More Blessed to Give Author Unknown A friend of mine named Paul received an automobile from his brother as a Christ-mas present. On Christ-mas 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 Christ-mas." The boy was astounded. "You mean your brother gave it to you and it didn't cost you nothing? Boy, I wish..." He hesitated. Of course Paul knew what he was going to wish for. 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 he added, "Would you like to take a ride in my automobile?" "Oh yes, I'd love that." After a short ride, the boy turned and with his eyes aglow, said, "Mister, would you mind driving in front on 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 where those two 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 crippled brother. He sat him down on the bottom step, then sort of squeezed up against him and pointed to the car. "There she is, Buddy, just like I told you upstairs. His brother gave it to him for Christ-mas and it didn't cost him a cent. And some day I'm gonna give you one just like it... then you can see for yourself all the pretty things in the Christ-mas windows that I've been trying to tell you about." Paul got out and lifted the lad to the front seat of his car. The shingled-eyed older brother climbed in beside him and the three of them began a memorable holiday ride. That Christ-mas Eve, Paul learned what JESUS meant when he had said, "It's more blessed to give...."

The Most Beautiful Thing Author Unknown 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 was the day before Christ-mas. People rushed up and down the path carrying arm loads of bundles. They laughed and called to each other as they pushed their way through the crowds. Above the path, the long arms of an ancient tree reached upward to the sky. It swayed and moaned as strong winds grasped its branches and bent them toward the earth. Down below a haughty laugh sounded, and a lovely fir tree stretched and preened 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 the leaves you've already lost. If you move around anymore, 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 came and put the brightest, loveliest lights on every tree along the path--except me of course." He sighed softly, and a 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 tree 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 came and chopped you down." Once again he stretched his lovely thick branches. "You might try to hang 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 than I," And he sighed once again. "I told you not to give so many to that dirty little paper boy," said the fir. "Why you even lowered your branches a little bit, 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, too cold to lift its wings. The old tree looked down in pity and then he quickly 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! Christ-mas morning you'll make your path the ugliest sight in the whole city!" The old tree said nothing. Instead he stretched 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, and his face wore a sad expression. He was thinking of his loved ones and the empty, cheerless Christ-mas morning they would face, for he had sold not a single painting in the last months. But the little tree didn't see this. Instead he turned back to the old tree and said in a haughty voice, "At least keep those bare branches as far away from me as possible. I'm being painted and 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. Christ-mas 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 for 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 during 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, stretched upward into the sky. While down 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.

The Other Wise Man Author Unknown Each year at Christ-mas time we delight to follow the wise men as they came out of the East and made their way to Bethlehem where they worshipped the new-born king and laid their treasures at his feet. But Henry Van Dyke has told us about another wise man who also followed the star not only to Bethlehem, but throughout his life, and yet he never found the king. The other wise man's name was Artaban. He was a kind of unknown soldier who didn't quite make the headlines. He was also one of the Magi and lived in Persia. He was a man of great wealth, great learning and great faith . With his learned companions he had searched the scriptures as to the time that the Savior should be born. They knew that a new star would appear and it was agreed between them that Artaban would watch from Persia and the others would observe the sky from Babylon. On the night that the sign was to be given, Artaban was speaking to nine of his Magi friends in his home. He said to them, "My three brethren are watching at the ancient temple of the Seven Spheres, at Borsippa, in Babylon and I am watching here. If the star appears, they will wait for me ten days, then we will all set out together for Jerusalem. I believe the sign will come tonight. I have made ready for the journey be selling all of my possessions and have bought these three jewels--a sapphire, a ruby, and a pearl--I intend to present them as my tribute to the king. " He said, "I invite you to make the pilgrimage with us that we may worship the new-born king together." While he was speaking he thrust his hand into the inmost fold of his girdle and drew out three great gems--one blue as a fragment of the night sky, one redder than a ray of the sunrise, and one as pure as the peak of a snow mountain at twilight. He would give them all to the King. Then one of Artaban's friends said, "Artaban, this is a vain dream. No King will ever rise from tile broken race of Israel. He who looks for him is a chaser of shadows. " Then he bid Artaban farewell and left his dwelling. Each in turn offered his own particular excuse, and finally only his oldest and truest friend remained. He said, "Artaban, I am too old for this quest, but my heart goes with thee." Then with a hand on Artaban's shoulder he said, "Those who would see wonderful things, must often be willing to travel alone . " Left to himself Artaban put his jewels back into his girdle. Then he parted the curtains and went out onto the roof to again take up his vigil to watch the night sky. As Jupiter and Saturn rolled together like drops of lambent flame about to blend into one, an azure spark was born out of the darkness beneath them, rounding itself with purple splendor into a crimson sphere. Artaban bowed his head. "It is the sign, " he said. "The King is coming, and I will go to meet him." All night long Vasda, the swiftest of Artaban's horses, hall been waiting saddled and bridled, in her stall, pawing the ground impatiently and shaking her bit as if she shared the eagerness of her master's purpose As Artaban placed himself upon her back he said, "God bless us both, and keep our feet from falling and our souls from death." Under this encouragement, each day his faithful horse measured off the allotted proportion of the distance, and at nightfall of the tenth day, they approached the outskirts of Babylon. In a little island of desert palm trees Vasda scented difficulty and slackened her pace. Then she gave a quick breath of anxiety and stood stock-still quivering in every muscle . Artaban dismounted. The dim starlight revealed the form of a man lying in the roadway. His humble dress and haggard face showed him to be one of the poor Hebrew exiles who still dwelt in Babylon. His pallid skin bore the mark of the deadly fever that ravished the marshlands of Babylon at this season of the year. The chill of death was in his lean hand. Artaban turned to go, a sigh came from the sick man's lips, and the brown bony fingers closed convulsively upon the Magician's robe. Artaban felt sorry that he could not stay to minister to this dying stranger, but this was the hour toward which his entire life had been directed. He could not forfeit the reward of his years of study and faith to do a single deed of human mercy. But then, how could he leave his fellow man alone to die? "God of truth and mercy, " prayed Artaban, "direct me in the holy path of wisdom which only thou knowest." Then he knew that he could not go on. The Magicians were physicians as well as astronomers. He took off his robe and began his work of healing. Several hours later the patient regained consciousness. Then Artaban gave him all he had left of his bread and wine. He left a potion of healing herbs and instructions for his care. Though Artaban rode with the greatest haste the rest of the way, it was after dawn that he arrived at the designated meeting place. His friends were nowhere to be seen. Finally his eyes caught a piece of parchment arranged to attract his attention. He caught it up and read. It said, "We have waited till past the midnight, and can delay no longer. We go to find the king. Follow us across the desert." Artaban sat down upon the ground in despair and covered his face with his hands. "How can I cross the desert with no food and with a spent horse? I must return to Babylon, sell my sapphire, and buy a train of camels and provisions for the journey. I may never overtaken my friends . Only God the merciful knows whether or not I shall lose my purpose because I tarried to show mercy. Several days later when Artaban's train arrived at Bethlehem the streets were deserted. It was rumored that Herod was sending soldiers, presumably to enforce some new tax, and the men had ]taken their flocks and herds back into the hills beyond his reach. The door of one dwelling was open, and Artaban could hear a mother singing a lullaby to her child. He entered and introduced himself The woman told him that it was now the third day since the three wise men had appeared in Bethlehem. They had found Joseph and Mary and the young child, and had laid their gifts at his feet. Then they had disappeared as mysteriously as they had come. Joseph had taken his wife and babe that same night and had secretly fled. It was whispered that they were going far away into, Egypt.. As Artaban listened, the baby reached up its dimpled hand and touched his cheek and smiled. His heart warmed at the touch. Then suddenly outside there arose a wild confusion of sounds. Women were shrieking. Then a desperate cry said, "The soldiers of Herod are killing the children." Artaban went to the doorway. A band of soldiers came hurrying down the street with dripping swords and bloody hands. The captain approached the door to thrust Artaban aside, but Artaban did not stir. His face was as calm as though he were still watching the stars. Finally his outstretched hand revealed the giant ruby. He said, "I am waiting to give this jewel to the prudent captain who will go on his way and leave this house alone." The captain amazed at the splendor of the gem, took it and said to his men, "March on, there are no children here. " Then Artaban prayed, "Oh, God, forgive me my sin, I have spent for men that which was meant for God. Shall I ever be worthy to see the face of the King?" But the voice of the woman, weeping for joy iii the shadows behind him said softly, "Because thou hast saved the life of my little one may the Lord bless thee and keep thee, the Lord make His face to shine upon thee and be gracious unto thee; the Lord lift up His countenance upon thee and give thee peace." Then Artaban, still following the king, went on into Egypt, seeking everywhere for traces of the little family that had fled before him from Bethlehem. For many years we follow Artaban in his search. We see him at the pyramids. We see him in an obscure house in Alexandria, taking counsel with a Hebrew rabbi who told him to seek the king not among the rich but among the poor. Then we follow him from place to place. He passed through countries where famine lay heavy upon the land, and the poor were crying for bread. He made his dwelling in plague-stricken cities where the sick were languishing in the bitter companionship of helpless misery. He visited the oppressed and the afflicted in the gloom of subterranean prisons. He searched the crowded wretchedness of slave-markets. Though he found no one to worship, he found many to serve. As the years passed he fed the hungry, clothed the naked, healed the sick and comforted the captive. Once we see Artaban for a moment as he stood alone at sunrise, waiting at the gate of a Roman prison. He had taken from its secret resting place in his bosom, the last of he jewels that he was saving for the king. Shifting gleams of azure and rose trembled upon is surface. It seemed to have absorbed some of the colors of the lost sapphire and ruby; just as a noble life draws into itself its profound purpose; so that all that has helped it is transfused into its very essence, so the pearl had become more precious because it had long been carried close to the warmth of a beating human heart. Thirty three years had now passed away since Artaban began his search and he was still a pilgrim. His hair was now white as snow. He knew his life's end was near but he was still desperate with hope that he would find the king. He had come for the last time to Jerusalem. It was the season of the Passover and the city was thronged with strangers. There was a singular agitation visible in the multitude. A secret human tide was sweeping them toward the Damascus gate. Artaban inquired where they were going. One answered, "We are going to the execution on Golgotha, outside the city walls. Two robbers are to be crucified, and with them another called JESUS of Nazareth, a man who has done many wonderful works among the people. But the priests and elders have said that he must die, because he claims to be the Son of God. Pilate sent him to the cross, because he said that he was the "King of the Jews.' How strangely these familiar words fell upon the tired heart of Artaban. They had led him for a lifetime over land and sea. And now they came to him darkly and mysteriously like a message of despair. The king had been denied and cast out. He was now about to perish. Perhaps he was already dying. Could he be the same for whom the star had appeared thirty-three long years ago. Artaban's heart beat loudly within him. He thought, "The ways of God are stranger than the thoughts of men, and it may be that I shall yet find the King, and be able to ransom him from death by giving my treasure to his enemies." But as Artaban started toward Calvary he saw a troop of Macedonian soldiers coming down the street, dragging a sobbing young woman with torn dress and disheveled hair. As Artaban paused, she broke away from her tormentors and threw herself at his feet, her arms clasping around his knees. "Have pity on me, " she cried, "And save me, for the sake of the God of purity. My father was also of the Magi but he is dead, and I am to be sold as a slave to pay his debts." Artaban trembled as he again felt the old conflict arising in his soul. It was the same that he had experienced in the palm grove of Babylon and in the cottage at Bethlehem. Twice the gift which he had consecrated to the king had been drawn from his hand to the service of humanity. Would he now fail again. One thing was clear, he must rescue this helpless child from evil. He took the pearl from his bosom. Never had it seemed so luminous, so radiant, so full of tender, living luster. He laid it in the hand of the salve and said, "Daughter, this is the ransom. It is the last of my treasures which I had hoped to keep for the King." While he yet spoke, the darkness of the sky thickened and the shuddering tremors of an earthquake ran through the ground. The houses rocked. The soldiers fled in terror. Artaban sank beside a protecting wall. What had he to fear? What had he to hope for? He had given away the last remnant of his tribute to the King. The quest was over and he had failed. What else mattered? As one lingering pulsation of the earthquake quivered beneath him, a heavy tile, shaken from the roof, fell and struck him on the temple. He lay breathless and pale. The rescued girl leaned over him fearing that he was dead. Then there came a still, small voice through the twilight. It was like distant music. The notes were clear, but the girl could not understand the words. Then the lips of Artaban began to move, as if in answer and she heard him say, "Not so, my Lord; for when saw I thee hungered and fed thee? Or thirsty, and gave thee drink? When saw I thee a stranger and took thee in? Or naked, and clothed thee? When saw I thee sick or in prison, and came unto thee? Thirty-three years have I looked for thee; but I have never seen thy face, nor ministered unto thee, my King." As he ceased, the sweet voice came again. And again the maid heard it, very faintly and far away. But now she understood the words which said, "Verily, I say unto thee, that inasmuch as thou hast done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, thou hast done it unto me. "

Pattern of Love Author Unknown Every year at Christ-mas time, our Service Club takes the children from poor families in our town on a personally conducted shopping tour. I was assigned Timmy and Billy, whose father was out of work. After giving them the allotted $4.00 each, we began our trip. At different stores I made suggestions, but always their answer was a solemn shake of the head, no. Finally I asked, "Where would you suggest we look?" "Could we go to a shoe store, Sir?" answered Timmy. "We'd like a pair of shoes for our Daddy so he can go to work." In the shoe store the clerk asked what the boys wanted. Out came the brown paper. "We want a pair of work shoes to fit this foot," they said. Billy explained that it was a pattern of their Daddy's foot. They had drawn it while he was asleep in a chair. The clerk held the paper against a measuring stick, then walked away. Soon, he came back with an open box. "Will these do?" he asked. Timmy and Billy handled the shoes with great eagerness. "How much do they cost?" asked Billy. Then Timmy saw the price on the box. "They're $16.95," he said in dismay. "We only have $8.00." I looked at the clerk and he cleared his throat. "That's the regular price," he said, "but they're on sale; $3.98, today only." Then with shoes happily in hand the boys bought gifts for their mother and two little sisters. Not once did they think of themselves. The day after Christ-mas the boys' father stopped me on the street. The new shoes were on his feet, gratitude was in his eyes. "I just thank JESUS for people who care," he said. "And I thank JESUS for your two sons," I replied. "They taught me more about Christ-mas in one evening than I had learned in a lifetime."

A Precious Gift Author Unknown JESUS Christ, the Savior and the Son of God, appeared this Christ-mas season for a moment among the people of the world. Oh, of course, this was not the coming in which He will appear according to his promise at the end of time in all His heavenly glory, and which will be sudden "as lightning flashing from east to west." No, He visited the modern world briefly as if to catch the real spirit of man in his enlightened age. He came softly and unobserved, and appropriately, He came during the Christ-mas season. The multicolored lights and trappings, the green boughs of the Yule tree, the hasty greeting of the season, and the nervous movements of crowds flowing from store to store, all signified the approach of Christ-mas-tide. Perhaps the trace of a wry smile lightened His features as He thought of all this feverish activity. Truly, what was man celebrating and to what purpose? Supposedly they reveled in and paid homage to His birth. It mattered not so much that the time of celebration was altered from the actual event. What did matter was the spirit and intent engendered by the occasion. To determine the depth and direction of this spirit and intent was the purpose of His visit. He moved silently in our midst with a gentle countenance and a smile of infinite compassion . The sun of love burning in His heart; light and power shining from His eyes. Yet, to nearly all, He is unrecognized -- but not totally so. An old man, blind from childhood, passing in the throng, touched His garments and perceived His being. "O, Lord, heal me and I shall see," the old man cried. And as it were, scales fell from his eyes and the blind man saw. A child of the street, not too long from His heavenly presence, felt His influence and placed her tiny hand in His. This brief encounter with its silent exchange of knowing confidence and guileless love was reminiscent of similar occasions so long ago. The blind man and the child shared for a brief moment that the entire world sought but was too busy to recognize. He passed on through the madding throng, absorbing the moods of the occasion. A young couple stood in front of the music store. They were arguing rather heatedly over their financial status . These two, who were tenderly endeared to one another less than an hour ago, were now in real danger of losing that sweet feeling. "Oh, my children," thought the Savior." As if the true spirit of love was measured by the cost or size of a trinket." He recalled the story told of another couple -- the cutting of her hair to provide a watch chain -- and the sale of his watch to provide matching combs for her hair. Would that all lovers could feel this same spirit toward each other. He passed by the unhappy opponents, fleetingly touching each in turn. Her lowered eyes, jeweled with tears, raised to meet those of her mate. "I do love you." "And I, you," he replied. The young voices of a quartet elevated from the music store. The words: "All I want for Christ-mas is to keep the things I have." The Savior, seeking sanctuary from the milling shoppers, made His way into a building and became a spectator, with others, of the traditional first grade portrayal of His birth. Emerson School had enacted the nativity story each year since its founding. This year the presentation had proved like all the rest, a test for teachers to get the correct reactions from six-year-old shepherds and wise men. One problem had been particularly persistent. The little boy with the round face and the very tender heart had been asked to play the part of the inn keeper. Each practice, when the time came for him to deny the saintly Mary and the quiet Joseph a place to sleep, he would develop a quivering lip and finally break into tears. He was just not able to turn them away. Finally, the teacher in charge felt that an understanding had been reached. She had carefully explained to the weeping inn keeper that it wasn't really his fault that the inn was full. It was just completely sold out and there was nothing he could do about it. This explanation seemed to restore the necessary emotional balance and the nativity was presented. The crucial moment arrived when the inn keeper had to do this imperative duty. "There is no...," A quivering lip. ". . .room." A sob, a pause, and then a half smile. "But won't you come in for a drink of water?" There was little wonder in the Savior's heart as to why little children made up the bulk of His kingdom. The department store was large and stocked to overflowing with nearly every conceivable device and need of man. The Christ made his way through the mountains of merchandise that paled the remembrances of the Phoenician bazaars and trading ships of long ago. A knot of people in one corner of the store attracted His attention. A flaxen bearded man with a red suit and black boots sat on a chair at the head of a long line of children and parents. Santa Claus looked tired and JESUS felt a distinct kinship to him, for He understood how tiring a day of requests could be. Two little girls -- one six and the other about three -- made their way forward and jumped upon each knee of the whiskery union man. The usual pattern of question and answer followed. "And what do you want Santa to bring you this Christ-mas?" Instead of really listening to the replies, Santa was noticing the poor material and roughly patched clothing of the two. Stringy hair and pinched faces surrounded bright and expectant eyes. "And have you been good little girls?" Again, he failed to hear. Their stockings had long ago lost their elasticity and their shoes had disintegrated under the relentless wear given them. Santa gave each eager pair of hands the plastic bank the store had provided for each child as a memento of the occasion. But he couldn't seem to let the experience end here. He reached into his pocket and drew forth nine coins and proceeded to place them alternately in each bank. The intense childish eyes grew wide with excitement, and Santa saw what joy even his small offering was bringing. Each coin had been received with such delight that he wished each one could have been a hundred in number. Each child had four coins in her possession and a moment of decision had arrived -- what to do with the ninth? Santa asked, "And who should I give this last one to?" The older and more precocious spoke with little hesitation. "Give it to my little sister." The Savior saw the mist of emotion cloud the eyes of Santa Claus as he placed a kiss on two cheeks. The Redeemer left as He had come, quietly and unobserved. He had seen and felt some of the good and the bad of the world. But He left with a confidence that right would prevail. The jarring and contending of governments seemed to be offset by the inherent good will emanating from man to man. It is true that the excessive commercial drive and intent of the Christ-mas season reminded Him somewhat of the money changers in a past time, but the spirit of "giving" was everywhere prevalent and dominated the commercialism found in some quarters. He noticed, too, that often the true meaning of Christ-mas was submerged under fable and folly. And yet, the underlying strength of the real story permeated all the other and influenced it for good.

The Reason Author Unknown I was baby-sitting my four children while my wife had gone shopping. Baby-sitting to me is reading the paper while my wife had gone shopping. Baby-sitting to me is reading the paper while the kids mess up the house. Only that day I wasn't reading. I was fuming. On every other page of the paper there were glittering gifts and prancing reindeer. The only thing I was told was there were only six more days to buy presents. What, I asked myself indignantly, did this have to do with the birth of Christ? There was a knock on the door. Then Nancy's voice, "Daddy, we have a play to put on. Would you like to see it?" I didn't. But I have fatherly responsibilities so I followed her into the livingroom. Right away I knew it was a Christ-mas play for at the foot of the piano stool was a lighted flashlight wrapped in swaddling clothes lying an a shoebox. Rex, age six, came in wearing my bathrobe and carrying a mop handle. He sat on the stool and looked at the flashlight. Nancy, age ten, draped a sheet over her head. stood behind Rex, and began, "I'm Mary and this boy is Joseph." Usually in this play Joseph stands up and Mary sits down, but Mary sitting down is taller than Joseph standing up so we thought it looked better this way." Enter Trudy, age four, at a full run. There were pillowcases over her arms. She spread them wide and said only "I'm an angel." Then came Ann, age eight. I knew she was a wise man because she had on her mother's high heels and walked like she was a wise man riding a camel. On a pillow she carried three items, undoubtedly gold, frankincense, and myrrh. She walked across the room and announced, "I'm all three wisemen. I bring precious gifts: gold, circumstance, and mud." That was all. The play was over. I didn't laugh, I prayed. How near the truth Ann was. We come at Christ-mas burdened down with gold, with the showy gifts and the tinselly tree. Under the circumstance we can do no other. And it really does seem a bit like mud when you think about it. But my children saw through the earthly and found the real reason for Christ-mas -- to celebrate the birth of JESUS Christ.

Rediscovering the Christ-mas Spirit by Barbara Werrett Nielsen 'Twas the season, and as Ann shuffled her list of "Things to do Wednesday," "Things to do Thursday," and "Things that should have been done yesterday," she wondered, "'Tis the season for what? For tired feet, volumes of extra work, and a myriad of things to remember!" She knew she had lost control of her "season" when she found herself the night before screaming down to the children in the living room, "And don't touch those packages, or I'll blister your bottoms 'til you look like a Solarcaine ad!" It had sounded so funny to nine-year-old Cindy, but she hadn't dared to laugh after taking one look at her mother's face. Ann returned for the nineteenth time to her cookie-making. "I hate to make cookies at nine o'clock at night!" she thought, miserably, as she tried to erase thoughts of her comfortable bed from her mind. Bart had come in from school and announced that he needed twenty-four cookies for kindergarten. She had made a mental note. But mental notes don't taste very good, so after the children were all fed and bathed and their daddy (lucky man) had escaped to a meeting, Ann had tackled the cookies--and had told herself that if she really "got into it," she would enjoy it. She had not enjoyed it. Just as she was about to drop the dough onto the cookie sheet, Angela had announced that she, too, would sure like to take cookies to her preschool Christ-mas party, and Ann had suddenly remembered the note asking mothers to help with the refreshments. She sighed, and removed all the ingredients once more from the cupboards so she could double the batch. At the precise moment that she slid the last tray of cookies into the oven, first-grader Jed had announced that he was supposed to take two dozen cookies to school in the morning. "That was the moment," Ann thought, clenching her teeth, "the precise moment that I lost the Christ-mas spirit!" On the counter in Ann's kitchen were another unread newspaper, two issues of the Church News (she felt it a sin of omission not to read at least the back page), a pair of shoelaces that had to be threaded into Rhett's shoes before he outgrew them, and four Christ-mas cards that had arrived that day (the very day she had finished mailing out her Christ-mas cards). She jotted down on her list of "Things to do on Wednesday" to mail out four more Christ-mas cards. Why is it, she mused, that just as you finish mailing out Christ-mas cards, you get a handful in the mail--all from people you forgot to send cards to? The same thing happens on neighborhood treats, she remembered- -you no sooner bake a Christ-mas pie for all the neighbors than three more families have the audacity to move in to the neighborhood! Ann's life seemed mirrored in the pile of "Things To Do" she had growing on her counter. There was the list of fourteen new Primary children, all of whom she personally needed to welcome to Primary. And that reminded her of the sixty-two miniature nativity scenes she had cut out, but not yet assembled, for her Primary children. "Birthdays should be outlawed in December!" she grumbled, wrapping a gift for her six-year-old's friend's party. "But," she mused with a tired smile, "I guess that would eliminate two of my children, and that's not such a good idea." She had a play to finish writing for the Warner family party, a half- decorated Christ-mas broom for her aging grandmother, and twenty-four separate doll clothes cut out for her daughters' four dolls. (And Rhett had just asked her to make his Gremlin a pair of Levis. "I must look like Betsy Ross!" she had wailed.) The days sped by, and Ann's pile of "Things To Do" grew on her counter at a frightening rate. "I wish Fisher-Price toys proliferated like this mess on my counter!" she had cried out in a moment of utter frustration. Nine-year-old Cindy left the room, hiding a giggle behind her hand. Finally, there came a day, very close to Christ-mas, that the pile on the counter began to disappear. Ann had finished up all the millions of details that seemed to sap her of her Christ-mas spirit. The birthday parties had been attended, and each child had left happy--present under arm, confident that they had mattered enough for their mother to supply the gift, brush the hair, throw the gum away, and get them there, somehow, on time. The party announcements could be thrown away! The message from the Relief Society president about the Hansen family had been attended to--Ann had taken over a casserole and a box of toys. She threw the message away. She threw away the tickets to the ball game she and her husband had missed because of the caroling party they had attended instead. They had caroled at the old folks' home on Spencer Street. A note she had written in red magic marker and hung on the kitchen counter for months--WRITE YOUR MISSIONARIES!--was thrown in the bathroom garbage on her way out to the mailbox with their Happy New Year cards. "Better late than never," she thought, glad to have finally accomplished that task. Little by little, task by task, Ann had waded through her "Things To Do" pile on the kitchen counter--and it was now three a.m. on Christ-mas morning. She had tossed and turned for two hours, too tired to sleep, and had finally decided to investigate the strange light emitting from the living room. As she came down the hall, she realized the light came from the Christ-mas tree. "Utah Power and Light Company thanks you once again, children," she mumbled, bending to pull the plug on the glowing balls of red and green. But just then she decided she might as well sit and enjoy the tree rather than toss and turn in bed. She noticed the power switch to the stereo had also been left on, and she decided to treat herself, at long last, to some of her favorite Christ-mas songs. She chose Handel's "Messiah." As the sweet words "for unto us a child is born, unto us a child is given" reached the corners of her tender heart, great tears welled up in her eyes. "I'm afraid I haven't taken much time to think about the real meaning of Christ-mas," she mumbled apologetically. But then, a thousand images crowded into her mind. She saw her little children with presents tucked under their arms, happily skipping to their neighbors' birthday parties. She saw her grandmother's smile as she received the broom Ann had made -- and she remembered the aged fingers happily placing the broom on the front door to welcome her holiday guests, perhaps for her last Christ-mas. Ann smiled as she remembered the amateurish production of her family play, and the giggles of the wise men and the awkward announcement of the three-year-old innkeeper, saying, "There is no room in this inn." And she remembered how her father-in-law had put his arm around her waist and thanked her for taking the time to write them a play. She remembered how proud her children had been to take her cookies to school--baked, under duress, at nine p.m. She thought with anticipation how each of her little girls would love those soft, fluffy new doll clothes when they opened their gifts in just a few short hours--and she was glad, so glad, she had taken the time to make them. She re-read a Christ-mas card, sent from a friend who had long ago lost her address: "Dear Ann and Kenneth, Thank you so much for writing to us! We think of you often. Isn't Christ-mas a wonderful time of year!" She thought of all her neighbors, whom she rarely saw in the wintertime, and how they had welcomed her as she came bearing pies; she remembered the warmth of their friendship, and the feeling that welled up inside of her because she had taken the time to reach out. She let her mind wander to the far-off countries where each missionary in her ward labored -- and where each would, in the next few weeks, receive her cheerful New Year's cards. She hoped that when her own sons served missions, others would take the time to cheer them, too. She lingered on the remembered faces of those dear elderly people she and her husband had caroled to on Spencer Street. One woman had clasped her hand and whispered, "You remind me so of my daughter. It's been like having her back for a time, just to watch you sing." Her mind raced back to the Hansen home, and how she and her next-door neighbor had cleaned up the house, delivered the casserole, and distributed the toys to the excited children. "I wish I had bought them better toys," she sighed. The music enveloped her, and she pushed her head back, far into the cushion of the couch. "I don't think I have ever just relaxed on this couch," she thought, as her eyes surveyed the pleasant room that was hers to clean, entertain in, have family home evening in, but never relax in. Then her eyes rested on a homemade envelope, addressed to "The Best Mommy in the World." Inside was a coupon in third-grade cursive writing: "Good for one day of tending the baby, so you won't have to be so busy. Love, Cindy." Her record on the stereo had reached the "Hallelujah Chorus," and with tears dropping from joyful eyes, Ann held the coupon to her cheek and thought of the sixty-two nativity scenes she had made for each Primary child. The love and contentment of the Spirit of Christ entered her heart. "Oh, Lord," she said aloud. "I was afraid I had lost the spirit of Christ-mas. But I didn't lose it. It was there all the time, in the pile of things to do on my kitchen counter. It was there all the time! I just didn't have time to notice it until now."

Santa vs JESUS Author Unknown Santa lives at the North Pole... JESUS is everywhere. Santa rides in a sleigh... JESUS rides on the wind and walks on the water. Santa comes but once a year... JESUS is an ever-present help. Santa fills your stockings with goodies... JESUS supplies ALL of your needs. Santa comes down your chimney uninvited... JESUS stands at your door and knocks, and waits to enter your heart. You have to wait in line to see Santa... JESUS is as close as the mention of His name. Santa lets you sit on his lap... JESUS lets you rest in His arms. Santa doesn't know your name, all he can say is, "My little boy or girl, what's your name?"... JESUS knew our name before we did. Not only does He know our name, He knows our address too. He knows our history and future and He even knows how many hairs are on our heads. Santa has a belly like a bowl full of jelly... JESUS has a heart full of love. All Santa can offer is HO HO HO... JESUS offers love, health, help and hope. While Santa says, "You better not cry"... JESUS says "Cast all your cares on me for I care for you." Santa's little helpers make toys... JESUS makes new life, mends wounded hearts, repairs broken homes and builds mansions. Santa may make you chuckle but... JESUS gives you joy that is your strength. While Santa puts gifts under your tree... JESUS became our gift and died on the tree Its obvious there is really no comparison. We need to remember WHO Christ-mas is all about. We need to put Christ back in Christ-mas, JESUS is still the reason for the season. Yes, JESUS is better, he is even better than Santa Claus! "Unto you is born this day... A Saviour which is Christ the Lord!"

Silent Night, Selfless Night by Tom Connolly A cold trickle of sweat flowed down my spine beneath my dilapidated, old coat. My face and hands were frozen by frigid winter wind. Like a surrealistic movie, Colonial Drive, normally the busiest street in Orlando, was void of all life, except me. That ride around town at four o'clock in the morning on December 25 on the rickety old adult tricycle that we used as transportation, made Christmas of 1977 my strangest, and most wonderful, one ever. I had never gone a whole year without a job before. Just getting food on the table was a real challenge. During the summer we had sold our car to tide us over, but that cash was gone before October. The thought of Christmas and all those gifts we felt we had to give just to save face in the family made me sick. Somehow we managed to get something for everyone. On Christmas Eve I had a few bucks in my pocket and just one name left on my gift list, my eight year old daughter, Cathy. I saved the best for last. Cathy was fun to buy for. What real father doesn't love to make his kid happy at Christmas. We had a big department store that never closed sitting right across the street from our apartment house. I knew they had been dropping prices on everything all week. I would slip over there after Christmas Eve late night church service and get the best values of the year. Cathy wouldn't care that I saved a bundle on her presents, as long as she got a bunch of them. The Midnight service on Christmas Eve was beautiful. One of the preachers read the genealogy of the Christ child, Matthew 1: 1-16. Then there was an explosion of wonderment as the church orchestra burst into "Joy To the World". every door the worship hall flew open and the choir streamed in from all directions. The last one in the center door was a twelve year old girl, dressed in white and gold and pride, carrying the Christ Child to the manger in the front of the church. An hour and a half later we were told to go in peace. In 1977, however, that peace was flushed out of me as soon as we got out the door. The big department store that never closed was dark and cold and bare. And I had nothing to give my daughter for Christmas. I tried to shrug it off. I had done the best I could. Christmas would have to wait one more day. In fact, I could get her even bigger and better gifts at the after Christmas sales. Cathy would understand. I knew she would. Cathy was alive with pre-Christmas excitement as we tucked her in bed. Can there be any greater expression of pure joy than the gleefully dancing eyes of an expectation filled child on Christmas Eve. She flew through her bedtime prayers and then, with slow and deliberate urgency, she reiterated her Christmas wish list one last time -- just in case we had not memorized it, word for word, in the preceding weeks. She swore that she would never ever get to sleep that night. Christmas Eve was just too wonderful for sleeping. Within minutes, however, the urge for slumber overtook her. Sleep would not come that easy for me. Hour after hour I tried to purge enough guilt and remorse to make room for sleep, but this time I couldn't do it. Cathy would understand. I knew she would. She always understood when I let her down. But this time was different. This was Christmas. Cathy would understand -- but would I? Not long after 3:00 AM I gave up all hope of getting some sleep. God only knew what I could do about this latest mess that I had created, but I had to do something. I threw on as many layers of clothing as I could, put on that rag that I jokingly called a coat, unlocked our tricycle and dragged it out to the street, and set off searching for any sign of Christmas. Even as cold and frustrated as I was, I discovered a sort of peace as I rolled through the city. I kept thinking of that old Christmas Hymn, Silent Night. It was silent out there. I couldn't see a single car or truck or dog or cat or any other living creature. It must have been sort of like this on that night 2000 years ago when this whole Christmas thing got started. They were out searching, too. They were looking for a warm place to sleep. I HAD a warm place to sleep, I just forgot to buy a present for the kid. I really felt stupid, but then I remembered the wise men. They too, were out in the cold that night --- bringing special gifts to a special child. Still, it was getting late and I was not proving or accomplishing a thing with this post midnight excursion. Then, of on a side road, I spotted a neon light in a window. I couldn't believe it! I found a place to Christmas shop! I'm not sure who was more shocked, me - when I found an open store, or the elderly storekeeper - when she discovered that she had a customer. "Merry Christmas!" She bellowed. "What the heck do you want?" I blurted out my story of frustration and procrastination. The store was very small and I could tell that I wasn't going to get much shopping done here. I asked the clerk if she know someplace ... anyplace ... where I could get a gift or two for my daughter. The old woman thought about it for just a few moments, then she spoke up. "Mister, you must be the dumbest man who ever walked the face of the earth! Don't you know enough to take care of your kid FIRST at Christmas?" I wanted to give a snappy response, but there really was nothing I could say. She was right. "Never mind" she consoled, "Let's see what we can find around here." In the twinkling of an eye, she had a stack of goodies assembled on the front counter. There was a balsa wood toy airplane, a bag of jacks, about 50 marbles, a red and green yo-yo, 5 comic books, a pack of juicy fruit gum, 2 candy bars, a little box of cookies and some peanut butter crackers. Then, like an artist planing the final touches on a great masterpiece, the elderly elf stood back and surveyed her mound of Christmas cheer. "Something is missing." She muttered to herself. With sudden inspiration she dashed across the store to a little refrigerator tucked off in a corner behind the counter. "Doc says fresh fruit is good for me. I say it gives me gas. Your kid will enjoy these much better that I would." With that said, she pulled an apple, an orange, and a banana out of the brown paper bag that I'm sure held her lunch. I couldn't believe this saint had pulled together so many little gifts in such a tiny store. "This reminds me of the Christmas stockings I got when I was a kid." I reminisced. "Back when Christmas really meant something." she added. "It still does to some people. I know this one will mean a lot to me. I doubt if I'll ever forget it." "No, you won't." The shopkeeper said softly. "Nether one of us will forget this for a long time." I paid for my treasures and started out the door. "Look, stupid!" she yelled, reverting back to her original rough manner. "Your brat ain't going to enjoy this junk one bit if you freeze to death on the way home." She tossed a heavy brown coat at me. "Get this back to me before June." She barked. "These things ain't cheap! The winter wind was just as cold, if not colder on the way home, but I was warm clear down to the heart. I got back to the apartment just before 7:00. I rushed to finish stuffing Cathy's stocking. I could hear the kid stirring in her room, just waiting for any excuse to explode from the door into Christmas. As I called her into the room, a scream of "Merry Christmas!" flew past me as she headed straight for her stocking. She laughed, and chirped, and cooed and sighed as she examined each and every novelty. When, at last, the stocking was empty and Christmas joy littered the living room, she crawled into my lap and gave me the kind of hug that only a daughter can give. "I love you, Daddy." She whispered as she brushed a teardrop from my cheek. "You look tired. Why don't you get some rest? I'll go put the tricycle away." © 1996-2000 by Tom Connolly All rights reserved.

The Snowdrop by Hans Christian Andersen It was winter-time; the air was cold, the wind was sharp, but within the closed doors it was warm and comfortable, and within the closed door lay the flower; it lay in the bulb under the snow-covered earth. One day rain fell. The drops penetrated through the snowy covering down into the earth, and touched the flower-bulb, and talked of the bright world above. Soon the Sunbeam pierced its way through the snow to the root, and within the root there was a stirring. "Come in," said the flower. "I cannot," said the Sunbeam. "I am not strong enough to unlock the door! When the summer comes I shall be strong!" "When will it be summer?" asked the Flower, and she repeated this question each time a new sunbeam made its way down to her. But the summer was yet far distant. The snow still lay upon the ground, and there was a coat of ice on the water every night. "What a long time it takes! what a long time it takes!" said the Flower. "I feel a stirring and striving within me; I must stretch myself, I must unlock the door, I must get out, and must nod a good morning to the summer, and what a happy time that will be!" And the Flower stirred and stretched itself within the thin rind which the water had softened from without, and the snow and the earth had warmed, and the Sunbeam had knocked at; and it shot forth under the snow with a greenish-white blossom on a green stalk, with narrow thick leaves, which seemed to want to protect it. The snow was cold, but was pierced by the Sunbeam, therefore it was easy to get through it, and now the Sunbeam came with greater strength than before. "Welcome, welcome!" sang and sounded every ray, and the Flower lifted itself up over the snow into the brighter world. The Sunbeams caressed and kissed it, so that it opened altogether, white as snow, and ornamented with green stripes. It bent its head in joy and humility. "Beautiful Flower!" said the Sunbeams, "how graceful and delicate you are! You are the first, you are the only one! You are our love! You are the bell that rings out for summer, beautiful summer, over country and town. All the snow will melt; the cold winds will be driven away; we shall rule; all will become green, and then you will have companions, syringas, laburnums, and roses; but you are the first, so graceful, so delicate!" That was a great pleasure. It seemed as if the air were singing and sounding, as if rays of light were piercing through the leaves and the stalks of the Flower. There it stood, so delicate and so easily broken, and yet so strong in its young beauty; it stood there in its white dress with the green stripes, and made a summer. But there was a long time yet to the summer-time. Clouds hid the sun, and bleak winds were blowing. "You have come too early," said Wind and Weather. "We have still the power, and you shall feel it, and give it up to us. You should have stayed quietly at home and not have run out to make a display of yourself. Your time is not come yet!" It was a cutting cold! The days which now come brought not a single sunbeam. It was weather that might break such a little Flower in two with cold. But the Flower had more strength than she herself knew of. She was strong in joy and in faith in the summer, which would be sure to come, which had been announced by her deep longing and confirmed by the warm sunlight; and so she remained standing in confidence in the snow in her white garment, bending her head even while the snow-flakes fell thick and heavy, and the icy winds swept over her. "You'll break!" they said, "and fade, and fade! What did you want out here? Why did you let yourself be tempted? The Sunbeam only made game of you. Now you have what you deserve, you summer gauk." "Summer gauk!" she repeated in the cold morning hour. "O summer gauk!" cried some children rejoicingly; "yonder stands one- how beautiful, how beautiful! The first one, the only one!" These words did the Flower so much good, they seemed to her like warm sunbeams. In her joy the Flower did not even feel when it was broken off. It lay in a child's hand, and was kissed by a child's mouth, and carried into a warm room, and looked on by gentle eyes, and put into water. How strengthening, how invigorating! The Flower thought she had suddenly come upon the summer. The daughter of the house, a beautiful little girl, was confirmed, and she had a friend who was confirmed, too. He was studying for an examination for an appointment. "He shall be my summer gauk," she said; and she took the delicate Flower and laid it in a piece of scented paper, on which verses were written, beginning with summer gauk and ending with summer gauk. "My friend, be a winter gauk." She had twitted him with the summer. Yes, all this was in the verses, and the paper was folded up like a letter, and the Flower was folded in the letter, too. It was dark around her, dark as in those days when she lay hidden in the bulb. The Flower went forth on her journey, and lay in the post-bag, and was pressed and crushed, which was not at all pleasant; but that soon came to an end. The journey was over; the letter was opened, and read by the dear friend. How pleased he was! He kissed the letter, and it was laid, with its enclosure of verses, in a box, in which there were many beautiful verses, but all of them without flowers; she was the first, the only one, as the Sunbeams had called her; and it was a pleasant thing to think of that. She had time enough, moreover, to think about it; she thought of it while the summer passed away, and the long winter went by, and the summer came again, before she appeared once more. But now the young man was not pleased at all. He took hold of the letter very roughly, and threw the verses away, so that the Flower fell on the ground. Flat and faded she certainly was, but why should she be thrown on the ground? Still, it was better to be here than in the fire, where the verses and the paper were being burnt to ashes. What had happened? What happens so often:- the Flower had made a gauk of him, that was a jest; the girl had made a fool of him, that was no jest, she had, during the summer, chosen another friend. Next morning the sun shone in upon the little flattened Snowdrop, that looked as if it had been painted upon the floor. The servant girl, who was sweeping out the room, picked it up, and laid it in one of the books which were upon the table, in the belief that it must have fallen out while the room was being arranged. Again the flower lay among verses--printed verses--and they are better than written ones- at least, more money has been spent upon them. And after this years went by. The book stood upon the book-shelf, and then it was taken up and somebody read out of it. It was a good book; verses and songs by the old Danish poet, Ambrosius Stub, which are well worth reading. The man who was now reading the book turned over a page. "Why, there's a flower!" he said; "a snowdrop, a summer gauk, a poet gauk! That flower must have been put in there with a meaning! Poor Ambrosius Stub! he was a summer fool too, a poet fool; he came too early, before his time, and therefore he had to taste the sharp winds, and wander about as a guest from one noble landed proprietor to another, like a flower in a glass of water, a flower in rhymed verses! Summer fool, winter fool, fun and folly- but the first, the only, the fresh young Danish poet of those days. Yes, thou shalt remain as a token in the book, thou little snowdrop: thou hast been put there with a meaning." And so the Snowdrop was put back into the book, and felt equally honored and pleased to know that it was a token in the glorious book of songs, and that he who was the first to sing and to write had been also a snowdrop, had been a summer gauk, and had been looked upon in the winter-time as a fool. The Flower understood this, in her way, as we interpret everything in our way. That is the story of the Snowdrop.

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