The Cradle

The Cradle
By Dr. Ralph F. Wilson

They left their home, the new cradle still swinging from the rafters. Night after night the aroma of fresh-cut wood had filled the room as Joseph had patiently fashioned the tiny cradle, using the same chisel and saw he usually put down at dusk. Now Joseph wiped the tears from Mary’s cheeks and shut the door behind them. "It’ll be okay," he told her, as he cinched up their belongings on the donkey.

"Joseph, can’t we wait a few days? The baby could come any time." She didn’t want to leave home. Not now.

"We’ve waited for the baby as long as we dare." He was ready to get on the road. "We have to leave today or I’ll be arrested for not appearing in Bethlehem for the census."

"At least bring the cradle, Joseph," she pleaded. "I want the baby to have something nice."

"No, it’ll have to stay behind. The baby will be rocking in it soon enough."

Joseph tugged hard at the donkey’s halter. No luck. "Come on, animal," he shouted, whacking it on the rear end to get it moving. Grudgingly the donkey responded. With one hand Joseph led the donkey, with the other he steadied Mary on the steep incline, slowly enough to accommodate her ungainly progress down the winding road which led from Nazareth’s height. In the house above, the cradle hung still.

Five days and ninety bone-weary miles later, Joseph searched the small stable where they were staying on the outskirts of crowded Bethlehem. Mary’s time would be soon now. He was careful to keep his lamp from igniting the old straw. He finally settled on an ancient stone manger for the baby’s bed, cut from the wall of the limestone cave which housed the animals. He reached in to scoop the last gritty bits of straw from the manger’s dank bottom. "That’ll have to do," he muttered. He filled the trough with an armful of fresh fodder, which he covered with a folded blanket to keep the animals away.

It was well past midnight by the time Mary finished washing and wrapping her new baby. Now she lifted him gently into his new bed. Joseph put his arm around her shoulders as they gazed at the sleeping infant.

Mary touched the tiny fingers. "That cradle you spent so much time on would be real nice right now, Joseph." She looked up at the cave’s low ceiling. "You could hang it somewhere. No baby I know has a cradle like that. It’s fit for a king."

Joseph grinned. "Not every boy has a carpenter for a dad," he said. But he wondered. Why couldn’t little Jesus be home in that cradle? Why does this special child the angel told Mary and him about have to be born in this smelly stable? A hill-country carpenter’s home is bad enough. Why here? Why Bethlehem?

The answer wasn’t long in coming. An older boy poked his head in the door, startling the couple from their quiet moment. "Is there a baby here?" he mumbled apologetically. Then he saw the tiny child. Mary picked her baby up to shield the infant from his eyes. The face disappeared.

Mary’s eyes mirrored Joseph’s concern. He strode to the cave’s opening. He could hear a distant call, "Over here, Jake found him!" In the darkness, Joseph could make out a handful of forms coming toward him. He gripped his stout wooden staff and stood resolutely at the door. As they approached the stable he could see they were shepherds. Joseph’s grip on the staff tightened. The oldest one spoke hesitantly. "Can we come in? We have … ah … come to see the Christ-child."

Joseph glanced at Mary. She could feel a tingle move down his spine. This was more than an accident. The whole fantastic course of events was far more than an accident. He nodded and stepped back into the stable. "Yes, come in. You are welcome."

The shepherds shuffled into the cramped cave. The youngest pushed in alongside the donkey to get a better view. They knelt. "God be praised!" The old shepherd spoke with deepest reverence.

"It’s just like the angel told us, " another whispered in awe. "Behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people," the angel said.

"Imagine! An angel … talking to us!" the old man interjected with rising excitement. "None of the uppity-ups in this town would lower themselves to talk to us shepherds," he added. "But an angel did … And the child is right here in a stable so we can come and see him," rivulets of tears were inching down the shepherd’s weathered face.

Joseph stared at the old man. "How did you find us? He finally asked. The boy who had first peeked in answered. "The angel said, ‘Unto you is born…’"

"Yes, to us!" The beaming old man couldn’t contain himself.

The boy spoke deliberately, as if to remember the exact words: "unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior…"

"That’s here—Bethlehem—David’s birthplace," the littlest boy interrupted. He thrust out his chest proudly. "King David was a shepherd, too, you know."

The older boy continued. "… a Savior, which is Christ the Lord." "The Christ, the Messiah…He’s the one! The old man pointed to the baby.

"The angel was very specific," the young man went on. "And this shall be a sign unto you. You shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger."

He grinned. "How could we miss? We just ran into town and checked every stable until we found you…found Him." The boy paused. "How many newborns in Bethlehem do you know with a cattle manger for a cradle?"

Joseph chuckled. So that was it. The Heavenly Father Himself had provided a bed for His child. A special cradle. A sign to these crude shepherds that God cared for them too.

Joseph squeezed Mary’s had very tightly.

Santa's Prayer

The sleigh was all packed, the reindeer were fed,
But Santa still knelt by the side of the bed.
"Dear Father," he prayed "Be with me tonight.
There's much work to do and my schedule is tight.

I must jump in my sleigh and streak through the sky,
Knowing full well that a reindeer can't fly.
I will visit each household before the first light,
I'll cover the world and all in one night.

With sleigh bells a-ringing, I'll land on each roof,
Amid the soft clatter of each little hoof.
To get in the house is the difficult part,
So I'll slide down the chimney of each child's heart.

My sack will hold toys to grant all their wishes.
The supply will be endless like the loaves and the fishes.
I will fill all the stockings and not leave a track.
I'll eat every cookie that is left for my snack.

I can do all these things Lord, only through You,
I just need your blessing, then it's easy to do.
All this is to honor the birth of the One,
That was sent to redeem us, our most Holy Son.

So to all of my friends, least Your glory I rob,
Please Lord, remind them who gave me this job."

Author Unknown

A Christmas Prayer

A Christmas Prayer

Tonight is Christmas Eve and my home lies miles away.
Several mixed emotions crossed my heart as I knelt to pray.
I felt it was an honor, to serve my mission here.
But tonight how I missed my loved ones, the family I hold so dear.

And my soul was filled with love for each face I did behold,
First my Mother, then my Father, brothers and sisters, young and old.
The tears began to flow and the memories began to flee,
And then in a quiet moment, a vision was opened to me.

I pictured a quiet field with angels singing above,
Praising the baby Jesus with their glorious songs of love.
Then from amongst the angels, came one to speak to me.
Her message was pure and plain for me to see.

"How far would you travel, to see that Heavenly King?
Would you leave your family and home to hear the angels sing?
Would you follow that star in the east?", her voice to me did speak.
A new feeling came from within and my soul felt weak.

For that was your call, she continued, in this sweet and humble place,
I promise you’ll glimpse the Christ Child, in each new contacts face.
For you are His angels on earth, who carry His good works on,
And your message of truth and peace, is the sweetest Christmas song.

Never regret a moment, of your labor of love for Him,
Though He’s taken you far from your home, your family and friends and kin.
For His gift in return for your service, comes from heaven above.
His gift, my little missionary, is an eternal gift of love.

My angel softly slipped away and a warm peace filled my heart.
Tonight more than ever before, I came to realize my sacred part.
Just then His spirit entered, where He found me on bended knee,
My Savior had come to spend His Christmas with me.

And the feeling of His glorious presence, was worth the hours that had slipped away,
As I raise my head from the side of the bed, I saw the sun’s golden ray.
The night had been a long one, but sweeter lesson could ne’er be learned,
For the Savior had touched my soul and His love within me burned.

Christmas Eves shall come and go and all the years shall pass away,
But never, no never will I awake, to a more sacred Christmas day.

Almie Rose

Almie Rose
Author Unknown

It was at least two months before Christmas, when nine-year old Almie Rose told her father and me that she wanted a new bicycle. Her old Barbie bicycle was just too babyish, and besides it needed a new tire.

As Christmas drew nearer, her desire for a bicycle seemed to fade – or so we thought, as she didn’t mention it again. Merrily, we started purchasing the latest rage – Baby Sitter’s Club dolls – and beautiful story books, a doll house, a holiday dress and toys. Then, much to our surprise, on December 23, she proudly announced that she "really wanted a bike more than anything else."

Now we didn’t know what to do. It was just too late, what with all the details of preparing Christmas dinner and buying last minute gifts, to take the time to select the "right bike" for our little girl. So here we were – Christmas Eve around 9pm, having just returned from a wonderful party, contemplating our evening ahead…hours of wrapping children’s presents, parent’s presents, a brother’s presents and friend’s presents. With Almie Rose and her six-year old brother, Dylan, nestled in their beds, we could now think only of the bike, the guilt and the idea that we were parents who would disappoint their child.

That’s when my husband, Ron, was inspired. "What if I make a little bicycle out of clay and write a note that she could trade the clay model in for a real bike?" The theory, of course, being that since this is a high-ticket item and she is "such a big girl," it would be much better for her to pick it out. So he spent the next five hours painstakingly working with clay to create a miniature bike.

Three hours later, on Christmas morning, we were so excited for Almie Rose to open the little heart-shaped package with the beautiful red and white clay bike and the note. Finally, she opened and read the note aloud.

She looked at me and then Ron and said, "So does this mean that I trade in this bike that Daddy made me for a real one?"

Beaming, I said, "YES."

Almie Rose had tears in her eyes when she replied, "I could never trade in this beautiful bicycle that Daddy made me. I’d rather keep this than get a real bike."

At that moment, we would have moved Heaven and Earth to buy her every bicycle on the planet!

Mistletoe

Mistletoe
Douglas W. Evans

I stood under the mistletoe. The green leafy clusters speckled with waxy-white berries hung from the branches of every apple tree. "That’s the same stuff they sell in the stores for Christmas decorations!" I said to myself. "Why can’t I sell mistletoe too?" Christmas was three weeks away. Selling mistletoe would be a perfect way to earn money to buy a gift for my brother, Derek.

I took a few steps back, ran, leaped, and reached as high as I could. But the lowest mistletoe cluster was too high. I missed by a mile. So that was that. I had started home when something strange caught my eye. At the edge of the apple orchard, one tree stood bare. Of course I knew the leaves and apples fell off months ago. But the mistletoe, every sprig of it, had fallen off the branches also. It lay in a neat pile at the food of the tree, as if put there just for me.

Delighted, I carefully picked out the best sprigs and put them in my lunch box. When it was jam-packed, I sprinted across the flattened cornfield to the mobile home where I lived. I entered the side door, listening.

Yes, a guitar was playing. I walked down the narrow hall to my bedroom door and pounded on the door. "Derek, are you in there?" The guitar stopped. "One sec, " came the grumpy reply. A moment later the door was flung open. My brother stood there wearing his brown leather jacket. "Where are you going?" I asked. "None of your business, " he muttered, sailing past me.

It wasn’t easy sharing that cramped bedroom with my older brother. We got on each other’s nerves a lot. That whole trailer was too small for our family. With Derek out of the room, I emptied the contents of my lunch box onto my bed. I split the sprigs of mistletoe into smaller ones and carefully picked off every dead leaf and berry. In my mom’s sewing box, I found a roll of red ribbon. I used it to tie bows around the sprigs, then put each one in a little plastic bag. As I looked for something to put the mistletoe in, I saw Derek’s guitar on his bed, wrapped in an old towel.

The guitar was the only beautiful thing Derek owned, and I knew that to buy with the mistletoe money: a case for that guitar. Even if Derek was grumpy sometimes, he was still my brother, and I loved him.

The next day I took my mistletoe packages – ten in all -- to school. During lunchtime I sold every one. My pockets jingled with change as I walked home that day. But it was hardly enough money to buy a guitar case. After school, I cut through the apple orchard again. A surprise awaited me – two more trees were bare, and under each one lay a pile of mistletoe! I loaded my lunch box, filled my pockets then raced for home.

Derek was striding across the cornfield as I approached the trailer. His head was lowered. His hands were jammed into the pockets of his leather jacket. "Derek! Derek!" I hollered as friendly as I could. But when he looked up and saw me, he stopped and turned in another direction.

That night I made twice as many mistletoe packages. After school the next day, I walked to the shopping center office and got permission to sell my mistletoe there. Then I fond a wooden box to use as a sales stand. I thumb-tacked a sign on it that read: "Christmas Mistletoe 25 cents!" Within the hour, the mistletoe was sold out. I hurried over to the music store.

In the front display window, on cotton snow, lay a row of wooden recorders. I had learned to play a plastic one at school, and more than anything I wanted one of those wooden ones which sounded so much better. Each year that was at the top of my Christmas list. But each year there wasn’t enough money. I was calculating how much more money I’d need to buy a recorder when I saw the towers of guitar cases in the back of the store. As much as I wanted a recorder, I wanted to buy Derek a guitar case more. Even if he had been a grouch lately, he was a pretty neat brother.

Going inside the store, I found the perfect case for Derek, a brown one with gold buttons. It cost a bundle, though. Much more than I had. I hoped that there would be lots more mistletoe in the orchard when I got there. I reached the orchard after the sun had just set, and the air was icy. The shadowy crooked branches of the apple trees appeared as grabbing fingers against the purple sky. Something rustled in a distant tree. Rotten apples squished under my feet as I tried to creep closer to see what it was. Then I tripped.

My knees sunk into a pile of something scratchy. Mistletoe! another big heap of it. It was a miracle! I was filling my lunch box, when a voice right behind me softly said, "Chilly night to be out, young man. " I spun around. "I’m collecting m-m-mistletoe," I stuttered, half from cold, half from fright. Sorry I scared you, " the man said with a friendly smile. "The fact is, I’m paying a guy to cut all that mistletoe out of my trees."

"What!" I exclaimed, puzzled. "My apple trees are loaded with mistletoe. That very plant people kiss under can do these old trees harm. It attaches itself to their branches and sucks out a lot of food and water. Eventually it could kill these trees. Anyway, you’re welcome to take all you want." The man wished me a merry Christmas, then walked on across the orchard.

He stopped under a tree about thirty yards away and looked up. Out of that tree tumbled a big clump of mistletoe – then another and another. An instant later two legs dangled down from the lowest branch. All of a sudden someone jumped down next to the man. It was Derek! He didn’t see me in the shadows. "A few more nights ought to do it, " the man said. "Yeah, " Derek replied, brushing off his jeans.

"So what are you going to do with all the money I’m paying you?" asked the man. "Are you going out and having a good time?" "Nah," said Derek, shuffling his feet. "I’m saving up to buy my kid brother something for Christmas." "Is that right?" said the man. "Yeah, He’s been wanting a wooden recorder for ages. He can play pretty well. And you know how it is – he’s my brother."

The Big Wheel

The Big Wheel Story

In 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, and 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 were 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.

A Christmas Story

A Christmas Story

It was just a few more days until Christmas in San Francisco, and the shopping downtown was starting to get to us. I remember crowds of people waiting impatiently for slow-moving buses and streetcars on those little cement islands in the middle of the street. Most of us were loaded down with packages, and it looked like many of us were beginning to wonder if all those countless friends and relatives actually deserved so many gifts in the first place. This was not the Christmas spirit I'd been raised with.

When I finally found myself virtually shoved up the steps of a jammed streetcar, the idea of standing there packed like a sardine the whole way home was almost more than I could take. What I would have given for a seat! I must have been in some kind of exhausted daze because as people gradually got off, it took me a while to notice that there was room to breathe again.

Then I saw something out of the corner of my eye. A small, dark-skinned boy - he couldn't have been more than five or six - tugged on a woman's sleeve and asked, "Would you like a seat?" He quietly led her to the closest free seat he could find. Then he set out to find another tired person. As soon as each rare, new seat became available, he would quickly move through the crowd in search of another burdened woman who desperately needed to rest her feet.

When I finally felt the tug on my own sleeve, I was absolutely dazzled by the beauty in this little boy's eyes. He took my hand, saving, "Come with me," and I think I'll remember that smile as long as I live. As I happily placed my heavy load of packages on the floor, the little emissary of love immediately turned to help his next subject.

The people on the streetcar, as usual, had been studiously avoiding each other's eyes, but now they began to exchange sly glances and smiles. A businessman offered a section of newspaper to the stranger next to him; three people stooped to return a gift that had tumbled to the floor. And now people were speaking to one another.

That little boy had tangibly changed something - we all relaxed into a subtle feeling of warmth and actually enjoyed the trip through the final stops along the route.

I didn't notice when the child got off. I looked up at one point and he was gone. When I reached my stop I practically floated off that streetcar, wishing the driver a happy holiday, noticing the sparkling Christmas lights on my street in a fresh, new way. Or maybe I was seeing them in an old way, with the same open wonder I felt when I was five or six.

Three Trees

One of my all time favorites.

Three Trees

Once upon a mountaintop, three little trees stood and dreamed of what they wanted to become when they grew up.

The first little tree looked up at the stars and said: "I want to hold treasure. I want to be covered with gold and filled with precious stones. I'll be the most beautiful treasure chest in the world!"

The second little tree looked out at the small stream trickling by on its way to the ocean. "I want to be traveling mighty waters and carrying powerful kings. I'll be the strongest ship in the world!"

The third little tree looked down into the valley below where busy men and women worked in a busy town. "I don't want to leave the mountain top at all. I want to grow so tall that when people stop to look at me, they'll raise their eyes to heaven and think of God. I will be the tallest tree in the world."

Years passed. The rain came, the sun shone, and the little trees grew tall. One day three woodcutters climbed the mountain.

The first woodcutter looked at the first tree and said, "This tree is beautiful. It is perfect for me." With a swoop of his shining axe, the first tree fell. "Now I shall hold a wonderful treasure!" the first tree said.

The second woodcutter looked at the second tree and said, "This tree is strong. It is perfect for me." With a swoop of his shining axe, the second tree fell. "Now I shall sail mighty waters!" thought the second tree. "I shall be a strong ship for mighty kings!"

The third tree felt her heart sink when the last woodcutter looked her way. She stood straight and tall and pointed bravely to heaven. But the woodcutter never even looked up. "Any kind of tree will do for me." He muttered. With a swoop of his shining axe, the third tree fell.

The first tree rejoiced when the woodcutter brought her to a carpenter's shop. But the carpenter fashioned the tree into a feedbox for animals. The once beautiful tree was not covered with gold, with treasure. She was coated with sawdust and filled with hay for hungry farm animals.

The second tree smiled when the woodcutter took her to a shipyard, but no mighty sailing ship was made that day. Instead the once strong tree was hammered and sawed into a simple fishing boat. She was too small and too weak to sail to an ocean, or even a river; instead she was taken to a little lake.

The third tree was confused when the woodcutter cut her into strong beams and left her in a lumberyard. "What happened?" The once tall tree wondered. "All I ever wanted was to stay on the mountain top and point to God..."

Many many days and nights passed. The three trees nearly forgot their dreams.
But one night, golden starlight poured over the first tree as a young woman placed her newborn baby in the feedbox.

"I wish I could make a cradle for him." her husband whispered. The mother squeezed his hand and smiled as the starlight shone on the smooth and the sturdy wood. "This manger is beautiful," she said.

And suddenly the first tree knew he was holding the greatest treasure in the world.

One evening a tired traveler and his friends crowded into the old fishing boat. The traveler fell asleep as the second tree quietly sailed out into the lake. Soon a thundering and thrashing storm arose. The little tree shuddered. She knew she did not have the strength to carry so many passengers safely through with the wind and the rain. The tired man awakened. He stood up, stretched out his hand, and said, "Peace." The storm stopped as quickly as it had begun.

And suddenly the second tree knew he was carrying the king of heaven and earth.

One Friday morning, the third tree was startled when her beams were yanked from the forgotten woodpile. She flinched as she was carried through an angry jeering crowd. She shuddered when soldiers nailed a man's hands to her.

She felt ugly and harsh and cruel.

But on Sunday morning, when the sun rose and the earth trembled with joy beneath her, the third tree knew that God's love had changed everything.

It had made the third tree strong.

And every time people thought of the third tree, they would think of God.

That was better than being the tallest tree in the world.

Deliveries

We always look forward to the doorbell ringing especially when there is someone holding a treasure for us. We opened the door to a great surprise, an edible arrangement. It was delicious. Some of our stawberries were dipped with white chocolate, too. The silly part about it was the base that went into the vase holding all the scewers was a head of lettuce.

The Gift of Love

The Gift of Love
By Thomas S. Monson

When I was a very young bishop, in 1950, there was a tap at my door and a good German brother from Ogden, Utah, announced himself as Karl Guertler.

He said, " Are you Bishop Monson?" I answered in the affirmative. He said, "My brother and his wife and their family are coming from Germany. They are going to live in your ward. Will you come with me to see the apartment we have rented for them?"

On the way to that apartment, he told me he had not seen his brother for something like 30 years. Yet all through the holocaust of World War II, his brother, Hans Guertler, had been faithful to the Church – an officer in the Hamburg branch.

I looked at that apartment. It was cold; it was dreary; the paint was peeling from the walls; the cupboards were bare. What an uninviting home for the Christmas season of the year! I worried about it and I prayed about it, and then in our ward welfare committee meeting we did something about it.

The group leader of the high priests said, " I am an electrician. Let’s put good appliances in that apartment."

The group leader of the seventies said, "I am in the floor covering business. Let’s install new floor coverings."

The Elders Quorum President said, "I am a painter. Let’s paint that apartment.

The Relief Society representative spoke up. "Did you say those cupboards were bare?" (They were not bare very long, with the Relief Society in action.)

Then the young people, represented through the Aaronic Priesthood general secretary said, "Let’s put a Christmas tree in the home and let’s go among our young people and gather gifts to place under the tree."

You should have seen that Christmas scene, when the Guertler family arrived from Germany in clothing, which was tattered and with faces which were drawn by the rigors of war and deprivation. As they went into their apartment they saw what had been in actual fact a transformation – a beautiful home.

We spontaneously began singing, "Silent Night! Holy Night! All is calm; all is bright." We sang in English; they sang in German. At the conclusion of that hymn, Hans Guertler threw his arms around my neck, buried his face in my shoulder, and repeated over and over again those words which I shall never forget: "Mein brudder, mein brudder, mein brudder."

Jell-o Christmas

This post is in honor of Brandon, my nephew serving a mission in Georgia. What an incredible example of service and charity he is. He is amazing. Yeah for missionaries that serve 100%.

Jello Christmas
Sandra Bateman

It was but a few short days until Christmas in 1966. Two young elders from the LDS church walked the streets of Laredo, Texas, knocking on doors in search of someone who would listen to their gospel message. No one, it seemed, in the entire city had time to hear the teachings of the Savior, so intent were they that the celebration of His birth should suit their own purposes.

Filled with discouragement, the two young men turned their backs to the approaching twilight and began the long walk home. Retracing their steps of the afternoon, they came upon a low, wind-swept riverbank. Jutting from its brow stood the barest means of a shelter, constructed of weathered wooden slats and large pieces of cardboard. Strangely, they felt moved to go to the door and knock.

A small, olive-skinned child with tangled black hair and large dark eyes answered. Her mother appeared behind her, a short, thin woman with a tired but warm smile. In her rich Spanish she invited the young men to come in and rest awhile. They were made welcome and seated on the clean-swept floor. The little one-room shanty seemed to be filled with shy, smiling, dark-eyed children. The mother proudly introduced each of them--eight in all--and each in turn quickly bobbed his or her head.

The young men were deeply moved at the extreme poverty they saw. No one in the family had shoes, and their clothes were ill fitting and in condition beyond mending. The walls of the little home showed daylight between the wooden slats, and eight little rolls of bedding were pressed tightly into the cracks to help keep out the draft until they were needed for sleeping. A small round fire pit dug in one corner marked the kitchen. An odd assortment of chipped dishes and pots were stacked beside an old ice chest, and a curtained-off section with a cracked porcelain tub served as the bathing area. Except for these the room was barren.

The mother told how her husband had gone north to find employment. He had written that he had found a job of manual labor and that it took most of his small wage to pay his board and room. But, she told the young men he had managed to save fifty cents to send them for Christmas, with which she had purchased two boxes of fruit gelatin. It was one of the children's favorites and would make a special treat on Christmas day.

The next morning, as soon as the local shops opened, the young men hurried to the dime store and purchased as many crayons, cars, trucks and little inexpensive toys as they could afford. Each was carefully wrapped in brightly colored paper and all were put in a large grocery bag. That evening the two young men took their gifts to the shanty on the riverbank. When they knocked, the mother swung the door open wide and invited them in. They stepped inside and in halting Spanish explained to the children that they had seen Santa and he had been in such a hurry, he'd asked if they would deliver his gifts to the children for him.

With cries of delight the children scrambled for the bag, spilling its contents upon the floor and quickly dividing the treasured packages. Silently the mother's eyes filled with tears of gratitude. She stepped forward to clasp tightly one of each of the young men's hands in hers. For long moments she was unable to speak. Then, with tears still welling from her eyes, she smiled and said, "no one ever has been so kind. You have given us a special gift, the kind of love that lights Christmas in the heart. May we also give you a special gift?" From the corner of the room she drew out the two small boxes of fruit gelatin and handed them to the young men. Then all eyes were moist. All knew the true meaning of giving, and none would ever forget that at Christmas, the greatest gift of all was given.

Smiles

So this morning while driving Kaleigh to school I glanced into the window of a car coming towards me and the driver was full-on laughing and it made me smile all the way through, totally brightening my day and it made me start to think of how something so simple can change the entire atmosphere.

I vowed to smile more. If that man could change my morning, perhaps I can shed some sunshine too.

Reminds me of Tuesday night. I was working in the kitchen and Erina asked if it was date night and I told her 'yes'. She said she could tell because I looked happy. How funny!

Let's let the light of Christ shine through us as we keep His spirit with us through the holidays.

A Candy Maker's Witness

There are many things that witness of Christ especially this time of year. I like the story "Teach the Children" that takes a common holiday items (ie: bell, ribbon, candle, etc) and helps kids refocus on Christ. This "story" is along the same line.

A Candy Maker's Witness

A candy maker in wanted to make a candy that would be a witness of his faith, so he created the Christmas Candy Cane as a witness of Jesus Christ.

He began with a stick of pure white hard candy. White to symbolize the purity and sinless nature of Christ, hard to symbolize the foundation of the Church, and the firmness of the promises of God.

The candy maker made the candy in the form of a "J" to help us remember the name of Jesus. It is also in the shape of a shepherd's staff. Jesus is our shepherd and we are his flock
The red stripe represents the blood he shed for each one of us on the cross, so we can have eternal life.

The flavoring used for this candy was peppermint, which is similar to Hyssop. Hyssop is of the mint family and was used in the Old Testament for purification and sacrifice.

As time passed the original meanings have been lost. Perhaps this story of the origin of the "candy cane" will help you to witness the wonders of God's Gift at this blessed time of year.

The Rifle

Christmas Eve 1881

Pa never had such compassion for the lazy or those that squandered their means and then never had enough for the necessities. But for those who were genuinely in need, his heart was as big as all outdoors. It was from him that 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 there just hadn't been enough money to buy me the rifle that I'd wantedfor Christmas. We did the chores early that night for some reason. I just figured Pa wanted a little extra time so we could read in the Bible.

After supper was over I took my boots off and stretched out in front of the fireplace and waited for Pa to get down the 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 had already 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 else that needed doing, especially not on a night like this. But I knew Pa was not very patient at one dragging one's feet when he'd told them to do something, so I got up and put my boots back on and got my cap, coat, and mittens. Ma gave me a mysterioussmile as I opened the door to leave the house. Something was up, but I didn't know what.

Outside, I became even more dismayed. There in front of the house was the work team, already hitched to the big sled. Whatever it was we were going to do wasn't going to be a short, quick, little job. I could tell. We never hitched up this sled unless we were going to haul a big load.

Pa was already up on the seat, reins in hand. I reluctantly climbed up beside him. The cold was already biting at me. I wasn't happy.

When I was on, Pa pulled the sled around the house and stopped in front of the woodshed. He got off and I followed. "I think we'll put on the high sideboards," he said. "Here, help me." The high sideboards had been a bigger job than I wanted to do with 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---the wood 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 her with 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 followed him. We loaded the sled so high that I began to wonder if the horses would be able to pull it.

Finally, Pa called a halt to our loading, then we went to the smokehouse and Pa took down a big ham and a side of bacon. He handed them to me and told me to put them in the sled and wait.

When he returned he was carrying a sack of flour over his 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 gunnysacks wrapped around his feet when he was out in the woodpile 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. We didn't have much by worldly standards. Of course, we did have a big woodpile, though most of what was left now was still in the form of logs that I would have to saw into blocks and split before we could use it. We also had meat and flour, so we could spare that, but I knew we didn't have any money, so why was Pa buying them shoes and candy? Really, why was he doing any of this? Widow Jensen had closer neighbors than us; it shouldn't have been ourconcern.

We came in from the blind side of the Jensen house and unloaded the wood as quietly as possible, then we took the 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 hershoulders. The children were wrapped in another and were sitting in front of the fireplace by a very small fire that hardly gave off any heat at 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. Then Pa handed her the sack that had the shoes in it. She opened it hesitantly and took the shoes out one pair at a time. There was a pair for her and one for each of the children---sturdy shoes, the best, shoes that would last.

I watched her carefully. She bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling and then tears filled her eyes and started running down her cheeks. She looked up at Pa like she wanted to say something, but it wouldn't come out.

"We brought a load of wood too, Ma'am," Pa said. He turned to me and said, "Matt, go bring in enough to last awhile. Let's get that fire up to size and heat this place up.

" I wasn't the same person when I went back out to bring 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 eyes too. In my mind I kept seeing those three kids huddled around the fireplace and their mother standing there with tears 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 many times before, but never when it had made so much difference. I could see we were literally saving the lives of these people.

I soon had the fire blazing and everyone's spirits soared. The kids started giggling when Pa handed them each a piece 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 to spare us."

In spite of myself, the lump returned to my throat and the tears welled up in my eyes again. I'd never thought of Pa in those exact terms before, but after Widow Jensen mentioned it I could see that it was probably true. I was sure that a better man than Pa had never walked the earth.

I started remembering all the times he had gone 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 he had known what sizes to get. Then I guessed that if he were on an errand for the Lord that the Lord would make sure 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 his big 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 for Christmas dinner tomorrow. The turkey will be more than the three of us can eat, and a man can get cantankerous if 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 little ones around again. Matt, here, hasn't been little for quite a spell." I was the youngest. My two brothers and two sisters 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 know for 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 a ways, Pa turned to me and said, "Matt, I want you to know something. Your ma and me have been tucking a little money away here and there all year so we could buy that rifle for you, but we didn't have quite enough. Then yesterday a man who owed me a little money from years back came by to make things square. Your ma and me were real excited, thinking that now wecould 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 gunnysacks and I knew what I had to do. Son, I spent the money for shoes and a little candy for those children. I hope you understand."

I understood, and my eyes became wet with tears again. I understood very well, and I was so glad Pa had done it.

Now the rifle seemed very low on my list of priorities. Pa had given me a lot more. He had given me the look on Widow Jensen's face and the radiant smiles of her three children.

For the rest of my life, Whenever I saw any of the Jensen's, or split a block of wood, I remembered, and remembering brought back that same joy I felt riding home beside Pa that night. Pa had given me much more than a rifle that night, he had given me the best Christmas of my life.

The Jewish Santa Claus

A Christmas Story
a true story by Jay Frankston

There's nothing so beautiful as a child's dream of Santa Claus. I know, I often had that dream. But I was Jewish and we didn't celebrate Christmas. It was everyone else's holiday and I felt left out… like a big party I wasn't invited to. It wasn't the toys I missed, it was Santa Claus and a Christmas tree.

So when I got married and had kids I decided to make up for it. I started with a seven-foot tree, all decked out with lights and tinsel, and a Star of David on top to soothe those whose Jewish feelings were frayed by the display and, for them, it was a Hanukah bush. And it warmed my heart to see the glitter, because now the party was at my house and everyone was invited.

But something was missing, something big and round and jolly, with jingle bells and a ho! ho! ho! So I bought a bolt of bright red cloth and strips of white fur and my wife made me a costume. Inflatable pillows rounded out my skinny frame, but no amount of makeup could turn my face into merry old Santa.

I went around looking at department store impersonations sitting on their thrones with children on their laps and flash-bulbs going off, and I wasn't satisfied with the way they looked either.

After much effort I located a mask maker and he had just the thing for me, a rubberized Santa mask, complete with whiskers and flowing white hair. It was not the real thing but it looked genuine enough to live up to a child's dream of St. Nick.

When I tried it on something happened. I looked in the mirror and there he was, big as life, the Santa of my childhood. There he was . . . and it was me. I felt like Santa, like I became Santa. My posture changed. I leaned back and pushed out my false stomach. My head tilted to the side and my voice got deeper and richer and a "MERRY CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE."

For two years I played Santa for my children to their mixed feelings of fright and delight and to my total enjoyment. And when the third year rolled around, the Santa in me had grown into a personality of his own and he needed more room than I had given him. So I sought to accommodate him by letting him do his thing for other children. I called up orphanages and children's hospitals and offered his services free. But, "We don't need Santa, we have all sorts of donations from foundations and . . . thank you for calling." And the Santa in me felt lonely and useless.

Then, one late November afternoon, I went to the mailbox on the corner of the street to mail a letter and saw this pretty little girl trying to reach for the slot. She was maybe six years old. "Mommy, are you sure Santa will get my letter?" she asked. "Well, you addressed it to Santa Claus, North Pole, so he should get it," the mother said and lifted her little girl so she could stuff the letter into the box. My mind began to whirl. All those thousands of children who wrote to Santa Claus at Christmas time, whatever became of their letters?

One phone call to the main post office answered my question. They told me that, as of the last week of November, an entire floor of the post office was needed to store those letters in huge sacks that came from different sections of the city.

The Santa in me went ho! ho! ho! and we headed down to the post office. And there they were, thousands upon thousands of letters, with or without stamps, addressed to Santa Claus, or St. Nick, or Kris Kringle, scribbled on wrapping paper or neatly written on pretty stationary. And I rummaged through them and laughed. Most of them were gimme, gimme, gimme letters, like "I want a pair of roller skates, and a Nintendo, and a GI Joe, and a personal computer, and a small portable TV, and whatever else you can think of." Many of them had the price alongside each item . . . with or without sales tax.

Then there were the funny ones like: "Dear Santa, I've been a good boy all of last year, but if I don't get what I want, I'll be a bad boy all of next."

And I became a little flustered at the demands and the greed of so many spoiled children. But the Santa in me heard a voice from inside the mail sack and I continued going through the letters, one after the other, until I came upon one which jarred and unsettled me.

It was neatly written on plain white paper and it said: "Dear Santa, I hope you get my letter. I am eleven years old and I have two little brothers and a baby sister. My father died last year and my mother is sick. I know there are many who are poorer than we are and I want nothing for myself, but could you send us a blanket, cause mommy's cold at night." It was signed Suzy.

And a chill went up my spine and the Santa in me cried, "I hear you Suzy, I hear you." And I dug deeper into those sacks and came up with another eight such letters, all of them calling out from the depth of poverty. I took them with me and went straight to the nearest Western Union office and sent each child a telegram: "GOT YOUR LETTER. WILL BE AT YOUR HOUSE ON CHRISTMAS DAY. WAIT FOR ME. SANTA." I knew I could not possibly fill the need of all those children and it wasn't my purpose to do so. But if I could bring them hope. If I could make them feel that their cries did not go unheard and that someone out there was listening . . . So I budgeted a sum of money and went out and bought toys. I wasn't content with the five-and-ten cent variety. I wanted something substantial, something these children could only dream of, like an electric train, or a microscope, or a huge doll of the kind they saw advertised on TV.

And on Christmas Day I took out my sleigh and let Santa do his thing. Well, it wasn't exactly a sleigh, it was a car and my wife drove me around because with all those pillows and toys I barely managed to get in the back seat. It had graciously snowed the night before and the streets were thick with fresh powder. My first call took me to the outskirts of the city. The letter had been from a Peter Barsky and all it said was: "Dear Santa, I am ten years old and I am an only child. We've just moved to this house a few months ago and I have no friends yet. I'm not sad because I'm poor but because I'm lonely. I know you have many things to do and people to see and you probably have no time for me. So I don't ask you to come to my house or bring anything. But could you send me a letter so I know you exist." My telegram read: "DEAR PETER, NOT ONLY DO I EXIST BUT I'LL BE THERE ON CHRISTMAS DAY. WAIT FOR ME. SANTA."

We spotted the house and drove past it and parked around the corner. Then Santa got out with his big bag of toys slung over his shoulder and tramped through the snow.

The house was wedged in between two tall buildings. The roof was of corrugated metal and it was more of a shack than a house. I walked through the gate, up the front steps and rang the bell. A man opened the door. He was in his undershirt and his stomach bulged out of his pants. "Boje moy " he exclaimed in astonishment. That's Polish, by the way, and his hand went to his face. "P-p-please . . ." he stuttered, "p-please . . . de boy . . . de boy . . . at mass . . . church. I go get him. Please, please wait." And he threw a coat over his bare shoulders and, assured that I would wait, he ran down the street in the snow.

So I stood in front of the house feeling good, and on the opposite side of the street was this other shack, and through the window I could see these shiny little black faces peering at me and waving. Then the door opened shyly and some voices called out to me "Hya Santa" . . . "Hya Santa".

And I ho! ho! hoed my way over there and this woman asked if I would come in and I did. And there were these five young kids from one to seven years old. And I sat and spoke to them of Santa and the spirit of love which is the spirit of Christmas.

Then, since they were not on my list, but assuming from the torn Christmas wrappings that they had gotten their presents, I asked if they liked what Santa had brought them during the night. And each in turn thanked me for . . . the woolen socks, and the sweater, and the warm new underwear.

And I looked at them and asked: "Didn't I bring you kids any toys?" And they shook their heads sadly. "Ho! ho! ho! I slipped up," I said "We'll have to fix that." I told them to wait, I'd be back in a few minutes, then trudged heavily through the snow to the corner. And when I was out of their sight, I ran as fast as I could to the car. We had extra toys in the trunk and my wife quickly filled up the bag, and I trotted back to the house and gave each child a brand new toy. There was joy and laughter and the woman asked if she could take a picture of Santa with the kids and I said, sure, why not?

And when Santa got ready to leave, I noticed that this five-year-old little girl was crying. She was as cute as a button. I bent down and asked her "What's the matter, child?" And she sobbed, "Oh! Santa, I'm so happy." And the tears rolled from my eyes under the rubber mask.

As I stepped out on the street, "Pan, pan, proche . . . please come . . . come," I heard this man Barsky across the way. And Santa crossed and walked into the house. The boy Peter just stood there and looked at me. "You came," he said. "I wrote and . . . you came". He turned to his parents. "I wrote . . . and he came." And he repeated it over and over again. "I wrote . . . and he came." And when he recovered, I spoke with him about loneliness and friendship, and gave him a chemistry set, which seemed to be what he would go for, and a basketball. And he thanked me profusely. And his mother, a heavy-set Slavic-looking woman, asked something of her husband in Polish. My parents were Polish so I speak a little and understand a lot. "From the North Pole," I said in Polish. She looked at me in astonishment. "You speak Polish?" she asked. "Of course," I said. "Santa speaks all languages." And I left them in joy and wonder.

And I did this for twelve years, going through the letters to Santa at the post office, listening for the cries of children muffled in unopened envelopes.

In time I learned all that Santa has to know to handle any situation. Like the big kid who would stop Santa on the street and ask: "Hey, Santa, where's your sleigh?" And I'd say, "How old are you son?" And he'd say, "Thirteen." And I'd say, "Well, you're a big fellow and you ought to know better. Santa used to come in a sleigh many years ago, but these are modern times. I come in a car now." And I'd hop in the back seat and my wife would drive off.

Or the kid who would look at me closely and come out with, "That's a mask," pointing a finger. And you never lie to children so I'd say, "Sure, son, of course. If everybody knew what Santa really looks like they'd bother me all year long and I couldn't get my things ready for Christmas."

Or the mother who would whisper so her young son couldn't hear, "Where do you come from?" I'd turn to the child and say, "Your mom wants to know where I come from Willy." And he'd say, "From the North Pole, Mommy," with absolute certainty. And she'd nudge me and whisper, "You don't understand. Who sent you? I mean, how do you come to this house?" I'd turn to the boy and say, "Hey, Willy, your mom wants to know why I came to see you." And he'd say, "Cause I wrote him a letter, Mommy." And I'd pull out the letter and she knows she mailed it, and she's confused and bewildered and I'd leave her like that.

As time went on, the word got out about Santa Claus and me, and I insisted on anonymity, but toy manufacturers would send me huge cartons of toys as a contribution to the Christmas spirit. So I started with 18 or 20 children and wound up with 120, door to door, from one end of the city to the other, from Christmas Eve through Christmas Day.

And on my last call, a number of years ago, I knew there were four children in the family and I came prepared. The house was small and sparsely furnished. The kids had been waiting all day, staring at the telegram and repeating to their skeptical mother, "He'll come, Mommy, he'll come." And as I rang the door bell the house lit up with joy and laughter and "He's here . . . he's here!" And the door swings open and they all reach for my hands and hold on. "Hya, Santa . . . Hya, Santa. We just knew you'd come."

And these poor kids are all beaming with happiness. And I take each one of them on my lap and speak to them of rainbows and snowflakes, and tell them stories of hope and waiting, and give them each a toy.

And all the while there's this fifth child standing in the corner, a cute little girl with blond hair and blue eyes. And when I'm through with the others, I turn to her and say: "You're not part of this family are you?" And she shakes her head sadly and whispers, "No." "Come closer, child," I say, and she comes a little closer. "What's your name?" I ask. "Lisa." "How old are you?" "Seven." "Come, sit on my lap," and she hesitates but she comes over and I lift her up and sit her on my lap. "Did you get any toys for Christmas?" I ask. "No," she says with puckered lips. So I take out this big beautiful doll and, "Here, do you want this doll?" "No," she says. And she leans over to me and whispers in my ear, "I'm Jewish." And I nudge her and whisper in her ear, "I'm Jewish too. Do you want this doll?" And she's grinning from ear to ear and nods with wanting and desire, and takes the doll and hugs it and runs out.

It's been a long time since I last put on my Santa suit. But I feel that Santa has lived with me and given me a great deal of happiness all those years. And now, when Christmas rolls around, he comes out of hiding long enough to say, "Ho! ho! ho! A Merry Christmas to you, my friend."

Another Thank You

My ward is amazing... (with help from Heavenly Father, I'm sure of it) I could stop there, but here's the story.

Since we currently do not have a ward activity chairman it falls on David (the counselor over the calling) to cover the bases. Saturday he called me from a stake merit badge workshop when he remembered that our ward was in charge refreshments for the stake Christmas activity Sunday night. His thought, of course was to get ice cream bars and call it good. Really. It works for the stake YM/YW activities. Haha!

I told him I would send out an email asking for cookie/brownie-ish type donations. By Sunday afternoon I had only 4 replies. I called one friend and between us we divied up tablecothes, decorations, paper goods, etc. Then we started baking. Well I'm sure you're aware that you can only get so many batches of goodies through your oven in a couple of hours. I started making the cookies smaller in hopes that they would go farther.

Since David was "in charge" he went and I stayed home to put the little ones down. I was so anxious and concerned that there would be enough refreshments to meet the needs. When he came home all I wanted to know was if there were enough. He said by the time he got to the stake center there were plates of goodies all over the kitchen. He put them on platters to be moved to the serving tables after the program, but when he returned to the kitchen at the end of the program the kitchen was full again of more goodies.

I know Heavenly Father blessed us by touching the hearts and hands of others to make our part of the evening successful.

The Little Golden Box

For some reason, probably a warped reason, this goes together with the post yesterday.

The Little Golden Box
Some time ago a friend of mine punished his 3-year-old daughter for wasting a roll of gold wrapping paper. Money was tight, and he became infuriated when the child tried to decorate a box to put it under their Christmas tree.
Nevertheless, the little girl brought the gift to her father the next morning 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 again begged her forgiveness.
My friend told me that he kept that gold box by his bed for years. Whenever he was discouraged, he would take out an imaginary kiss and remember the love of the child who had put it there.
Each of us has been given a gold container filled with unconditional love and kisses. No more precious possession could anyone hold.

The Night Before Christmas for Moms

It was the night before Christmas, when all through the abode
Only one creature was stirring, and she was cleaning the commode.
The children were finally sleeping, all snug in their beds,
While visions of Nintendo 64 and Barbie, flipped through their heads.

The dad was snoring in front of the TV,
With a half-constructed bicycle on his knee.
So only the mom heard the reindeer hooves clatter,
Which made her sigh, "Now what’s the matter?"

With a toilet bowl brush still clutched in her hand,
She descended the stairs, and saw the old man.
He was covered with ashes and soot, which fell with a shrug,
"Oh great, " muttered the mom, "Now I have to clean the rug."

"Ho-ho-ho!" cried Santa, "I’m glad you’re awake.
Your gift was especially difficult to make."
"Thanks, Santa, but all I want is some time alone."
"Exactly!", he chuckled, "I’ve made you a clone."

"A clone?" she asked, "What good is that?
Run along, Santa, I’ve no time for chit-chat."
The mother’s twin;
Same hair, same eyes, same double chin.

"She’ll cook, she’ll dust, she’ll mop every mess.
You’ll relax, take it easy, watch the Young and Restless."
"Fantastic!" the mom cheered. "My dream has come true!
I’ll shop. I’ll read. I’ll sleep a whole night through!"

From the room above, the youngest began to fret.
"Mommy?! I scared… and wet."
The clone replied, "I’m coming, sweetheart."
"Hey, " the mom smiled, "She knows her part."

The clone changed the small one, and hummed a tune,
As she bundled the child, in a blanket cocoon.
"You the best Mommy ever. I really love you."
The clone smiled and sighed, "I love you, too."

The mom frowned and said, "Sorry Santa, no deal.
That’s my child’s love, she’s trying to steal."
Smiling wisely, Santa said, "To me it is clear,
Only one loving mother is needed here."

The mom kissed her child, and tucked her in bed.
"Thank you Santa, for clearing my head.
I sometimes forget, it won’t be very long,
When they’ll be too old for my cradle-song."

The clock on the mantle began to chime.
Santa whispered to the clone, "It works every time."
With the clone by his side, Santa said, "Goodnight.
Merry Christmas, Mom, you’ll be all right.

Author Unknown

The Tablecloth

What I like most about this story is the realization that Heavenly Father knows us and is aware of us and will meet our needs.

The Tablecloth
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 Dec.18 were ahead of schedule and just about finished. On Dec. 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.
True Story - submitted by Pastor Rob Reid.

A Different Kind of Christmas

Martha had tried to ignore the approach of Christmas. She would have kept it almost entirely our 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 that rise out south of the wheat field, over near the Norton's 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 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."
"Don't you think I know? All those years fixing things for Maybelle 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 the 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 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 this new valley west of the 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 had been humming softly to himself as he played in his corner. Suddenly, he looked 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.
Towards 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 with 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 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 that 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 sitting 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- for 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 for the hurt she had inflicted these many months. "No," she said, "After all, the Baby Jesus was 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 love he had been waiting to give her.
"Merry Christmas," he said, and then added softly, "Mother."

The Story of St. Nick

Most people are aware that the origin of Santa Claus is Saint Nicholas, but many aren’t completely aware of who he was and what he represents. So I wanted to share that with you.
Saint Nicholas was a very real person who was born as the only child to wealthy parents around 270 AD in what is now Turkey. Upon the death of his parents while he was yet relatively young, he inherited a rather large sum of money. It is said that he was already a religious boy and that soon after the death of his parents, he dedicated his life to serving Jesus Christ.
He became very well known for his love of children and generosity to the poor. His method of giving was generally more in the form of throwing a bag of money into a window, or putting gold coins in the stockings of the needy as they hung out to dry.
There are many legends that go with the type of person St. Nicholas was. One of the better documented accounts of his generosity tells of a family who was starving with no money for food, much less money for a dowry so the father could marry off his three daughters. The father was considering sending at least the oldest out to earn money as a prostitute. When the young Nicholas heard of this, he went during the night to a window of the home and threw in a bag of gold coins. In the morning they found the gold; they now had money for food and dowry as well. The daughter kept her honor.
Because there were two other sisters, the young Nicholas threw in two more bags of coins on two other occasions. By the third time, the father wanted to know whom the benefactor was and watched until finally he caught the lad after he threw the third bag of money. It is reported that Nicholas was very upset that someone knew of his acts of charity and made the father promise not to tell anyone who had helped the family.
Eventually he became bishop of the church in Myra where he was known for more great acts of charity. One legend said that some children were captured by a group of pirates that threatened to take the children to be sold as slaves if some large amount of money was not given to them. This bishop is said to have gotten the money himself and given it to the pirates to save the children.
During this period of history, Christians were still being persecuted by the Romans with their infamous cruelties including throwing them to the lions, etc. Although the worst persecution of the Christians had just taken place about 250 AD under the reign of Decius Trajan, there had been relative peace in the later part of the century. But in 303 AD, the last of the great Roman persecutions began. The Roman Emperor Diocletian was persuaded again to suppress the Christian religion. Those who would not give up following the Lord, Jesus Christ, and turn over their sacred books would be either killed or put in prison. Those who went to prison were cruelly tortured.
According to Elder B.H. Roberts in Outlines of Ecclesiastical History, page 128: "The constancy of all the Christians, no, not even that of all their bishops and clergy, was equal to this trial, and many voluntarily surrendered the sacred writings in their possession to save themselves from punishment and death." During this period, charges were made up that allowed the government to throw all Bishops and ministers in prison. An edict authorized the officials to use severe torture to force these church leaders to make sacrifices to the pagan gods. The hope was that if the leaders could be defeated, and forced to give worship to other gods, their people would follow. Many great men suffered and died in defense of their faith in Christ. St. Nicholas was among these bishops.
This part of St. Nicholas is not legend; it is part of history. While he lived in a world where apostasy from Christianity was all around him, he stood for what he believed. St. Nicholas was one of the few who survived Diocletian’s torture chambers. This is where he gained his title Saint; for those who did survive were called "saint" by the people in honor of their great devotion to Jesus Christ.
St. Nicholas was freed when the new Emperor Constantine came to power. It is said that as he reentered Myra, the people flocked around him in his honor. He may have been beaten and tortured, but he was not broken. He went on to serve the people for many more years giving service and adding to the legends of his great goodness. To me, this is a story of a man who did his best to serve his god and apply the principles taught by Jesus Christ. It is one that is worthy of being past down to our children.
Debra Coe - 26 Dec 1998

Thanks!

A special thanks goes to Kerianna for making my blog look more festive. I know I could do it if I took time to focus, but... Thanks, Kerianna. I love you.

The White Envelope

Last night at Enrichment some Christmas stories were shared. I couldn't believe that there was one I hadn't heard. Not like I have a corner on the Christmas Story market, but... Although this is one that was shared last night, it is not the unheard story. I love this one.


The White Envelope
It's just a small, white envelope stuck among the branches of our Christmas tree. No name, no identification, no inscription. It has peeked through the branches of our tree for the past 10 years or so. It all began because my husband Mike hated Christmas-- oh, not the true meaning of Christmas, but the commercial aspects of it: overspending, the frantic running around at the last minute to get a tie for Uncle Harry and the dusting powder for Grandma -- the gifts given in desperation because you couldn't think of anything else. Knowing he felt this way, I decided one year to bypass the usual 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 shortly before Christmas, there was a non-league match against a team sponsored by an inner-city church, mostly black. These youngsters, dressed in sneakers so ragged that shoestrings seemed to be the only thing holding them together, presented a sharp contrast to our boys in their spiffy blue and gold uniforms and sparkling new wrestling shoes. As the match began, I was alarmed to see that the other team was wrestling without headgear, a kind of light helmet designed to protect a wrestler's ears. It was a luxury the ragtag team obviously could not afford.
Well, we ended up walloping them. We took every weight class. And as each of their boys got up from the mat, he swaggered around in his tatters with false bravado, a kind of street pride that couldn't acknowledge defeat. Mike, seated beside me, shook his head sadly, "I wish just one of them could have won," he said. "They have a lot of potential, but losing like this could take the heart right out of them." Mike loved kids-all kids-and he knew them, having coached little league football, baseball and lacrosse.
That's when the idea for his present came. That afternoon, I went to a local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes and sent them anonymously to the inner-city church. On Christmas Eve, I placed the envelope on the tree, the note inside telling Mike what I had done and that this was his gift from me. His smile was the brightest thing about Christmas that year and in succeeding years.
For each Christmas I followed the tradition--one year sending a group of mentally handicapped youngsters to a hockey game, another year a check to a pair of elderly brothers whose home had burned to the ground the week before Christmas, and on and on. The envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always the last thing opened on Christmas morning and our children, ignoring their new toys, would stand with wide-eyed anticipation as their dad lifted the envelope from the tree to reveal its contents. As the children grew, the toys gave way to more practical presents, but the envelope never lost its allure.
The story doesn't end there. You see, we lost Mike last year due to dreaded cancer. When Christmas rolled around, I was still so wrapped in grief that I barely got the tree up. But Christmas Eve found me placing an envelope on the tree, and in the morning three more joined it. 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 our grandchildren standing around the tree with wide-eyed anticipation, watching as their fathers take down the envelope. Mike's spirit, like the Christmas spirit, will always be with us. May we all remember Christ, who is the reason for the season, and the true Christmas spirit this year and always.

Christmas Loaves and Fishes

It's hard to know where to start, but here we go...

Christmas Loaves and Fishes
By Raynier Maharaj of Toronto Canada
On Christmas Eve in homes everywhere there is quiet excitement. The festive feeling and the warmth of having family members near, brings to mind a Christmas tale I love to relate each year. It’s a true story, even though it might sound unbelievable. And it’s proof that miracles do happen.
A long time ago there was a group of young people who decided to spread some Christmas cheer. They had discovered that there were several children who would be spending the festive holiday in a community hospital nearby.
So one of the friends dressed as Santa Claus, they bought nice presents, wrapped them, and armed with guitars and sweet voices, they dropped in unexpectedly at the hospital on Christmas Eve. The children were overjoyed at seeing Santa, and by the time the group was finished handing out presents and singing Christmas carols, there were tears in everyone’s eyes.
From then on, it was decided they would play Santa every year. The following Christmas Eve, other patients at the hospital were included in the rounds and by the third year the celebration was expanded to embrace some of the poor children in the neighborhood.
On the fourth Christmas Eve, however after all the rounds were made, Santa Claus looked into his bag and discovered there were a few extra toys left. So the friends mulled it over, trying to figure out what to do with them. Somebody mentioned that there were a few squatters’ shacks nearby in which a couple of desperately poor families lived. So the group decided to go there, thinking that there were perhaps three families at most.
But as they drove over the crest of the hill into this lonely area—it was around midnight now—the shocked group saw a large number of people standing at the side of the street. Much to their surprise, they were children –more than 30 of them. Behind them were not three shacks but row and rows of shabby squatters’ dwellings. As the cars drew to a stop, the children came running up, shouting with joy.
It turned out they had been waiting patiently all night for Santa Claus. Somebody—no one could remember who—had told them he was coming, although our Santa had decided to go there only moments before. Everyone was stunned, except for Santa. He was in a panic. He knew he didn’t have enough toys for all these kids.
Eventually, however, not wanting to disappoint the children, he decided to give whatever toys he had only to the youngest, smallest children. When the presents ran out, he’ll just have to explain to the bigger kids what had happened.
So moments later he found himself perched on top of a car’s hood as these 30 or more sparkling clean children, dressed in their best clothes, lined up in order of height, with the smallest first, for their moment with him.
As each anxious child approached, Santa dipped into his bag, his heart heavy with dread, hoping to find at least one more toy. And by some miracle, he found one each time he dipped. And as the last of the children received a present, Santa looked into the now deflated bag. It was empty—empty as it should have been 24 children ago.
With a sigh of relief, he let out a hearty "ho-ho-ho" and bade the kids farewell. But as he was about to enter one of the cars (the reindeer, apparently, had the day off), he heard a child scream: "Santa! Santa! Wait!" And out of the bushes rushed two little children, a boy and a girl. They had been asleep. Santa’s heart sank.
This time he knew for sure that he had no more toys. The bag was empty. He had seen it himself. But as the out-of-breath kids approached, he summoned up some extra courage and dipped into the bag one more time.
And –lo and behold—there were indeed two more presents in the bag. That group of friends, now all grown adults, still talk about this miracle on Christmas morning. They still have no explanation for it, other than the fact that it happened. How do I know so much about this? Well, I was the one playing Santa.
Family Circle 12/16/97