home. It was snowing hard now, and the snow blew in our faces.“Let’s stop for a while in the Nelsons’ barn,” Laverne suggested. “Maybe the snow will let up.”Nathaniel groaned. “Wait ‘til I tell the guys in New York that I spent Christmas Eve in a barn.”“Stay outside if you want to,” Laverne told him.“We don’t care,” Tootie said in her gentle, little voice.Rejection had made us all mean. Nathaniel followed us inside. Darwin, who carried the lantern, held it high. We walked into the center part of the barn where Mr. Nelson had thrown down hay from the loft above. Around us in the dim light we could see the eyes of the cows who placidly chewed their cuds. The horses in their stalls pricked their ears forward, and Hark, the kitten, came to the edge of the loft and looked down. We burrowed into the hay and huddled close to get warm, except for Nathaniel who stood apart. Darwin set the lantern down in the hay, but Laverne snatched it up and hung it on a nail.“You dummy,” she said. “Do you want to burn the whole place down?”“Sounds like a good idea,” Nathaniel said. “That would be the most excitement I’ve had since I left New York City.”Laverne straightened up and moved close to Nathaniel. Something quivered in the air. “That would make a Christmas like nothing you ever had in New York, wouldn’t it?” She said softly, “You could tell your buddies about this whopper of a Christmas Eve out in the sticks when all the animals got fried just for your entertainment. You could tell them how Mr. Nelson lost all his equipment and how the neighbors came from miles around to see what they could do to help. Oh, it would be a really big party, Nathaniel. Too bad we can’t provide you that pleasure before you go home.” She paused for just a second. “But, to tell you the truth, I don’t think you’re ever going home. I think you’re stuck with us, Nathaniel, and we’re stuck with you.”Her words kind of hung there in the air. She’d said something we had all suspected but had never laid tongue to. Nathaniel’s face kind of sagged, and he opened his mouth but didn’t say anything. We knew that he knew. There was silence in the barn, except for the munching of the animals and Hark, mewing in the loft above. Nathaniel stood like an actor who has forgotten his lines. We watched him, except for Max who sat in the orange crate, looking at the cows.Suddenly Max began to sing, his reedy, little voice cutting through the cold air. “‘Away in a manger, no crib for a bed.’” Tootie joined in, then Darwin and I.The cows stopped their chewing and a horse nickered in the night. We finished the song. Nobody moved. Then Nathaniel cleared his throat. Stepping close to the lantern, he opened the Bible and read. “‘And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus...’” He sounded hoarse.Hark jumped down from the loft and purred his was close to us. Sport sat down to scratch a flea, the thumping of his leg providing a background rhythm for Nathaniel’s reading. “‘And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.’”Nathaniel’s voice was feathery, like the falling snow outside.“‘And suddenly there was with the angel...’” Tootie and I flapped our arms, and the ears of the cows snapped forward. “‘...And a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying...’”Now Nathaniel’s voice was big, and the way he read the words we could almost believe there was a multitude.“‘Glo-o-o-o-oria, in excelsis deo,’” we all sang. Rula Mae’s face was serene as she sat there in the hay in her red sequined dress. Darwin gazed at the animals, and Laverne knelt beside the orange crate. Our audience was quiet. Attentive. Their hairy faces reflected back the light of the lantern. We finished our show, and there was no applause except for the measured breathing of the patient beasts. We stayed where we were for what seemed like a long time. Then Laverne stood up and walked over to Nathaniel.“That was good, Nathaniel,” she said. “I can see why you were always a reader in New York.”Nathaniel looked round him. “This was the best I ever did.” He brushed a hand across his eyes. “And next year I’ll do it even better.” He straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath.We gathered our things together, then moved in close to Nathaniel as we went out into the snowy night.

Story #4 - December 23

2008-12-21T14:43:00.001-08:00

Today is December 23. It is on this day each year that I do penance for an act I committed in 1947, when I was seven years old. I was in the third grade at Emerson School and had been blessed with a marvelous teacher named Miss Heacock. She was not much taller than I, and had dark red hair and smiling green eyes. I credit her with any love I have for classical music, because she spent part of every Thursday morning introducing us to the lives of the great composers and playing recordings of music by Beethoven, Brahms, Bach, and other great musicians. I loved school because of the influence of this wonderful woman.
As Christmas approached we made decorations for our schoolroom. Miles of red and green paper strips were pasted into interlocking loops to form paper chains as we listened to Handel's Messiah. Pictures of Santa Claus were drawn and painted with water colors. Stained-glass windows were approximated as Miss Heacock ironed our crayon drawings between pieces of scrap paper. A Christmas tree was placed in one front corner of the room, and the odor of pine replaced the particularly pungent aroma of oil that arose from the decades-old hardwood floors of our classroom. It was then that Miss Heacock announced we were to have a Christmas party on the day we were released for Christmas vacation. We were all excited.
Fate had blessed us with a peculiar situation that year. There were exactly as many girls as boys in our class. Miss Heacock decided, perhaps in an attempt to introduce us to the social graces, that each of us would purchase a gift for another student in the room. Each boy would supply a gift for a girl and vice versa. The gifts were to cost no more than twenty-five cents. There have been moments in my life when I have known exactly what was going to happen. I claim no great gift of prophecy, but, nevertheless, I have known. As Miss Heacock began walking down the aisles, a box of boys' names in one hand, one with girls' names in the other, I knew the name I'd draw would be Violet's.
Violet was a sorry little girl who had been placed in our class that year. She was very plain and did little to help her looks. Her hair was rarely combed, she wore the same dress every day, and, worst of all, she wet the bed and rarely bathed. Violet sat in the back corner of the room, partially because she chose to sit there, but also because the rest of us had moved away from her. When the room warmed up, the aroma of Violet mixed with the perfume of floor oil and became almost overpowering. Seven- and eight-year-old children can be cruel, very cruel. Violet had been the target of most of our cruelty during the school year.
Miss Heacock approached my desk with the box of girls' names. I reached into the box, shuffled the names around, and finally withdrew the folded scrap of paper. I placed it before me on my desk. My fingers trembled as I unfolded it. There it was, as I knew it would be: “Violet.” I quickly wadded up the paper and shoved it into my pants pocket. The bell rang for recess.
“Who'd you get?” asked my best friend, Allen.
I panicked. I couldn't let anyone know I'd gotten Violet. “We're supposed to keep it secret.”
“Sure, but you can tell me,” Allen probed. “I'll tell you who I got. Just between us, okay?”
“Miss Heacock said to keep it secret.” My voice squeaked a little.
Suddenly Allen smiled. Earlier in the year I had made the mistake of telling him I thought one of the girls in our class, Margo of the honey-colored hair, was pretty. I had endured considerable abuse since that disclosure. “I'll bet you got Margo's name. That's why you won't tell. You got Margo!” Immediately he was running around the playground shouting that I'd gotten Margo's name. So much for Allen's ability to keep a secret.
I slunk back into the school, face aflame. The rest of that Friday crawled by. Finally the last bell rang. As I was pulling on my galoshes I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Is something wrong?” I looked up into Miss Heacock's emerald eyes. “You seemed awfully quiet this afternoon.”
“I'm okay,” I stammered. My mind had been struggling with the Violet problem all afternoon. I had reached a possible solution; I wouldn't get Violet anything. Since we were maintaining secrecy, no one would know. “Maybe,” I said, “I won't be able to get a present. My father makes me earn all my spending money,” I lied, “and I might not have a quarter to buy a present.”
A look of concern came over Miss Heacock's face. “If you can't afford a quarter, I'll give you one. It will be our little secret.”
I trudged home through the snow. No other brilliant escapes from the situation entered my mind. Christmas was the following Thursday, and the party would be on Tuesday. I had only three days to find a way out of my misery. Perhaps I could become sick, but that path was fraught with peril, since my mother made us stay in bed all day when we were sick, and I might be in bed Christmas Day if she suspected I was really not sick. At last I reached home.
The house smelled wonderful. I could tell my mother had been baking bread. I hurried to the kitchen in hopes of melting gobs of butter on a slice of warm bread. My mother greeted me. “Miss Heacock phoned. I'm sure your father and I can come up with a quarter for a Christmas present.” My heart sank into my galoshes. Now there was no way out.
Saturday morning it was snowing. My mother exulted about a white Christmas while I pulled on my snowsuit and galoshes and prepared for the four-block trek to the Economy Drug Store. My mother gave me a quarter and a dime “just in case” and sent me off to do my Christmas shopping. I took time to investigate everything along the way, prolonging the inevitable as long as possible.
Since the previous evening, I had been contemplating what to buy for Violet. Nothing seemed really appropriate. As I wandered up and down the aisles of the Economy Drug, galoshes squeaking mournfully, I discovered my choices were somewhat narrowed by the twenty-five-cent limit. I considered purchasing five nickel candy bars but discarded that idea, since Violet probably liked candy bars. As I reached the end of the counter, I saw the gift, and a terrible plan exploded full-blown in my mind. Not only did I see the gift, but I knew how I would present it to Violet. There on the shelf were small, crown-shaped bottles of cologne. I selected one from the display and twisted off the lid. Years later when I read novels that used the phrase “she reeked of cheap perfume,” my mind always flashed back to the first whiff of cologne from that bottle in the Economy Drug. It had only one redeeming feature. It cost a quarter.
I sloshed back home with my purchase. Thankfully, my mother did not sniff the cologne. She merely commented on how lovely the little bottle was. She helped me find a box and wrap my gift. I went to my room, found a pencil and paper, and wrote the following poem:
Roses are red, Violets are blue,Put this stuff onSo we can stand you.
I did not sign it. I sealed it in an envelope and taped it to the gift.
Monday morning I left for school earlier than usual. When I arrived I went to my classroom. The door was open, but Miss Heacock was not in her room. Quickly and furtively I placed the gift under the Christmas tree. So far so good.
By the time the school bell rang, Miss Heacock was playing Christmas carols on the phonograph, and more and more gifts were being placed under the tree. We became more excited about tomorrow's Christmas party as the day wore on. Miss Heacock carefully looked at each gift and checked off names in her roll book.
On Tuesday our party was preceded by a semi-annual desk clean out. At last all of the papers had been removed, crayon boxes lined up neatly, and pencils sharpened and put away. It was time for the party!
We drank punch from paper cups and ate cookies and candy canes, and then it was time to distribute gifts. As we sat in our seats Miss Heacock selected a present from beneath the tree and called out, “Sandra.” Sandra, somewhat embarrassed, walked to the front of the room and took her present back to her desk. She was unsure whether she should open it or not. “You may open it, Sandra,” said Miss Heacock.
Several more presents were distributed before Miss Heacock called out, “Violet.” Violet walked slowly to the front of the room. Miss Heacock extended her hand and delivered my gift. Violet, eyes glistening, walked back to her seat. I shifted in my seat so I could see her reaction. She placed the unopened gift on her desk and opened the envelope. Suddenly she began to quiver; a tear formed in the corner of her eye and ran down her cheek. Violet began to sob. She grabbed her present and ran from the room. Miss Heacock, reaching for a gift, did not see her go.
The enormity of what I had done sank home. Tears filled my eyes. There have been moments in my life when I wished I could back up ten minutes and correct errors I had made. This was one of those moments. I am sure my name was eventually called. I am sure I was given a gift. I remember nothing of this. I merely wallowed in guilt. Finally the party ended, and I walked home.
As Christmas vacation came to an end I began to realize I would have to face Violet when I went back to school. Even though I had not signed my name, I was certain she had figured out who had written that terrible poem. How could I face her? But like it or not, school began again. It began without Violet. Her seat was empty. It was empty the next day and the next. Violet had moved.
Twelve years passed. I entered a classroom at the University of Utah and took my seat. The professor began to call the roll. “Violet,” he called. The girl in the seat directly behind mine answered, “Here.” My blood ran cold. As discreetly as possible I turned and looked at her. She had matured, she had changed from an ugly duckling into a swan, but there was no doubt it was Violet.
When class ended I turned to her. “Violet,” I said, “I don't know if you remember me. We were in the same class in third grade at Emerson School.”
She looked at me, and her forehead wrinkled. “I'm sorry, I really don't remember your name. I was only in that class for part of the year.”
“Violet, may I take you to lunch? I need to ask your forgiveness.”
“For what?” She looked puzzled.
“I'll tell you at lunch, okay?”
We walked silently to the Union Building, through the cafeteria line, and to a table. “What do you need to talk to me about?”
“How much do you remember about our third grade class?” I asked.
“The music,” she answered. “Our teacher played such beautiful music. I think she's the reason I'm a music minor today.
“It had been such a tough year for my family. My father died that July, and we found a little house to rent. It was so crowded with six children. I had to sleep with my two little sisters, and they both wet the bed. I can remember how embarrassed I was to come to school smelling so bad, but the bathtub didn't work, and we had to wash out of a washtub after heating the water on our coal stove. Usually there wasn't time to bathe in the morning.” The words were tumbling out as Violet remembered bitterly that third grade experience. “I used to come to school and hide in the back corner.”
I was finding it harder and harder to confess. As Violet spoke, the coals were heaped higher and higher upon my head. At last she was silent. “Violet, do you remember the Christmas party?”
Tears formed in her eyes. “Oh, yes.”
“Violet, can you ever forgive me? I was the one who wrote that terrible poem that sent you sobbing from the room.”
She looked puzzled. “What poem? I was crying because I hadn't had a quarter to buy a gift and yet someone had given a gift to me. I couldn't stand the guilt and the shame.”
“Violet, there was a card attached to your gift. On it I wrote a terrible poem. Don't you remember?”
Violet tipped her head back and laughed. “I couldn't read in the third grade. I don't think I even looked at your poem.” Then the knife twisted. “What did it say?”
“Violet, it doesn't matter. Just forgive me, please.”
“Come on, what was the poem?”
I chose not to compound my guilt with a lie, so I quoted it to her.
“It seems appropriate to me,” she laughed. “I forgive you.”
We finished lunch, and I walked out of the Union Building with a lighter heart. However, every December 23, I still do penance for the cruelty of youth.

Story #3 - Dear Santa from a Mom

2008-12-21T14:41:00.000-08:00

Story #2 - The Big Wheel

2008-12-21T14:40:00.000-08:00

The Big WheelIn September 1960, I woke up one morning with six hungry babies and just 75 cents in my pocket. Their father was gone. The boys ranged from three months to seven years; their sister was two. Their Dad had never been much more than a presence they feared. Whenever they heard his tires crunch on the gravel driveway they would scramble to hide under their beds. He did manage to leave $15 a week to buy groceries. Now that he had decided to leave, there would be no more beatings, but no food either. If there was a welfare system in effect in southern Indiana at that time, I certainly knew nothing about it.I scrubbed the kids until they looked brand new and then put on my best homemade dress. I loaded them into the rusty old '51 Chevy and drove off to find a job. The seven of us went to every factory, store and restaurant in our small town. No luck. The kids stayed crammed into the car and tried to be quiet while I tried to convince whomever would listen that I was willing to learn or do anything. I had to have a job. Still no luck.The last place we went to, just a few miles out of town, was an old Root Beer Barrel drive-in that had been converted to a truck stop. It was called the Big Wheel. An old lady named Granny owned the place and she peeked out of the window from time to time at all those kids. She needed someone on the graveyard shift, 11 at night until seven in the morning. She paid 65 cents an hour and I could start that night.I raced home and called the teenager down the street that baby-sat for people. I bargained with her to come and sleep on my sofa for a dollar a night. She could arrive with her pajamas on and the kids would already be asleep. This seemed like a good arrangement to her, so we made a deal. That night when the little ones and I knelt to say our prayers we all thanked God for finding Mommy a job. And so I started at the Big Wheel. When I got home in the mornings I woke the baby-sitter up and sent her home with one dollar of my tip money-fully half of what I averaged every night.As the weeks went by, heating bills added another strain to my meager wage. The tires on the old Chevy had the consistency of penny balloons and began to leak. I had to fill them with air on the way to work and again every morning before I could go home. One bleak fall morning, I dragged myself to the car to go home and found four tires in the back seat. New tires! There was no note, no nothing, just those beautiful brand new tires. Had angels taken up residence in Indiana? I wondered. I made a deal with the owner of the local service station. In exchange for his mounting the new tires, I would clean up his office. I remember it took me a lot longer to scrub his floor than it did for him to do the tires.I was now working six nights instead of five and it still wasn't enough. Christmas was coming and I knew there would be no money for toys for the kids. I found a can of red paint and started repairing and painting some old toys. Then I hid them in the basement so there would be something for Santa to deliver on Christmas morning. Clothes were a worry too. I was sewing patches on top of patches on the boys pants and soon they would be too far gone to repair.On Christmas Eve the usual customers were drinking coffee in the Big Wheel. These were the truckers, Les, Frank, and Jim, and a state trooper named Joe. A few musicians were hanging around after a gig at the Legion and were dropping nickels in the pinball machine. The regulars all just sat around and talked through the wee hours of the morning and then left to get home before the sun came up.When it was time for me to go home at seven o'clock on Christmas morning I hurried to the car. I was hoping the kids wouldn't wake up before I managed to get home and get the presents from the basement and place them under the tree. (We had cut down a small cedar tree by the side of the road down by the dump.) It was still dark and I couldn't see much, but there appeared to be some dark shadows in the car-or was that just a trick of the night? Something certainly looked different, but it was hard to tell what. When I reached the car I peered warily into one of the side windows. Then my jaw dropped in amazement. My old battered Chevy was filled full to the top with boxes of all shapes and sizes.I quickly opened the driver's side door, scrambled inside and kneeled in the front facing the back seat. Reaching back, I pulled off the lid of the top box. Inside was a whole case of little blue jeans, sizes 2-10! I looked inside another box: It was full of shirts to go with the jeans. Then I peeked inside some of the other boxes: There was candy and nuts and bananas and bags of groceries. There was an enormous ham for baking, and canned vegetables and potatoes. There was pudding and Jell-O and cookies, pie filling and flour. There was a whole bag of laundry supplies and cleaning items. And there were five toy trucks and one beautiful little doll. As I drove back through empty streets as the sun slowly rose on the most amazing Christmas Day of my life, I was sobbing with gratitude. And I will never forget the joy on the faces of my little ones that precious morning.Yes, there were angels in Indiana that long-ago December. And they all hung out at the Big Wheel truck stop.

Story #1 Carma's Christmas

2008-12-21T14:37:00.000-08:00

Carma’s Christmasby Carma RossiDecember 1942 was bringing to a close another lean year. We were still suffering the effects of the depression, although, fortunately, Johnny had a job as a laundry supervisor at the new Bushnell Hospital. With the promise of permanent work, we had recently moved to Brigham City.Little John, age three, and Yolanda, four, were eagerly looking forward to Santa’s visit, but they had kept me tied so close to home that I didn’t know anyone in town except the landlord. Even though I felt I would die of loneliness, I was too shy to improve my situation.On Christmas Eve, on the way home from work, Johnny picked up a tree. They were cheaper that close to Christmas. The children had been put to bed twice already. The fragrant evergreen stood undecorated in front of the living room window of our small house, looking as forlorn as we felt. Neither of us uttered a word, trying not to infect each other with our gloominess.Little John, in his blue pajamas, wandered into the room, ducking his head from the bright light. “When’s Santa coming?” he asked for the fourth time.“Now you go back to bed, or he’ll never come,” Johnny threatened, as he untangled the strings of tree lights.“Wanta hear the music,” Little John insisted in an effort to delay his exit.“I’ll turn it up a little more, but you scoot!” Johnny barely brushed his bottom with a threatening pat. “You don’t want to wake Yolanda, do you?”“Landa not asleep,” he said. As if to prove the point, Yolanda, in pink pajamas appeared in the doorway, too. The glint in her black eyes faded when she saw the naked tree. “Aren’t you going to trim the tree? Santa won’t find us.”“Back to bed!” I ordered. Johnny seemed to need my reinforcement.“I want to hear the music,” Yolanda also insisted.“All right, all right. I’d think you would be tired of that same record.We had played “White Christmas” at least twenty times. Johnny had brought home an inexpensive portable record player for our Christmas. After the purchase price, he had had enough money to buy only one record. His selection of “White Christmas” made us even more homesick for our families.“Now I mean it. To bed!” Johnny ordered.Little John and Yolanda disappeared into their bedroom at the no-nonsense tone in their father’s voice.Johnny strung the lights on the tree while I unwrapped the ornaments, one by one, from their wrinkled tissue wrappers. By the time I had placed the last ornament on the green branches, the whispering and giggling from the bedroom had been replaced by long, even breathing. Little John and Yolanda slept at last.Johnny brought out a doll for Yolanda - a doll with black hair to match hers. He lifted a little red wagon out of the box, ever so gently so it wouldn’t rattle, and put it under the tree. I stood on a chair, smoothing the crinkled silver icicles between my fingers and laying them on the branches. Johnny sat in his easy chair, directing me to the sparse spots. The strains of the music droned on for at least the twenty-fifth time: “I’m dreaming of a White Christmas... .......”“We will have that record worn out the first night,” I mused from my perch on the chair. Absently, I glanced out the window and was suddenly aware that three young soldiers were standing on the sidewalk staring at me. Feeling extremely self-conscious, I went on straightening the icicles through my fingers. My first impulse was to draw the drapes, but that would have been rude. Well, they were rude to stand there and stare at me. They didn’t move. They just stood there as if someone had yelled, “Freeze!”Then the lanky one “unfroze” and opened the door. “Please, sir,” he said. “I know this is out of the ordinary, but could we just step inside and look at your tree? It looks so beautiful from the street.”Johnny cleared his throat. “Of course, come on in.” He opened the door wide and the three stepped into the warmth of the living room. They rubbed their cold hands together and stood awkwardly, breathing in the aroma of the tree.“Nothing like a Christmas tree,” the lanky soldier said. “Looks like a fairy tree. Those icicles remind me of the old legend of the poor family who didn’t have anything to put on their tree and during the night the spiders decorated it. Remember?”We all laughed, a little nervously. Still they stood, simply admiring the tree.“You fellows stationed at Bushnell Hospital?” Johnny asked.“Yeah, medical corps. You know the restrictions. No tree. No Christmas spirit over there at all,” the chubby one ventured. “We’re just on our way back from a movie in town. It’s tough being away from home at this time of the year.”“Where do you live?” Johnny asked, trying to encourage conversation.“Minnesota,” the chubby one said. “We always cut our own tree back home.”I thought I detected a brighter glisten in his eyes as he said that last word. He blinked hard. “Hey, look at that black-haired doll. Reminds me of my little sister. Would you believe it? I sent one just like that for her Christmas. Hope she likes it.”“She’ll love it,” I said, warming up to these homesick boys in uniform. That’s all they were - boys!The eyes of the blond soldier left the star at the top of the tree and traveled down to the foot. “And that little red wagon. Guess you’ve got a boy and a girl?” He grinned. I nodded. “I haven’t seen a red wagon in years. Reminds me of the one I got one Christmas. Mind if I pull it?”“Of course not,” Johnny replied.The soldier laid the doll in the wagon and pulled it around the living room chuckling to himself. He was a little boy grown tall. They briefly chatted of home, then the lanky one said, “We’d better be getting back to the hospital.”“Let me get you a drink of hot, spiced cider. I’m sure you can smell it simmering on the stove,” Johnny offered.“Oh, no. We don’t want to inconvenience you. We just wanted to see a real live tree in a real live home.”“I insist. It will warm you for the cold walk back to the hospital,” Johnny said. “Sit down.”“Oh, no thanks. You’ve been real nice,” the chubby one responded.“Here, want to help?” I offered, forgetting myself in the interest in them. The lanky one eagerly took a handful of icicles and started to straighten them as he had watched me doing. He could reach the high spots without a chair.“I don’t want to spoil the tree, “ he said hesitantly.“You won’t. You’ll do me a favor. You’re so tall,” I urged.Johnny brought in mugs of hot cider. There was more talk of home and past Christmas trees while they sipped their cider and ate fruitcake. Too soon they were saying their goodbyes on the porch. “You don’t know how much it’s meant to us these few moments. Merry Christmas!” Warm smiles wreathed their faces as they trudged on up the street.Johnny and I sat alone. Suddenly, the tree was more dazzling than any we could remember. The music became the most melodious way had ever heard. Each sock hanging from the back of a straight chair bulged with an orange, a banana, hardtack and nuts. What did it matter that there were only a doll and a red wagon under the tree? The children would be delighted. Our hearts were overflowing with gratitude as we enjoyed our quiet hour together, far away from family and friends.Johnny broke the silence and put words to my own thoughts. “You know, those fellows have changed my whole outlook. We have each other and the kids, and that’s the most important. It took those lonely soldiers to bring the Christmas spirit into our home.”