SILENT NIGHT IN THE WIND
It was Christmas? It happened nearly 50 years ago, but what an impact on my memory. My dad is one in a million, but that Christmas he was one in a universe.
There were seven of us children, anticipating our Christmas Eve social, which was held annually in our little community. We were chattering and laughing incoherently even though this was our fist Christmas without Mama and money.
**********
As my dad helped us button our coats, my heart was singing. His was breaking. But his smile was deceiving. How well I remember him tenderly placing us on our long, homemade sleigh and pulling us to the church about a mile away. I remember him marching straight ahead with his shoulders back and chin up-I know now he was stepping off into something that took a lot of courage. As grown-ups, we draw on these memories s a source of strength. It was snowing. How good it felt on our faces. We held tight to each other, and above the church of snow beneath Father's feet, we could hear him softly whistling "Silent Night." Like magic, my unglued world was coming together.
How could a girl of nine, spilling with Christmas delight, possibly know the inner turmoil my care-worn dad was silently suffering? Mama had gone to the great Beyond that previous summer. She had been confined to her bed for three years. We were so poor, so dad had assumed all father-mother responsibilities, as well as being Mama's nurse. He would leave his blacksmith shop hourly to check on her and us kids. His patience and love for Mam were a beacon of inspiration to us. Many times I saw him affectionately carrying her in his strong arms.
I remember his standing me on a stool by our big round kitchen table and teaching me to mix bread. I also learned how to turn the handle of our old wooden churn, while anticipating the miracle that was always performed inside. I got quite proficient at working the butter with the old wooden paddle, then pressing it into the round mold. He taught me many household duties, but none as vivid as helping Mama. I was her feet. I carted her food and water and helped her bathe. I delivered handmade gifts all over the community-from Mama. I don't think she ever missed a birthday, a wedding or a new baby. Then came that June day, her birthday, when God gave her the blessed gift of relief. My dad was left to keep us alive physically, mentally and spiritually.
In August following Mama's death came our big fire. Our barns, sheds, straw and hay stacks, as well as our livestock were caught in the path of the fiery destruction leaving only a charred, smoldering heap. Fear and horror raced through my veins. But the most indelible part of all was my dad. While his world was crumbling to ashes, he was trying to rescue ours. He had a way of calming the tempest.
Now Christmas was upon him. We weren't even aware of how poor we were or of his Gethsemane. I felt his superior strength that night was he pulled the sleigh carrying his precious cargo.
The only thing I remember about the social was all the children clamoring to tell Santa what they wanted for Christmas. But the sleigh ride was an imprinted memory. It was special therapy that brought a kind of peace I hadn't known for years.
Later in our front room around our pot-bellied stove, Dad served us warm milk bread. Our little Christmas tree, brought from the nearby hills, adorned one corner. Strings of our home-raised popcorn made it the most beautiful tree I had ever seen or smelled.
Then dad told us he was ready to give us our Christmas gift. We thought he should wait until morning, but he in his wisdom knew now was the time. We sat in wonderment. Seven of us waiting for Dad's gift.
Then he started talking. His gift flowed freely and clear from his lips. He told us how much he loved us and how much we meant to him. Then he told us of the Christ child. Never have I heard such a story! He brought it to life! He gave it purpose and meaning. Why Webster couldn't define the beauty of the gift he planted in our hearts that night. That gift of love, gratitude and peace is still mine. The light and warmth of the room was curiously powerful. We felt Mama's presence. We learned that loving someone was far more important than having something. I knew the true meaning of Christmas? We knelt together in a most humble family prayer, and we thanked God for his gift to us the Savior of our world. Outside, the world was singing "Silent Night" as our dad tucked us in bed.
Christmas day was a most special day. Dad had made each of us a little gift and hung it on the tree while we slept. Our Christmas dinner consisted of home-cured bacon and milk gravy. And had a way of making a one-dish meal tasted like a seven course dinner. Our happiness knew no bounds. Many times since, my memory has been my Bethlehem star. I have heard "Silent Night" in the wind and have smelled bacon while my turkey was cooking. But best of all an occasional glimpse of Christ shining in my 90-year old father's face.
Showing posts with label 12 days of Christmas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 12 days of Christmas. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Monday, December 22, 2008
The Gift of Life
The Greatest Yule Gift of All
It was Christmas Eve, 1923, when the incident took place. It was back on our farm in Orange, PA. I was a 7 year old girl then. After all the evidence people still didn't believe it happened, but it did.
"We need more firewood," I can again hear my mother saying to my father. "In a week it will be Christmas Eve. When you're sitting pretty smoking your pipe in front of your fire with no more logs to burn, you'll get angry at me."
"Woman" he replied, "I'll fetch your fire wood." My father bundled himself up, took his rifle, walked to the barn for his ax and saw and hitched up the horse to the sled. "Can I come along?" I shyly asked.
It was a bright day. My father was in a good mood. "Ah, my Tessie, my sweet Tessie, yes come along if you wish."
The horse pulled the sled through the snow covered forest. My father knew where a few fallen tress were located. He found the dried logs under snow and quickly went to work.
Suddenly there was a stillness. I no longer heard my father chopping or sawing fire wood. When I looked up, I saw him standing motionless and silently staring. I followed the direction of his eyes.
At first, I thought the figure was a dog, but from my father's seriousness I knew it must be something more. Then my father broke his stillness and went to the sled for his rifle. I looked at the grey orange animal standing in the clearing, staring at my father and me. I was not moving but not afraid. I said to my father, "What is it Daddy?"
"It's a wolf honey. They've been gone from this area for 50 years but there it stands."
"What do you plan to do?"
"Shoot it, so don't move."
I watched as my father got into position and raised his rifle. Even at seven I knew what killing was all about. I walked beside him and pulled on his jacket.
"Honey, don't do that!"
"But Daddy," I said, "why are you shooting it ?" "Why are you shooting the pretty dog?"
"It's not a dog, hone, it's a wolf."
"But the wolf isn't harming us, daddy."
I watched as my father looked back at the wolf, then down at me. There were no livestock missing at our place.
"I suppose you're right, Tess."
I gazed at the wolf. It was still standing there strangely, almost mystically staring.
"Your lucky wolf, that Tess was here today to protect you."
The wolf boldly took a last look at my father and me, then scampered away up into the deep forest.
My father said nothing more. He returned to his work, finished and we rode home.
On Christmas Eve, our house was ready. The relatives started arriving and there was kissing, hugging and gifts exchanged. Yet, I was getting bored with all the commotion. What I wanted to do was open my gifts which were under the tree, but mother said I had to wait.
I asked "Mommy, can I go out and play for a while?"
She was occupied with other matters. "All right, but stay around the house. Your father says a storm's coming."
I bundled myself up and was quickly out in the Christmas Eve snow. I wandered toward the woods. Before I realized it, night was nearly upon me. It was a silent twilight, then suddenly the storm hit. One second the forest was calm and peaceful, and the next the wind was blowing heavily falling snow in my face, blinding me. The wind was biting. It was getting colder and darker. I started immediately for home, but every step was a struggle. I kept walking for what seemed like hours, and finally in desperation I started shouting "Mommy, Daddy, help me"
I don't know how long I walked around that night in the hills of Orange, but finally exhausted, I stumbled under pine tree branches and closed my eyes. I was still too young to understand such concepts as death, so I didn't know I was dying, I was slowly freezing to death.
Suddenly I felt a strange weight upon me, and also a welcome warmth. It was an effort to open my eyes, but when I did I thought someone had covered me with some sort of grey orange blanket. But then I saw that it wasn't a blanket, but the dog my father and I had seen the week before-the dog my father had called a wolf.
Strangely, I wasn't frightened, but relieved that I wasn't cold any more. The heat the animal gave off started to warm me while the cruel Pennsylvania blizzard blew. On that Christmas Eve, I was rocked gently to sleep by the heat of the animal my father had almost shot.
The next time I opened my eyes, I heard my father's voice calling, "Tessie, Tessie."
It was light out. The wind was no longer blowing and the snow had stopped.
Then I saw the wolf. It was standing near me, shaking the snow off it's back. Suddenly it's ears shot straight up as my father's voice called out again.
The wolf took one last glance at me, then quickly disappeared.
"Daddy," I said weakly, "here."
I saw my father's face staring down at me. He was crying. He said, "Thank God she's still alive."
When I opened my eyes again, I as in my own bed, warm at last. My mother was sitting at the side of the bed, gently stroking my forehead. My father was standing by her, and he said, "It's a miracle she's alive. But all practical reasoning, she should have frozen out there."
"The dog, Daddy," I said weakly, "The dog we saw in the woods. When you were chopping and sawing, Daddy. The dog was with me. The dog kept me warm all through the night."
"She's saying a wolf kept her alive? The day we went wood cutting and she came along, she stopped me from shooting a wolf. I think she is saying the wolf kept her warm through the night."
"Yes," I said, "It was the wolf."
"Impossible" my mother said
"There's only one way to find out." my father replied. "I'm going back to the place where I found her."
When he returned, he confirmed my story. Indeed, he had found a wolf's tracks there.
I've never forgotten that Christmas Eve with the wolf warming me and rocking me gently to slepp in that bitter blizzard, giving me the greatest Christmas gift of all-life.
The Gift of Kindness
The Gift
Jan Cook and her husband lived for three years in Africa, in deepest Africa where "The Gods Must Be Crazy" was filmed. His work had taken them and their three small children there, and any church meetings they attended took place in their own living room with only themselves as participants. By their third Christmas, Jan was very homesick. She confessed this to a good friend, a Mennonite. Jan told her how she missed her own people, their traditions, even song. Her friend sympathized and invited her to go with her next month to the Christmas services being held in the only Protestant Church in the area, saying that there would be a reunion there of all the Mennonite missionaries on the continent.
It took some talking for Jan to persuade her husband, but there they were, being swept genially to the front of the small chapel. It felt good, being in a church again on Christmas. The minister gave a valuable sermon on Christ; the congregation sang familiar carols with great vitality. Then at the very end of the meeting, a choir of Mennonite missionaries from all over Africa rose from their benches and made their way to stand just in front of Jan and her family. Without a word, they began singing. Without a leader, without music, without text, they sang "Come, Come, Ye Saints." Every verse.
Disbelieving, totally taken by surprise, Jan and her husband drenched the fronts of their Sunday best with being carried home on Christmas. When the choir finished, Jan's friend said simply. "For you, our gift."
Jan's Mennonite friend had sent to Salt Lake City for the music to the hymn that she knew Jan loved. She had it duplicated and distributed to every Mennonite missionary in Africa. They, in turn, had learned it very carefully in order to bring the spirit of Christ to their own reunion, where foreigners to their faith would be waiting to hear.
Emma Lou Tayne
Jan Cook and her husband lived for three years in Africa, in deepest Africa where "The Gods Must Be Crazy" was filmed. His work had taken them and their three small children there, and any church meetings they attended took place in their own living room with only themselves as participants. By their third Christmas, Jan was very homesick. She confessed this to a good friend, a Mennonite. Jan told her how she missed her own people, their traditions, even song. Her friend sympathized and invited her to go with her next month to the Christmas services being held in the only Protestant Church in the area, saying that there would be a reunion there of all the Mennonite missionaries on the continent.
It took some talking for Jan to persuade her husband, but there they were, being swept genially to the front of the small chapel. It felt good, being in a church again on Christmas. The minister gave a valuable sermon on Christ; the congregation sang familiar carols with great vitality. Then at the very end of the meeting, a choir of Mennonite missionaries from all over Africa rose from their benches and made their way to stand just in front of Jan and her family. Without a word, they began singing. Without a leader, without music, without text, they sang "Come, Come, Ye Saints." Every verse.
Disbelieving, totally taken by surprise, Jan and her husband drenched the fronts of their Sunday best with being carried home on Christmas. When the choir finished, Jan's friend said simply. "For you, our gift."
Jan's Mennonite friend had sent to Salt Lake City for the music to the hymn that she knew Jan loved. She had it duplicated and distributed to every Mennonite missionary in Africa. They, in turn, had learned it very carefully in order to bring the spirit of Christ to their own reunion, where foreigners to their faith would be waiting to hear.
Emma Lou Tayne
The Gift of Brotherhood
The Carol That Never Was Sung
The first Christmas Eve, of course, was a very important event.
The birthday of the Child called for the biggest celebration the Heavenly
Hosts had ever had. Even the Carols, held in reserve for ages for some
really special even, would be sung.
The choir was to be one of Heaven's very best, with some exceptionally
rich angelic tenors and basses brought in from the glee club to help out.
All the stars had been rubbed with special polish, and one brand-new star
added just for the occasion. The Carols were quite puffed up with pride
and excitement, and they all promised solemnly to be on hand in plenty
of time.
On the great night, everything went off fine. The stars shone as they
never shone before, the angel choir outdid itself in pageants of joy, and the
Carols were a great success. There was only one little flaw, and hardly anyone
even noticed it. One of the Carols didn't get there in time.
In fact, it didn't get there at all. It was quite a sweet Carol, the angel singers told each other a little sadly. It had been a pity not to have sung it.
The Carol was very penitent. It had stopped on the way, it explained vaguely. Something had got its attention, and it had stopped and been late. Questioning by the choirmaster produced little more. The Carol got vaguer and vaguer as the questions became sharper and sharper.
Only one thing it seemed sure of. It would never happen again, the Carol promised. But it did every year.
And finally when nearly twenty long centuries had gone by with the last Carol still not sung, they brought the situation to the Throne Room. There they explained more in sorrow than in anger, about the Carol that was always late. Then, at a sign, they left and the last Carol was summoned. The last Carol was ashamed and frightened and hung its head as it stood in the Throne Room and explained with no more vagueness why it had been late.
Each year had been something different, it admitted. Sometimes it had been a man in a dungeon. Often it had been men and women whose spirits had fallen low in the face of great obstacles, whose faith in love was almost extinguished and who could not join in the rejoicing over the Child's birthday. Always explained the Carol simply, it had seemed important to stop with these for awhile, and somehow it had always meant being late.
"But next year....began the Carol, but the voice from the Throne interrupted.
"Next year," said the Voice, "you will do as you have done. Next year and for any years to come. For you are the Carol that must be voiceless until all men sing together in a mighty chorus that covers the earth. Only in the heart of men who have seen the vision." Said the voice, "can you honor the Child, until all men love each other as He loved them."
"Then," said the Carol wistfully, "must I be silent forever?" "Not so," said the Voice and the full choir of angels had never sounded so richly majestic. "They flee from it in fear
and greed, but with their fear there is a shame, and through their greed shines love. One day they will cast out their fear and let love lead them into the rich habitation I have prepared for them. "Then," said the Voice, "All men will join in singing the sweetest carol of all.....THE SONG OF UNIVERSAL BROTHERHOOD."
The first Christmas Eve, of course, was a very important event.
The birthday of the Child called for the biggest celebration the Heavenly
Hosts had ever had. Even the Carols, held in reserve for ages for some
really special even, would be sung.
The choir was to be one of Heaven's very best, with some exceptionally
rich angelic tenors and basses brought in from the glee club to help out.
All the stars had been rubbed with special polish, and one brand-new star
added just for the occasion. The Carols were quite puffed up with pride
and excitement, and they all promised solemnly to be on hand in plenty
of time.
On the great night, everything went off fine. The stars shone as they
never shone before, the angel choir outdid itself in pageants of joy, and the
Carols were a great success. There was only one little flaw, and hardly anyone
even noticed it. One of the Carols didn't get there in time.
In fact, it didn't get there at all. It was quite a sweet Carol, the angel singers told each other a little sadly. It had been a pity not to have sung it.
The Carol was very penitent. It had stopped on the way, it explained vaguely. Something had got its attention, and it had stopped and been late. Questioning by the choirmaster produced little more. The Carol got vaguer and vaguer as the questions became sharper and sharper.
Only one thing it seemed sure of. It would never happen again, the Carol promised. But it did every year.
And finally when nearly twenty long centuries had gone by with the last Carol still not sung, they brought the situation to the Throne Room. There they explained more in sorrow than in anger, about the Carol that was always late. Then, at a sign, they left and the last Carol was summoned. The last Carol was ashamed and frightened and hung its head as it stood in the Throne Room and explained with no more vagueness why it had been late.
Each year had been something different, it admitted. Sometimes it had been a man in a dungeon. Often it had been men and women whose spirits had fallen low in the face of great obstacles, whose faith in love was almost extinguished and who could not join in the rejoicing over the Child's birthday. Always explained the Carol simply, it had seemed important to stop with these for awhile, and somehow it had always meant being late.
"But next year....began the Carol, but the voice from the Throne interrupted.
"Next year," said the Voice, "you will do as you have done. Next year and for any years to come. For you are the Carol that must be voiceless until all men sing together in a mighty chorus that covers the earth. Only in the heart of men who have seen the vision." Said the voice, "can you honor the Child, until all men love each other as He loved them."
"Then," said the Carol wistfully, "must I be silent forever?" "Not so," said the Voice and the full choir of angels had never sounded so richly majestic. "They flee from it in fear
and greed, but with their fear there is a shame, and through their greed shines love. One day they will cast out their fear and let love lead them into the rich habitation I have prepared for them. "Then," said the Voice, "All men will join in singing the sweetest carol of all.....THE SONG OF UNIVERSAL BROTHERHOOD."
Friday, December 19, 2008
The Gift of Service
The Little Ole' Donkey that had Little to Say
It was the night before Christmas when all the beasts came together from the farthest places of the earth to talk. The first voice to be heard was the deep , rich bass of the lion. "I speak,: he said, :as the king of beasts." And truly he looked a king with his beautiful thick mane and his twany rippling muscles. "I won't repeat my good deeds. I shall not again tonight repeat the shining stories of the days when the Romans loved me.
I shall not recall the story of the one man, Daniel, who defied me in my own den-a story humbling to me-which I have often told you to prove I am not proud. I shall say nothing of my stealthy fury that makes the whole continent tremble at the very sound of my name.
Then I shall speak, and by the trumpet sound, the beasts knew the elephant spoke. "I am the biggest on earth. My size and my strength awe the nations. Yet I can walk so softly and lightly that no ear can hear my coming. Isn't that something to be proud of?" And I don't believe any of you can flip a tremendous teak log over your should as handily as I can. That takes power. Yes, and who else here has been a beast of war? Who else has crossed the Alps? You know how very high the Alps are? I and my strong brothers helped the famous General Hannibal and his soldiers over them in one of his great campaigns. And Hannibal's in history books all over the world."
A strange whispering voice broke in. "You know me, the giraffe. Usually I stay silent, but I hope you'll remember I'm the tallest and can look down on you. But please don't think I am bragging because I'm up here above you. I eat from the tops of trees. Nobody else here can do that. Beside, being the tallest, I can run faster than most..."
"Let me interrupt." It was the leopards voice. "You'd have to move pretty fast to outrun certain stripped and spotted cousins of mine who hold most of the speed records. Right, cousins?" The tiger nodded his head and the cheetah, fastest of all, smiled.
The camel, till now, had been chewing his cud and watching with sad eyes. He cleared his throat and his voice rasped out. "I am neither handsome nor fleet. I have some trouble keeping clean. But I have the right to feel as proud as anyone here. I helped build the pyramids of Egypt? Have any of you ever tackled a job that big? I am also the only animal in the world that can have two bumps on his back. I am used to going many days without water, across scorching sands that would burn the feet off most of you within hours. My friends, the camel counts, and I have a right to feel happy."
For a long while after the camel's speech, there was silence. Then the llama coughed and said, "I am by nature modest. One thing, however, I have had much experience crossing mountains. You have heard of the Andes, my home, and the war work I have cone."
Others spoke too. The goose honked, "I laid a golden egg once. Who else has done that?" The turtle said, "I"m the slowest, it"s better. When you go fast, you go round in circles." The fox said, "I am the slyest, the trickiest, and probably the brainiest of you all." The zebra said, "For confusion, I'm best. Am I black with whit stripes or white with black?" The grizzly bear said, "Who that, is as heavy as I, can climb a tree as well?" And the polar bear said, "Can anybody but me swim with icebergs or catch fish with a paw?"
All this time a little grey beast stood listening. Finally, the other animals looked his way. There wasn't much he could do but speak. "I am a donkey," he began, in a voice so hoarse and low that the beasts leaned forward to hear. "I can't run fast or go days without water. I couldn't swim a stroke among icebergs. I've never climbed a tree. Nobody is afraid of me."
Lower and lower sank the little donkey's voice. His ears drooped, and his head was bowed. The other beasts could hardly hear him. Suddenly he raised his head. His eyes looked far away in time and space and there was a strange glow around him. "Only one thing I have ever done has stuck in my mind. It happened a long, long time ago...on the way to Egypt in the dark of night. I carried a mother who...carried a King."
C. Ralph Bennett
Thursday, December 18, 2008
The Gift of Caring
Pattern of Love
I didn't question Timmy, age nine, or his seven year old brother, Billy, about the brown wrapping paper they passed back and forth between them as we visited each store.
Every year at Christmas time our service club takes the children from the 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 do 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." I n 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. Bill 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 anyway soon he came with an open box. "Will these do?" He asked. 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 Christmas the boy's 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 really taught me more about Christmas in one evening than I had learned in a lifetime."
-Jack Smith
I didn't question Timmy, age nine, or his seven year old brother, Billy, about the brown wrapping paper they passed back and forth between them as we visited each store.
Every year at Christmas time our service club takes the children from the 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 do 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." I n 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. Bill 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 anyway soon he came with an open box. "Will these do?" He asked. 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 Christmas the boy's 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 really taught me more about Christmas in one evening than I had learned in a lifetime."
-Jack Smith
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
The Gift of Unselfishness
No More Darkness
The clouds moved lazily, the air was still,
As the Old Man wearily trudged the hill.
His eyes were dimmed, blind from birth
He had never beheld God's wondrous earth.
But his hopes were high for he had heard it told
That a Messiah had come, as prophesied of old.
He stumbled and fell mid the crowd and throng
Pitied by the weak, pushed easily aside by the strong.
When ready to despair from life's sorrow and scorn
A voice pierced the air, "Blessed are they that mourn!"
Humbly he listened, while the crowd made mirth
"Blessed are the meek, they shall inherit the earth!"
With tears overflowing his knees fell to the sod,
Blessed are the pure in heart, they shall see God!
He lifted his head, by the illumination overcome
And beheld therefore him, the Master.......the son!
Tears clouded his eyes, then in darkness they closed,
But for one precious moment, he had seen with his soul.
Then a light brighter than a galaxy before him spread
And he knew he never again in darkness would tread.
He recounted the scripture..."Unto you is born this day"
A Savior...A Master...Christ...the Light and the Way!
"Peace on earth"at last in his heart he could find.
The same blessings of Christmas is still given to mankind!
The clouds moved lazily, the air was still,
As the Old Man wearily trudged the hill.
His eyes were dimmed, blind from birth
He had never beheld God's wondrous earth.
But his hopes were high for he had heard it told
That a Messiah had come, as prophesied of old.
He stumbled and fell mid the crowd and throng
Pitied by the weak, pushed easily aside by the strong.
When ready to despair from life's sorrow and scorn
A voice pierced the air, "Blessed are they that mourn!"
Humbly he listened, while the crowd made mirth
"Blessed are the meek, they shall inherit the earth!"
With tears overflowing his knees fell to the sod,
Blessed are the pure in heart, they shall see God!
He lifted his head, by the illumination overcome
And beheld therefore him, the Master.......the son!
Tears clouded his eyes, then in darkness they closed,
But for one precious moment, he had seen with his soul.
Then a light brighter than a galaxy before him spread
And he knew he never again in darkness would tread.
He recounted the scripture..."Unto you is born this day"
A Savior...A Master...Christ...the Light and the Way!
"Peace on earth"at last in his heart he could find.
The same blessings of Christmas is still given to mankind!
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
THe Gift of Love
This is one of my favorite Christmas Stories.
I remember it was the same year my father had lost his job. He had lacked work for a time long enough to leave me with memories of using candles, because they had cut off our electricity. Even my only sweater bore holes, and my socks resembled swiss cheese.
We had never really been poor, but the hurdles of the past year had left us quite bad off. The neighbors offered help but Dad was proud. He refused charity.
I couldn't understand the whole situation, and it seemed to me that my smaller brother, Jerry, who had mowed lawns all summer long owned 80 percent of the family's wealth. The money sat in a big piggy bank on top of his dresser drawers. Every once in a while I'd sneak in and grab a little, whenever I had a worthy cause; I mean, he couldn't exactly be saving for college. Not in his condition he wasn't.
You see. Jerry who was a year younger than I was--twelve, was different from other people. He entered this world a mongaloid. He looked different in a funny kind of way and had the mentality of a six year old. He also had a speech problem. His syllables were pronounced wrong a lot and his voice was real low and gruff.
The difference had separated us, like weeds separate flowers. Yet, we used to be so close, when we were very young, like baby cubs climbing the tree of life. We laughed together, we cried together, we even stumbled together. I had learned to understand Jerry and couldn't detect any difference because we had stuck so closely together, and had been under our mother's wing.
But as the years came along with other friends and children, so came the realization, his difference. It was becoming noticeable. Reality had whispered louder and louder that Jerry was different. His difference was an illness, a disease that took him from me, that changed him continuously until he was no longer my brother. Instead, he was a simple animal, an inhuman thing that caused me enough embarrassment to make me hate him. Often I became cruel towards him.
I remember one time I'd gone to play some ball, and as usual he'd shadowed right behind me. They wouldn't let me play because in order to keep the two teams equal, they'd only let two boys join in at a time. Nobody wanted Jerry, and that kept me from playing too. It had happened many times before. Each time, my resentment mounted. Each time I hated him. There wasn't a moment that went by without him getting in the way.
This time the mountain of hate exploded and I turned on him. "Look, you stupid lookin' creep, why ya gotta follow me around; leave me alone and go home." Then I slapped him again and again 'cause I wished he was dead. I couldn't go anywhere without being embarrassed. everyone always referred to me as "the one with the M.R. for a brother."
He finally went home crying. I didn't care. I was too worried about the chewing out I'd be getting when I got home. Later on I really felt sorry for what I'd done. I felt even worse when I got home and discovered he hadn't told on me. Instead he came up to me and apologized to me for making me mad.
I also remember one time that summer we'd gone to the beach. Naturally I had to look out for Jerry, but all the kids started looking at us when they noticed Jerry was different I couldn't take i, and I knew that if I ignored him long enough, he'd get lost.
Only he got lost for a long time. They began to think he'd drowned. Pitifully enough. I couldn't care less. Hours later, an old man brought him back on top of his shoulders and said he'd found him about two miles down the beach, behind an old outhouse sitting in the sand and crying. You know, it seemed Jerry did an awful lot of crying.
Well, as time passed, leaves fell and snow came, everyone looked towards Christmas. I was looking at a dream. There was this beautiful watch in the jeweler's window a watch with a gold band. It really wasn't too expensive, but too expensive for us. I know it was impossible, but I liked to imagine that Christmas morning would find me wearing it. Every time I passed the store I'd stare at it forever.
I woke up Christmas morning rushing to open the one gift that was for me by the fireplace. It was a great looking sweater, and I really needed one too. "Thanks a lot , Dad." I shouted but noticed how tired he looked so I asked him. "Dad did you stay up all night with Jerry again?"
"Yes," he replied, "he's getting worse."
You see, about a week before, Jerry and I had gone tubing. Jerry ended up at the bottom of the hill, head down in a snowdrift. He lay there, kicking and yelling for help, but again, memories of past embarrassing situations brought out my cruelty., and I watched him actually dying before I was satisfied. When I finally dug him out, instead of realizing what I had done, the poor dumb idiot, between his gasps of air and his tears, tried to thank me for saving his life. Anyway, he'd caught pneumonia and my parents had spent the last two nights with him.
"Lets go join your Mother and Jerry." Dad said. Jerry's room smelled of medicine and Jerry really looked horrible but his eyes were all lit up. He was kinda smilin' softly and said., "Jerry's got a surprise for you Jim"
I figured he was gonna hit me with another one of his homemade, butcher paper, water-colored type. Christmas cards he'd made. He tried to jump out of bed but soon found he was so weary he could barley move. HE wobbled over to his closet and pulled it out; another card, a flat sheet about a square foot big and written in red water color "TO MY BIG BROTHER: WHOM I LOVE THE MOST"
While I was reading it, I noticed the broken pieces of his piggy bank in the corner. Then he slowly reached under his bed and pulled out a small box. He wiped his nose with his P.J. sleeve then stood there with his arm stretched out, his eyes lit up and with all the love he could muster up in the low gruff voice he said,, "Warwy Kwishmas, Shimmy!"
I opened the box--and there it was, the gleaming, reflecting watch with the gold band, the one I thought I'd never see again. I couldn't even stop looking at it. Then he gave me a bear hug and asked, "Shimmy, where my pweshent?"
I looked up at him, over the broken pieces of his bank in the corner, the watch, then back at his questioning eyes, and I didn't even have the courage to tell him I'd forgotten about him. I just grabbed him and started bawling like a baby. He never lived to say "Happy New Year" he died two days later.
It's Christmas Eve again, snowing again, too. I'd just gotten off the phone (parents called to say "Merry Christmas"). I laid back down on my dorm bed (I'm in college now). I laid down with my arms folded behind me and started to look at the only object on the wall; an old, homemade, water-colored Christmas card. I checked the time on my watch--the one with the gold band; just a few seconds before midnight. I gazed up at the wall again and read the words aloud "Whom I love the most."
Then...I could actually hear him say it again. "Warwy Kwishmash, Shimmy" Only this time I answered back as loud as I could; Merry Christmas Jerry, Merry Christmas.!"
This true story written by Gary Acevedo Junior, was dedicated "To all who have brothers"
I remember it was the same year my father had lost his job. He had lacked work for a time long enough to leave me with memories of using candles, because they had cut off our electricity. Even my only sweater bore holes, and my socks resembled swiss cheese.
We had never really been poor, but the hurdles of the past year had left us quite bad off. The neighbors offered help but Dad was proud. He refused charity.
I couldn't understand the whole situation, and it seemed to me that my smaller brother, Jerry, who had mowed lawns all summer long owned 80 percent of the family's wealth. The money sat in a big piggy bank on top of his dresser drawers. Every once in a while I'd sneak in and grab a little, whenever I had a worthy cause; I mean, he couldn't exactly be saving for college. Not in his condition he wasn't.
You see. Jerry who was a year younger than I was--twelve, was different from other people. He entered this world a mongaloid. He looked different in a funny kind of way and had the mentality of a six year old. He also had a speech problem. His syllables were pronounced wrong a lot and his voice was real low and gruff.
The difference had separated us, like weeds separate flowers. Yet, we used to be so close, when we were very young, like baby cubs climbing the tree of life. We laughed together, we cried together, we even stumbled together. I had learned to understand Jerry and couldn't detect any difference because we had stuck so closely together, and had been under our mother's wing.
But as the years came along with other friends and children, so came the realization, his difference. It was becoming noticeable. Reality had whispered louder and louder that Jerry was different. His difference was an illness, a disease that took him from me, that changed him continuously until he was no longer my brother. Instead, he was a simple animal, an inhuman thing that caused me enough embarrassment to make me hate him. Often I became cruel towards him.
I remember one time I'd gone to play some ball, and as usual he'd shadowed right behind me. They wouldn't let me play because in order to keep the two teams equal, they'd only let two boys join in at a time. Nobody wanted Jerry, and that kept me from playing too. It had happened many times before. Each time, my resentment mounted. Each time I hated him. There wasn't a moment that went by without him getting in the way.
This time the mountain of hate exploded and I turned on him. "Look, you stupid lookin' creep, why ya gotta follow me around; leave me alone and go home." Then I slapped him again and again 'cause I wished he was dead. I couldn't go anywhere without being embarrassed. everyone always referred to me as "the one with the M.R. for a brother."
He finally went home crying. I didn't care. I was too worried about the chewing out I'd be getting when I got home. Later on I really felt sorry for what I'd done. I felt even worse when I got home and discovered he hadn't told on me. Instead he came up to me and apologized to me for making me mad.
I also remember one time that summer we'd gone to the beach. Naturally I had to look out for Jerry, but all the kids started looking at us when they noticed Jerry was different I couldn't take i, and I knew that if I ignored him long enough, he'd get lost.
Only he got lost for a long time. They began to think he'd drowned. Pitifully enough. I couldn't care less. Hours later, an old man brought him back on top of his shoulders and said he'd found him about two miles down the beach, behind an old outhouse sitting in the sand and crying. You know, it seemed Jerry did an awful lot of crying.
Well, as time passed, leaves fell and snow came, everyone looked towards Christmas. I was looking at a dream. There was this beautiful watch in the jeweler's window a watch with a gold band. It really wasn't too expensive, but too expensive for us. I know it was impossible, but I liked to imagine that Christmas morning would find me wearing it. Every time I passed the store I'd stare at it forever.
I woke up Christmas morning rushing to open the one gift that was for me by the fireplace. It was a great looking sweater, and I really needed one too. "Thanks a lot , Dad." I shouted but noticed how tired he looked so I asked him. "Dad did you stay up all night with Jerry again?"
"Yes," he replied, "he's getting worse."
You see, about a week before, Jerry and I had gone tubing. Jerry ended up at the bottom of the hill, head down in a snowdrift. He lay there, kicking and yelling for help, but again, memories of past embarrassing situations brought out my cruelty., and I watched him actually dying before I was satisfied. When I finally dug him out, instead of realizing what I had done, the poor dumb idiot, between his gasps of air and his tears, tried to thank me for saving his life. Anyway, he'd caught pneumonia and my parents had spent the last two nights with him.
"Lets go join your Mother and Jerry." Dad said. Jerry's room smelled of medicine and Jerry really looked horrible but his eyes were all lit up. He was kinda smilin' softly and said., "Jerry's got a surprise for you Jim"
I figured he was gonna hit me with another one of his homemade, butcher paper, water-colored type. Christmas cards he'd made. He tried to jump out of bed but soon found he was so weary he could barley move. HE wobbled over to his closet and pulled it out; another card, a flat sheet about a square foot big and written in red water color "TO MY BIG BROTHER: WHOM I LOVE THE MOST"
While I was reading it, I noticed the broken pieces of his piggy bank in the corner. Then he slowly reached under his bed and pulled out a small box. He wiped his nose with his P.J. sleeve then stood there with his arm stretched out, his eyes lit up and with all the love he could muster up in the low gruff voice he said,, "Warwy Kwishmas, Shimmy!"
I opened the box--and there it was, the gleaming, reflecting watch with the gold band, the one I thought I'd never see again. I couldn't even stop looking at it. Then he gave me a bear hug and asked, "Shimmy, where my pweshent?"
I looked up at him, over the broken pieces of his bank in the corner, the watch, then back at his questioning eyes, and I didn't even have the courage to tell him I'd forgotten about him. I just grabbed him and started bawling like a baby. He never lived to say "Happy New Year" he died two days later.
It's Christmas Eve again, snowing again, too. I'd just gotten off the phone (parents called to say "Merry Christmas"). I laid back down on my dorm bed (I'm in college now). I laid down with my arms folded behind me and started to look at the only object on the wall; an old, homemade, water-colored Christmas card. I checked the time on my watch--the one with the gold band; just a few seconds before midnight. I gazed up at the wall again and read the words aloud "Whom I love the most."
Then...I could actually hear him say it again. "Warwy Kwishmash, Shimmy" Only this time I answered back as loud as I could; Merry Christmas Jerry, Merry Christmas.!"
This true story written by Gary Acevedo Junior, was dedicated "To all who have brothers"
Monday, December 15, 2008
The Gift of Charity
True Christmas Joy 
Twas the day before Christmas, a long time ago
And our beautiful earth was all covered with snow;
Down the street with their sleighs came two manly boys,
Who paused at the window to look at the toys.
Already two others were there looking in;
but their faces were sad, and their clothes old and thin.
And the little one said, "Is it because we're so poor
That Santa doesn't come to our house any more?"
The older one patted his wee brother's head,
And hugged him up closely, as softly he said:
"Oh, maybe he will come tonight, little Tim
If we ask in our prayers for the Lord to send him!"
The little face smiled, but the boys saw a tear
In the eye of the one who quelled little Tim's fear
Then slowly and sadly the waifs went their way
To the place they called home, where that night they would pray.
The boys, with their sleighs, followed closely behind,
And neither one spoke, but in each childish mind
A beautiful thought said as plain as could be;
"I'll share with those poor boys what Santa brings me."
When the two reached their home, to their fathers they ran,
And eagerly told him their unselfish plan.
He was proud of his boys, who now felt that same love
That sent our dear Savior from his home above.
Next morning, still thrilled with their beautiful thought,
They scampered downstairs to see what Santa had brought.
And they, with the help of their father and mother,
Selected the present for Tim and his brothers.
And as the first light of dawn came into view
The two went their way with the toys bright and new.
And crept very quietly up to the door
Where they'd seen the boys enter the evening before.
As they hurried back home toward their own Christmas joys,
They could not even dream how the other two boys,
On finding that Santa had really been there,
Sent their joy to the One who had answered their prayer.
That night, when the "Santas" were ready for bed,
With a hand of their father on each curly head,
They knew, as they thought of the two poor, happy boys,
What's the truest and choicest of all Christmas joys.
Twas the day before Christmas, a long time ago
And our beautiful earth was all covered with snow;
Down the street with their sleighs came two manly boys,
Who paused at the window to look at the toys.
Already two others were there looking in;
but their faces were sad, and their clothes old and thin.
And the little one said, "Is it because we're so poor
That Santa doesn't come to our house any more?"
The older one patted his wee brother's head,
And hugged him up closely, as softly he said:
"Oh, maybe he will come tonight, little Tim
If we ask in our prayers for the Lord to send him!"
The little face smiled, but the boys saw a tear
In the eye of the one who quelled little Tim's fear
Then slowly and sadly the waifs went their way
To the place they called home, where that night they would pray.
The boys, with their sleighs, followed closely behind,
And neither one spoke, but in each childish mind
A beautiful thought said as plain as could be;
"I'll share with those poor boys what Santa brings me."
When the two reached their home, to their fathers they ran,
And eagerly told him their unselfish plan.
He was proud of his boys, who now felt that same love
That sent our dear Savior from his home above.
Next morning, still thrilled with their beautiful thought,
They scampered downstairs to see what Santa had brought.
And they, with the help of their father and mother,
Selected the present for Tim and his brothers.
And as the first light of dawn came into view
The two went their way with the toys bright and new.
And crept very quietly up to the door
Where they'd seen the boys enter the evening before.
As they hurried back home toward their own Christmas joys,
They could not even dream how the other two boys,
On finding that Santa had really been there,
Sent their joy to the One who had answered their prayer.
That night, when the "Santas" were ready for bed,
With a hand of their father on each curly head,
They knew, as they thought of the two poor, happy boys,
What's the truest and choicest of all Christmas joys.
by Jannell Merrell
Sunday, December 14, 2008
The Gift of Giving
Little Lost Angel 
Long ago, on that first Christmas Eve, when the angels came out from Heaven to bring their tidings of great joy, there was a very little angel who slipped out with them. She was so little she did not sing very well, and to tell the truth, she didn't quite understand what the angels were singing.
"Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men" "yes, she knew about that, but what was it the beautiful big angel alone was singing?"
"For unto you is born this day, in the City of David, a Savior... Yet shall find the Babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger."
Wondering, she floated down to the grassy field below her to wait until the angels finished singing and could take her back to Heaven. And in the field, huddled close together, she found the sheep that the shepherds had forgotten. They were so soft, so warm, so quiet that the little angel lay down among them and fell asleep.
When she woke up, it was very still. The big angels had gone back into Heaven, and the shepherd's were hurrying to find the new baby about whom the angels had sung.
"I'm glad the big star is there," said the little angel. "But I wish the big angels had waited for me. I had better try and find them. I"m sure I can't find my way back to Heaven without them."
She straightened the crown upon her golden head and picked up her little harp which had fallen to one side. Then, gently spreading her wings, she went out onto the roadside.
"Why, there is one of the angels now," she cried and hurried to him.
But it wasn't an angel she found only a man, a man walking by himself, his head hung down so that he did not see even the great star.
The little angel looked at him, "Why don't you sing?" she asked.
"Sing! Why should I sing? What is there to sing about?" growled the man.
Long ago, on that first Christmas Eve, when the angels came out from Heaven to bring their tidings of great joy, there was a very little angel who slipped out with them. She was so little she did not sing very well, and to tell the truth, she didn't quite understand what the angels were singing.
"Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men" "yes, she knew about that, but what was it the beautiful big angel alone was singing?"
"For unto you is born this day, in the City of David, a Savior... Yet shall find the Babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger."
Wondering, she floated down to the grassy field below her to wait until the angels finished singing and could take her back to Heaven. And in the field, huddled close together, she found the sheep that the shepherds had forgotten. They were so soft, so warm, so quiet that the little angel lay down among them and fell asleep.
When she woke up, it was very still. The big angels had gone back into Heaven, and the shepherd's were hurrying to find the new baby about whom the angels had sung.
"I'm glad the big star is there," said the little angel. "But I wish the big angels had waited for me. I had better try and find them. I"m sure I can't find my way back to Heaven without them."
She straightened the crown upon her golden head and picked up her little harp which had fallen to one side. Then, gently spreading her wings, she went out onto the roadside.
"Why, there is one of the angels now," she cried and hurried to him.
But it wasn't an angel she found only a man, a man walking by himself, his head hung down so that he did not see even the great star.
The little angel looked at him, "Why don't you sing?" she asked.
"Sing! Why should I sing? What is there to sing about?" growled the man.
"It makes you happy to sing," laughed the little angel. She ran her fingers across the harp she was carrying and sang softly a little son. "There, isn't that pretty?"
"Very, very pretty," said the man, looking at her at last.
"Here, you take it then you can sing," said the little one, putting her harp into his hands. "And, please will you tell me if the angels went this way?"
"Angels? Angels?"
"Didn"t you see them?" asked the little one. "Oh, see! Isn't that one of them just beyond us?"
She flew on to look, but alas, again it was a stranger to whom she came; a woman this time. Her clothes were rich, but her face was hard and sullen, and she spoke roughly to the little angel.
"Go away! Go away! I'm no fit person for a child to be seen with."
"Is it because you've lost your crown?" Asked the angel anxiously, "because if you have, you may have mine. And please, could you tell me which way the angels went?"
"Angels?" Said the woman in a startled voice.
She held the crown in her hands, and as she looked at it, long-lost tears ran down her face.
"What is this that is happening to me?" She whispered.
But the little angel had gone more quickly now that she had no harp to carry, no crown upon her head. So fast did she go that she almost fell upon a little boy sitting by the roadside and crying as though his heart would break.
"What is that strange sound you are making, little one?" asked the angel.
"I'm crying," the little boy told her. "I wanted to see the King the new King who is to be in Bethlehem tonight. But they have all gone away and left me. I'm lame, you see, so I can't walk fast, and by the time I get there, the King will be gone."
" King!" said the angel. "I thought is was a baby."
"Very, very pretty," said the man, looking at her at last.
"Here, you take it then you can sing," said the little one, putting her harp into his hands. "And, please will you tell me if the angels went this way?"
"Angels? Angels?"
"Didn"t you see them?" asked the little one. "Oh, see! Isn't that one of them just beyond us?"
She flew on to look, but alas, again it was a stranger to whom she came; a woman this time. Her clothes were rich, but her face was hard and sullen, and she spoke roughly to the little angel.
"Go away! Go away! I'm no fit person for a child to be seen with."
"Is it because you've lost your crown?" Asked the angel anxiously, "because if you have, you may have mine. And please, could you tell me which way the angels went?"
"Angels?" Said the woman in a startled voice.
She held the crown in her hands, and as she looked at it, long-lost tears ran down her face.
"What is this that is happening to me?" She whispered.
But the little angel had gone more quickly now that she had no harp to carry, no crown upon her head. So fast did she go that she almost fell upon a little boy sitting by the roadside and crying as though his heart would break.
"What is that strange sound you are making, little one?" asked the angel.
"I'm crying," the little boy told her. "I wanted to see the King the new King who is to be in Bethlehem tonight. But they have all gone away and left me. I'm lame, you see, so I can't walk fast, and by the time I get there, the King will be gone."
" King!" said the angel. "I thought is was a baby."
"They said he was a King," said the little boy and he began to cry again.
"Take my wings," said the angel. "You can't walk very well so it is you who should have them."
She fastened her wings carefully to his shoulders. They were soft, fluttery things that caught the low night breezes and bore the boy forward in a gentle, rapturous motion.
"Thank you, oh thank you," he called back, but the little angel scarcely heard him. She was trying to walk without her wings. She had not known it would be so difficult. She kept falling to the ground, and her tender feet were cut and bruised by the stones in the roadway.
"But the big star is there," she thought, as she went slowly along, and see, a light! Is it Heaven at last?"
"Take my wings," said the angel. "You can't walk very well so it is you who should have them."
She fastened her wings carefully to his shoulders. They were soft, fluttery things that caught the low night breezes and bore the boy forward in a gentle, rapturous motion.
"Thank you, oh thank you," he called back, but the little angel scarcely heard him. She was trying to walk without her wings. She had not known it would be so difficult. She kept falling to the ground, and her tender feet were cut and bruised by the stones in the roadway.
"But the big star is there," she thought, as she went slowly along, and see, a light! Is it Heaven at last?"
But is was not a light from Heaven she saw only candles form a home nearby.
The angel knocked timidly and stood waiting a little thing with pleading eyes and tangled golden hair.
A woman opened the door, then stood staring at the little angel, unable to believe what she saw.
"Peter," she whispered back into the room, "Peter, come, Do you see what I see! Oh, is it a miracle because we have prayed so long? Is this a child sent to us at last?"
She put out her hands and drew the lost angel to her. She bathed the soiled and bleeding feet and combed the tangled hair. Then she held her close and sang a low song of great joy, and the little angel closed her eyes and dreamed that she was in Heaven.
When she awake it was morning. She had found not Heaven, but a new home and a mother and father.
They so loved her that she almost forgot she had been a little angel. She ran about the fields while the man Peter tended his sheep, and she helped the woman Dorcas make the bread and sweep the floor. She played in the meadows and vineyards with other children, and they loved her because she was so gentle and sweet.
Many years passed, and Peter and Dorcas at last grew old and passed away. But the lost angel stayed in their home alone. Now is was she who tended the sheep and gathered the grapes and made the bread. She was friendly to all who came to her door. Many travelers knocked there and always found a welcome, food and rest.
They told her about the lands through which they had come and of the people they had met or of whom they had heard.
Many of their stories were of the great ones in the world. They told her of a poet who sang his way straight into the heart of men. They told of a great-hearted woman who spent her life helping the poor and sinful. They told her of a leader of the people-lame, it is true, but inspired and beloved.
And the angel heard them with a smile. She knew that the poet was the man to whom she had given her harp, that the great hearted woman was the one who wore her crown and the leader of the people was the boy who had taken her wings.
The angel knocked timidly and stood waiting a little thing with pleading eyes and tangled golden hair.
A woman opened the door, then stood staring at the little angel, unable to believe what she saw.
"Peter," she whispered back into the room, "Peter, come, Do you see what I see! Oh, is it a miracle because we have prayed so long? Is this a child sent to us at last?"
She put out her hands and drew the lost angel to her. She bathed the soiled and bleeding feet and combed the tangled hair. Then she held her close and sang a low song of great joy, and the little angel closed her eyes and dreamed that she was in Heaven.
When she awake it was morning. She had found not Heaven, but a new home and a mother and father.
They so loved her that she almost forgot she had been a little angel. She ran about the fields while the man Peter tended his sheep, and she helped the woman Dorcas make the bread and sweep the floor. She played in the meadows and vineyards with other children, and they loved her because she was so gentle and sweet.
Many years passed, and Peter and Dorcas at last grew old and passed away. But the lost angel stayed in their home alone. Now is was she who tended the sheep and gathered the grapes and made the bread. She was friendly to all who came to her door. Many travelers knocked there and always found a welcome, food and rest.
They told her about the lands through which they had come and of the people they had met or of whom they had heard.
Many of their stories were of the great ones in the world. They told her of a poet who sang his way straight into the heart of men. They told of a great-hearted woman who spent her life helping the poor and sinful. They told her of a leader of the people-lame, it is true, but inspired and beloved.
And the angel heard them with a smile. She knew that the poet was the man to whom she had given her harp, that the great hearted woman was the one who wore her crown and the leader of the people was the boy who had taken her wings.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
The Gift of Humility
Every Christmas our family reads Christmas stories throughout the month of December. Then when it is the 12 days of Christmas we read all 12 days as a count down. This year I thought I would share some of the Christmas stories we have read.
Annie and Willie's Prayer
Twas the eve before Christmas, goodnight had been said, and Annie and Willie had crept into bed. There were tears on their pillows and tears in their eyes, and each little bosom was heaving with sighs, for tonight their stern Father's command had been given that they should retire precisely at seven instead of at eight; for they troubled him more with questions unheard of than ever before.
He told them he thought this delusion a sin-no such thing as Santa Claus ever had been. And he hoped, after this, he would never more hear how he scrambled down chimneys with presents each year.
And this was the reason that two little heads so restlessly tossed on their soft, down beds. Eight, nine and the clock in the steeple toiled then; not a word had been spoken by either till then. When Willie's sad face from the blanket did peep, and whispered, "Dear Annie, is you fast asleep?"
"Why, no, brother Willie," a sweet voice replied, "I've tried in vain, but I can't shut my eyes, for somehow it makes me so sorry because dear Papa said there is no Santa Clause. Now, we know that there is, and it can't be denied, for he came every year before Mama died. But then I am thinking that she used to pray, and God would hear everything Mama would say. And perhaps she asked him to send Santa Clause here with the sacks full of presents he brought every year."
"Well, why can't we pray just as Mama did then and ask him to send him with presents again?" "I've been thinking so too," and without a word more, four little bare feet bounded out on the floor. Four little knees the soft carpet pressed, and two tiny hands were clasped close to each breast. "Now, Willie, you know we must firmly believe that the presents we ask for we're sure to receive, you must wait just as still till I say "amen," and by that you will know that your turn has come then.
"Dear Jesus, look down on by brother and me, and grant us the favor we are asking of Thee." I want a wax dolly, a tea set and ring, and an ebony work box that shuts with a spring. Bless Papa, dear Jesus and cause him to see that Santa Clause loves us far better than he. Don't let him get fretful and angry again at dear brother Willie and Annie. Amen!"
"Please, Jesus, let Santa Claus turn down tonight, and bring us some presents before it is light. I want he should have me a nice little sled with bright shinny runners and all painted red; a box full of candy, a book and a toy, then Jesus, I'll be a good boy. Amen."
Their prayers being ended, they raised up their heads, and with hearts light and cheerful again sought their beds. They were soon lost in slumber, both peacefully and deep, and with fairies in dreamland were roaming in sleep.
Eight, nine and the little french clock had struck ten, ere the father had thought of his children again; he seems now to hear Annie's suppressed sighs, and to see the big tears stand in Willie's blue eyes. "I was harsh with my darlings," he mentally said, and should not have sent them so early to bed, but then, I was troubled, my feelings found went for bank stock today had gone down ten per cent. But, of course, they've forgotten their troubles ere this, and that I denied them the thrice-asked for kiss. But just to be sure I'll steal up to their door, for I never spoke harsh to my darlings before." So saying, he softly ascended the stairs and arrived at the door to hear both of their prayers. His Annie's "Bless Papa" draws forth the big tears, and Willie's grave promise falls sweet on his ears. "Strange, strange, I'd forgotten" he said with a sigh, "How I longed when a child to have Christmas draw night. I'll atone for my harshness," he inwardly said, "By answering their prayers ere I sleep in my bed."
Then he turned to the stairs, and softly went down, threw off velvet slippers and silk dressing-gown, donned hat, coat and boots and was out in the street, a millionaire facing the cold, driving sleet.
Nor stopped then until he had bought everything from a box full of candy to a tiny, gold ring. Indeed, he kept adding so much to his store that the various presents outnumbered a score. Then homeward he turned with his holiday load, and with Aunt Mary's aid in the nursery was stowed. Miss dolly was seated beneath a pine tree, by the side of a table spread out for a tea. A work box well filled in the center was laid, and on it the ring for which Annie had prayed. A solider in uniform stood by a sled, with bright shining runners and all painted red. There were balls, dogs and horses, look pleasing to see. And birds of all colors were perched in the tree; while Santa Claus, laughing stood upon the top, as if getting ready more presents to drop.
And as the fond father, the picture surveyed, he thought for his trouble he had amply been paid, and he said to himself, as he brushed off a tear, I'm happier tonight than I've been for a year. I've enjoyed more true pleasure than ever before, what do I care if bank stocks falls ten percent more? Hereafter, I'll make it a rule, I believe, to have Santa Clause visit us each Christmas Eve. So thinking, he gently extinguished the light, then tripped down the stairs to retire for the night.
As soon as the beams of the bright morning sun put the darkness to flight and the stars one by one, four little blue eyes out of sleep opened wide, and at the same moment the presents they spied. Then out of their beds they sprang with a bound, and the very gifts prayed for were all of them found. They laughed and they cried in their innocent glee and shouted for Papa to come quick and see what presents old Santa Clause brought in the night. Just the things that they wanted and left before light.
"And now," added Annie, in a voice soft and low, "You'll believe there's a Santa Clause, Papa, I know." While dear little Willie climbed up on his knee, determined no secret between them should be. And told in soft whispers how Annie had said that their dear, bless Mama so long ago dead, used to kneel down and pray by the side of their chair, and that God in Heaven had answered her prayer!
"Then we got up and prayed just as well as we could, and God answered our prayers now wasn't he good!" "I should say that He was if He sent you all these and knew just what presents my children would please." (Well, well, let him think so, the dear little elf, would be cruel to tell him I did it myself.)
Blind father! Who caused your proud heart to relent; and the hasty words spoken so soon to repent! "I was Lord Jesus who bade you steal softly upstairs, and made you his agent to answer their prayers.
Annie and Willie's Prayer
Twas the eve before Christmas, goodnight had been said, and Annie and Willie had crept into bed. There were tears on their pillows and tears in their eyes, and each little bosom was heaving with sighs, for tonight their stern Father's command had been given that they should retire precisely at seven instead of at eight; for they troubled him more with questions unheard of than ever before.
He told them he thought this delusion a sin-no such thing as Santa Claus ever had been. And he hoped, after this, he would never more hear how he scrambled down chimneys with presents each year.
And this was the reason that two little heads so restlessly tossed on their soft, down beds. Eight, nine and the clock in the steeple toiled then; not a word had been spoken by either till then. When Willie's sad face from the blanket did peep, and whispered, "Dear Annie, is you fast asleep?"
"Why, no, brother Willie," a sweet voice replied, "I've tried in vain, but I can't shut my eyes, for somehow it makes me so sorry because dear Papa said there is no Santa Clause. Now, we know that there is, and it can't be denied, for he came every year before Mama died. But then I am thinking that she used to pray, and God would hear everything Mama would say. And perhaps she asked him to send Santa Clause here with the sacks full of presents he brought every year."
"Well, why can't we pray just as Mama did then and ask him to send him with presents again?" "I've been thinking so too," and without a word more, four little bare feet bounded out on the floor. Four little knees the soft carpet pressed, and two tiny hands were clasped close to each breast. "Now, Willie, you know we must firmly believe that the presents we ask for we're sure to receive, you must wait just as still till I say "amen," and by that you will know that your turn has come then.
"Dear Jesus, look down on by brother and me, and grant us the favor we are asking of Thee." I want a wax dolly, a tea set and ring, and an ebony work box that shuts with a spring. Bless Papa, dear Jesus and cause him to see that Santa Clause loves us far better than he. Don't let him get fretful and angry again at dear brother Willie and Annie. Amen!"
"Please, Jesus, let Santa Claus turn down tonight, and bring us some presents before it is light. I want he should have me a nice little sled with bright shinny runners and all painted red; a box full of candy, a book and a toy, then Jesus, I'll be a good boy. Amen."
Their prayers being ended, they raised up their heads, and with hearts light and cheerful again sought their beds. They were soon lost in slumber, both peacefully and deep, and with fairies in dreamland were roaming in sleep.
Eight, nine and the little french clock had struck ten, ere the father had thought of his children again; he seems now to hear Annie's suppressed sighs, and to see the big tears stand in Willie's blue eyes. "I was harsh with my darlings," he mentally said, and should not have sent them so early to bed, but then, I was troubled, my feelings found went for bank stock today had gone down ten per cent. But, of course, they've forgotten their troubles ere this, and that I denied them the thrice-asked for kiss. But just to be sure I'll steal up to their door, for I never spoke harsh to my darlings before." So saying, he softly ascended the stairs and arrived at the door to hear both of their prayers. His Annie's "Bless Papa" draws forth the big tears, and Willie's grave promise falls sweet on his ears. "Strange, strange, I'd forgotten" he said with a sigh, "How I longed when a child to have Christmas draw night. I'll atone for my harshness," he inwardly said, "By answering their prayers ere I sleep in my bed."
Then he turned to the stairs, and softly went down, threw off velvet slippers and silk dressing-gown, donned hat, coat and boots and was out in the street, a millionaire facing the cold, driving sleet.
Nor stopped then until he had bought everything from a box full of candy to a tiny, gold ring. Indeed, he kept adding so much to his store that the various presents outnumbered a score. Then homeward he turned with his holiday load, and with Aunt Mary's aid in the nursery was stowed. Miss dolly was seated beneath a pine tree, by the side of a table spread out for a tea. A work box well filled in the center was laid, and on it the ring for which Annie had prayed. A solider in uniform stood by a sled, with bright shining runners and all painted red. There were balls, dogs and horses, look pleasing to see. And birds of all colors were perched in the tree; while Santa Claus, laughing stood upon the top, as if getting ready more presents to drop.
And as the fond father, the picture surveyed, he thought for his trouble he had amply been paid, and he said to himself, as he brushed off a tear, I'm happier tonight than I've been for a year. I've enjoyed more true pleasure than ever before, what do I care if bank stocks falls ten percent more? Hereafter, I'll make it a rule, I believe, to have Santa Clause visit us each Christmas Eve. So thinking, he gently extinguished the light, then tripped down the stairs to retire for the night.
As soon as the beams of the bright morning sun put the darkness to flight and the stars one by one, four little blue eyes out of sleep opened wide, and at the same moment the presents they spied. Then out of their beds they sprang with a bound, and the very gifts prayed for were all of them found. They laughed and they cried in their innocent glee and shouted for Papa to come quick and see what presents old Santa Clause brought in the night. Just the things that they wanted and left before light.
"And now," added Annie, in a voice soft and low, "You'll believe there's a Santa Clause, Papa, I know." While dear little Willie climbed up on his knee, determined no secret between them should be. And told in soft whispers how Annie had said that their dear, bless Mama so long ago dead, used to kneel down and pray by the side of their chair, and that God in Heaven had answered her prayer!
"Then we got up and prayed just as well as we could, and God answered our prayers now wasn't he good!" "I should say that He was if He sent you all these and knew just what presents my children would please." (Well, well, let him think so, the dear little elf, would be cruel to tell him I did it myself.)
Blind father! Who caused your proud heart to relent; and the hasty words spoken so soon to repent! "I was Lord Jesus who bade you steal softly upstairs, and made you his agent to answer their prayers.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)