In about my tenth year, as Christmas approached, I longed for and electric train. the times were those of the economic depression, yet my mother and dad purchased for me a lovely electric train.

Christmas morning bright and early I thrilled when I noticed my train. the next few hours were devoted to operating the transformer and watching the engine pull its cars forward -- then backward around the track.

Mother said that she had purchased a windup train for the widow Hansen's boy, Mark, who lived down the lane at Gale street. as I looked at his train, I noted a tanker car which I so much admired. I put up such a fuss that my mother succumbed to my pleadings and gave me the tanker car. I put it with the train set and felt pleased.

My mother and I took the remaining cars and the engine down to Mark Hansen. the young boy was a year or two older that I . He had never anticipated such a gift. He was thrilled beyond words. He wound the key in his engine, it not being electric or as expensive as mine, and was overjoyed as the engine and the three cars, plus caboose went around the track.

I felt a horrible sense of guilt as I returned home. the tanker car no longer appealed to me. suddenly, I took the tanker car in my hand, plus and additional car of my own, and ran all the way down to Gale Street and proudly announced to Mark, "we forgot to bring two cars which belong to your train."

I don't know when a deed has made me feel any better than that experience as a ten-year-old boy.

A friend of mine named Paul received a new automobile from his brother as a pre-Christmas present. On Christmas Eve, when Paul came out of his office, a street urchin was walking around the shiny new car, admiring it.

"Is this your car, Mister?" he asked.

Paul nodded, "My brother gave it to me for Christmas."

The boy looked astounded. "You mean your brother gave it to you, and didn't cost you anything? Gosh I wish ..."

He hesitated, and Paul knew what he was going to wish. He was going to wish he had a brother like that. But what the lad said jarred Paul all the way down to his heels.

"I wish," the boy went on, "that I could be a brother like that."

Paul looked at the boy in astonishment, then impulsively he added, Would you like to ride in my automobile?"

"Oh, yes, I'd love that!"

After a short ride the urchin turned, and with his eyes aglow said, Mister, would you mind driving in front of my house?"

Paul smiled a little. He thought he knew what the lad wanted. He wanted to show his neighbors that he could ride home in a big automobile. But Paul was wrong again.

"Will you stop right where those steps are?" the boy asked. He ran up the steps. Then in a little while, Paul heard him coming back, but he was not coming fast. He was carrying his little polio-crippled brother. He sat down on the bottom step, then sort of squeezed up right against him and pointed to the car.

"There she is, Buddy, just like I told you upstairs. His brother gave it to him for Christmas, and it didn't cost him a cent, and someday I'm gonna give you one just like it; then you can see for yourself all the pretty things in the Christmas windows that I've been trying to tell you about."

Paul got out and lifted the little lad into the front seat of his car. The shining-eyed older brother climbed in beside him and the three of them began a memorable holiday ride. That Christmas eve, Paul learned what Jesus meant when He said, "IT IS MORE BLESSED TO GIVE ..."

Christmas is many things to many people -- from the eager, materialistic grasping of a child for a present to the deep spiritual thankfulness of the mature heart for the gift of a Savior. If there is one common denominator, perhaps it is this: Christmas is love. Christmas is the time when the bonds of family love transcend distance and inconvenience. It is a time when love of neighbor rises above petty day-to-day irritations, and doors swing open to give and receive expressions of appreciation and affection.

If to our Christmas gift list is added the gift of service -- not only to friends and family, but also those who badly need help -- then our giving can be complete.

Several years ago, Marian Jeppson Walker related to me an experience her family had one Christmas season long years ago. It provides a touching example of the gift of service.

It was December of 1927 in the remote prairie town of Hillspring, Alberta, Canada. A young mother, Mary Jeppson, was getting her six small children ready for bed. Her heart was so full of sorrow and concern that she felt it would surely break. It was Christmas Eve, and all of the children except for the oldest, Ellen, age ten, were dancing around, excited to hang their stockings for Santa to come.

Ellen sat very subdued in a corner of the cold, small, two-room house. She felt that her mother was wrong to let the children build up their hopes for Santa to come, for there would be no Santa. There was nothing to fill the stocking. There would be only a little mush for breakfast. Just a week earlier, the family's only milk cow had died of starvation. The winter had just started, and already it was cold and harsh.

Times were hard, and Ellen, being the oldest, had too much responsibility put on her thin young shoulders. She had become very cynical, and childhood hopes and dreams and excitements had been put out of mind much too early.

Mary helped each one of her children to hang a little darned and mended stocking, but she couldn't persuade Ellen to participate. All Ellen could say was , "Mother, don't do this, don't pretend."

After the stockings had been hung, Mary read to the children the Christmas story from the Bible and then recited a few Christmas poems from memory -- memories of her own happy childhood.

Now Mary sat alone by the dying fire. Her husband, Leland, had gone to bed several hours earlier, feeling sad and discouraged. Mary knew that he felt he had failed his wife and children. She thought of their plight here in this land of ice and snow. Spring had come very late and winter had come very early for the last two years, causing all of their crops to freeze and fail.

In October Mary had received a letter from her sisters living in Idaho. They told her that they knew times were very hard for her, and although they had suffered some setbacks themselves, they wanted to know what they could send the family for Christmas.

Mary hadn't written back right away. She was reluctant to tell them how poor and destitute the family really was. Finally in November, seeing that things were not going to get any better, in desperation she had written.

Mary had requested only necessities. She told them of her family's urgent need for food, especially wheat, yeast, flour, and some cornmeal. She added that it would be a blessing if they could ship just a bit of coal, for it was so cold, and their fuel was down to almost nothing. She asked for some old, used quilts, for all of hers had worn thin and were full of holes, and they could no longer keep her children warm. Also she requested some worn-out pants to cut up and use to once again patch the pants her boys were wearing. She mentioned their desperate need for socks and shoes and gloves and warm hats and coats. At the close of the letter, she had written, "If you could just find a dress that someone has out-grown, I could make it over to fit Ellen. She is far too somber for such a young girl. She worries so about the family and about our needs. She has only one dress that she wears all the time, and it is patched and faded."

The week before Christmas had found Leland daily hitching up the horse to the sleigh and making the three-hour round trip from Hillspring into the town of Cardston to check at the train station and post office for a package from Idaho. Each day he would receive the same disappointing answer. Finally, on the day of Christmas Eve, he left early in the morning, went into Cardston, and waited for the one daily train. He checked at the post office as well. He left at noon, however, to return home to Hillspring before dark. And he left without a package. As he rode home, he wept openly, knowing how sad Mary would be.

Now, as Mary ceased her reminiscing, she realized how cold she was; the fire in the stove was all but out. The clock on the wall showed that it was 3:30 A.M. She looked up at the sad little mended stockings still hanging empty and felt that her heart was hanging just as empty.

Outside the wind was blowing at about seventy miles an hour, and the snowstorm had intensified. She was about to put out the lantern and go to bed for a few hours when suddenly there was a knock at the door.

Mary opened the door to find a man standing there, and for all the world he looked exactly like what she would expect Santa himself to look like. He was covered with frozen snow and ice. For a moment Mary doubted her senses, but then she realized it was George Sidney Schow, the mailman from Cardston. He belonged to the Church, and he knew the plight of the family. He told Mary that he knew of their waiting for the package from Idaho and that he knew there would be no Christmas without it.

George Schow was a good man. A University of Utah graduate, he had years before been stricken with a disease that had caused him to gradually go blind. After receiving a priesthood blessing, he had miraculously regained partial sight in one eye. Although he was unable to work in his chosen profession of engineering, he had found work as a postman to support his wife, Ingeborg, and their eight children.

On this particular day of Christmas Eve, George, with a team of horses pulling his sleigh, had traveled through a violent snowstorm to deliver the mail to half a dozen or more communities near Cardston. When he returned to the post office that afternoon, he was so cold and exhausted that he ached throughout his body. He longed to settle his horses for the night and join the family celebration in his warm, cozy home. But someone from the train station came by the post office to tell him that ten large crates had arrived from the States for the Jeppson family.

It was about four in the afternoon, but already it was dark. The storm was getting worse. George's horses, shivering with cold, were not capable of making another trip. The mailman decided it was just too late. There wasn't anything he could do about it.

George went home to his eager family. He placed the Christmas tree in the living room, and the children joyfully gathered around to decorate it. Although he was surrounded by happy activity and by the delicious aromas of traditional Danish holiday foods, George could not shake off thoughts of the struggling Jeppson family and the packages waiting at the post office. He took Ingeborg aside, and the couple knelt and prayed for guidance. They decided that the only thing he could do was to take the crates out to the Jeppson' little isolated farmhouse in Hillspring that very night. So with a borrowed team of horses and a borrowed sleigh with sharper runners than his on, he set out for the Jeppson place, accompanied by his fifteen-year-old son, Sidney. Ingeborg insisted that Sidney go along; although George's eyesight as passable in the daytime, his wife knew he would not be able to see at night in the midst of a fierce prairie blizzard. Ingeborg and the children sent the father and son on their way with sandwiches and little candies and snacks, and hot rocks were wrapped in blankets to keep their feet warm through the long journey.

George and his son struggled to find their way through the blinding snowstorm. Several times they felt the guidance of the Spirit as they prayed that they would reach their destination safely. With the snowdrifts deepening hour by hour, the horses plodded along more and more slowly. At last they arrived at the farmhouse. They were relieved to see one small light still on in the house.

When George and Sidney entered the home and saw how bare and humble it was, they knew why they had felt so urgently prompted to make the trip. After the postman had told Mary about his decision to come, he and his son brought the crates into the house. Mary insisted that the two stand by the stove to get warm. She got some of Leland's clothes to replace their frozen, wet clothing.

It was nearly five o'clock in the morning when the sleigh headed back into town. It had taken George and Sidney eight hours to get to the Jeppson's place because of the severity of the storm. They wouldn't get home until noon or later on Christmas day. Mary thanked them both as best she could, but she always said that there just were not words enough to express her thanks. After all, how do you thank a miracle, and a Christmas miracle at that?

Mary quickly began to unpack the crates, for she had only an hour or so before the children would awaken At the top of one of the crates she found a letter from her sisters. They told her that quilting bees had been held all over the Malad Valley, and from these, six thick, warm, beautiful quilts had been made for them. They also told of the many women who had sewn shirts for the boys and dresses for the girls, and of others who had knitted warm gloves and hats.

The donation of socks and shoes had come from people for miles around. The Relief Society had held a bazaar to raise the money to buy the coats, and all of Mary Jeppson's sisters, nieces, cousins, aunts, and uncles in Idaho had gotten together to bake the breads and make the candy to send. There was even a crate half full of beef that had been cured and packed so that it could be shipped, along with two or three slabs of bacon and two hams.

The letter closed with these words: "We hope you have a Merry Christmas, and thank you so much for making our Christmas the best one we've ever had!"

Mary's family awakened that Christmas morning to what to them was a miracle. Bacon was sizzling on the stove, and hot muffins were ready to come out of the oven. There were jars of jams and jellies and canned fruit

For each boy there was a bag of marbles, and each girl had a little rag doll made just for her. Every stocking that was hanging was stuffed full of homemade taffy, fudge, divinity, and dried fruit of every kind. Later, Mary and Leland ere to find tucked in the toe of the stockings that had been sent for them a few dollars with a little note that the money was to be used to buy coal for the rest of the winter.

The most wonderful miracle, though, occurred when Ellen, the very last to get up, rubbed her eyes in disbelief as she looked at the spot where her stocking was supposed to have been hung the night before and saw hanging there a beautiful red Christmas dress, trimmed with white and green satin ribbons. She later said it was the most wonderful Christmas ever. That morning, with the Christmas dress for Ellen, a childhood had been brought back, a childhood of hopes and dreams and Santa Claus and the miracle of Christmas.

From a beloved Christmas hymn we recall these lines:

May each of us welcome the Savior of the world into our hearts and into our Christmas celebrations. May we experience the joy of setting aside convenience and personal comfort, if need be, in favor of Christian service. Then may we learn, as did an ancient prophet, that when we are in the service of our fellow beings, we are truly in the service of our God.[2]

(This is the true story of a young mother, Mary Jeppson, who lived in the remote prairie town of Hillspring, Alberta, and how she celebrated Christmas in 1927 as told by President Thomas S. Monson during the First Presidency Christmas Devotional in the Tabernacle Dec. 7, and reported in the Deseret News, 13 Dec 1997)

[1] Phillips Brooks, "O Little Town of Bethlehem," Hymns of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (Salt Lake City: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, 1985), no. 208.

[2] See Mosiah 2:17.

Even though Pham was twelve years old, he was about to celebrate his very first Christmas.

Pham and his family had come to the United States during the great airlift of refugees from Vietnam. And although many wonderful things had happened to Pham's family since their arrival, the most wonderful of all was when they had joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints!

Before then, Pham had heard about Christmas. He had not been too sure how the Christmas holidays would be celebrated, but he thought that they might be celebrated like Tet, the Vietnamese New Year. During Tet everyone decorated his home with flowers, ate delicious food, and lit fireworks. Then, when the missionaries came to teach his family about the Church, Pham learned that Christmas is the celebration of Jesus' birth. He never tired of hearing his teacher at church read the Christmas story. He especially liked to hear about the Wise Men who had brought gifts to the baby Jesus. Pham had decided that, like the Wise Men, he would give Jesus a gift.

On the Saturday before Christmas, Pham held his little sister's hand in his as they headed for the bus stop. He shoved his other hand deep into his coat pocket where his fingers found and clutched five one-dollar bills. He had worked very hard shoveling snow and running errands to earn the money, and now he was on his way to the department store to buy the special Christmas gift for Jesus.

Although the cold nipped at Pham's nose and ears as he and Kim Li got off the bus and started down the sidewalk piled high on either side with snow, his heart was warm and he felt like singing. Soon the singing wouldn't stay inside, and Pham's voice rose clear and sweet in the cold air. He sang every Christmas carol that he knew, and people passing turned and smiled.

Soon Pham and Kim Li reached the department store. Its windows glittered with gold and silver tinsel and tiny star-lights that blinked off and on. The sight was so dazzling that Pham and Kim Li just stood in wonder for a moment.

Then, remembering his important mission, Pham led his sister into the store and started his search for the perfect gift for Jesus. Slowly he went up and down the long aisles, looking and looking. Ties and socks and books and shirts and jackets were fine for his father, but didn't seem quite right for Jesus. Pham looked at diamonds and watches and golden rings, but somehow even they would not have been good enough, even if Pham had the money to buy them. Discouraged, he wondered how the Wise Men had been able to decide on their gifts of gold and frankincense and myrrh.

Pham felt a tug on his sleeve. Looking down, he saw that his little sister was very tired. Gently Pham picked her up and gave her a hug. He carried her to the snack bar in the store and had her sit at a table while he went to get some hot chocolate for her. It cost fifty cents, but Pham didn't think that Jesus would mind if he spent a little of the money on Kim Li.

After Kim Li had finished her hot chocolate and had rested a while, Pham decided to go to another store. On the way they passed a crippled man begging on the sidewalk. Pham had seen many people who were hurt and crippled during the war, and his heart went out to the man. Before he quite realized what he was doing, Pham took a dollar from his pocket and gave it to the beggar.

When they arrived at the second department store, Pham again searched down every aisle, but he still couldn't find anything that was just right. Then he saw a little boy who was lost and crying. Pham took the little boy to a security guard who could help find his mother. While they were waiting, Pham bought the boy a small toy and told him stories.

It was getting late, and Pham and Kim Li started home without finding a gift for Jesus. They stopped for a moment to watch a fat man with a white beard, who was dressed in a red suit. The jolly man was ringing a bell above a pot that people dropped money into. "What is it for?" Pham asked. When the man said that it was to buy food for the poor, Pham put two dollars into the pot. He knew all about not having enough food.

When Pham put his hand back into his coat pocket, he was shocked to discover that he had only one dollar left. What have I done? he wondered. It was too late to earn more money, and he couldn't think of anything that he could buy for a dollar. Filled with disappointment, he thought of the Wise Men and their handsome gifts. He had so wanted to give Jesus a fine gift too! How could he ever do it now? By the time they reached home, great tears were sliding down Pham's cheeks.

"What's the matter?" his mother asked as she gently held his tear-streaked face. Pham told her about how he had wanted to give a gift to Jesus as the Wise Men had and about how he had spent nearly all his money and still didn't have a gift.

"Oh, but you do!" his mother said, a tender smile lighting her face. "You have already given Him the only gift that He really wants -- the love in your heart!"

"It is true that I have love, but how have I given Him that?" Pham asked, puzzled.

"Don't you see?" his mother said gently. "You have given love today to Kim Li, to the crippled man, to the little boy, to the poor for food. Oh, Pham, you have given richly! Don't you remember that Jesus said, 'Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me' (Matt. 25:10)? Pham, you have given Jesus the finest gift of all!"

Pham's eyes began to shine with joy. He took the remaining dollar from his pocket. "I will give this to the bishop," he said. "Maybe it will help a missionary teach others about Jesus and the gospel."

Each December, I vowed to make Christmas a calm and peaceful experience.

I had cut back on nonessential obligations -- extensive card writing, endless baking, decorating, and even overspending.

Yet still, I found myself exhausted, unable to appreciate the precious family moments, and of course, the true meaning of Christmas.

My son, Nicholas, was in kindergarten that year. It was an exciting season for a six-year-old. For weeks, he'd been memorizing songs for his school's "Winter Pageant."

I didn't have the heart to tell him I'd be working the night of the production.

Unwilling to miss his shining moment, I spoke with his teacher. She assured me there'd be a dress rehearsal the morning of the presentation.

All parents unable to attend that evening were welcome to come then.

Fortunately, Nicholas seemed happy with the compromise.

So, the morning of the dress rehearsal, I filed in ten minutes early, found a spot on the cafeteria floor and sat down.

Around the room, I saw several other parents quietly scampering to their seats.

As I waited, the students were led into the room.

Each class, accompanied by their teacher, sat cross-legged on the floor. Then, each group, one by one, rose to perform their song.

Because the public school system had long stopped referring to the holiday as "Christmas," I didn't expect anything other than fun, commercial entertainment -- songs of reindeer, Santa Claus, snowflakes and good cheer.

So, when my son's class rose to sing, "Christmas Love," I was slightly taken aback by its bold title.

Nicholas was aglow, as were all of his classmates, adorned in fuzzy mittens, red sweaters, and bright snowcaps upon their heads.

Those in the front row -- center stage -- held up large letters, one by one, to spell out the title of the song.

As the class would sing "C is for Christmas," a child would hold up the letter C.

Then, "H is for Happy," and on and on, until each child holding up his portion had presented the complete message, "Christmas Love."

The performance was going smoothly, until suddenly, we noticed her; a small, quiet, girl in the front row holding the letter "M" upside down -- totally unaware her letter "M" appeared as a "W".

The audience of 1st through 6th graders snickered at this little one's mistake.

But she had no idea they were laughing at her, so she stood tall, proudly holding her "W".

Although many teachers tried to shush the children, the laughter continued until the last letter was raised, and we all saw it together.

A hush came over the audience and eyes began to widen.

In that instant, we understood -- the reason we were there, why we celebrated the holiday in the first place, why even in the chaos, there was a purpose for our festivities.

For when the last letter was held high, the message read loud and clear:

"CHRIST WAS LOVE"

And, I believe, He still is.

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

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

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

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

The people on the streetcar, as usual, had been studiously avoiding each other's eyes, but now they began to exchange shy glances and smiles. A businessman offered a section of newspaper to the stranger next to him; three people stooped to return a gift that had tumbled to the floor. And now people were speaking to one another. That little boy had tangibly changed something, we all relaxed into a subtle feeling of warmth and actually enjoyed the trip through the final stops along the route.

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

Rulon snuggled down into the warmth of his sheets and comforter. Every evening just before he hopped into bed, his mother ironed the foot of the sheets to remove the chill of the unheated bedroom. Rulon shivered involuntarily when he realized that even with such saving measures, their coal supply would probably not last out the winter. "If only Pa hadn't died last summer," he sighed miserably.

He tried to shut out such thoughts by thinking of the Christmas tree downstairs. Earlier that Christmas Eve afternoon, he and his brothers had hiked into the woods to chop down the Douglas fir his sisters had picked out the day before. "It's a beauty, all right," he thought, "thick and full and fragrant with the rich smell of fir."

He smiled to himself, remembering Bessie's laughter as she threaded popcorn and cranberries into garland for the branches. This was the first year she'd been old enough to do it without breaking more of the popped kernels than she strung, and she had proudly declared, "I strung almost as many pieces as you ate, Rulon!"

His pleasant thoughts ended abruptly as he remembered the emptiness of the floor beneath the tree. He knew that his mother had an orange and some nuts for each of the children, but that was all there would be this year. The family had sold almost everything to pay off the debts when their father died, and there wasn't anything extra to spare. "There's not even a new ornament this year," Rulon thought dismally. One of his father's favorite traditions had been to make a different hand-carved wooden ornament for the tree each year. Lately, Rulon had been trying to fill Pa's shoes in most respects, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to take on this particular responsibility.

Rulon awoke the next morning to find two huge, blue eyes staring into his. "Oh, Rulon," Bessie cried. "Wake up! It's Christmas! Are you going to sleep all day?

"All day!" Rulon muttered to himself as he watched her scamper out of the room. "There's a whole hour before daylight yet!" But he couldn't help chuckling at her eagerness as he leapt out of the bed and dressed, dancing from one foot to the other on the cold floor.

The kitchen was a mess of confusion by the time Rulon got there. His mother was busy frying eggs and making biscuits while his seven brothers and sisters scurried around in an effort to help setting the table and pouring the milk. "Thought this one day I'd let you sleep as long as you could," his mother called over her shoulder as Rulon entered. "But I guess Bessie couldn't wait."

"Come on, Rulon!" eight year old Nathan fairly shouted. "The sooner we get breakfast eaten and cleaned up, the sooner we can go to the tree."

With all of them pitching in, everything was soon ready. Despite Ma's warning of, "Don't wolf your food!" and "Slow down and taste it!" there was soon nothing left of the morning's fare. After breakfast was cleared away, the family lined up according to ages and marched in to the tree.

Caught up in the excitement of the morning, Rulon almost forgot his bitterness. After feasting on oranges and nuts, the whole family joined in singing every Christmas carol they knew -- and then they sang some over again. Finally Ma declared, "Because this is such a happy occasion, I think we should do something really special. Since we have so much and are so blessed, I think it's only right that we should share Christmas with another family."

So much! The words hit Rulon like a bullet. Why, we don't have enough for ourselves, and she wants us to take to someone else! The children glanced at each other, somewhat puzzled, as though they couldn't believe what they had heard. But Ma seemed not to notice their bewilderment and went on to explain. "I want each of you to go to your rooms and find something you would like to give away. You have some nice hair ribbons, Wanda, and I know you have two pairs of mittens, Harold. But you decide. While you find your gifts, I'll bake some apple pies to put in a crate with everything else."

As Rulon dragged up the stairs after his brothers and sisters, confused thoughts whirled around in his mind. "What do I have to give away?" He wondered. "I -- we've all had to do without so much lately, and now Ma wants us to find something nice we don't need. I don't get it."

Rulon was the last one to bring his gift back down to the tree. After looking around for a long time, he finally settled on a fine linen pocket handkerchief that a maiden aunt had sent him from the East. His brothers and sisters were already wrapping their offerings in some brown paper and string. Rulon looked with interest to see what they had found. Wanda had contributed hair ribbons; Harold his extra pair of mittens; Nathan was parting with the straw hat he had woven last summer -- "Can always make me a new one next year," he volunteered as he saw Rulon watching him; Thelma was intently wrapping the lace jabot that adorned her otherwise plain Sunday dress, and from the shape of the package Ralph was tying string round, Rulon knew he had given away his reed whistle. Tears sprang to Rulon's eyes, though, when he saw Bessie struggling to wrap the stuffed calico cat that she slept with every night.

Just then, Ma entered the room, brushing some flour off her apron. "Well, the pies are baking," she announced. "Rulon, why don't you go get the crate from the barn to put all of these gifts in?"

Something seemed to snap suddenly inside Rulon, and he faced his mother fiercely. "Ma, what are we doing, anyway? We don't even have enough for ourselves, and here you have us taking Christmas to someone else? This is crazy."

The room was hushed as the children stared in amazement at their oldest brother. But Ma didn't seem angry at his outburst. Her shoulders sagged a little as though she were suddenly tired, but her face reflected only deep love and concern. Finally she spoke, "I'm not quite sure I understand, son. We're some of the richest people on this earth. We have a fine house to live in, clothes to wear, and I don't recall any of us ever having to go to bed hungry. More importantly, we've got each other and even though your Pa's gone, we know that we'll see him again. And we've got our testimonies of the gospel, and there's no kind of earthly treasure that I'd ever exchange for that." She paused, but went on when Rulon didn't speak. "Seems to me we're rich and very blessed, and it would be selfish of us not to want to share our bounty with others."

Rulon was strangely quiet on the way home from the Kirkham's house later that evening. He had laughed with the others when the presents were opened and as the two families joined in games and singing. But after doing his evening chores and eating supper, he excused himself, saying he needed to get something from the barn. While the others gathered around the tree to tell stories, he went to the room he shared with his brothers, explaining that there was something he wanted to do.

It was past everyone's usual bedtime when Ma called the family together for the traditional reading of the Christmas story from Luke. Rulon appeared at the top of the stairs holding something behind his back. "I have something to say," he began a little shyly, but his eyes twinkled. "This has been a wonderful day for all of us, and especially for me." He cleared his throat before he went on. "I learned a lot today, and I tried to think of some way to remind myself of it in the future. I know it's a little late to be hanging up our new ornament for the year, and I know it's not nearly as nice as the ones that Pa always made, but ..."

Rulon drew his hands from behind his back to reveal a soft wood carving of a wooden crate, topped with a Christmas bow and inscribed: "A Christmas to Share, 1931."

Everyone was sniffing as Rulon lifted Bessie up so she could hang the new ornament near the top of the tree.

"It's lovely, son," Ma said softly. "Now why don't you sit here in this chair and read the Christmas story to us."

Christmas morning of my fifth year I woke to find a wooden rifle under the tree, carefully carved by my dad, complete with a dowel barrel and a hole for my trigger finger. I can almost smell the fresh paint mingled with the fragrance of pine branches. And though I don't recall playing with it, I remember the awe I felt in knowing my dad made it just for me.

Not all gifts, however, are so personally intended. After that horrendous brown vase I got at a Christmas party, at least I had the perverse joy of watching someone open "How to Raise Rhesus Monkeys" that had been foisted off on me the year before. Then there's a punch-out calendar to sit on my desk reminding me all year long to buy Farmer's Insurance. And the mortuary that gives away bottles of hand lotion every year -- my family always calls it "embalming fluid."

What takes the joy out of giving are the obligatory gifts -- the expected office exchange, the box of candy you keep by the door to hand the Smiths when they come to call as you know they will, once a year. And don't forget the gift for great Aunt Hattie whom you haven't liked since she pinched your cheeks when you were little.

Really difficult are the gifts that come with long invisible strings dangling from them, gifts so very expensive that you could never afford to reciprocate. Gold and diamond jewelry from a suitor. You don't want to hurt his feelings, but ...

I wonder how Mary and Joseph felt as they watched richly robed wise men kneel before their child offering alabaster jars of precious myrrh, inlaid boxes heavy with the scent of frankincense, and iron-bound chests laden with gold -- gifts fit for a king. How could they possibly repay?

I guess the most troublesome gift at Christmas is the Child Himself. What do we say? We smile nicely and pat the humbly-wrapped present. "How nice of you, God, to have been so thoughtful," we mumble politely.

But the Gift lies on the dresser unopened year after year. Perhaps because we don't expect to find much inside except a useless religious trinket. Perhaps because we don't feel any need for God just now.

Perhaps because we know that if we unwrap the Gift we'll be obligated to the Giver beyond what we can ever repay. And so it sits ... and so it sits until in loneliness, in pain, in utter desperation we tug at the ribbons and tear off the wrappings, hoping against hope we'll find inside what we've longed for. And so it is.

Unconditional Love!

God sent a gift one Christmas morn, a wondrous gift, a precious gift.

God sent a gift one Christmas morn by peasant maid and craftsman hand.

God sent a gift one Christmas morn and wrapped it up in swaddling clothes,

For me, He did. Yes, for me He did.

God sent a gift one Christmas morn and wrapped it up in swaddling clothes.

For me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

About Sharon:

Retired from teaching, I am a freelance writer living in Barrhead, AB, Canada. My essays, articles, and poems are published in a variety of Christian and secular publications including Edmonton Journal, Western Producer, Grainews, Western Catholic Reporter, Fellowscript, and Celebrate Life. You will also find my stories in anthologies: Chicken Soup for the Canadian Soul, Inscribed, and Home Tomorrow.

Santa Claus lives in the Laughing Valley, where stands the big, rambling castle in which his toys are manufactured. His workmen, selected from the ryls, knooks, pixies and fairies, live with him, and every one is as busy as can be from one year's end to another.

It is called the Laughing Valley because everything there is happy and gay. The brook chuckles to itself as it leaps rollicking between its green banks; the wind whistles merrily in the trees; the sunbeams dance lightly over the soft grass, and the violets and wild flowers look smilingly up from their green nests. To laugh one needs to be happy; to be happy one needs to be content. And throughout the Laughing Valley of Santa Claus contentment reigns supreme.

On one side is the mighty Forest of Burzee. At the other side stands the huge mountain that contains the Caves of the Daemons. And between them the Valley lies smiling and peaceful.

One would thing that our good old Santa Claus, who devotes his days to making children happy, would have no enemies on all the earth; and, as a matter of fact, for a long period of time he encountered nothing but love wherever he might go.

But the Daemons who live in the mountain caves grew to hate Santa Claus very much, and all for the simple reason that he made children happy.

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The Caves of the Daemons are five in number. A broad pathway leads up to the first cave, which is a finely arched cavern at the foot of the mountain, the entrance being beautifully carved and decorated. In it resides the Daemon of Selfishness. Back of this is another cavern inhabited by the Daemon of Envy. The cave of the Daemon of Hatred is next in order, and through this one passes to the home of the Daemon of Malice -- situated in a dark and fearful cave in the very heart of the mountain. I do not know what lies beyond this. Some say there are terrible pitfalls leading to death and destruction, and this may very well be true. However, from each one of the four caves mentioned there is a small, narrow tunnel leading to the fifth cave -- a cozy little room occupied by the Daemon of Repentance. And as the rocky floors of these passages are well worn by the track of passing feet, I judge that many wanderers in the Caves of the Daemons have escaped through the tunnels to the abode of the Daemon of Repentance, who is said to be a pleasant sort of fellow who gladly opens for one a little door admitting you into fresh air and sunshine again.

Well, these Daemons of the Caves, thinking they had great cause to dislike old Santa Claus, held a meeting one day to discuss the matter.

"I'm really getting lonesome," said the Daemon of Selfishness. "For Santa Claus distributes so many pretty Christmas gifts to all the children that they become happy and generous, through his example, and keep away from my cave."

I'm having the same trouble," rejoined the Daemon of Envy. "The little ones seem quite content with Santa Claus, and there are few, indeed, that I can coax to become envious."

"And that makes it bad for me!" declared the Daemon of Hatred. "For if no children pass through the Caves of Selfishness and Envy, none can get to MY cavern."

"Or to mine," added the Daemon of Malice.

"For my part," said the Daemon of Repentance, "it is easily seen that if children do not visit your caves they have no need to visit mine; so that I am quite as neglected as you are."

"And all because of this person they call Santa Claus!" exclaimed the Daemon of Envy. "He is simply ruining our business, and something must be done at once."

To this they readily agreed; but what to do was another and more difficult matter to settle. They knew that Santa Claus worked all through the year at his castle in the Laughing Valley, preparing the gifts he was to distribute on Christmas Eve; and at first they resolved to try to tempt him into their caves, that they might lead him on to the terrible pitfalls that ended in destruction.

So the very next day, while Santa Claus was busily at work, surrounded by his little band of assistants, the Daemon of Selfishness came to him and said:

"These toys are wonderfully bright and pretty. Why do you not keep them for yourself? It's a pity to give them to those noisy boys and fretful girls, who break and destroy them so quickly."

"Nonsense!" cried the old graybeard, his bright eyes twinkling merrily as he turned toward the tempting Daemon. "The boys and girls are never so noisy and fretful after receiving my presents, and if I can make them happy for one day in the year I am quite content."

So the Daemon went back to the others, who awaited him in their caves, and said:

"I have failed, for Santa Claus is not at all selfish."

The following day the Daemon of Envy visited Santa Claus. Said he: "The toy shops are full of playthings quite as pretty as those you are making. What a shame it is that they should interfere with your business! They make toys by machinery much quicker than you can make them by hand; and they sell them for money, while you get nothing at all for your work."

But Santa Claus refused to be envious of the toy shops.

"I can supply the little ones but once a year -- on Christmas Eve," he answered; "for the children are many, and I am but one. And as my work is one of love and kindness I would be ashamed to receive money for my little gifts. But throughout all the year the children must be amused in some way, and so the toy shops are able to bring much happiness to my little friends. I like the toy shops, and am glad to see them prosper."

In spite of the second rebuff, the Daemon of Hatred thought he would try to influence Santa Claus. So the next day he entered the busy workshop and said:

"Good morning, Santa! I have bad news for you."

"Then run away, like a good fellow," answered Santa Claus. "Bad news is something that should be kept secret and never told."

"You cannot escape this, however," declared the Daemon; "for in the world are a good many who do not believe in Santa Claus, and these you are bound to hate bitterly, since they have so wronged you."

"Stuff and rubbish!" cried Santa.

"And there are others who resent your making children happy and who sneer at you and call you a foolish old rattlepate! You are quite right to hate such base slanderers, and you ought to be revenged upon them for their evil words."

"But I don't hate 'em!" exclaimed Santa Claus positively. "Such people do me no real harm, but merely render themselves and their children unhappy. Poor things! I'd much rather help them any day than injure them."

Indeed, the Daemons could not tempt old Santa Claus in any way. On the contrary, he was shrewd enough to see that their object in visiting him was to make mischief and trouble, and his cheery laughter disconcerted the evil ones and showed to them the folly of such an undertaking. So they abandoned honeyed words and determined to use force.

It was well known that no harm can come to Santa Claus while he is in the Laughing Valley, for the fairies, and ryls, and knooks all protect him. But on Christmas Eve he drives his reindeer out into the big world, carrying a sleighload of toys and pretty gifts to the children; and this was the time and the occasion when his enemies had the best chance to injure him. So the Daemons laid their plans and awaited the arrival of Christmas Eve.

The moon shone big and white in the sky, and the snow lay crisp and sparkling on the ground as Santa Claus cracked his whip and sped away out of the Valley into the great world beyond. The roomy sleigh was packed full with huge sacks of toys, and as the reindeer dashed onward our jolly old Santa laughed and whistled and sang for very joy. For in all his merry life this was the one day in the year when he was happiest -- the day he lovingly bestowed the treasures of his workshop upon the little children.

It would be a busy night for him, he well knew. As he whistled and shouted and cracked his whip again, he reviewed in mind all the towns and cities and farmhouses where he was expected, and figured that he had just enough presents to go around and make every child happy. The reindeer knew exactly what was expected of them, and dashed along so swiftly that their feet scarcely seemed to touch the snow-covered ground.

Suddenly a strange thing happened: a rope shot through the moonlight and a big noose that was in the end of it settled over the arms and body of Santa Claus and drew tight. Before he could resist or even cry out he was jerked from the seat of the sleigh and tumbled head foremost into a snowbank, while the reindeer rushed onward with the load of toys and carried it quickly out of sight and sound.

Such a surprising experience confused old Santa for a moment, and when he had collected his senses he found that the wicked Daemons had pulled him from the snowdrift and bound him tightly with many coils of the stout rope. And then they carried the kidnapped Santa Claus away to their mountain, where they thrust the prisoner into a secret cave and chained him to the rocky wall so that he could not escape.

"Ha, ha!" laughed the Daemons, rubbing their hands together with cruel glee. "What will the children do now? How they will cry and scold and storm when they find there are no toys in their stockings and no gifts on their Christmas trees! And what a lot of punishment they will receive from their parents, and how they will flock to our Caves of Selfishness, and Envy, and Hatred, and Malice! We have done a mighty clever thing, we Daemons of the Caves!"

Now it so chanced that on this Christmas Eve the good Santa Claus had taken with him in his sleigh Nuter the Ryl, Peter the Knook, Kilter the Pixie, and a small fairy named Wisk -- his four favorite assistants. These little people he had often found very useful in helping him to distribute his gifts to the children, and when their master was so suddenly dragged from the sleigh they were all snugly tucked underneath the seat, where the sharp wind could not reach them.

The tiny immortals knew nothing of the capture of Santa Claus until some time after he had disappeared. But finally they missed his cheery voice, and as their master always sang or whistled on his journeys, the silence warned them that something was wrong.

Little Wisk stuck out his head from underneath the seat and found Santa Claus gone and no one to direct the flight of the reindeer.

"Whoa!" he called out, and the deer obediently slackened speed and came to a halt.

Peter and Nuter and Kilter all jumped upon the seat and looked back over the track made by the sleigh. But Santa Claus had been left miles and miles behind.

"What shall we do?" asked Wisk anxiously, all the mirth and mischief banished from his wee face by this great calamity.

"We must go back at once and find our master," said Nuter the Ryl, who thought and spoke with much deliberation.

"No, no!" exclaimed Peter the Knook, who, cross and crabbed though he was, might always be depended upon in an emergency. "If we delay, or go back, there will not be time to get the toys to the children before morning; and that would grieve Santa Claus more than anything else."

"It is certain that some wicked creatures have captured him," added Kilter thoughtfully, "and their object must be to make the children unhappy. So our first duty is to get the toys distributed as carefully as if Santa Claus were himself present. Afterward we can search for our master and easily secure his freedom."

This seemed such good and sensible advice that the others at once resolved to adopt it. So Peter the Knook called to the reindeer, and the faithful animals again sprang forward and dashed over hill and valley, through forest and plain, until they came to the houses wherein children lay sleeping and dreaming of the pretty gifts they would find on Christmas morning.

The little immortals had set themselves a difficult task; for although they had assisted Santa Claus on many of his journeys, their master had always directed and guided them and told them exactly what he wished them to do. But now they had to distribute the toys according to their own judgment, and they did not understand children as well as did old Santa. So it is no wonder they made some laughable errors.

Mamie Brown, who wanted a doll, got a drum instead; and a drum is of no use to a girl who loves dolls. And Charlie Smith, who delights to romp and play out of doors, and who wanted some new rubber boots to keep his feet dry, received a sewing box filled with colored worsteds and threads and needles, which made him so provoked that he thoughtlessly called our dear Santa Claus a fraud.

Had there been many such mistakes the Daemons would have accomplished their evil purpose and made the children unhappy. But the little friends of the absent Santa Claus labored faithfully and intelligently to carry out their master's ideas, and they made fewer errors than might be expected under such unusual circumstances.

And, although they worked as swiftly as possible, day had begun to break before the toys and other presents were all distributed; so for the first time in many years the reindeer trotted into the Laughing Valley, on their return, in broad daylight, with the brilliant sun peeping over the edge of the forest to prove they were far behind their accustomed hours.

Having put the deer in the stable, the little folk began to wonder how they might rescue their master; and they realized they must discover, first of all, what had happened to him and where he was.

So Wisk the Fairy transported himself to the bower of the Fairy Queen, which was located deep in the heart of the Forest of Burzee; and once there, it did not take him long to find out all about the naughty Daemons and how they had kidnapped the good Santa Claus to prevent his making children happy. The Fairy Queen also promised her assistance, and then, fortified by this powerful support, Wisk flew back to where Nuter and Peter and Kilter awaited him, and the four counseled together and laid plans to rescue their master from his enemies.

It is possible that Santa Claus was not as merry as usual during the night that succeeded his capture. For although he had faith in the judgment of his little friends he could not avoid a certain amount of worry, and an anxious look would creep at times into his kind old eyes as he thought of the disappointment that might await his dear little children. And the Daemons, who guarded him by turns, one after another, did not neglect to taunt him with contemptuous words in his helpless condition.

When Christmas Day dawned the Daemon of Malice was guarding the prisoner, and his tongue was sharper than that of any of the others.

"The children are waking up, Santa!" he cried. "They are waking up to find their stockings empty! Ho, ho! How they will quarrel, and wail, and stamp their feet in anger! Our caves will be full today, old Santa! Our caves are sure to be full!"

But to this, as to other like taunts, Santa Claus answered nothing. He was much grieved by his capture, it is true; but his courage did not forsake him. And, finding that the prisoner would not reply to his jeers, the Daemon of Malice presently went away, and sent the Daemon of Repentance to take his place.

This last personage was not so disagreeable as the others. He had gentle and refined features, and his voice was soft and pleasant in tone.

"My brother Daemons do not trust me overmuch," said he, as he entered the cavern; "but it is morning, now, and the mischief is done. You cannot visit the children again for another year."

"That is true," answered Santa Claus, almost cheerfully; "Christmas Eve is past, and for the first time in centuries I have not visited my children."

"The little ones will be greatly disappointed," murmured the Daemon of Repentance, almost regretfully; "but that cannot be helped now. Their grief is likely to make the children selfish and envious and hateful, and if they come to the Caves of the Daemons today I shall get a chance to lead some of them to my Cave of Repentance."

"Do you never repent, yourself?" asked Santa Claus, curiously.

"Oh, yes, indeed," answered the Daemon. "I am even now repenting that I assisted in your capture. Of course it is too late to remedy the evil that has been done; but repentance, you know, can come only after an evil thought or deed, for in the beginning there is nothing to repent of."

"So I understand," said Santa Claus. "Those who avoid evil need never visit your cave."

"As a rule, that is true," replied the Daemon; "yet you, who have done no evil, are about to visit my cave at once; for to prove that I sincerely regret my share in your capture I am going to permit you to escape."

This speech greatly surprised the prisoner, until he reflected that it was just what might be expected of the Daemon of Repentance. The fellow at once busied himself untying the knots that bound Santa Claus and unlocking the chains that fastened him to the wall. Then he led the way through a long tunnel until they both emerged in the Cave of Repentance.

"I hope you will forgive me," said the Daemon pleadingly. "I am not really a bad person, you know; and I believe I accomplish a great deal of good in the world."

With this he opened a back door that let in a flood of sunshine, and Santa Claus sniffed the fresh air gratefully.

"I bear no malice," said he to the Daemon, in a gentle voice; "and I am sure the world would be a dreary place without you. So, good morning, and a Merry Christmas to you!"

With these words he stepped out to greet the bright morning, and a moment later he was trudging along, whistling softly to himself, on his way to his home in the Laughing Valley.

Marching over the snow toward the mountain was a vast army, made up of the most curious creatures imaginable. There were numberless knooks from the forest, as rough and crooked in appearance as the gnarled branches of the trees they ministered to. And there were dainty ryls from the fields, each one bearing the emblem of the flower or plant it guarded. Behind these were many ranks of pixies, gnomes and nymphs, and in the rear a thousand beautiful fairies floated along in gorgeous array.

This wonderful army was led by Wisk, Peter, Nuter, and Kilter, who had assembled it to rescue Santa Claus from captivity and to punish the Daemons who had dared to take him away from his beloved children.

And, although they looked so bright and peaceful, the little immortals were armed with powers that would be very terrible to those who had incurred their anger. Woe to the Daemons of the Caves if this mighty army of vengeance ever met them!

But lo! coming to meet his loyal friends appeared the imposing form of Santa Claus, his white beard floating in the breeze and his bright eyes sparkling with pleasure at this proof of the love and veneration he had inspired in the hearts of the most powerful creatures in existence.

And while they clustered around him and danced with glee at his safe return, he gave them earnest thanks for their support. But Wisk, and Nuter, and Peter, and Kilter, he embraced affectionately.

"It is useless to pursue the Daemons," said Santa Claus to the army. "They have their place in the world, and can never be destroyed. But that is a great pity, nevertheless," he continued musingly.

So the fairies, and knooks, and pixies, and ryls all escorted the good man to his castle, and there left him to talk over the events of the night with his little assistants.

Wisk had already rendered himself invisible and flown through the big world to see how the children were getting along on this bright Christmas morning; and by the time he returned, Peter had finished telling Santa Claus of how they had distributed the toys.

"We really did very well," cried the fairy, in a pleased voice; "for I found little unhappiness among the children this morning. Still, you must not get captured again, my dear master; for we might not be so fortunate another time in carrying out your ideas."

He then related the mistakes that had been made, and which he had not discovered until his tour of inspection. And Santa Claus at once sent him with rubber boots for Charlie Smith, and a doll for Mamie Brown; so that even those two disappointed ones became happy.

As for the wicked Daemons of the Caves, they were filled with anger and chagrin when they found that their clever capture of Santa Claus had come to naught. Indeed, no one on that Christmas Day appeared to be at all selfish, or envious, or hateful. And, realizing that while the children's saint had so many powerful friends it was folly to oppose him, the Daemons never again attempted to interfere with his journeys on Christmas Eve.

It was cold in the stable that night, and the animals were huddled together for warmth. The cows and the oxen and the donkeys.

And one little lamb.

Sad, scrawny little lamb, born lame and frail. Too frail to be out with the flock in the fields. The shepherds had carried it into the stable, where it would be safe from the wind and the wolves, for both the wolves and the wind came down from the hills with a fierceness in the wintertime.

The lamb had food and shelter, but that was not enough. It was lonely. Separated from its mother, it felt unloved. The other animals tried to be kind, but they had no time. During the day, they were busy working: The cows had milk to make, the oxen had earth to plow and the donkeys had carts to pull.

At night, they were all very tired. They'd feed upon the fodder and then go right to bed. None would talk, none would play. None would even sing a lullaby to a lamb that needed comfort. Every night the lamb would cry, and be told to hush, for its bleats disturbed their sleep.

Thus, that night, the lamb cried without making a sound, as it had learned to do. And it looked at the strangers who were sharing the stable. At the man, who held the woman's hand and spoke to her so softly. And especially at the woman, who spoke not at all.

Huddled together, the animals slept, and eventually the lamb slept, too. And the night was silent.

But then, in the darkest hour, there was no more darkness and no more silence. There was the cry of a baby. And the stable shone with the brightest of lights and there were voices ringing in the air.

The animals, shaken from their dreams, were frightened. They stamped their hooves and tossed their heads and made their frightened-animal noises, but the light was so lovely and the voices so beautiful, it wasn't long before they quieted and began to lose their fear.

And when the light had dimmed to a glow and the voices were only an echo, there in their manger, they saw the baby, and their eyes went wide with wonder. The animals murmured but would not approach until the woman beckoned. Then, one by one, the beasts came forward. All, that is, except the lamb, which was only a baby itself and still terribly afraid. Forgotten by the others, it trembled in a corner and tried to hide beneath the hay.

But the baby in the manger was trembling, too. The cold of the night had returned, and the baby had started to shiver. When the animals saw this, they huddled closer about the crib.

The man took off his cloak and made a blanket of it, but the cloak was thin and threadbare and provided little warmth.

The woman held the baby to her breast. He shivered still, and she began to weep.

And the lamb, which knew what weeping meant, lifted itself from the hay. Though it was still afraid, it left its hiding place. It made its way among the legs of the bigger beasts, until it stood beside the woman, and it laid its head against her knee.

And the softest of hands reached down and stroked its wool.

And the gentlest of hands picked it up and tucked it into the manger straw, and tucked the baby in beside it, and covered them both with the cloak. The baby snuggled near, and smiled, and closed his eyes.

And the lamb was very glad it had learned to cry without making a sound. Because it was crying now and didn't want to wake the child.

But the lamb wasn't crying because it was sad. It was crying because, at last, it didn't feel alone. Or afraid. Or unloved.

Then the lamb closed its eyes, too. And the woman sang a lullaby.

Zautyk, a former member of the Daily News Editorial Board, wrote this for her father, John.

Long before the birth of Christ, midwinter had always been a time for merry making by the masses. The root of the midwinter rituals was the winter solstice -- the shortest day -- which falls on 21st December. After this date the days lengthened and the return of spring, the season of life, was eagerly anticipated. It was therefore a time to celebrate both the end of the autumn sowing and the fact that the 'life giving' sun had not deserted them. Bonfires were lit to help strengthen the 'Unconquered Sun'. For Christians the world over this period celebrates the story of the birth of Jesus, in a manger, in Bethlehem. The scriptures however make no mention as to the time of year yet alone the actual date of the nativity. Even our current calendar, which supposedly calculates the years from the birth of Christ, was drawn up in the sixth century by Dionysius, an 'innumerate' Italian monk, to correspond with a Roman Festival.

Until the 4th century Christmas could be celebrated throughout Europe anywhere between early January through to late September. It was Pope Julius I who happened upon the bright idea of adopting 25th December as the actual date of the Nativity. The choice appears both logical and shrewd -- blurring religion with existing feast days and celebrations. Any merrymaking could now be attributed to the birth of Christ rather than any ancient pagan ritual.

One such blurring may involve the Feast of Fools, presided over by the Lord of Misrule. The feast was an unruly event, involving much drinking, revelry and role reversal. The Lord of Misrule, normally a commoner with a reputation of knowing how to enjoy himself, was selected to direct the entertainment. The festival is thought to have originated from the benevolent Roman masters who allowed their servants to be the boss for a while.

The Church entered the act by allowing a choirboy, elected by his peers, to be a Bishop during the period starting with St. Nicholas Day (6th December) until Holy Innocents Day (28th December). Within the period the chosen boy, symbolizing the lowliest authority, would dress in full Bishop's regalia and conduct the Church services. Many of the great cathedrals adopted this custom including York, Winchester, Salisbury Canterbury and Westminster. Henry VIII abolished Boy Bishops however a few churches, including Hereford and Salisbury Cathedrals, continue the practice today.

The burning of the Yule Log is thought to derive from the midwinter ritual of the early Viking invaders, who built enormous bonfires to celebrate their festival of light. The word 'Yule' has existed in the English language for many centuries as an alternative term for Christmas. Traditionally, a large log would be selected in the forest on Christmas Eve, decorated with ribbons, dragged home and laid upon the hearth. After lighting it was kept burning throughout the twelve days of Christmas. It was considered lucky to keep some of the charred remains to kindle the log of the following year.

Whether the word carol comes from the Latin caraula or the French carole, its original meaning is the same -- a dance with a song. The dance element appears to have disappeared over the centuries but the song was used to convey stories, normally that of the Nativity. The earliest recorded published collection of carols is in 1521, by Wynken de Worde which includes the Boars Head Carol. Carols flourished throughout Tudor times as a way to celebrate Christmas and to spread the story of the nativity. Celebrations came to an abrupt end however in the seventeenth century when the Puritans banned all festivities including Christmas. Surprisingly carols remained virtually extinct until the Victorians reinstated the concept of an 'Olde English Christmas' which included traditional gems such as While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks By Night and The Holly and the Ivy as well as introducing a plethora of new hits -- Away in a Manger, O Little Town of Bethlehem -- to mention but a few.

The twelve days of Christmas would have been a most welcome break for the workers on the land, which in Tudor times would have been the majority of the people. All work, except for looking after the animals, would stop, restarting again on Plough Monday, the first Monday after Twelfth Night. The 'Twelfths' had strict rules, one of which banned spinning, the prime occupation for women. Flowers were ceremonially placed upon and around the wheels to prevent their use. During the Twelve Days, people would visit their neighbours sharing and enjoying the traditional 'minced pye'. The pyes would have included thirteen ingredients, representing Christ and his apostles, typically dried fruits, spices and of course a little chopped mutton -- in remembrance of the shepherds. Serious feasting would have been the reserve of Royalty and the Gentry.

Turkey was first introduced into Britain in about 1523 with Henry VIII being one of the first people to eat it as part of the Christmas feast. The popularity of the bird grew quickly, and soon, each year, large flocks of turkeys could be seen walking to London from Norfolk, Suffolk and Cambridgeshire on foot; a journey which they may have started as early as August. (http://www.tudorgroup.co.uk/)

A Tudor Christmas Pie was indeed a sight to behold but not one to be enjoyed by a vegetarian. The contents of this dish consisted of a Turkey stuffed with a goose stuffed with a chicken stuffed with a partridge stuffed with a pigeon. All of this was put in a pastry case, called a coffin and was served surrounded by jointed hare, small game birds and wild fowl.

And to wash it all down, a drink from the Wassail bowl. The word 'Wassail' derives from the Anglo-Saxon 'Waes-hael', meaning 'be whole' or 'be of good health'. The bowl, a large wooden container holding as much as a gallon of punch made of hot-ale, sugar, spices and apples. This punch to be shared with friends and neighbours. A crust of bread was placed at the bottom of the Wassail bowl and offered to the most important person in the room -- hence today's toast as part of any drinking ceremony.

The blizzard had stranded our parents miles from home on Christmas Eve.

Squinting at the bright winter sky, I was sure we were going to have a mild, sunny Christmas. This was somewhat of a disappointment, as I had come to love the snowy Christmases of Colorado. My thoughts were suddenly interrupted by an icy snowball splatting against my neck.

"Ha ha! Gotcha!" screamed my little brother as he scurried away from me.

It was the day before Christmas. At 13, I was old enough to be left in charge of the house while our parents went into town 10 miles away to pick up previously purchased Christmas gifts. So that we wouldn't prematurely discover our presents, Mom and Dad had cleverly arranged to leave them at the stores until Christmas Eve.

Trying to make the time go faster on what always seemed like the longest day of the year, my three younger brothers and I were playing in the three-day-old, crusted snow. We had started out making a snowman, but before long we were in a wild snowball fight.

"Ha ha ha. Gotcha back!" I yelled as I tackled my brother and the two of us fell, laughing, into a snowbank.

Although our family had moved to Denver more than six years before, it was still surprising to me how quickly the Colorado weather could change. Before our snowball fight had ended, the sky became overcast and, minutes after that, snow began to pelt the ground in furious streaks of gray.

Remembering that my parents had left me in charge, I gathered my brothers into the house. We spent the rest of the afternoon peering out at the driving snow, so thick now that the houses across the street were only dim shadows. The blanket of snow reached two feet, but still the heavy flakes continued to fall. I tried to sound confident as I told my brothers that our parents must be on their way home.

As evening drew near, one little brother playfully jumped off the front porch into the new snow. Were we ever surprised when all three feet of him disappeared into the snowy white! He reappeared looking like Frosty the Snowman.

Now it was early evening, and I was beginning to feel as grim as the quickly blackening sky. No parents. No phone call. Four frightened children alone in a storm on Christmas Eve.

Finally the phone rang. My heart beat rapidly as I answered, "Hello?"

It was my mother. My spirits rose but quickly sank again when she told me what had happened. Mom and Dad were completing their errands when the blizzard had struck, coming on so suddenly and with such force that driving became impossible. Drivers left their cars in the roads and walked to whatever shelter they could find.

After trying to get home all afternoon, our parents finally gave up, left the Christmas gifts in the car, and forged through the waist-deep snow toward the house of some friends. Mom was calling from their house.

I could feel her sadness and worry as she told me they wouldn't be able to make it home for Christmas. "Listen, honey, you've got to take care of your brothers and do whatever you can to make it a happy Christmas. We don't know when we'll be able to get back home."

Although I was relieved my parents were safe, my heart was heavy as I hung up the phone. "Some Christmas!" I said to myself. How could I possibly make it happy?

My younger brothers still believed in Santa. What was I supposed to tell them? There would be no Santa, no presents, and worst of all, no parents.

I could hardly look at my brothers' dismayed faces when I told them we'd be all alone for Christmas. But when my youngest brother started to cry, I made up my mind that somehow Christmas was still going to happen.

"Hey, guys, this'll be great," I exclaimed with hope. "We can stay up as late as we want and do something fun and different tonight." The boys' moods began to brighten. We decided to gather our sleeping bags together and spend the night underneath the Christmas tree.

Pajama-clad, we gathered in the family room, cozied up in sleeping bags, gulped hot chocolate, and read the entire Christmas story from Luke. "Fear not, for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy" (Luke 2:10).

There were no presents, no Christmas Eve parties, no Santa, not even parents, but something magical happened that night. We felt the peace and comfort of the Holy Spirit, which testified of Jesus Christ, who had come into this world to become our Savior. We felt this joy, this warmth, this feeling of love for our Savior and for each other -- and that was all we needed. Looking back, it was one of the happiest Christmas Eves I can remember, that night when four children discovered the true joy of Christmas.

In the morning we awoke to weather that all but betrayed the storm of the previous day. All we could see was the warm light of the sun dancing off a frozen sea of snow. It was the loveliest Christmas morning I had ever seen.

As I sat enjoying the incredible scene, I was surprised to see two large objects racing toward our house. "It's Santa's sleigh!" exclaimed my youngest brother, amazed to see anything traversing this kind of snow. But the two snowmobiles which soon pulled up in our front yard brought something far better than Santa and his sleigh could possibly have brought us.

We ran to the door to greet two very relieved and joyous parents. Mom and Dad gathered us in their arms and explained that our neighbors, hearing of our plight, had given up their Christmas morning to make the long trip on their snowmobiles to bring our family together for Christmas. Mom and Dad were teary-eyed as they told us how happy they were to be safely home with us.

Later, as we sat down to Christmas dinner, I marveled at how we could be so joyful when there were no presents to open and no parties to enjoy.

But as I looked around the table at the jubilant faces of my family, I realized that, even as a child, you don't need presents, parties, or Santa to feel joy at Christmas. The remarkable joy of Christmas comes from gifts money cannot buy -- the companionship of loved ones, feelings of the Spirit, and, most importantly, the gift of the Son of God.

A brother and sister had made their usual hurried, obligatory pre-Christmas visit to the little farm where dwelt their elderly parents with their small herd of horses. The farm was where they had grown up and it had been named Lone Pine Farm because of the huge pine, which topped the hill behind the farmhouse. Through the years the tree had become a talisman to the old man and his wife, and a landmark in the countryside. The young siblings had fond memories of their childhood here, but the city hustle and bustle added more excitement to their lives, and called them away to a different life.

The old folks no longer showed the horses, for the years had taken their toll, and getting out to the barn on those frosty mornings was getting harder, but it gave them a reason to get up in the mornings and a reason to live. They sold a few foals each year, and the horses were their reason for joy in the morning and contentment at day's end.

Angry, as they prepared to leave, the young couple confronted the old folks "Why do you not at least dispose of The Old One." She is no longer of use to you. It's been years since you've had foals from her. You should cut corners and save so you can have more for yourselves. How can this old worn out horse bring you anything but expense and work? Why do you keep her anyway?"

The old man looked down at his worn boots, holes in the toes, scuffed at the barn floor and replied, "Yes, I could use a pair of new boots."

His arm slid defensively about the Old One's neck as he drew her near. With gentle caressing he rubbed her softly behind her ears. He replied quietly, "We keep her because of love. Nothing else, just love."

Baffled and impatient, the young folks wished the old man and his wife a Merry Christmas and headed back toward the city as darkness stole through the valley.

The old couple shook their heads in sorrow that it had not been a happy visit. A tear fell upon their cheeks. How is it that these young folks do not understand the peace of the love that filled their hearts?

So it was, that because of the unhappy leave-taking, no one noticed the smell of the insulation smoldering on the frayed wires in the old barn. None saw the first spark fall. None but the "Old One".

In a matter of minutes, the whole barn was ablaze and the hungry flames were licking at the loft full of hay. With a cry of horror and despair, the old man shouted to his wife to call for help as he raced to the barn to save their beloved horses. But the flames were roaring now, and the blazing heat drove him back. He sank sobbing to the ground, helpless before the fire's fury. His wife back from calling for help cradled him in her arms, clinging to each other, they wept at their loss.

By the time the fire department arrived, only smoking, glowing ruins were left, and the old man and his wife, exhausted from their grief, huddled together in front of the barn. They were speechless and stunned as they rose from the cold snow covered ground. They nodded thanks to the firemen as there was nothing anyone could do now. The old man turned to his wife, resting her white head upon his shoulder as his shaking old hands clumsily dried her tears with a frayed red bandana. Brokenly he whispered, "We have lost much, but God has spared our home on this eve of Christmas. Let us gather strength and climb the hill to the old pine where we have sought comfort in times of despair. We will look down upon our home and give thanks to God that it has been spared and pray for our beloved most precious gifts that have been taken from us."

And so, he took her by the hand and slowly helped her up the snowy hill as he brushed aside his own tears with the back of his old, withered hand.

The journey up the hill was hard for their old bodies in the steep snow. As they stepped over the little knoll at the crest of the hill, they paused to rest, looking up to the top of the hill, the old couple gasped and fell to their knees in amazement at the incredible beauty before them.

Seemingly, every glorious, brilliant star in the heavens was caught up in the glittering, snow-frosted branches of their beloved pine, and it was aglow with heavenly candles. And poised on its top-most bough, a crystal crescent moon glistened like spun glass Never had a mere mortal created a Christmas tree such as this. They were breathless as the old man held his wife tighter in his arms.

Suddenly, the old man gave a cry of wonder and incredible joy. Amazed and mystified, he took his wife by the hand and pulled her forward. There, beneath the tree, in resplendent glory, a mist hovering over and glowing in the darkness was their Christmas gift. Shadows glistening in the night light.

Bedded down around the "Old One" close to the trunk of the tree, was the entire herd, safe.

At the first hint of smoke, she had pushed the door ajar with her muzzle and had led the horses through it. Slowly and with great dignity, never looking back, she had led them up the hill, stepping cautiously through the snow. The foals were frightened and dashed about. The skittish yearlings looked back at the crackling, hungry flames, and tucked their tails under them as they licked their lips and hopped like rabbits. The mares that were in foal with a new years crop of babies, pressed uneasily against the "Old One" as she moved calmly up the hill to safety beneath the pine. And now she lay among them and gazed at the faces of the old man and his wife.

Those she loved she had not disappointed. Her body was brittle with years, tired from the climb, but the golden eyes were filled with devotion as she offered her gift --- LOVE. Because of love. Only Because of love.

Tears flowed as the old couple shouted their praise and joy ... And again the peace of love filled their hearts.

This is a true story.

This is an Inspirational message sent to a small group of people. My hope is that it will make your day just a little bit better.

He was an Idiot Savant. He amazed everyone in the Institute with his abilities -- everyone with "normal" capacities, that is. He could tell you what day of the week any event took place in history back to the institution of the Gregorian Calendar. He could repeat, note-for-note, every piano piece after hearing it once, from Beethoven to Paul McCartney's "Yesterday." He could multiply seven-digit numbers in his head faster than a hand-held calculator could. He amazed everyone with these abilities, if they could stand to look at him long enough. The brain problems were not his only birth defects.

He had an important job at the Institute. He pushed a broom down the fourth floor halls while carrying on an extremely monotone conversation, seemingly with himself. But that was the most amazing thing of all -- a gift that no one really seemed to be aware of. Charlie Cowen could see and talk to Angels. He was with the Angels every waking hour of the day, and probably every sleeping hour of the night. Nobody was as important as the Angels. He ignored the doctors and therapists to talk to the Angels.

And then not only that. He was so loved by the Angels that they would do whatever he asked. Dr. Sidney Carlson, the chief of staff, was famous for the curative successes of the Institute. The average stay for the most brain-damaged patients was under two months. The rate of cure was in the 96th percentile.

Charley pretty much had the run of the Institute. He was considered harmless enough. Everyone thought he was busy talking to himself, and didn't notice anything outside the confusing world inside his mind. They were wrong. Charley paid careful attention to the new patients who were coming into the institute, whether they were on a gurney or ambulatory. He was able to remember every detail he heard spoken about the patients, and promptly reported it to the Angels, conferring with them on what would be the proper thing to be done for each one. It was an awesome responsibility to make such judgments. A lot was determined by their condition before the accident or incident that caused their incapacities. By "condition" several things were taken into consideration: level of innocence, level of faith, level of loving-kindness and good works -- and everything in opposite categories. The Angels were the experts in this type of reporting, but they couldn't make the final judgment. That job the Most High had given to Charley, because he was a Pure Innocent. Charley would observe the patients, make note of everything the doctors and other members of the staff would discuss about them, and give this information to the Angels. After pooling their data, Charley would make the final judgment as to what miracle would be done, and how fast it would be accomplished.

It was the Holiday Season. Nobody in the Institute used the word "Christmas." The maintenance workers were decking the halls, and the bells in the Institute Chapel were tolling out familiar tunes of the Season, while Charley was unobtrusively watching in the shadows as a new patient was brought into the Institute. Her name was Elinor Murphy and she was seven years old. Her eyes were opened, but stared blankly as she sat in the small wheelchair. Walking next to her was a slender, white-haired woman in her early sixties, concerned and wringing her hands in anxiety. An orderly saw Charley in the shadows and in a well-meaning, good-natured fashion, delivered Charley back to the fourth floor and gave him his broom. Charley promptly and subtly made his way back to where Elinor was being examined.

Later that afternoon, Charley reported to the Angels about Elinor. The Chapel bells were, surprisingly, chiming out "Silent Night." Elinor had been the only survivor of a horrendous crash between a semi and a family minivan. She had spent several weeks in intensive care, comatose, and had come out of the coma almost completely incapacitated. The institute was considered her last hope, and her grandmother, the concerned white-haired woman, was willing to invest all the inheritance she had from her deceased entrepreneur husband for the benefit and anticipated cure of her last remaining family member. The angels reported that Elinor was a Pure Innocent. And the Overseeing Archangel recommended that she not be rendered normal, as to protect her from being tainted by the wickedness of the world. Such a decision had been made several years before in behalf of Charley. He sadly accepted this without question, and one by one over the years, his family members had forgotten about him. But he would not accept the same fate for Elinor. Charley saw families come to the Institute, joyfully taking home their newly cured family members in their loving arms. Nobody but the Angels and the Most High loved Charley.

The Overseeing Archangel had reported that it was within the 84.73 and 92.06 percentile points of probability that Elinor would become Spoiled, since her Grandmother would be exclusively devoted to her. Charley was adamant. She still had more than fifteen-percent chance of remaining Pure. He was sticking to his decision. Not only would Elinor be cured, but also it would be a dramatic, instantaneous Miracle, which was to take place in eighteen days -- Christmas Eve.

Christmas Eve dawned pale and misty. The morning shadows cast their long tendrils over the fourth floor hall from the eastern-facing windows as Charley was pushing his broom mechanically and staring blankly while carrying on a running conversation slightly above a whisper with the Overseeing Angel, invisibly walking beside him. Several other Angels of lower rank were accompanying them, but they dared not interrupt such an important conference.

Dr. Carlson and his staff were in a meeting discussing the treatment of Elinor Murphy. The funds extended to the facility by the Grandmother were almost exhausted. Reluctantly it was decided that since no improvement had been noted over the past three weeks from their unorthodox treatments, that they would have to declare the management of this case to be one of their rare failures. Elinor would be transferred to a long-term care home in three days.

That evening was the staff Holiday party. Charley had been called on to give one of his rare piano recitals, brilliantly executed, while the audience averted their eyes. While the staff was thus occupied, the Angels were carrying out the plan concocted by Charley and the Overseeing Angel. All of the Sentry Angels were surrounding Elinor's bed, and in unison, they sang the Song of Redeeming Love. Elinor suddenly woke up from her misty dream and smiled at the Angels, because as she was a Pure Innocent, she could see every one of them. That night, Elinor was in the arms of her grateful grandmother, and Elinor was telling her the story that Grandmother dismissed as her "dream." Dr. Carlson was smiling over another of his amazing cures.

On Christmas morning, nobody was sweeping the fourth floor. Charley Cowen was gone away. He was the new Overseeing Angel. The Institute was bankrupt within five months. Dr. Carlson could never understand why there were no more of his amazing cures.

The old man sat in his gas station on a cold Christmas Eve. He hadn't been anywhere in years since his wife had passed away. It was just another day to him. He didn't hate Christmas, just couldn't find a reason to celebrate. He was sitting there looking at the snow that had been falling for the last hour and wondering what it was all about when the door opened and a homeless man stepped through.

Instead of throwing the man out, Old George as he was known by his customers, told the man to come and sit by the heater and warm up. "Thank you, but I don't mean to intrude," said the stranger. "I see you're busy, I'll just go."

"Not without something hot in your belly." George said.

He turned and opened a wide mouth Thermos and handed it to the stranger. "It ain't much, but it's hot and tasty. Stew ... Made it myself. When you're done, there's coffee and it's fresh."

Just at that moment he heard the "ding" of the driveway bell. "Excuse me, be right back," George said. There in the driveway was an old '53 Chevy. Steam was rolling out of the front. The driver was panicked. "Mister can you help me!" said the driver, with a deep Spanish accent. "My wife is with child and my car is broken." George opened the hood. It was bad. The block looked cracked from the cold, the car was dead.

"You ain't going in this thing," George said as he turned away.

"But Mister, please help ..." The door of the office closed behind George as he went inside. He went to the office wall and got the keys to his old truck, and went back outside. He walked around the building, opened the garage, started the truck and drove it around to where the couple was waiting. "Here, take my truck," he said. "She ain't the best thing you ever looked at, but she runs real good."

George helped put the woman in the truck and watched as it sped off into the night. He turned and walked back inside the office. "Glad I gave 'em the truck, their tires were shot too. That 'ol truck has brand new ." George thought he was talking to the stranger, but the man had gone. The Thermos was on the desk, empty, with a used coffee cup beside it. "Well, at least he got something in his belly," George thought.

George went back outside to see if the old Chevy would start. It cranked slowly, but it started. He pulled it into the garage where the truck had been. He thought he would tinker with it for something to do. Christmas Eve meant no customers. He discovered the the block hadn't cracked, it was just the bottom hose on the radiator. "Well, shoot, I can fix this," he said to himself. So he put a new one on.

"Those tires ain't gonna get 'em through the winter either." He took the snow treads off of his wife's old Lincoln . They were like new and he wasn't going to drive the car anyway.

As he was working, he heard shots being fired. He ran outside and beside a police car an officer lay on the cold ground. Bleeding from the left shoulder, the officer moaned, "Please help me."

George helped the officer inside as he remembered the training he had received in the Army as a medic. He knew the wound needed attention. "Pressure to stop the bleeding," he thought. The uniform company had been there that morning and had left clean shop towels. He used those and duct tape to bind the wound. "Hey, they say duct tape can fix anythin'," he said, trying to make the policeman feel at ease.

"Something for pain," George thought. All he had was the pills he used for his back. "These ought to work." He put some water in a cup and gave the policeman the pills. "You hang in there, I'm going to get you an ambulance."

The phone was dead. "Maybe I can get one of your buddies on that there talk box out in your car." He went out only to find that a bullet had gone into the dashboard destroying the two way radio.

He went back in to find the policeman sitting up. "Thanks," said the officer. "You could have left me there. The guy that shot me is still in the area."

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

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

"None for me," said the officer.

"Oh, yer gonna drink this. Best in the city. Too bad I ain't got no donuts." The officer laughed and winced at the same time.

The front door of the office flew open. In burst a young man with a gun. "Give me all your cash! Do it now!" the young man yelled. His hand was shaking and George could tell that he had never done anything like this before.

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

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

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

The cop was reaching for his gun. "Put that thing away," George said to the cop, "we got one too many in here now."

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

George pulled $150 out of his pocket and handed it to the young man, reaching for the barrel of the gun at the same time. The young man released his grip on the gun, fell to his knees and began to cry. "I'm not very good at this am I? All I wanted was to buy something for my wife and son," he went on. "I've lost my job, my rent is due, my car got repossessed last week."

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

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

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

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

George could hear the sounds of sirens outside. A police car and an ambulance skidded to a halt. Two cops came through the door, guns drawn. "Chuck! You ok?" one of the cops asked the wounded officer.

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

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

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

George and the young man both looked puzzled at each other.

"That guy work here?" the wounded cop continued.

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

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

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

"Well, looks like you got one doozy of a break there. That ought to solve some of your problems."

George went into the back room and came out with a box. He pulled out a ring box. "Here you go, something for the little woman. I don't think Martha would mind. She said it would come in handy some day."

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

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

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

The young man began to cry again as he handed back the $150 that the old man had handed him earlier.

"And what are you supposed to buy Christmas dinner with? You keep that too," George said. "Now git home to your family."

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

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

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

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

"Well, after my wife passed away, I just couldn't see what all the bother was. Puttin' up a tree and all seemed a waste of a good pine tree. Bakin' cookies like I used to with Martha just wasn't the same by myself and besides I was gettin' a little chubby."

The stranger put his hand on George's shoulder. "But you do celebrate the holiday, George. You gave me food and drink and warmed me when I was cold and hungry. The woman with child will bear a son and he will become a great doctor.

The policeman you helped will go on to save 19 people from being killed by terrorists. The young man who tried to rob you will make you a rich man and not take any for himself. "That is the spirit of the season and you keep it as good as any man."

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

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

The stranger moved toward the door. "If you will excuse me, George, I have to go now. I have to go home where there is a big celebration planned."

George watched as the old leather jacket and the torn pants that the stranger was wearing turned into a white robe. A golden light began to fill the room.

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

George fell to his knees and replied, "Happy Birthday, Lord Jesus"

Merry Christmas!!

This story is better than any greeting card.

MERRY CHRISTMAS AND GOD BLESS!

He woke suddenly and completely. It was four o'clock, the hour at which his father had always called him to get up and help with the milking. Strange how the habits of his youth clung to him still! His father had been dead for 30 years, and yet he waked at four o'clock in the morning. He had trained himself to turn over and go to sleep, but this morning, because it was Christmas, he did not try. Yet what was the magic of Christmas now? His own children had grown up and gone. He was left alone with his wife. Yesterday she had said, "Let's not trim the tree until tomorrow, Robert. I'm tired." He had agreed, and so the tree remained out in the back entry. Why did he feel so awake tonight? For it was still night, clear and starry. No moon, of course, but the stars were extraordinary! Now that he thought of it, the stars seemed always large and clear before the dawn of Christmas day. There was one star now that was certainly larger and brighter than any of the other. He could even imagine it moving, as it had seemed to him to move one night long ago.

He was 15 years old and still on his father's farm. He loved his father. He had not known it until one day a few days before Christmas, when he had overheard what his father was saying to his mother.

"Mary, I hate to call Rob in the mornings. He's growing so fast and he needs his sleep. If you could see how he sleeps when I go in to wake him up! I wish I could manage alone."

"Well, you can't, Adam." His mother's voice was brisk. "Besides, he isn't a child anymore. It's time he took his turn."

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

When he heard these words, something in him woke: his father loved him! There would be no more loitering in the mornings and having to be called again. He got up after that, stumbling blind with sleep, and pulled on his clothes, his eyes tight shut, but he got up.

And then on the night before Christmas, that year when he was 15, he lay for a few minutes thinking about the next day. He wished he had a better present for his father. As usual, he had gone to the ten-cent store and bought a tie for his father. It had seemed nice enough until he lay thinking, and then he wished that he had heard his father and mother talking in time for him to save for something better.

He lay on his side, his head supported by his elbow, and looked out of his attic window. The stars were bright, much brighter than he ever remembered seeing the, and one star in particular was so bright that he wondered if it were really the Star of Bethlehem.

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

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

Then Jesus had been born in a barn, and to a barn the shepherds and the Wise Men had come, bringing their Christmas gifts!

The thought struck him. Why should he not give his father a special gift too, out there in the barn? He could get up early, earlier than four o'clock, and creep into the barn and get all the milking done. He'd do it alone, milk and clean up, and then when his father went in to start the milking, he'd know who had done it. He laughed to himself as he gazed at the stars. It was what he would do, and he mustn't sleep too sound. He must have waked 20 times, scratching a match each time to look at his old watch -- midnight, and half-past one, and then two o'clock.

At a quarter to three he got up and put on his clothes. He crept downstairs, careful of the creaky boards, and let himself out. The big star hung lower over the barn roof, a reddish gold. The cows looked at him, sleepy and surprised. It was early for them, too. He fetched some hay for each cow and then got the milking pail and the big milk cans. He smiled, thinking about this father, and milked steadily, two strong steams rushing into the pail, frothing and fragrant. The task went more easily than he had ever known it to before. Milking for once was not a chore. It was something else, a gift to his father who loved him. He finished, the two milk cans were full, and he covered them and closed the milk-house door carefully, making sure of the latch. He put the stool in its place by the door and hung up the clean milk pail. Then he went out of the barn and barred the door behind him. Back in his room he had only a minute too pull off his clothes in the darkness and jump into bed, for he heard his father up. He put the covers over his head to silence his quick breathing. The door opened.

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

"Aw-right," he said sleepily.

"I'll go on out," his father said. "I'll get things started."

The door closed and he lay still, laughing to himself. In just a few minutes his father would know. The minutes were endless -- ten, fifteen, he did not know how many -- and again he heard his father's footsteps again. The door opened and he lay still.

"Rob!"

"Yes Dad --"

"You son of a --" His father was laughing, a queer sobbing sort of a laugh. "Thought you'd fool me, did you?" His father was standing beside his bed, feeling for him, pulling away the cover.

"It's for Christmas, Dad!" He found father and clutched him in a great hug. He felt his father's arms go around him. It was dark and they could not see each other's faces.

"Son, I thank you. Nobody ever did a nicer thing --"

"Oh Dad, I want you to know --" The words broke from him of their own will. He did not know what to say. His heart was bursting with love.

"Well, I reckon I can go back to bed and sleep," his father said after a moment. "No -- the little ones are waked up. Come to think of it, I've never seen you children when you first saw the Christmas tree. I was always in the barn. Come on!"

He got up again and they went down to the Christmas tree, and soon the sun was creeping up to where the star had been. Oh, what a Christmas, and how his heart had nearly burst again with shyness and pride as his father told his mother and made the younger children listen about how he, Rob, had got up all by himself.

"The best Christmas gift I ever had, I'll remember it, son, every year on Christmas Morning, so long as I live."

Outside the window now the great star slowly sank. He got up, put on his slippers and bathrobe, went softly upstairs to the attic and found the box of Christmas-tree decorations. He took them downstairs into the living room. Then he brought in the tree. It was a little one -- they had not had a big tree since the children went away -- but he set in the holder. Then carefully he began to trim it. It was done very soon, the time passing as quickly as it had that morning long ago in the barn.

He went to his library and fetched the little box that contained his gift to his wife, a star of diamonds, not large but dainty in design. He tied the gift on the tree and then stood back. It was pretty, very pretty, and she would be surprised.

But he was not satisfied. He wanted to tell her -- to tell her how much he loved her. It had been a long time since he had really told her, although he loved her in a special way, much more than he ever had when they were young. That was the true joy of life, the ability to love! He was quite sure that some people were genuinely unable to love anyone. But love was alive in him, it still was.

It occurred to him suddenly that it was alive because long ago it had been born in him when he know his father loved him. That was it: love alone could waken love. And he could give the gift again and again. This morning, this blessed Christmas Morning, he would give it to his beloved wife. He could write it down in a letter for her to read and keep forever.

He went to his desk and began his love letter to his wife: My dearest love ...

The little girl came into her papa's study, as she always did Saturday morning before breakfast, and asked for a story. He tried to beg off that morning, for he was very busy, but she would not let him. So he began:

"Well, once there was a little pig --"

She stopped him at the word. She said she had heard little pig-stories till she was perfectly sick of them.

"Well, what kind of story shall I tell, then?"

"About Christmas. It's getting to be the season."

"Well!" Her papa roused himself. "Then I'll tell you about the little girl that wanted it Christmas every day in the year. How would you like that?"

"First-rate!" said the little girl; and she nestled into comfortable shape in his lap, ready for listening.

"Very well, then, this little pig -- Oh, what are you pounding me for?"

"Because you said little pig instead of little girl."

"I should like to know what's the difference between a little pig and a little girl that wanted it Christmas every day!"

"Papa!" said the little girl warningly. At this her papa began to tell the story.

Once there was a little girl who liked Christmas so much that she wanted it to be Christmas every day in the year, and as soon as Thanksgiving was over she began to send postcards to the old Christmas Fairy to ask if she mightn't have it. But the old Fairy never answered, and after a while the little girl found out that the Fairy wouldn't notice anything but real letters sealed outside with a monogram -- or your initial, anyway. So, then, she began to send letters, and just the day before Christmas, she got a letter from the Fairy, saying she might have it Christmas every day for a year, and then they would see about having it longer.

The little girl was excited already, preparing for the old-fashioned, once-a-year Christmas that was coming the next day. So she resolved to keep the Fairy's promise to herself and surprise everybody with it as it kept coming true, but then it slipped out of her mind altogether.

She had a splendid Christmas. She went to bed early, so as to let Santa Claus fill the stockings, and in the morning she was up the first of anybody and found hers all lumpy with packages of candy, and oranges and grapes, and rubber balls, and all kinds of small presents. Then she waited until the rest of the family was up, and she burst into the library to look at the large presents laid out on the library table -- books, and boxes of stationery, and dolls, and little stoves, and dozens of handkerchiefs, and inkstands, and skates, and photograph frames, and boxes of watercolors, and dolls' houses -- and the big Christmas tree, lighted and standing in the middle.

She had a splendid Christmas all day. She ate so much candy that she did not want any breakfast, and the whole forenoon the presents kept pouring in that had not been delivered the night before, and she went round giving the presents she had got for other people, and came home and ate turkey and cranberry for dinner, and plum pudding and nuts and raisins and oranges, and then went out and coasted, and came in with a stomachache crying, and her papa said he would see if his house was turned into that sort of fool's paradise another year, and they had a light supper, and pretty early everybody went to bed cross.

The little girl slept very heavily and very late, but she was wakened at last by the other children dancing around her bed with their stockings full of presents in their hands. "Christmas! Christmas! Christmas!" they all shouted.

"Nonsense! It was Christmas yesterday," said the little girl, rubbing her eyes sleepily.

Her brothers and sisters just laughed. "We don't know about that. It's Christmas today, anyway. You come into the library and see."

Then all at once it flashed on the little girl that the Fairy was keeping her promise, and her year of Christmases was beginning. She was dreadfully sleepy, but she sprang up and darted into the library. There it was again! Books, and boxes of stationery, and dolls, and so on.

There was the Christmas tree blazing away, and the family picking out their presents, and her father looking perfectly puzzled, and her mother ready to cry. "I'm sure I don't see how I'm to dispose of all these things," said her mother, and her father said it seemed to him they had had something just like it the day before, but he supposed he must have dreamed it. This struck the little girl as the best kind of a joke, and so she ate so much candy she didn't want any breakfast, and went round carrying presents, and had turkey and cranberry for dinner, and then went out and coasted, and came in with a stomachache, crying.

Now, the next day, it was the same thing over again, but everybody getting crosser, and at the end of a week's time so many people had lost their tempers that you could pick up lost tempers anywhere, they perfectly strewed the ground. Even when people tried to recover their tempers they usually got somebody else's, and it made the most dreadful mix.

The little girl began to get frightened, keeping the secret all to herself, she wanted to tell her mother, but she didn't dare to, and she was ashamed to ask the Fairy to take back her gift, it seemed ungrateful and ill-bred. So it went on and on, and it was Christmas on St. Valentine's Day and Washington's Birthday, just the same as any day, and it didn't skip even the First of April, though everything was counterfeit that day, and that was some little relief.

After a while turkeys got to be awfully scarce, selling for about a thousand dollars apiece. They got to passing off almost anything for turkeys -- even half-grown hummingbirds. And cranberries -- well they asked a diamond apiece for cranberries. All the woods and orchards were cut down for Christmas trees. After a while they had to make Christmas trees out of rags. But there were plenty of rags, because people got so poor, buying presents for one another, that they couldn't get any new clothes, and they just wore their old ones to tatters. They got so poor that everybody had to go to the poorhouse, except the confectioners, and the storekeepers, and the book-sellers, and they all got so rich and proud that they would hardly wait upon a person when he came to buy. It was perfectly shameful!

After it had gone on about three or four months, the little girl, whenever she came into the room in the morning and saw those great ugly, lumpy stockings dangling at the fireplace, and the disgusting presents around everywhere, used to sit down and burst out crying. In six months she was perfectly exhausted, she couldn't even cry anymore.

And how it was on the Fourth of July! On the Fourth of July, the first boy in the United States woke up and found out that his firecrackers and toy pistol and two-dollar collection of fireworks were nothing but sugar and candy painted up to look like fireworks. Before ten o'clock every boy in the United States discovered that his July Fourth things had turned into Christmas things and was so mad. The Fourth of July orations all turned into Christmas carols, and when anybody tried to read the Declaration of Independence, instead of saying, "When in the course of human events it becomes necessary," he was sure to sing, "God rest you merry gentlemen." It was perfectly awful.

About the beginning of October the little girl took to sitting down on dolls wherever she found them -- she hated the sight of them so, and by Thanksgiving she just slammed her presents across the room. By that time people didn't carry presents around nicely anymore. They flung them over the fence or through the window, and, instead of taking great pains to write "For dear Papa," or "Mama " or "Brother," or "Sister," they used to write, "Take it, you horrid old thing!" and then go and bang it against the front door.

Nearly everybody had built barns to hold their presents, but pretty soon the barns overflowed, and then they used to let them lie out in the rain, or anywhere. Sometimes the police used to come and tell them to shovel their presents off the sidewalk or they would arrest them.

Before Thanksgiving came it had leaked out who had caused all these Christmases. The little girl had suffered so much that she had talked about it in her sleep, and after that hardly anybody would play with her, because if it had not been for her greediness it wouldn't have happened. And now, when it came Thanksgiving, and she wanted them to go to church, and have turkey, and show their gratitude, they said that all the turkeys had been eaten for her old Christmas dinners and if she would stop the Christmases, they would see about the gratitude. And the very next day the little girl began sending letters to the Christmas Fairy, and then telegrams, to stop it. But it didn't do any good, and then she got to calling at the Fairy's house, but the girl that came to the door always said, "Not at home," or "Engaged," or something like that, and so it went on till it came to the old once-a-year Christmas Eve. The little girl fell asleep, and when she woke up in the morning --

"She found it was all nothing but a dream," suggested the little girl.

"No indeed!" said her papa. "It was all every bit true!"

"What did she find out, then?"'

"Why, that it wasn't Christmas at last, and wasn't ever going to be, anymore. Now it's time for breakfast."

The little girl held her papa fast around the neck.

"You shan't go if you're going to leave it so!"

"How do you want it left?"

"Christmas once a year."

"All right," said her papa, and he went on again.

Well, with no Christmas ever again, there was the greatest rejoicing all over the country. People met together everywhere and kissed and cried for joy. Carts went around and gathered up all the candy and raisins and nuts, and dumped them into the river, and it made the fish perfectly sick. And the whole United States, as far out as Alaska, was one blaze of bonfires, where the children were burning up their presents of all kinds. They had the greatest time!

The little girl went to thank the old Fairy because she had stopped its being Christmas, and she said she hoped the Fairy would keep her promise and see that Christmas never, never came again. Then the Fairy frowned, and said that now the little girl was behaving just as greedily as ever, and she'd better look out. This made the little girl think it all over carefully again, and she said she would be willing to have it Christmas about once in a thousand years, and then she said a hundred, and then she said ten, and at last she got down to one. Then the Fairy said that was the good old way that had pleased people ever since Christmas began, and she was agreed. Then the little girl said, "What're your shoes made of?" And the Fairy said, "Leather." And the little girl said, "Bargain's done forever," and skipped off, and hippity-hopped the whole way home, she was so glad.

"How will that do?" asked the papa.

"First-rate!" said the little girl, but she hated to have the story stop, and was rather sober. However, her mama put her head in at the door and asked her papa:

"Are you never coming to breakfast? What have you been telling that child?"

"Oh, just a tale with a moral."

The little girl caught him around the neck again.

"We know! Don't you tell what, papa! Don't you tell what!"

When America was first settled in the 1600s, most of the early settlers did not believe that Christmas should be a time of festivity. They avoided the "impure" Christmas traditions of England. For Joseph's family and many of the other Saints with New England backgrounds, Thanksgiving was traditionally more celebrated than Christmas. But during the lifetime of the Prophet Joseph Smith, Christmas Day gradually became recognized as a day of celebration as well as a sacred day.

Christmas was still much less festive in those days than it is today. Records show that the Latter-day Saint children in Nauvoo even attended school on December 25th because Christmas was not a legal holiday in the state of Illinois. Christmas trees were not common, and very few of the Saints gave Christmas gifts or cards. Rather than focusing on giving and receiving gifts, the Saints in the 1840s spent Christmas evening with family and friends enjoying good food and sometimes festive music and dancing.

Although there is no record of what the Saints in Nauvoo served at these dinner parties, the dishes likely contained ingredients used throughout the rest of the winter -- flour, sugar, beans, corn, salt, dried meat, and dried fruit. Christmas celebrations also probably included some of the Saints' favorite sweets such as ice cream made from snow, sugar, and flavoring; candy made from molasses; and cookies made with dates or figs.

Christmas with the Prophet. In the Journal History of the Church the Prophet did record some memorable Christmas celebrations. These records show how much the Prophet enjoyed the Christmases that he could spend with family and friends. One such entry is on Christmas Day of 1835.

"Friday, December 25, 1835 -- Enjoyed myself at home with my family, all day, it being Christmas, the only time I have had this privilege so satisfactorily for a long period" (2:345).

Eight years later, on Christmas Day of 1843, the Prophet recorded another memorable Christmas. The celebration began quite early in the morning when carolers serenaded the Prophet's home around 1:00 A.M. This surprise visit made the Prophet very happy; he recorded that the singing "caused a thrill of pleasure to run through [his] soul" (History of the Church, 6:134).

The day continued with a large party. That afternoon Joseph and Emma hosted about 50 couples for dinner, and Joseph recorded the following about the gathering:

"Monday, December 25 -- A large party supped at my house, and spent the evening in music, dancing, &c., in a most cheerful and friendly manner" (History of the Church, 6:134).

The Savior's birthday Even though Christmas for the Saints in Nauvoo seems to have been very different from Christmas today, the purpose was the same -- to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ. And few men understand the glory of that birth as did the Prophet himself. For Joseph had seen the Savior, "even on the right hand of God," and had borne witness through personal knowledge "that he lives" (D&C 76:22-23).

I knew that Homer had wanted canyon boots for as long as I could remember. He was eleven and I ten, and we had spent many nights under the blue quilts at the cabin talking about how great it would be to have some real boots -- boots that would climb through thorny bushes, that would ward off rattlesnakes, and that would nudge the ribs of the pony; we had planned the kind of leather they should be, and what color they should be, and what kind of decoration they should have. But we both knew it was just talk. The depression had been hard on Father's business, and even shoes for school were usually half-soled hand-me-downs.

Christmas that year had promised as always to be exciting, though mainly because of the handmade things we'd worked on in school for our parents. We never had money to spend on each other, but we had caught early in our lives a sort of contagion from our mother. She loved to give, and her anticipation of the joy that a just right gift would bring to someone infected our whole household. We were swept up in breathless waiting to see how others would like what we had to give. Secrecy ruled -- open, exaggerated secrecy, as we made and hid our gifts. The only one whose hiding place we never discovered was my Grandmother's. Her gifts seemed to materialize by magic on Christmas morning and were always more expensive than they should have been.

That Christmas I was glowing because Mother had been so happy with the parchment lampshade I'd made in the fourth grade, and Father had raved over the clay jewelry case I had molded and baked for him. Gill and Emma Lou had been pleased with the figures I'd whittled out of clothespins, and Homer had liked the Scout pin I'd bargained for with my flint. Then Grandma started to pass out her presents.

Mine was heavy and square. I'd been in the hospital that year and then on crutches, and I'd wondered how it would be to have an erector set to build with. Grandma had a knack at reading boys' minds, I was sure that's what it was. But it wasn't. It was a pair of boots; brown, tangy-smelling leather boots .

I looked quickly to Homer's package. His was a sweater. He'd needed one all fall. I wanted to cover my box before he saw what it was. I didn't want boots; they should have been his. He came toward me, asking to see, and I started to say, "I'm sorry, broth ..."

But he was grinning, and he shouted, "Hey everybody -- look what Richard got." He swooped the boots out of the box, fondled them like treasure, and then sat on the floor at my feet to take off my half-soled shoes and put on the brand new boots.

I don't remember how the boots felt, nor even how they looked. But Christmas rang in my soul because my brother was glad for me.

I wish I could tell you that the whole thing happened because I'm caring and unselfish, but that wouldn't be true. It was 1979, and I had just moved back to Wisconsin from Colorado because I missed my family and Denver wages were terrible. I took a job at a Hospice in Milwaukee and found my niche working with the patients and families. As the season changed into fall, the schedule for the holidays was posted:

DECEMBER 24 3-11 Barbara

DECEMBER 25 3-11 Barbara

I was devastated. Newly engaged, it was my first Christmas back home with my family after many years. But with no seniority, I had little clout to get Christmas off while my dedicated colleagues worked.

While lamenting my predicament, I came up with an idea. Since I couldn't be with my family, I would bring my family to the hospice. With the patients and their families struggling through their last Christmases together, maybe this gathering would lend support. My family thought it was a wonderful plan, and so did the staff. Several invited their relatives to participate, too.

As we brainstormed ideas for a Hospice Christmas, we remembered the annual 11:00 p.m. Christmas Eve Service scheduled in the hospital chapel.

"Why don't we take the patients to church?" I suggested.

"Yes," replied another staff nurse. "It's a beautiful candlelight service with music. I bet the patients would love it."

"Great. And we can have a little party afterwards, with punch, cookies and small gifts," I added.

Our enthusiasm increased as we planned the details of a hospice Christmas celebration.

Now, it never occurred to me that all these great ideas may not float so well with administration. It never occurred to me that we might have to get permission for each these activities -- until the director called me into her office.

"Uh, Barb, I'm hearing rumors of a Christmas Eve celebration here at the hospice."

"Well, yes," I replied. Eagerly, I outlined all the plans and ideas the staff had developed. Fortunately for my career, she thought involving our families with the unit activities was a wonderful idea, too.

"But," she said, "certainly you are not serious about taking the patients to church. It has never been done."

"Yes, I'm serious. It would mean a lot to the patients and families."

"Very seldom do you see any patients at this service, and if they do go, they are ambulatory and dressed." She shook her head. "Our patients are too sick to go."

"But a number of them have indicated an interest," I argued.

"I cannot authorize the additional staff needed."

"The family members can help."

"What about the liability?"

Now I felt like saying, "What could be the worst thing that could happen -- someone dies in church?" But I didn't. I just kept convincing her, until she begrudgingly gave approval.

Christmas Eve arrived. Family members gathered in the lounge and decorated a small tree, complete with wrapped packages. Then we implemented our plan for the staff and families to transport the patients to the chapel. While most of the patients had family members with them, one young girl had no one. At just nineteen, Sandy had terminal liver cancer. Her mother had died of cancer three years previously and her father stopped coming long ago. Perhaps he couldn't sit by the bedside of another loved one dying so young. So my family "took charge" of Sandy. My sister combed her hair while my mother applied just a hint of lipstick. They laughed and joked like three old friends as my fiancé, helped her move to a gurney.

Meanwhile, other nurses hung IVs on poles, put IVACs on battery support and gave last minute pain meds. Then, with patients in wheelchairs and on gurneys, we paraded our group into the chapel just as they were finishing "Joy to the World," with the organ and bells ringing out in perfect harmony. Silence descended on the congregation as we rolled slowly down the aisle. The minister just stood there with his mouth open, staring. Everyone turned around to look at us. We faltered in our steps, each movement echoing in the large crowded chapel.

Then the magic began.

One by one, people stood up, filed into the aisle and began to help us. They handed patients hymnals and distributed programs. They wheeled patients to the front so they could see well. They handed out candles to be lit for the closing hymn. One woman adjusted Sandy's pillow and stroked her hair. Throughout the service, the congregation catered to our patients, guiding them through the worship.

The beautiful service closed with a candlelight recessional to "Silent Night." Voices rang in disjointed harmony as the congregation assisted us in exiting the chapel and returning our charges to the unit. Many stayed to share punch and cookies and stories.

As I got Sandy ready for bed that late night, she whispered, "This was one of the nicest Christmases I ever had."

When I shared her comments with my family later, we realized the magic that evening was on many levels. The unit had a special climate we'd never experienced before. Sandy had one of the best Christmases she'd ever known. The congregation had shared in a special, caring way. But we also realized that this evening impacted our family as well. We felt closer, bonded in purpose and spirit.

Since that Christmas of 1979, my family has been blessed with many Christmases together -- but I think that one was the best. Like author William Shore, I, too, believe that when you give to others and give to the community, you create something within yourself that is important and lasting. He calls it the "Cathedral Within."

Our family cathedral is a little stronger for the privilege of giving that Christmas.

Christmas recalls the story of travelers propelled by the unhurried rhythm of their animals:

Why did these wisemen undertake such a journey?

A tall astronomer, advisor to the Persian king, springs from his midnight vigil in the palace courtyard. "Casper, come! Look along the rod I've sighted toward the constellation of the Jews." Casper peers into the blackness. "Do you see it? That brilliant star is new tonight! It must signify the birth of a mighty king."

A soft whistle escapes him as he spots it. "There it is!" He's talking rapidly now. "I've read ancient Hebrew scriptures which tell of this ruler's star."[1] Rising, he announces, "We must see him. We must go!"

Traversing the caravan routes of Persia, Babylon, and Syria for 1,200 miles, they ford broad rivers, pass ancient cities, cross barren deserts. Three months they trek westward, day after day, "following yonder star."

In Jerusalem they inquire, "Where is he that is born King of the Jews? For we have seen his star in the East, and are come to worship him."[2] Worship? So the Babe is more than a king!

Now they follow the shining star till it rests over a simple Bethlehem home. At early dawn neighbors gather to watch the richly- robed travelers dismount. Joseph meets them at the door.

"We've come to see the child, the King." The wise men fall before the Babe, faces to the floor, royal counselors doing homage, worshipping the Christ child. Outside, their servants unload weighty chests from the camels and set gifts before the King. Heavy fragrances of frankincense and myrrh mingle to fill the room as one by one the boxes are opened.

A touch of the boy-child's tiny fingers, a final longing look, and the men rise to go. Camel bells soon fade in the brisk morning air.

We, too, travel at Christmas, visiting family and friends. Yet, like the wisemen, the most important journey we make these hectic holidays is to draw nigh Jesus himself with the gift of our hearts.

Love stops the cooking to hug the child.

Love sets aside the decorating to kiss the husband.

Love is kind, though harried and tired.

Love doesn't envy another's home that has coordinated Christmas china and table linens.

Love doesn't yell at the kids to get out of the way, but is thankful they are there to be in the way.

Love doesn't give only to those who are able to give in return, but rejoices in giving to those who can't.

Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

Love never fails.

Video games will break, pearl necklaces will be lost, golf clubs will rust ...

But giving the gift of love will endure.

Christmas was always a happy time back home in Utah, but one particular celebration I will never, ever forget. I was 20 and had three close friends -- Kathleen, Aileen and Christine, all of us about the same age. We were all single and attending different colleges. And we were all terribly interested in the opposite sex.

Shortly before Christmas we returned home from our scattered campuses, happy to see each other and eager to plan holiday festivities. Also home for Christmas were three young men -- brothers -- who held our fascinated attention. Kathleen knew them best because they were fellow students at Brigham Young University. The rest of us knew them slightly; we'd even been to a party at their house once, but that had been a long time ago. Now we just wanted to get better acquainted.

Just inviting them over was too blah for us. We had a flare for the unusual, a bit of Hollywood in our blood. So one evening we decided to do something different -- a real attention-getter.

First we put together a medley of holiday show tunes. Then we designed a dance routine to go with them -- a lively mixture of twirls can-can kicks, and square dance flourishes. After a short, hilarious dance rehearsal, we were ready. Next, we needed festive costumes, but that was no problem, since plenty of Christmas wrappings were at hand.

In minutes, Aileen, Christine, and I had disguised our heads and upper bodies as Christmas packages, leaving two holes at the sides for arms and one at the top so that we could pull our heads in or stick them out, turtle-like, when we were ready to go into our song-and-dance. (Kathleen -- fingered as the driver because she remembered where the boys lived -- had to be content to go as a festive sack.) In fits of giggles, we then tied big bows on top of each other's heads and were ready to go.

All suited up, we piled into Kathleen's car, careful not to crush or tear our fragile costumes. The edges of the "sack" kept inching up into Kathleen's face, so at times she had a little trouble seeing. Fortunately, there was almost no traffic in the neighborhood, and she chauffeured us right to the young men's door.

There, all four of us rang the doorbell then sat down on the front porch, pulling our heads into our wrappings and trying to make ourselves resemble a pile of Christmas presents under an imaginary tree. The nice woman who came to the door squealed with delight when she saw us lying there. She invited us into the living room, where we broke into our routine. One by one, other members of the family, including the cat, came to see what was going on. Naturally, as we sang and kicked we were desperately trying to get a glimpse of the fabulous three, but it didn't bother us that they weren't in full view -- we knew they must be lurking somewhere because we'd seen several cars outside.

It was not until we reached the last few verses of our entertainment that we realized we didn't recognize any of the people in the living room! In fact, the room itself didn't look the same as when we had last seen it. Worst of all, the family portrait above the fireplace did not include any of the young men we thought we were performing for.

We were in the wrong house!

Through eye contact and whispers during our final twirls, we decided it was best to just disappear, leaving our unknown hosts wondering. No such luck. After our last number was over and our audience clapping, we made a desperate attempt to dance out the door. But the nice woman tugged on my big red bow and took a good look at me.

"Do I know you?" she asked.

"No," I squeaked.

With that, we realized we couldn't just leave. We offered an embarrassed explanation, which the family accepted with good-natured laughter. They then told us the house we wanted was on the next block.

Undaunted, we then drove to the right house and did an encore performance. Somehow it didn't quite match the intensity of our first presentation. Even so, the three young men applauded and stomped and whistled in their approval. The family insisted that we join them for dinner, and we all had a delightful evening.

I wish I could report that at least one of the brothers fell madly in love with one of us, preferably me. That was not to be (and a good thing too, since then I might never have met the man who became my husband). But there was one lasting result of our escapade: We never again allowed Kathleen to drive us anywhere!

It was Christmas Eve and the lord looked down from above at all His children. It had been nearly two thousand years since the birth of His son and turning to His youngest angel the Lord said: "Go down to the earth and bring back to me the one thing that best represents everything good that has been done in the name of this day." The angel bowed to the Lord and spreading his wings, descended from heaven to the world of man, all the while contemplating his mission. So much had been done in the name of honoring the birth of the Christ Child. For this day, wars had temporarily ceased, cathedrals had been built and great novels had been written. With so little time, what could he possibly find to represent all this?

As he soared above the earth, he suddenly heard the sound of church bells below. Their tone was so beautiful that it reminded him of the voice of God. Looking down, he saw a small church whose bells were ringing out the carol, Silent Night. As the final note died away, it was replaced by one lone voice singing inside the church. It was shortly joined by a second voice that embraced the first in perfect harmony, and then another until a choir of voices rose through the night. Enchanted by the magic of what he was hearing, the angel found himself listening until the song was finished. As he resumed his flight through the night, he was delighted to hear these sounds everywhere, from the largest cities to the smallest villages. He heard melodies from massive orchestras and in the voices of single soldiers alone at their post. And any place where he heard these songs, he found hope in the hearts of men.

Grasping a song out of the air, he held it in his hand (angels are able to do this) and thought that maybe, these songs could be the one thing that best represented Christmas. They seemed to give voice to man's greatest joys as well as hope to those deepest in despair. But, though at first glance it appeared to be the answer he sought, his heart told him that this music alone was not enough. There had to be something more. So, he continued his flight through the night until he suddenly felt the touch of a father's prayer on its way to heaven. Once again looking downward, he saw a man who was praying for his child whom he had not heard from in a long time and who would not be home that Christmas. Seizing upon the prayer, the angel followed it until it reached the lost child.

She was standing on a corner, in a quiet snowfall, looking very small in a very large city. Across from her was an old city bar, the kind that only the lost seemed to know how to find. The patrons of this establishment rarely looked up from their drinks and so seemed not to notice the young woman. Now, the bartender in this bar had been working in there longer than anyone could remember. He believed in nothing except his bar and his cash register. He had never married, never took a vacation and as matter of fact, had never been seen out from behind his counter by most of his patrons. He was there when they arrived and he was still there when they left. He gave no credit and for seventy-five cents, served shots of un-watered whiskey to people who used their drinks like a moat around their lives. For them, he provided a safe, unchanging world.

Suddenly, the door opened wide and into this world walked a small child. The bartender could not remember the last time that a child had been in this place, but before he could ask the child what he was doing there, the child asked him if he knew that there was a girl outside their door who could not get home. Glancing out the window, he saw the girl standing across the street. Turning back to the child, the bartender asked him how he knew this. The child replied "That on this night of all nights, if one could be home, they'd be already there."

The bartender looked back toward the young woman as he reflected on what the child had said. After several seconds of thought, he slowly went over to the cash register and removing most of the money, came out from behind the bar and followed the child across the street. Everyone in the bar watched as he spoke with the girl. After a few moments, he called over a cab, put the girl inside and told the driver: "J.F.K. Airport." As the cab pulled away, he looked around for the child, but the child was gone. And what was stranger still, even though his own tracks leading from the bar were still clearly marked in the snow, the child's were nowhere to be found. Returning back inside, he asked if anyone had seen where the child had gone, but like himself, no one had, for they also had been watching the departing cab. And then, some would later say that the most miraculous thing of all happened, when for the rest of the night, no one paid for a drink.

Later that night, the angel returned back to heaven and placed in the Lord's hand the wish of a soul for the happiness of another. And as the heavenly host looked on, the Lord smiled.

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

Filled with discouragement, the two young men turned their back to the approaching twilight and began the long walk home. Retracing their steps of the afternoon, they came upon a low, windswept riverbank. Jutting from its brow stood the barest means of a shelter, constructed of weathered wooden slats and large pieces of cardboard. Strangely, they felt moved to go to the door and knock. A small, olive-skinned child with tangled black hair and large dark eyes answered, Her mother appeared behind her, a short, thin woman with a tired but warm smile. In her rich Spanish alto she invited the young men to come in and rest awhile. They were made welcome and seated on the clean-swept floor. The little one- room shanty seemed to be filled with shy, smiling, dark eyed children. The mother proudly introduced each of them -- eight in all and each in turn quickly bobbed his or her head.

The young men were deeply moved at the extreme poverty they saw. Not one in the family had shoes, and their clothes were ill-fitting and in a condition beyond mending. The walls of the little home showed daylight between the wooden slats, and eight little rolls of bedding were pressed tightly into the cracks to help keep out the drafts until they were needed for sleeping. A small round fire pit dug in one corner marked the kitchen. An odd assortment of chipped dishes and pots were stacked beside an old ice chest, and a curtained-off section with a cracked porcelain tub served as the bathing areas. Except for these the room was barren.

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

Later, long after the young men had left the family, they still asked each other incredulously, "Fifty cents? ... Fifty cents for eight children for Christmas?" Surely there must be something they could do to brighten Christmas for such children.

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

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

The frost of forty winters had etched deep lines into the shepherd's face. Having spent his entire life outdoors on Bethlehem's hills, he was old at forty -- and cold. The hillside where he sat this day was cold, too, and he pulled his mantle close about him to block the wind.

Every so often he would shift position, not out of discomfort so much, but from a sense of unease, anxiety, crowdedness. Instead of hundreds of sheep with whom he felt quite at home, this hillside was flocked with people -- thousands of them -- listening attentively to the Teacher. They could hear him fairly well, except when the wind whisked away his words.

Tobias ben David (pronounced da-VEED) was the shepherd's name, though people called him Toby. His flocks were in good hands this week, cared for by his grown sons, but Toby had left them to listen to Jesus of Nazareth. Today the Teacher was talking about salvation, how God came to save his people from their waywardness and sins, to rescue them and gather them close.

Now Jesus' illustration turned to sheep. Toby felt better. He knew a lot more about sheep than people.

"The good shepherd," Jesus was saying, "lays down his life for the sheep. The hired hand who doesn't own the flock runs away when he sees the wolf coming, but not the good shepherd ..." One night, years ago, the men Toby had hired to watch the flock with him fled when they saw a mountain lion roaming the hills. But Toby had stayed. Shepherding was his livelihood. He knew the sacrifices that good shepherding required. He knew about defending defenseless lambs. He knew about putting his life on the line for the sheep. That's what good shepherds did.

Jesus continued, "Suppose you have 100 sheep and when night comes one is missing. What do you do? You leave the 99 sheep all safe together and then climb the hills, looking, searching until you find the lost sheep. Then you pick him up, put him on your shoulders, bring him down the hill to the camp, and ask your fellow shepherds to rejoice with you."

"Your heavenly Father is like that," Jesus said. "When you have lost your way, he will rescue you and save you and never give up on you until he finds you -- and you find him."

Toby's heart was racing. He felt a lump in his throat. He understood. Toby had combed the hills for lost sheep, not stopping, not quitting. He knew the joy of discovery, of rescuing the sheep from a thicket, of bringing it back and celebrating with his friends. He had been that kind of shepherd.

But he also knew how it felt to wander off, feeling lost, aimless, trapped. Clueless about where he was and where he was going. Flailing about, struggling to climb out of what seemed like a steep ravine. That's why he came today to hear the Teacher, hoping to regain the faith he had felt as a child, a ten-year-old child.

His mind spun back to the evening of his tenth birthday. Like nearly every night, he was out on the hills with his dad or his uncles, caring for the sheep. The stars were brilliant, dancing in the black sky. But suddenly an overpowering bright light flooded the hillside. A voice boomed out, "Behold, I bring you good news of a great joy which shall be for all the people. For to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord!"

A savior, a rescuer -- shepherds' work. He had often wondered about the boy-child they discovered that night, lying in a manger, just as the angel had said. Toby had knelt down and worshipped the baby who bore the world's destiny upon his tiny shoulders. What had become of him, this baby? By now he must be thirty-something. Had this savior saved anyone yet? Rescued anyone? Could he rescue me from my aimless existence? Toby wondered.

Just then the wind caught Jesus' words and blew them Toby's direction. "I am the Good Shepherd," Jesus was saying, "who lays down his life for the sheep. Come to me, all you who are weary and heavy laden and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me," he said with warmth and joy full on his face, "for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls."

I wonder? thought Toby as he felt big tears begin to roll down his cheeks and into his beard. I wonder? thought Toby as joy and the certainty of God's love began to fill his heart until it seemed like he would explode. I wonder? thought Toby, if this Jesus is the little baby I saw that night, the Savior of the world? Yes, thought Toby, he must be. His words found me and, frankly, he sounds just like he's ... God's shepherd.

My husband and I had been happily (most of the time) married for five years, but hadn't been blessed with a baby. I decided to do some serious praying and promised God that if He would give us a child, I would be a perfect mother, love it with all my heart and raise it with His word as my guide. God answered my prayers and blessed us with a son. The next year God blessed us with another son. The following year, he blessed us with yet another son. The year after that we were blessed with a daughter.

My husband thought we'd been blessed right into poverty. We now had four children, and the oldest was only four years old. I learned never to ask God for anything unless I meant it. As a minister once told me, "If you pray for rain, make sure you carry an umbrella."

I began reading a few verses of the Bible to the children each day as they lay in their cribs. I was off to a good start. God had entrusted me with four children and I didn't want to disappoint Him.

I tried to be patient the day the children smashed two dozen eggs on the kitchen floor searching for baby chicks. I tried to be understanding when they started a hotel for homeless frogs in the spare bedroom, although it took me nearly two hours to catch all twenty-three frogs.

When my daughter poured ketchup all over herself and rolled up in a blanket to see how it felt to be a hot dog, I tried to see the humor rather than the mess.

In spite of changing over twenty-five thousand diapers, never eating a hot meal and never sleeping for more than thirty minutes at a time, I still thank God daily for my children.

While I couldn't keep my promise to be a perfect mother. I didn't even come close. I did keep my promise to raise them in the Word of God. I knew I was missing the mark just a little when I told my daughter we were going to church to worship God, and she wanted to bring a bar of soap along to "wash up" Jesus, too.

Something was lost in the translation when I explained that God gave us everlasting life, and my son thought it was generous of God to give us his "last wife."

My proudest moment came during the children's Christmas pageant. My daughter was playing Mary, two of my sons were shepherds and my youngest son was a wise man. This was their moment to shine. My five-year-old shepherd had practiced his line, "We found the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes." But he was nervous and said, "The baby was wrapped in wrinkled clothes."

My four-year-old "Mary" said, "That's not 'wrinkled clothes,' silly.

That's dirty, rotten clothes." A wrestling match broke out between Mary and the shepherd and was stopped by an angel, who bent her halo and lost her left wing.

I slouched a little lower in my seat when Mary dropped the doll representing Baby Jesus, and it bounced down the aisle crying, "Mama-mama." Mary grabbed the doll, wrapped it back up and held it tightly as the wise men arrived. My other son stepped forward wearing a bathrobe and a paper crown, knelt at the manger and announced, "We are the three wise men, and we are bringing gifts of gold, common sense and fur."

The congregation dissolved into laughter, and the pageant got a standing ovation. "I've never enjoyed a Christmas program as much as this one," Pastor Brian laughed, wiping tears from his eyes. "For the rest of my life, I'll never hear the Christmas story without thinking of gold, common sense and fur."

"My children are my pride and my joy and my greatest blessing," I said as I dug through my purse for an aspirin.

Continuing the current trend of large-scale mergers and acquisitions, It was announced today at a press conference that Christmas and Chanukah will merge. An industry source said that the deal had been in the works for about 1300 years, ever since the rise of the Muslim Empire.

While details were not available at press time, it is believed that the overhead cost of having twelve days of Christmas and eight days of Chanukah was becoming prohibitive for both sides. By combining forces, we're told, the world will be able to enjoy consistently high-quality service during the Fifteen Days of Christmukah, as the new holiday is being called.

Massive layoffs are expected, with lords a-leaping and maids a-milking being the hardest hit. As part of the conditions of the agreement, the letters on the dreydl, currently in Hebrew, will be replaced by Latin, thus becoming unintelligible to a wider audience. Also, instead of translating to "A great miracle happened there," the message on the dreydl will be the more generic "Miraculous stuff happens." In exchange, it is believed that Jews will be allowed to use Santa Claus and his vast merchandising resources for buying and delivering their gifts.

In fact, one of the sticking points holding up the agreement for at least three hundred years was the question of whether Jewish children could leave milk and cookies for Santa even after having eaten meat for dinner. A breakthrough came last year, when Oreos were finally declared to be Kosher. All sides appeared content with this decision.

A spokesman for Christmas, Inc., declined to say whether a takeover of Kwanzaa might not be in the works as well. He merely pointed out that, were it not for the independent existence of Kwanzaa, the merger between Christmas and Chanukah might indeed be seen as an unfair cornering of the holiday market. Fortunately for all concerned, he said, Kwanzaa will help to maintain the competitive balance.

He then closed the press conference by leading all present in a rousing rendition of "Oy, Come All Ye Faithful."

In the first-grade we were poor, in a house with three other families on a busy street a few blocks from school.

And it was Christmas.

I knew that. But I didn't know we were poor. You don't know those things when you're in the first-grade.

When you're in the first-grade and you sit in class with rounded scissors cutting strips of construction paper and gluing them around one another into hoops and eventually a long multi-colored chain that you string around the tree your teacher brought to class. You don't know much then.

Only what your mother tells you.

And mine told me not to get my hopes up. She told me that Santa might not be able to stop. That he might be busy, and might have to come to our house later.

And that we couldn't have a Christmas tree.

It must have hurt her to tell me that. I know it hurt me to hear it. It disappointed me. And she told me not to be sad, that something would work out.

She was twenty-four then, and her second baby was about six months old. My little brother Sean who slept beneath me. Beneath me in a box on the bottom bunk in a closet with a brown folding door.

She said something would work out and one night she popped popcorn and opened a bag of cranberries and we sat there with needle and thread stringing them into garlands to drape around our apartment. Mostly she strung and mostly I played with the thimble. Played with the thimble and ate the popcorn and marveled at how beautiful it was.

There was a party the last day of school. The last day of school before Christmas. A party with games and songs and cookies and at 3:30 a bell to go home. It was raining that day and I had a little sweater that zipped and I got it off the hook as the other children did the same.

And the teacher stood in the middle of the room and said something about the tree. Something about how if anybody wanted it they could have it. And I stood there with the long sleeve of my shirt bunched up near the shoulder of my sweater and I looked at her. It was a green sweater and my grandmother 3,000 miles away had made it and sent it to me in the mail.

And I looked at her and for a moment I wasn't shy. And I walked up to her and I said it matter of factly.

My mother said we can't afford a Christmas tree. We're not going to have one.

And then I stood there. And she looked down at me and didn't say anything for a moment and I figured she must have been thinking. Then it looked like she was choking a little bit and she coughed or cleared her throat and she said that I could have it.

Back then they nailed wood on the bottom of Christmas trees, an X, so they would stand up. And I grabbed that X at about hip level and pulled the tree the best I could out the front door of the school, the wind quickly catching it and rolling it halfway in my hands while the little construction paper ornaments, secured with pieces of yarn, flapped madly in the breeze. I had looped the multi-colored chain around my neck.

And it was raining.

And I was about as happy as I've ever been.

And I set out, pulling that tree along the sidewalk, a step or two and then a stop, lurching it bit by bit against the wind and the hill and the fact that it was big and I was small.

And at the corner I stood breathing hard and unsure, the cars passing quickly on the street I needed to cross, my halting progress so slow. I was there a while. And a couple of cars back at the stop sign a guy watched me. And when it was his turn at the intersection he put it in park and opened his door, one of those long sleek doors that swept back to the line of the fin on the rear of the car, and walked over and grabbed my hand and the trunk of the tree and took us both across the street.

After that it was just one more block and I was home, my sweater mostly soaked through and the construction paper gone limp and torn in the weather.

Usually my mother was at work, and she was that day, and on those days I went inside and watched TV until she or my step-father came home. But I didn't that day. I stood outside chilled, with our Christmas tree, unable to get it through the door alone, unwilling to leave it outside unattended.

And I was about as happy as I've ever been.

On Christmas Eve day we were home and someone came knocking at the door. Two or three men, I think, from my teacher's church, they said, and they had boxes. Big cardboard boxes. Two of them. In one I caught a glimpse of something colorful before my step-father shushed me away and he carried it to his bedroom. In the other there were potatoes and vegetables and a canned ham, one of those with the clear gelatin that tastes so good and salty.

And a little while after that he brought out a string of lights from his bedroom, the old kind that screwed in, and strung them around the tree and as dusk came on he plugged them in and we turned out the livingroom lights and sat there in the red, green and blue glow.

I could see it from my bunk in the closet. Not the tree, not all of it, but the glow. It seemed to fill the room. I lay there awake as long as I could, sent to bed so Santa could come, and only closed my eyes for what seemed like a minute. But in that minute he came and as I awoke I could see the presents in the predawn, out past the edge of the tree into the middle of the livingroom floor.

And I slipped down the bunk and got my brother out of his bed and ran shouting to my parents' bedroom so that they could come see what Santa had done.

In the first-grade we were poor, in a house with three other families on a busy street a few blocks from school.

And it was Christmas.

And I was about as happy as I've ever been.

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 event, 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 a 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 had never shone before; the angel choir outdid itself in songs 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 angels 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 many 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 hearts of men who have seen the vision," said the voice, "can you hone; 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."

Jake was a resident of an orphan's home. One of ten children supported by what contributions the home could secure on a continuous struggle. There was very little to eat. It was seldom warm in the wintertime, for fuel was expensive. But at Christmas time there always seemed to be a little more to eat and the home seemed a little warmer, and it was a time for more than the usual enjoyment. But more than this, there was an orange. The only time of the year that such a rare item was provided -- and it was coveted by each child like no other thing they ever possessed. They would save it for several days. Admiring it, feeling it, loving it, and contemplating the moment when they would eat it. Truly it was the "pièce de résistance" to the Christmastide, and the year, for many would wait until New Year's Day or later to eat it. Oftentimes it would start to dry out and shrivel before they would eat it in order to salvage what they could.

This Christmas Day Jake had offended the rules or authority of the home in some manner and his punishment was loss of the orange privilege. After a year of waiting for this rare occasion, and this most desired of all rewards, it was denied. Plaintiff impleading was to no avail. Although the offence was rather minor, still it was an infraction of rules that must govern regulated society. Jack spent Christmas Day empty and alone -- it even seemed the other children didn't want to associate with a person who didn't have an orange.

Nighttime arrived and this was worst of all. Jake could not sleep. There was no love in the world. There was no forgiving. And certainly there could be no God that would permit a contrite little soul to suffer so much by himself. Silently he sobbed for the future of mankind; and the world perhaps, but mostly because he didn't have an orange like the other kids had.

A soft hand placed on Jake's shoulders startled him momentarily and an object was quickly shoved into his hands. The donor disappeared into the dark of the room leaving Jake with what he did not immediately identify as an orange. Not a regular run-or-the-orchard, but one fabricated from four segments of nine other oranges. Nine other highly prized oranges that would of necessity be eaten this day instead of several days hence.

The big bay team moved the heavily loaded wagon down the country lane at a good clip, their hooves crunching as they smashed through the crusted snow. Over the sounds of the horses and the wagon wheels could be heard the tinkle of silver bells. It was two days till Christmas and Aaron had been to town to do the last bit of shopping for groceries and other things that Sara needed to finish out their holiday supplies. Not one to waste time or trips unnecessarily, he had stopped by the feed mill for a load of oats and ground barley for the horses and hogs. He grain-fed his teams the year around, so they were always in good condition. He was once asked what color of horses he liked best. He replied, "Fat is a pretty color."

Aaron was not a rich man, but he was kind and generous. He believed the deed was reward enough and sought no thanks for his kindness. Now as he neared home with his loaded wagon, he wondered if the Tilton family would have what they needed for the cold winter months that lay ahead. The widow had five children, the oldest not yet ten. He turned the team on the section line; he would just drive by and casually look things over.

When he got near their little two-room board shack, he saw that the older children were outside in the snow gathering chips for the fire. Tim, the six-year-old, came running when he saw the team and heard the bells. He was crazy about horses and no one had horses like Aaron Simpson's. He loved the long red tassels that waved from the bridle clips, the long strings of red, white, and blue celluloid rings that adorned the spreaders, and most of all the sound of the little silver bells. Each Christmas Aaron would fasten four silver bells to each horse's hame strappings. They made such a pleasant sound as the horses tossed their heads and shifted their collars as they walked.

"Whoa now!" Aaron called. "Hello, Tim. Why don't you climb up here and let me see if I have something in my pocket a boy like you might enjoy?" He wrapped the lines around the wagon brake. Tim hesitated. The wagon looked awfully high.

"Come on," Aaron encouraged. "I'll help you."

Clinging to the heavily mittened hand, Tim climbed over the wheel and onto the seat, and looked up into his face, suddenly remembering something that had happened about a month before. "Did you bring us the flour and the Christmas money or was it the Lord like Mama says?"

Aaron didn't seem to hear, rummaging deep in his coat pocket for a sack of stick candy. "Now, could you use these?" he asked, counting out twelve peppermint sticks.

"Yes, oh yes, sir!" The light in Tim's eyes was thanks enough for Aaron. Carefully he helped Tim back over the wheel, both hands clutching his treasure. "Share them with the other children and with your mother and have a good Christmas."

"We're going over to Uncle Lew's for Christmas dinner," Tim shouted over his shoulder as he ran toward the cabin.

Lifting the lines, Aaron started the team on their way home again, but not before he'd seen Mary Ann and Elizabeth carry an old dishpan a second time to where the woodpile had been when their father was alive. They were gathering the chips and splinters, all that was left. They'll not be able to keep warm in this weather with that kind of wood, he frowned. "Have to do something about that," he said half-aloud to the team, breaking the stillness of the winter afternoon.

He looked at his watch as he neared the farmyard gate; there was just time to care for his horses and unload the wagon before supper. After just a few moments he stepped through the kitchen door, his arms filled with packages. One he handed to Sara, a special present that wouldn't wait till Christmas Day. He wanted her to know how much she was loved and appreciated. The gift was fabric for a new dress, and the way her delighted smile warmed him made his family prayer especially grateful.

He had spent much thought for those other packages, presents for his three sons and two daughters -- not extravagant, but good quality and thoughtfully chosen by him and Sara. His philosophy of good stewardship kept his house well painted, his granaries and barns in good repair, farm implements well oiled and sharp. Although his income was limited, his thrift and good husbandry made others think him well-to-do.

Tonight as they ate their supper, he watched the snow dance in the wind, whipping around the bare trees and across the farmyard. Their well-built home was warm and comfortable, but he wondered how it was at the Tiltons', with only chips and sawdust to burn. He would not sleep well that night, thinking of the little children huddled together, the air frosty in their bedrooms.

By dawn of the next day, a cloudy prelude to Christmas, Aaron was rolling two of the biggest and best pine logs from his winter wood supply. After the morning chores and a good breakfast, he was back at the woodpile with a two-man crosscut saw and his heavy double-bitted axe from the granary. He loaded one of the logs onto the notched log sawbucks and marked the log into stove lengths. The heavy saw would have pulled too hard for many men, but Aaron was a powerful man. He whipped the saw down almost to the bottom of each cut, hour after hour at a steady pace.

He looked at the little piles of sawdust beneath the log and watched them grow bigger with each stroke. When all the cuts were finished, he took the five-pound axe and, with a single stroke, cut each one free. Blocks of wood lay everywhere.

Now he felt the axe blade for sharpness; it was keen as a razor. Once when a neighbor had watched him test-shave the hair from the back of his hand, he had asked, "You lost your razor, Aaron?"

"No," Aaron had replied, "but when I cut wood, I want to cut it, not just bruise it."

Aaron removed the end-gate from the big wagon box and backed the wagon up to his chopping block. As he split each block into stovewood, he tossed it into the box where his boys stacked it. By nightfall the wide box was heaped high. He checked the top so that none would fall off when the wagon moved.

Christmas morning came, clear and clean. Several inches of new snow had fallen, covering the chips and bark around the chopping block. Even the load of wood was disguised under its covering. After chores was the wonderful family time of sharing gifts. Aaron held little Zillah on his lap and listened to her eager chatter about the beautiful doll and new doll clothes that had appeared for her under the tree. The odor of the roasting goose teased their noses.

Jacob watched Lew's double buggy pass their house and head back filled with the Tilton family. Aaron got up and beckoned to his sons. Excited, they followed him to the barn and helped him hitch the team to the loaded wagon. In three hours they were home again, rosy from the exercise, glowing with happiness, and impressively silent.

As the afternoon wore on, a fresh breeze came up. Soon the new snow was sifting across the old crust, filling every depression. Aaron was pleased. There would be no wagon tracks, no embarrassing "thank yous," and no way to diminish the quiet happiness warming him.

It's just a small, white envelope stuck among the branches of our Christmas tree. No name, no identification, no inscription. It has peeked through the branches of our tree for the past 10 years or so. It all began because my husband Mike hated Christmas -- oh, not the true meaning of Christmas, but the commercial aspects of it -- overspending, the frantic running around at the last minute to get a tie for Uncle Harry and the dusting powder for Grandma -- the gifts given in desperation because you couldn't think of anything else.

Knowing he felt this way, I decided one year to bypass the usual shirts, sweaters, ties and so forth. I reached for something special just for Mike. The inspiration came in an unusual way. Our son Kevin, who was 12 that year, was wrestling at the junior level at the school he attended; and shortly before Christmas, there was a non-league match against a team sponsored by an inner-city church, mostly black. These youngsters, dressed in sneakers so ragged that shoestrings seemed to be the only thing holding them together, presented a sharp contrast to our boys in their spiffy blue and gold uniforms and sparkling new wrestling shoes. As the match began, I was alarmed to see that the other team was wrestling without headgear, a kind of light helmet designed to protect a wrestler's ears. It was a luxury the ragtag team obviously could not afford. Well, we ended up walloping them. We took every weight class. And as each of their boys got up from the mat, he swaggered around in his tatters with false bravado, a kind of street pride that couldn't acknowledge defeat. Mike, seated beside me, shook his head sadly, "I wish just one of them could have won," he said. "They have a lot of potential, but losing like this could take the heart right out of them."

Mike loved kids -- all kids -- and he knew them, having coached little league football, baseball and lacrosse. That's when the idea for his present came. That afternoon, I went to a local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes and sent them anonymously to the inner-city church. On Christmas Eve, I placed the envelope on the tree, the note inside telling Mike what I had done and that this was his gift from me.

His smile was the brightest thing about Christmas that year and in succeeding years. For each Christmas, I followed the tradition -- one year sending a group of mentally handicapped youngsters to a hockey game, another year a check to a pair of elderly brothers whose home had burned to the ground the week before Christmas, and on and on. The envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always the last thing opened on Christmas morning and our children, ignoring their new toys, would stand with wide-eyed anticipation as their dad lifted the envelope from the tree to reveal its contents. As the children grew, the toys gave way to more practical presents, but the envelope never lost its allure.

The story doesn't end there. You see, we lost Mike last year due to dreaded cancer. When Christmas rolled around, I was still so wrapped in grief that I barely got the tree up. But Christmas Eve found me placing an envelope on the tree, and in the morning, it was joined by three more. Each of our children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed an envelope on the tree for their dad. The tradition has grown and someday will expand even further with our grandchildren standing round the tree with wide-eyed anticipation watching as their fathers take down the envelope ...

Mike's spirit, like the Christmas spirit, will always be with us. May we all remember the Christmas spirit this year and always.

About a week before Christmas the family bought a new nativity scene. When they unpacked it they found 2 figures of the Baby Jesus. "Someone must have packed this wrong," the mother said, counting out the figures. "We have one Joseph, one Mary, three wise men, three shepherds, two lambs, a donkey, a cow, an angel and two babies. Oh, dear! I suppose some set down at the store is missing a Baby Jesus because we have two."

"You two run back down to the store and tell the manager that we have an extra Jesus. Tell him to put a sign on the remaining boxes saying that if a set is missing a Baby Jesus, call 7126. Put on your warm coats, it's freezing cold out there."

The manager of the store copied down mother's message and the next time they were in the store they saw the cardboard sign that read, "If you're missing Baby Jesus, call 7126." All week long they waited for someone to call. Surely, they thought, someone was missing that important figurine. Each time the phone rang mother would say, "I'll bet that's about Jesus," but it never was.

Father tried to explain there are thousands of these scattered over the country and the figurine could be missing from a set in Florida or Texas or California. Those packing mistakes happen all the time. He suggested just put the extra Jesus back in the box and forget about it.

"Put Baby Jesus back in the box! What a terrible thing to do," said the children. "Surely someone will call," mother said. "We'll just keep the two of them together in the manger until someone calls."

When no call had come by 5:00 on Christmas Eve, mother insisted that father "just run down to the store" to see if there were any sets left. "You can see them right through the window, over on the counter," she said. "If they are all gone, I'll know someone is bound to call tonight."

"Run down to the store?" father thundered. "It's 15 below zero out there!"

"Oh, Daddy, we'll go with you," Tommy and Mary began to put on their coats. Father gave a long sigh and headed for the front closet. "I can't believe I'm doing this," he muttered. Tommy and Mary ran ahead as father reluctantly walked out in the cold. Mary got to the store first and pressed her nose up to the store window. "They're all gone, Daddy," she shouted. "Every set must be sold."

"Hooray," Tommy said. "The mystery will now be solved tonight!"

Father heard the news still a half block away and immediately turned on his heel and headed back home. When they got back into the house they noticed that mother was gone and so was the extra Baby Jesus figurine. "Someone must have called and she went out to deliver the figurine," my father reasoned, pulling off his boots. "You kids get ready for bed while I wrap mother's present."

Then the phone rang. Father yelled "answer the phone and tell 'em we found a home for Jesus." But it was mother calling with instructions for us to come to 205 Chestnut Street immediately, and bring three blankets, a box of cookies and some milk. "Now what has she gotten us into?" my father groaned as we bundled up again. "205 Chestnut. Why that's across town. Wrap that milk up good in the blankets or it will turn to ice before we get there. Why can't we all just get on with Christmas? It's probably 20 below out there now. And the wind is picking up. Of all the crazy things to do on a night like this."

When they got to the house at 205 Chestnut Street it was the darkest one on the block. Only one tiny light burned in the living room and, the moment we set foot on the porch steps, my mother opened the door and shouted, "They're here, Oh thank God you got here, Ray! You kids take those blankets into the living room and wrap up the little ones on the couch. I'll take the milk and cookies."

"Would you mind telling me what is going on, Ethel?" my father asked. "We have just walked through below zero weather with the wind in our faces all the way."

"Never mind all that now," my mother interrupted. "There isn't any heat in this house and this young mother is so upset she doesn't know what to do. Her husband walked out on her and those poor little children will have a very bleak Christmas, so don't you complain. I told her you could fix that oil furnace in a jiffy."

My mother strode off to the kitchen to warm the milk while my brother and I wrapped up the five little children who were huddled together on the couch. The children's mother explained to my father that her husband had run off, taking bedding, clothing, and almost every piece of furniture, but she had been doing all right until the furnace broke down.

"I been doin' washin' and ironin' for people and cleanin' the five and dime," she said. "I saw your number every day there, on those boxes on the counter. When the furnace went out, that number kept going' through my mind. 7162 7162. Said on the box that if a person was missin' Jesus, they should call you. That's how I knew you were good Christian people, willin' to help folks. I figured that maybe you would help me, too. So I stopped at the grocery store tonight and I called your misses. I'm not missin' Jesus, mister, because I sure love the Lord. But I am missin' heat. I have no money to fix that furnace."

"Okay, Okay," said father. "You've come to the right place. Now let's see. You've got a little oil burner over there in the dining room. Shouldn't be too hard to fix. Probably just a clogged flue. I'll look it over, see what it needs."

Mother came into the living room carrying a plate of cookies and warm milk. As she set the cups down on the coffee table, I noticed the figure of Baby Jesus lying in the center of the table. It was the only sign of Christmas in the house. The children stared wide-eyed with wonder at the plate of cookies my mother set before them.

Father finally got the oil burner working but said, "You need more oil. I'll make a few calls tonight and get some oil. Yes sir, you came to the right place", father grinned.

On the way home father did not complain about the cold weather and had barely set foot inside the door when he was on the phone. "Ed, hey, how are ya, Ed?"

"Yes, Merry Christmas to you, too. Say Ed, we have kind of an unusual situation here. I know you've got that pick-up truck. Do you still have some oil in that barrel on your truck? You do?"

By this time the rest of the family were pulling clothes out of their closets and toys off of their shelves. It was long after their bedtime when they were wrapping gifts. The pickup came. On it were chairs, three lamps, blankets and gifts. Even though it was 30 below, father let them ride along in the back of the truck. No one ever did call about the missing figure in the nativity set, but as I grow older I realize that it wasn't a packing mistake at all.

The most frightened shepherd that night was little Ladius, just ten. He cowered behind his three older brothers when the blinding star lit the hillside. When the angel appeared, he hid behind a huge rock.

Yet, after Ladius heard the glad news, fear left him, and he limped back to his brothers, who were planning to set out for Bethlehem.

"Who will tend the sheep?" asked Samuel, the oldest at sixteen. Ladius, leaning against his shepherd's crook to support a crippled foot, volunteered, "I'd only slow you down. Let me stay with the sheep." He wet his lip as he talked. The brothers weakly protested at first, then made plans to go.

"We must each take a gift," said Samuel. One brother chose his flint to start a fire for the Christ child. Another picked meadow lilies to make a garland for the king. Samuel decided on his most precious possession -- his gold ring.

"Here -- take my blanket to him," said Ladius. It was badly worn, a faded blue with patches.

"No, Ladius," said Samuel, tenderly. "The blanket is too tattered to give even a beggar -- let alone a king. Besides, you will need it tonight."

The brothers departed, leaving Ladius alone by the fire. He laid his head upon the blanket and buried his face in his hands. Tears forced their way between his fingers, but soon the hush of night soothed the boy's heartbeat. The world in silent stillness lay ...

"Are you coming, Ladius?" called a voice. Standing nearby was the same angel who had brought the news. "You wanted to see the child, didn't you?"

"Yes," nodded Ladius, "but I must stay here."

"My name is Gabriel," said the angel. "Your sheep will be watched. Take my hand, and bring your blanket. The child may need it."

Suddenly, Ladius was outside a stable. Kneeling by a manger were his brothers. Ladius started to call out, but the angel lifted a finger to his lips.

"Give me the blanket," Gabriel whispered. The angel took it and quietly covered the baby. But the blanket was no longer faded. Now it glistened like dew in the brilliance of a new day. Returning, Gabriel squeezed Ladius's hand, "Your gift was best because you gave all that you had ..."

"Wake up, Ladius, wake up!" The boy rubbed his eyes and tried to shield them from the glaring sun. Hovering over him was Samuel.

"Did you find him?" asked Ladius.

"Yes," replied Samuel, "but first tell me why you were sleeping without your blanket."

Ladius looked about with wonder. The faded blue blanket was nowhere to be found -- then, or thereafter.

In a forest in the far, far East grew a great many pine trees. Most of them were tall trees, higher than the houses that we see, and with wide, strong branches. But there was one tree that was not nearly so tall as the others; in fact, it was no taller than some of the children in the kindergarten.

Now, the tall trees could see far, far out over the hilltops and into the valleys, and they could hear all the noises that went on in the world beyond the forest, but the Little Tree was so small and the other trees grew so high and thick about it that it could not see nor hear these things at all; but the other trees were very kind, and they would stoop down and tell them to the Little Tree. One night in the winter time there seemed to be something strange happening in the little town among the hills, for the trees did not go to sleep after the sun went down, but put their heads together and spoke in strange, low whispers that were full of awe and wonder. The Little Tree, from its place close down to the ground, did not understand what it was all about. It listened awhile, and then lifted its head as high as ever it could and shouted to its tall neighbor: "Will you not stoop and tell me what is happening?" And the big tree stooped down and whispered: "The shepherds out on the hilltops are telling strange stories while they watch their sheep. The air is filled with sweet music, and there is a wonderful star coming up in the east, traveling westward always, and the shepherds say that they are waiting for it to stop and shine over a humble stable in their little town. I have not heard why it is going to stop there, but I will look again and listen." So the tall tree lifted up its head again, and reached far out so that it might hear more of the wonderful story.

Bye and bye it stooped down again, and whispered to the Little Tree:

"Oh, Little Tree, listen! There are angels among the shepherds on the hills, and they are all talking together. They seem to be awaiting the birth of a little child, who will be a king among the people, and the beautiful star will shine above the stable where the little king will be laid in a manger."

The tree again raised its head to listen, and the Little Tree, much puzzled, thought within itself: "It is very strange, indeed.

"Oh, how I wish that I could see it all!"

It waited a little longer, and everything grew quiet, and a great peace came upon the forest.

Then suddenly the town, and even the forest was illuminated with a strange, white light that made everything as bright as day, and the air was filled with the flutter of angels' wings, and with music such as the world had never heard before.

The people and the trees, even the stars in the heaven, lifted up their voices and sang together and the whole world was filled with music and joy and love for the little Christ-child who had come to dwell upon the earth.

The Little Tree was filled with fear and wonder, for so great was the excitement that the other trees had almost forgotten it, and it could not understand the mysterious sounds; but bye and bye its tall friend said, "Listen, listen, Little Tree! Such news I have to tell! The Christ has come -- the King! And the whole world is singing such beautiful music. There are wise men coming from the East, bringing beautiful gifts to the Christ-child. The angels, too, are upon the earth, and they bear gifts of gold and rare, beautiful stones. Wait! I will tell you more."

The tall tree had scarcely lifted up its head when it stooped again and whispered to the Little Tree, "Look! Look! Little Tree! They are coming this way; the angels are coming here, into our forest! Lift up your head high and you will see them as they pass."

The Little Tree lifted up its head and saw the white flutter of angel robes and heard the weird, sweet voices of the heavenly host who came with precious gifts into the forest.

"Oh," said the Little Tree, "they are coming here, toward me! What shall I do?" And in fear it bent its head so low that it almost touched the ground.

But the music came nearer and nearer, and the Little Tree felt a tender hand upon its branches, and a soft, gentle voice said to it, "Arise, Little Tree, and come with us, for we have come into the forest to seek you. Yes, you, the very smallest among the trees, are to be our gift-bearer. Come; lift up your head."

In fear and trembling the Little Tree did as the angel bade it. But when it looked into the angel's face and saw the love and kindness there, all fear was gone, and it said to the angel: "Yes; make me ready. I will come with you to the little Christ-child in the manger."

So all the angels brought their gifts of precious jewels and shining gold, and fastened them upon the branches of the Little Tree. Then the leader of the angels' band took up the Little Tree from the ground and bore it, laden with its precious burden, to the feet of the Christ-child.

The after-Christmas snowstorm had blanketed a wide patch of rural eastern Pennsylvania, and Chris Clark Davidson probably should have waited until the roads were plowed before she, her mother and her two small sons attempted a drive. But Chris' grandmother lived alone more than a hundred miles away, and couldn't get out to the store to buy her groceries. "We'll be fine," Chris assured her mother. "We'll take that shortcut that we use all summer."

However, Chris had forgotten how narrow the short-cut road was, especially with drifts piled high and wind blowing snow across the fields. When another vehicle roared around a curve, Chris swerved and skidded into a snowbank. The other car kept going. The wheels spun uselessly as she tried to pull out. "Mommy, are we stuck?" toddler Phillip asked from under his blanket in the back seat. "Looks that way, honey," Chris admitted. They had only seen that one car since they'd turned onto the shortcut. How long would it be before someone came along? How long before the freezing temperature invaded the car's interior? And why, oh why, had she worn stylish open shoes instead of warm boots? Chris got out, her almost-bare feet plunging into a high drift, and looked around. Lord, please send us some help, she prayed. Then she saw it -- a silo and barn roof about a quarter-mile away.

"Mom," Chris leaned in the car and said, "I'll walk down to that barn and see if anyone's there. Keep the kids warm." The journey was incredibly cold, and by the time Chris pushed open the barn door, her feet were icy. A welcome blast of heat greeted her, along with the mooing of heifers in their stalls. It was a working dairy, clean and well organized, with a shiny window fan circulating the air. Even better, Chris heard young male voices coming from behind a stall. Maneuvering around the animals, Chris followed the sound and came upon two farmhands in overalls and flannel shirts, kidding and teasing each other. They stopped and smiled when they saw her, and quickly she explained the situation. "Stay here!" one said, tramping past the cows and out the door. A few moments later, Chris heard a horn honking in front of the barn.

There he was, driving a blue pickup truck. "Get in!" he shouted. Chris hesitated. She didn't know these men. Yet there was something so merry about them that she couldn't feel afraid. She and the other farmhand scrambled into the pickup and bounced down the road. There was the car, her toddlers bundled up and Mom waving. The driver roared across the field, spun in a wide circle and screeches into position behind it. "Way to go!" his buddy yelled. Chris gripped the seat. "Do you always drive like this?" she asked, only half-joking. The driver shrugged. "Well, it ain't our truck." Within minutes the men had freed Chris' car, and she opened her purse to reward them. But both backed away. "It was our pleasure, ma'am. Just drive safely." Not like you, Chris grinned as she pulled away.

But they had been wonderful guys. Chris didn't realize just how wonderful until two weeks later when she and her mother decided to make a return visit to her grandmother. Since the snow was almost all gone by then, the shortcut was safer. "When we get to the barn I'd like to stop and let the guys know we made it to Grandma's that day," Chris told her mother. But when they pulled up in front to where Chris had climbed into the blue truck, she could hardly believe her eyes. The barn was vacant, shabby, with paint peeling and door hinges hanging loose. Bewildered, Chris wiped away a heavy film of dirt and cobwebs on the milk house window and peered inside. Where were the heifers, the floors littered with fresh manure? Even the fan was rusty.

"You couldn't have seen any farmhands or cattle there," the woman at the next house told Chris. "No one's worked that property for years." Chris got in the car. "Am I crazy, Mom?" she asked. "No." Her mother was firm. "This is definitely the place." Then how? Suddenly Chris understood, and like the shepherds at that first Christmas she was filled with awe. Her angels had worn blue jeans and flannel shirts instead of white robes. But they had delivered the same timeless message, to her and to anyone willing to listen: Fear not! The Savior is here! Alleluia!

One of my earliest memories of childhood involves a luminous record player/radio and our family nativity set. Our ancient cabinet model, with the lid that lifted to reveal a turntable, glowed invitingly, and in a home which did not have one of those new television sets, offered me a window to the outside world of Jack Benny, Father Knows Best, and my hero-of-heroes, Gene Autry. But perhaps the coolest spec that this machine offered was that it played at 16-2/3 RPM! The advantage of this speed was that a little kid could take the sheep from our manger, place them on the turntable and watch them revolve around the center post without hurtling off into space.

Our nativity figures were of a delicate plaster, simple in design, and they were to us children, of course, the only kind of figures anyone in the world would ever want to own. The nativity in front of the altar at church, the giant nativities in the department store windows -- those were all well and good, and quite wonderful. But those were Out There. A home could be quite happy with our figures, in their stable which my father constructed for his and my mother's first Christmas together.

The nativity story was so much a part of our lives in small-town Ohio that it was lodged in our spiritual DNA. My father, when he found that one of us had failed to close a door on a chilly day, would use the old challenge his own father used: "Close the door. Were you born in a barn?" And one day my four-year-old sister replied, puzzled, "Yes, I had to be in the barn, so the shepherds could come and see me."

Years later, when I married, my parents gave my husband and me a set very much like theirs, though we were not as handy with tools, and eventually bought a stable from Sears. This pageant of parents and child and legendary visitors has sat over the years on our mantle, on our piano and on our windowsill. It was always within reach of our two children who came along, though of course they received the same cautions as I had about being careful not to drop. By this time the old record player was long gone, and our new, modern turntable couldn't go any slower than a potentially disastrous 33-1/3 RPM, so I never pointed out to my own children the possible thrill rides our sheep could have taken.

Somewhere in those early years, Baby Jesus did get a hand broken off, but we found the hand and reattached it. Each year when the manger came out of the box, our children took the same sort of fascination in it as I had with ours when I was little. One day we came into the family room to discover that the nativity scene on the bay window sill had been organized by our daughter: Mary and Joseph were, of course, flanking the little crib. Lined up to the East, in order of size, were the animals, starting with the lambs, arrayed through donkey and cow, and ending with the camels. And lined up to the West, patiently waiting their turn to see the Baby, were the people: shepherds, then kings and their groom, then Big Bird, Cookie Monster, Oscar the Grouch in his garbage can, and Goofy.

When my brother and his wife had their first little girl, I went on a quest to buy them a manger like the one he and I had grown up with, but there was none to be had. During a now-unimaginable period of time, Christmas had become rather invisible, with Christmas carols nearly disappearing from the radio, television throughout the holiday season dripping with the same blood and flying bullets as throughout the year, and nativity sets so scarce that I actually tried to make them one in my kitchen out of plaster of Paris. As the white liquid ran from the molds and over my kitchen floor, my friend quoted the go-ahead, you-deserve-to-do-something-nice-for yourself-for-a-change Clairol hair color ad from the television: "This I do for myself," she grinned.

Click to see a bigger photo. Eventually I found them a set of figures made to look like children in a pageant. It was not exactly what I had in mind, but it had to do. And over the years I added figures to their set when I found angels or little farm animals which might roughly match.

When our daughter married, my mother gave her a little set. And this past Christmas, a terrifying time in our family when our one-year-old granddaughter went through three surgeries and seven weeks of IV antibiotics for osteomyelitis, my husband and I gave our Madeline her first set. It's a little fragile, but I want her to be able to hold it, and move it around, and organize the reception line as we did, and as her mother did.

My chiropractor took his out-of-town visitors to church last Christmas. Sitting in the crowded church, his brother's little boy had a hard time seeing anything but the backs of the other worshippers. But at Communion, he suddenly started, pointed, and said, loudly and delightedly, "Look, Daddy! They have a Jesus farm set just like ours!"

So, for all the Jesus farm sets out there in people's homes, I send a wish for the blessings of immediacy, of holding immense power in our child's hands, of living with the ancient past on our window sills, of expecting Oscar the Grouch, Goofy, G.I. Joe and our troll dolls to stop and take the time to line up to see something and somebody special.

The other wise man's name was Artaban. He was one of the Magi and he 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 he believed the sign was to be given, Artaban went out on his roof to watch the night sky. "If the star appears, they will wait for me ten days, then we will all set out together for Jerusalem. I have made ready for the journey by selling all of my possessions and have brought three jewels: a sapphire, a ruby, and a pearl. I intend to present them as my tribute to the king."

As he watched an azure spark was born out of the darkness, rounding itself with 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." The swiftest of Artaban's horses had been waiting saddled and bridled in her stall, pawing the ground impatiently. She shared the eagerness of her master's purpose. As Artaban placed himself upon her back, he said, "God bless us both from falling and our souls from death." They began their journey. Each day his faithful horse measured off the allotted proportion of the distance, and at nightfall on the tenth day they approached the outskirts of Babylon.

In a little island of desert palm trees, Artaban's horse scented difficulty and slackened her pace. Then she stood still, quivering in every muscle. Artaban dismounted. The dim starlight revealed the form of a man lying in the roadway. His skin bore the mark of a deadly fever. The chill of death was in his lean hand. As Artaban turned to go, a sigh came from the sick man's lips. 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 path of wisdom which only thou knowest." Then he knew that he could not go on. The Magi were physicians as well as astronomers. He took off his robe and began his work of healing. Several hours later the patient regained consciousness. Artaban gave him all that was left of his bread and wine. He left a potion of the healing herbs and instruction for his care. He also left the sapphire, for the man to purchase food and warm clothes.

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 arranged to attract his attention. It said, "We have waited till past midnight, and can delay no longer. We go to find the King. Follow us across the desert." Artaban sat down 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 camels and provisions for the journey. I may never overtake my friends. Only the merciful God knows whether or not I shall lose my purpose because I tarried to show mercy."

Several days later when Artaban arrived at Bethlehem, the streets were deserted. It was rumored that Herod was sending soldiers, presumably to enforce some new tax, and the men of the city had taken their flocks 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 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 gone as mysteriously as they had come. Joseph had taken his wife and babe that same night and had secretly fled to 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 was heard. "The soldiers of Herod are killing the children." Artaban went to the doorway. A band of soldiers came hurrying down the street. 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 with joy in the shadows behind him said softly, "Thou hast saved the life of my little one. May the Lord bless thee and keep thee and give thee peace."

Artaban, still following the King went on into Egypt seeking everywhere for traces of the little family that had fled before him. For many years we follow Artaban in his search. We see him at the pyramids. We see him in Alexandria taking counsel with a Hebrew rabbi who told him to seek the King not among the rich but among the poor. He passed through the countries where famine lay heavy upon the land, and the poor were crying for bread. He made his dwelling in plague-stricken cities. He visited the oppressed and the afflicted in prisons. He searched the crowded 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. Thirty-three years had now passed away since Artaban began his search. His hair was 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. 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. He claims to be the Son of God and the priests and elders have said that he must die. Pilate sent him to the cross."

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 like a message of despair. The King had been denied and cast out. Perhaps he was already dying. Could he be the same one for whom the star had appeared thirty-three long years ago? Artaban's heart beat loudly within him. He thought, "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 Calvery, he saw a troop of soldiers coming down the street, dragging a sobbing young woman. As Artaban paused, she broke away from her tormentors and threw herself at his feet, her arms clasped around his knees.

"Have pity on me," she cried, "And save me. My father was also of the Magi, but he is dead. I am to be sold as a slave to pay his debts."

Artaban trembled as he again felt the conflict arising in his soul. It was the same that he had experienced in the palm grove of Babylon and the cottage of 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 and laid it in the hand of the girl 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 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 of his tribute to the King. The quest was over and he had failed. What else mattered? The earthquake quivered beneath him. A heavy tile, shaken from a roof, fell and struck him. He lay breathless and pale. Then there came a still small voice through the twilight. It was like distant music. The rescued girl leaned over him and 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 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." The sweet voice came again, "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."

A calm radiance of wonder and joy lighted the face of Artaban as one long, last breath exhaled gently from his lips. His journey was ended. His treasure accepted. The Other Wise Man had found the King.

'Twas the nocturnal segment of the diurnal period preceding the annual Yuletide celebration, and throughout our place of residence, kinetic activity was not in evidence among the possessors of this potential, including that species of domestic rodent known as Mus musculus. Hosiery was meticulously suspended from the forward edge of the wood burning caloric apparatus, pursuant to our anticipatory pleasure regarding an imminent visitation from an eccentric philanthropist among whose folkloric appellations is the honorific title of St. Nicholas.

The prepubescent siblings, comfortably ensconced in their respective accommodations of repose, were experiencing subconscious visual hallucinations of variegated fruit confections moving rhythmically through their cerebrums. My conjugal partner and I, attired in our nocturnal head coverings, were about to take slumberous advantage of the hibernal darkness when upon the avenaceous exterior portion of the grounds there ascended such a cacophony of dissonance that I felt compelled to arise with alacrity from my place of repose for the purpose of ascertaining the precise source thereof.

Hastening to the casement, I forthwith opened the barriers sealing this fenestration, noting thereupon that the lunar brilliance without, reflected as it was on the surface of a recent crystalline precipitation, might be said to rival that of the solar meridian itself -- thus permitting my incredulous optical sensory organs to behold a miniature airborne runnered conveyance drawn by eight diminutive specimens of the genus Rangifer, piloted by a minuscule, aged chauffeur so ebullient and nimble that it became instantly apparent to me that he was indeed our anticipated caller. With his ungulate motive power travelling at what may possibly have been more vertiginous velocity than patriotic alar predators, he vociferated loudly, expelled breath musically through contracted labia, and addressed each of the octet by his or her respective cognomen -- "Now Dasher, now Dancer ..." et al. -- guiding them to the uppermost exterior level of our abode, through which structure I could readily distinguish the concatenations of each of the 32 cloven pedal extremities.

As I retracted my cranium from its erstwhile location, and was performing a 180-degree pivot, our distinguished visitant achieved -- with utmost celerity and via a downward leap -- entry by way of the smoke passage. He was clad entirely in animal pelts soiled by the ebony residue from oxidations of carboniferous fuels which had accumulated on the walls thereof. His resemblance to a street vendor I attributed largely to the plethora of assorted playthings which he bore dorsally in a commodious cloth receptacle.

His orbs were scintillant with reflected luminosity, while his submaxillary dermal indentations gave every evidence of engaging amiability. The capillaries of his malar regions and nasal appurtenance were engorged with blood which suffused the subcutaneous layers, the former approximating the coloration of Albion's floral emblem, the latter that of the Prunus avium, or sweet cherry. His amusing sub- and supralabials resembled nothing so much as a common loop knot, and their ambient hirsute facial adornment appeared like small, tabular and columnar crystals of frozen water.

Clenched firmly between his incisors was a smoking piece whose gray fumes, forming a tenuous ellipse about his occiput, were suggestive of a decorative seasonal circlet of holly. His visage was wider than it was high, and when he waxed audibly mirthful, his corpulent abdominal region undulated in the manner of impectinated fruit syrup in a hemispherical container. He was, in short, neither more nor less than an obese, jocund, multigenarian gnome, the optical perception of whom rendered me visibly frolicsome despite every effort to refrain from so being. By rapidly lowering and then elevating one eyelid and rotating his head slightly to one side, he indicated that trepidation on my part was groundless.

Without utterance and with dispatch, he commenced filling the aforementioned appended hosiery with various of the aforementioned articles of merchandise extracted from his aforementioned previously dorsally transported cloth receptacle. Upon completion of this task, he executed an abrupt about-face, placed a single manual digit in lateral juxtaposition to his olfactory organ, inclined his cranium forward in a gesture of leave-taking, and forthwith effected his egress by renegotiating (in reverse) the smoke passage. He then propelled himself in a short vector onto his conveyance, directed a musical expulsion of air through his contracted oral sphincter to the antlered quadrupeds of burden, and proceeded to soar aloft in a movement hitherto observable chiefly among the seed-bearing portions of a common weed. But I overheard his parting exclamation, audible immediately prior to his vehiculation beyond the limits of visibility: "Ecstatic Yuletide to the planetary constituency, and to that self same assemblage, my sincerest wishes for a salubriously beneficial and gratifyingly pleasurable period between sunset and dawn."

On the 12th day of the Eurocentrically imposed midwinter festival, my potential-acquaintance-rape-survivor gave to me:

◆ TWELVE males reclaiming their inner warrior through ritual drumming.

◆ ELEVEN pipers piping (plus the 18-member pit orchestra made up of members in good standing of the Musicians Equity Union as called for in their union contract even though they will not be asked to play a note ...)

◆ TEN melanin-deprived testosterone-poisoned scions of the patriarchal ruling class system leaping,

◆ NINE persons engaged in rhythmic self-expression,

◆ EIGHT economically disadvantaged female persons stealing milk-products from enslaved Bovine-Europeans,

◆ SEVEN endangered swans swimming on protected wetlands,

◆ SIX enslaved fowl-Europeans producing stolen nonhuman animal products,

◆ FIVE golden symbols of culturally sanctioned enforced domestic incarceration,

NOTE: after member of the Animal Liberation Front threatened to throw red paint at my computer, the calling birds, French hens and partridge have been reintroduced to their native habitat. To avoid further animal-European enslavement, the remaining gift package has been revised.

◆ FOUR hours of recorded whale songs,

◆ THREE deconstructionist poets,

◆ TWO Sierra Club calendars printed on recycled processed tree carcasses

◆ And an Animal Rights activist chained to an old-growth pear tree.

It was a cold day. A gray day, gray with the threat of snow, and gray with the threat of tears. There were children in our family, three of them, ages one, twelve, and fourteen. There were two children missing on that cold, gray day. They had died one Easter season some four years before. Scarlet Fever had wracked their bodies and blotched their skin.

But now the memory of that sad season was replaced by what could be a happier one. It was Christmas Eve 1935, a Depression year. My father was without a job, trying to get on WPA (Works Progress Administration). I don't know where he was that night, just that he wasn't home, but I remember my mother trying to create Christmas joy with nothing to work with.

I was fourteen. My older sister was twelve. I don't remember that we were too concerned about receiving Christmas presents, at least I wasn't. My sister probably wanted a doll. She always wanted a doll, a baby doll, a doll like my baby sister had been, with fat, pink cheeks, and chubby hands and arms.

But now, Christmas Eve, my baby sister was thin and listless. I remember my mother telling my father, "My baby isn't getting proper food."

I don't remember much about that Christmas of 1935 other than I wanted a Christmas Tree. I told my mother, "Christmas will not be Christmas if we do not have a Christmas tree."

My sister and I begged for a tree. My mother told us "Time, and time again," "We have no money and I cannot buy a Christmas Tree."

My sister and I would not be deterred. We took colored paper from catalogs, cut it into strips, curled the strips into circles, and using flour and water paste, pasted one link into another until we had long lengths of highly colored paper chains.

We looked for tin foil from discarded chewing gum wrappers and cigarette packs. Some of the foil we cut into thin strips for icicles. Our neighbor had an English Walnut tree. We took halves of walnut shells, wrapped them with foil, and had beautiful ornaments that would rival anything found in a store.

We popped pop corn and made chains. We found discarded cranberries and made cranberry chains, but we had no Christmas Tree for our lovely ornaments. Finally, as day was fading, and the dark was creeping across the valley, I asked my mother, "See how much money you have. Maybe someone will sell me a tree."

She went to her purse, and handed me twenty-eight cents. She was crying when she said, "That is all I have."

I jumped on my bike, and rode up to Twenty First South Street in Salt Lake City where all the Christmas Tree lots were located. I went from lot to lot, but no one would sell me a tree for twenty-eight cents.

About nine o'clock, up on Twenty First South and State Street, I found a man turning off his lights and shutting down for the day, shutting down for the season. I asked him, "Do you have a tree you will sell for twenty-eight cents?"

His exact words were, "What the heck! I can't sell anymore anyway. Take your pick."

I found one just a little taller than I was, gave him my twenty-eight cents, put the tree across my handle bars, and headed home. As I peddled out of the lot, I heard him cry, "Merry Christmas" -- and it was.

To read more stories by LaVarr B. Webb, go to http://www.utahoutdoors.com/nostalgia/lavarrbwebb/index.htm

With wind howling down from the Cascade Mountains, December 1969 was bitterly cold and snowy in Wenatchee, Washington. As a single mother, I and my children struggled just to stay warm and fed. I worked at minimum-wage jobs and attended nursing school, and often I went two or three days without eating at the end of the month to give the children more food. At times even the children went to bed hungry, and none of us had adequate winter clothing.

Wendell was in grade school, Brent was in preschool, and my three-year-old twins, Michael and Michelle, stayed with a state-paid baby-sitter while I was gone. Just four months before, Wendell and I had joined the Church and as a result my parents, brothers and sisters wanted nothing to do with us. With the holidays approaching, we really had no one to turn to for help; as a new convert, I didn't know I could ask my bishop.

Ten days before Christmas, after a great deal of whispering among themselves, my children approached me one evening while I was studying. Nine-year-old Wendell tugged my sleeve and asked, "Mama, when are we going to get a Christmas tree and some presents? Brent piped up and asked, "Or are we going to Grandma and Grandpa's for Christmas this year?"

These were the questions I'd been dreading. I swallowed a lump in my throat, blinked away my tears, and said, "I'm afraid we're not going to have any Christmas presents this year."

"Why not, Mama?" they asked.

"Well, Grandma and Grandpa have asked us not to come over since we joined the Church, and we just don't have any money for our own Christmas," I answered.

"Oh, Mama, nothing?" asked Wendell. "Santa won't forget us though, will he?"

I replied that Santa probably wouldn't be able to stop at our house that year.

For the next few days the children seemed somber. They often stood by the front window and looked out at passersby and neighboring festive houses. While their playmates bubbled with excitement about the presents and goodies being prepared in their homes, my children quietly accepted the fact that no packages or decorations or other signs of Christmas were appearing in our house.

Our ward had a Christmas party planned for Saturday night, 20 December, but we decided not to go because the meetinghouse was a mile and a half away and walking was our only means of transportation. However, a car pulled up at our house on the evening of the party, and our home teacher knocked on our door.

"Come on," he said. "Let's go to the Christmas party! Get your coats on, kids."

The party was the first real Christmas flavor to come into my children's lives that year. I don't know what they talked with Santa about, but they appreciated his gifts of candy and oranges, and their spirits seemed much uplifted afterward. Buoyed by my children's renewed enthusiasm. I used their watercolors to paint a Santa face on our front window. Now we had some decorations!

When Christmas Eve arrived, I had only $1.25 in my purse. We walked to the grocery store, where I bought each child two tangerines and the cashier handed each of them a large candy cane. Along with the story of Jesus' birth, that would be the extent of our Christmas. As we rounded the comer on our way home, Wendell shouted, "Hey, Santa came!" The other children echoed his cries upon seeing a beautifully decorated Christmas tree on our porch. Mounting the porch steps, we saw two large boxes, previously hidden from view, placed next to the tree.

One box was full of food, and the other was full of presents. I could hardly believe my eyes. Wendell plugged in the Christmas tree lights as soon as we moved the tree inside, and the children pinched and shook each present as they set it under the tree. Their eyes were full of wonder.

Next we unpacked the food in the kitchen. The children had never seen so much in one place except at the grocery store. Even Wendell couldn't remember having a whole turkey in the house.

"We won't have to go to bed hungry tonight!" said Brent.

I fixed the children a special Christmas Eve supper. Afterward we sat around the Christmas tree and enjoyed the lights while I read the story of the birth of Jesus. "We have a lot to thank Heavenly Father for tonight," I said. We knelt in a circle and said a prayer of gratitude.

When we opened the presents the next morning, each child received exactly what he or she had wanted. In addition, each child got a warm outfit, gloves, and mittens, and money for boots. Someone had made clothes for the doll my daughter received. The food was enough to last us several weeks beyond Christmas.

I may never know who played Santa that year or how they knew what the children wanted. Everyone in our ward denied involvement, but I'm certain it was some of them. I'll always remember that Christmas as the best of my life, and my grown-up children feel the same way. We felt the Spirit of Christ that day more than we ever had before and realized that our Savior does watch over his children.

The music of children's laughter and excited voices broke the silence in the room. Jacob and his sister, Emily, had just finished wrapping some presents for their family. Scattered around the floor lay a vision of brightly colored paper, tissue, miles of metallic ribbon, and bags of brilliant bows. All the two could think about and talk about were the presents under the tree ...

Jacob picked up a gift and a tiny silver bell tinkled as he said, "Ha, ha, another one for me!"

Emily crawled through the bows and reached far under the tree, exclaiming with joy, "And here's another one for me! And on Christmas morning, there will be ..."

"... lots more gifts from Santa Claus for you and me," chimed Jacob, grinning from ear to ear.

"Now wait a minute, you two," a gentle voice remarked softly.

Emily and Jacob looked around the room, then gazed at each other, bewildered. Who had spoken to them because there was no one else in the room? Emily edged closer to her brother by the Christmas tree. The same voice whispered behind them, "It's me." The tree's branches moved slightly.

A talking tree? Impossible! No, that only happened in stories. Jacob and Emily giggled nervously.

"But I am speaking to you, Jacob and Emily," the soft voice commented quietly. "Christmas is so much more than presents and Santa Claus."

The two siblings turned around and huddled together as they glanced up at the beautiful fir tree decorated in silver, gold, and blue bells, white angels, red hearts, and strands of sparkling star lights.

The voice continued, "Christmas is about the joy of giving to others, bringing smiles to the faces of loved ones and friends, and warmth to the heart. Santa is God's spirit of generosity and good will during the season when giving is so much better than receiving. And there is so much more."

Before the children's eyes, a vision appeared; the three Wise Men from the Nativity scene on the mantle graced the living room. Jacob and Emily could merely stare in awe and wonder.

"Long ago, it was written that we came to honor the birth of a humble babe in Bethlehem by bringing him special gifts; this is more than just a story. God sent His Son, a King, to bring us love and salvation. Would you like to see him?"

Emily and Jacob, speechless, merely nodded their heads and took the hands offered. In a flash, they stood before the holy family, gazing in wide-eyed wonder at the tiny baby in the manger. Something special touched their hearts at that moment.

Emily noticed that she had brought a golden bow with her so she laid it gently next to the babe, while Jacob placed the tiny silver bell he held in his palm beside the bow. Brother and sister glanced at each other and smiled, and before they could blink their eyes, they were back in their living room.

"So tell me, my children, what did you see?" the tree asked.

Jacob responded, "First, a bright star."

"Like the one you placed on my tree top?" Both children nodded. "This star reminds us of God's promise so long ago to send a Savior to His children. A promise fulfilled in the birth of Jesus."

Then Emily spoke, "We saw the baby Jesus in his manger, and Mary smiled at us."

"What did you feel at that moment?"

Both young voices said in unison, "Very special."

"And you are special as all God's children are special," the voice remarked lovingly.

"I think I saw an angel, too," Emily whispered.

Jacob and his sister moved closer to the tree, and Emily touched one of the boughs. "Why are you still green when other trees have lost their leaves and why do your needles reach upwards?"

"So many questions," laughed the tree's voice, "but that is good, little one. I'm an evergreen that is green all year round and my needles do reach towards heaven. The Christmas green symbolizes God's everlasting hope. With God in your life, there is always hope for a better tomorrow."

Caught up in the magic of the moment, Jacob commented, "You are so smart. What else do you know?" Then he grinned because he knew instinctively that there was more to come.

"I can tell you about the other Christmas colors. Look at the other decorations on me. Blue is for the sky that sent the angel to tell of the Savior's birth, and white represents the angel, the purity of the Virgin birth and the Lamb of God."

Jacob and Emily stared at the tree, confusion covering their small faces.

"You will understand it all when you're older but white means that Jesus was born very special and would never be bad in any way. He could not commit sin like people do today." Heads nodded in understanding. Brother and sister knew that they weren't always 'good'.

"What about gold and silver? I like the way they sparkle on you," giggled Emily.

"Oh, they're important, too. They symbolize all the richness of God's blessings and the things that He can do for each one of us, if we let Him into our lives," the soft voice responded. "And do you see the red of the hearts and the red berries in the holly leaves decorating your house? Red stands for the blood of Christ when He died for our sins."

"That's sad," said Emily, tears glistening on her eyelashes.

"Dear one, there's also happiness because Jesus still lives today and waits for us in heaven. One day you can live forever with Him but you must follow His path."

A silent moment caressed the room. Peace filled their hearts.

Finally, the soft voice spoke again. "Look around your house and tell me what else might be important about your Christmas. Things you have every year."

"Daddy likes to kiss mommy under the mistletoe, and we give mommy a pointsetter. Oh, its flowers look like a star, too, and its usually red! Wow!" cried Emily with passion and new comprehension.

"Yes, poinsettia's could be a natural reminder of the Star of Bethlehem and some people believe that the mistletoe symbolizes the healing power of Christ, but I don't know if kissing under it is supposed to be special or make that person special. Interesting myth."

"Yuk," said Jacob. "Not me. Don't like kissing, but I like candles -- lots of candles. We burn the Advent candles before Christmas and say prayers for people. It feels good. Mom says that our candles are important because they tell everyone that Christ is the light of our world."

"Good for you, Jacob. Does your mom also hang a wreath on your front door?" the voice asked. Two heads nodded. "The pine wreath shows us the real nature of love because the love of God never stops but is continuous like the circle the wreath forms. Hanging it on your door tells people that your house is blessed with love."

"What about this?" asked Emily as she held up her favorite treat. Jacob took one, too.

"That's yummy candy," commented the tree.

"We know, but does it mean anything for Christmas?" two voices echoed and giggled.

The tree-voice asked quietly, "What do you think? What does it look like to you?"

Jacob held it up and said, "It looks like the thing shepherds have for their sheep."

"Or 'J' for Jesus," whispered Emily as she turned it upside down.

"It could be the shepherd's crook or staff and just like the shepherd took care of his sheep, we can take care of each other, and it could also be a symbol for Jesus. Both are good."

"Mr. Tree," murmured Emily, "why do we call it Christmas? Some people just call it a holiday and it doesn't seem to mean much to them. That's real sad."

"You're right, Emily. It is more than sad that all God's children don't believe in Him or His son," the voice commented quietly. "The word 'Christmas' is made up of Christ, which means 'Messiah' or Savior and Mass, which is a religious celebration. So Christmas should really be a spiritual time celebrating our Savior. Christmas is a time of fellowship and sharing with family and friends. However, Jesus is the best part of all because He brings God's love and eternal life for us."

Silence filled the living room once more as the two children sat mesmerized, gazing in wonder at their beautiful tree and thinking about all the things they had heard. They would share it all with their friends and family. It was so quiet in the room that their mother decided to check up on them.

"I heard a strange voice. Who were you two talking to?"

Suddenly, Emily smiled at her brother knowingly and whispered, "Jesus."

The twinkling star on the top of the Christmas tree shimmered bright and lit up the room with a warmth and abounding love like the Star of Bethlehem on that glorious night so long ago.

The idea of the white stocking is to fill it with a piece of paper that has gifts to the Savior that you will personally work on for the next year.

Here is a wonderful Christmas tradition to think about starting with your family or sending as a substitute for Christmas cards to your friends!

Give this poem attached to a white stocking:

For years now, whenever Christmas pageants are talked about in a certain little town in the Midwest, someone is sure to mention the name of Wallace Purling. Wally's performance in the annual production of the Nativity play has slipped into the realm of legend. But, the old-timers, who were in the audience that night, never tire of recalling exactly what happened.

Wally was nine that year and in the second grade, though he should have been in the fourth. Most people in town knew that he had difficulty in keeping up. He was big and clumsy and slow in movement and mind. Still, Wally was well liked by the other children in his class, all of whom were smaller than he. Though the boys had trouble hiding their irritation when Wally would ask to play ball with them, or any game for that matter, in which winning was important. Most often they'd find a way to keep him out. But, Wally would hang around anyway not sulking, just hoping. He was always a helpful boy, a willing and smiling one. He was the natural protector, paradoxically, of the underdog. Sometimes, if the older boys chased the younger ones away, it would always be Wally who'd say, "Can't they stay? They're no bother."

Wally fancied the idea of being the shepherd with a flute in the Christmas pageant that year, but the play's director, Miss Lumbard, assigned him to a more important role. After all, she reasoned, the Innkeeper did not have too many lines, and Wally's size would make his refusal of lodging to Joseph more forceful. And, so it happened that the usual large audience gathered for the town's yearly extravaganza of crooks and creches, of beards, crowns, halos, and a whole stageful of squeaky voices. No one on stage or off was more caught up in the magic of the night than Wallace Purling. They said later that he stood in the wings and watched the performance with such fascination that from time to time Miss Lumbard had to make sure he didn't wander onstage before his cue.

Then came the time when Joseph appeared, slowly, tenderly, guiding Mary to the door of the inn. Joseph knocked hard on the wooden door set into the painted backdrop. Wally the Innkeeper was there watching.

"What do you want?" Wally asked, swinging the door open with a brusque gesture.

"We seek lodging." Joseph answered.

"Seek it elsewhere," Wally said, as he looked straight ahead but spoke vigorously. "The inn is filled."

"Sir, we have asked in vain. We have traveled far and are very weary." Joseph said.

"There is no room in this inn for you." Wally looked properly stern.

"Please, good Innkeeper, this is my wife, Mary. She is heavy with child and needs a place to rest. Surely you must have some small corner for her. She is so tired." Joseph pleaded.

Now, for the first time, the Innkeeper relaxed his stiff stance and looked down at Mary. With that, there was a long pause. Long enough to make the audience a bit tense with embarrassment.

"No! Begone!" the prompter whispered from the wings.

"No!" Wally repeated automatically. "Begone."

Joseph sadly placed his arm around Mary and Mary laid her head upon her husband's shoulder and the two of them started to move away. The Innkeeper did not return inside his Inn, however. Wally stood there in the doorway watching the forlorn couple. His mouth was open, his brow creased with concern, his eyes filling unmistakably with tears. And, suddenly this Christmas pageant became different from all the others.

"Don't go, Joseph!" Wally called out. "Bring Mary back." And, Wallace Purling's face grew into a bright smile. "You can have MY room." Some people of the town thought that the pageant had been ruined. Yet, there were others -- many, many others -- who considered it the most Christmas of all Christmas pageants they had ever seen.

You've all heard many stories about Santa and his workshop at the North pole. You have also heard stories about his sleigh and reindeer. But this is a story about Santa that very few people know, read closely, I'll tell you why my hu ... I mean why Santa decided to grow a beard.

As you know, the weather is very, very cold at the North pole. Santa didn't like the cold, but he needed room for a BIG workshop, and the price was right, so there he was. He worked hard all year making toys for his Christmas Eve visit. During his few leisure moments, he dreamt of going to California (a place he'd flown over while delivering toys) and driving a great car down Highway 1 to the beach at Malibu (with his radio blaring out "Surfing USA" www.youtube.com/watch?v=2s4slliAtQU ). He dreamt of roasting marshmallows with Mrs. Claus at a bonfire on the beach and of riding the waves at Big Sur, Huntington, La Jolla and wind surfing at Zuma Beach. The truth is, that after hundreds of years of making toys, Santa needed relaxation and a chance to get away from the snow and ice. One year, 1984 to be exact, while flying his sleigh over a junkyard in Franklin County Idaho, he saw the rusted-out body of a 1956 Bel Air Convertible. On his return flight, he stopped at the junk yard, bought the convertible and hauled it home. Mrs. Claus just shook her head. He pounded away on that body for years, filled, sanded, painted and rebuilt everything mechanical. Then he turned it over to the elves to re-upholster. He could hardly wait for it to be done.

Soon Santa's favorite way to relax after a stressful day in the shop was to take a leisurely ride in his "sports" sleigh (picture a 1956 Chevrolet Bel Air convertible on runners). Santa put the top up, turned his wonder bar radio to a beach boys station, cranked the heater up full blast, and bundled up for his Chevy sleigh for a ride nearly every day. Once, after a particularly frustrating day, he was in such a hurry that he left the top down and forgot to wrap his heavy wool scarf around his face. When he got back from his ride, Santa had the most beautiful white icicles hanging down the sides of his face and chin, just like a beard. He walked into the shop where Mrs. Claus was making cookies and the elves were busily working.

When Mrs. Claus looked up and saw Santa, she squealed with delight. "Why, Santa Claus-y Dear, you look absolutely marvelous with your sparkling white beard." When Santa saw how delighted his wife was, he was very flattered and decided right then and there to grow a long, flowing white beard and mustache. And that is exactly what he did.

Of course, by doing this, he made himself so handsome that Mrs. Claus used to make special trips out to the workshop just to give him a big smile and a kiss. This made Santa blush so much that to this day, he is still blushing. That's why his cheeks look so rosy.

These days Mrs. Claus takes sleigh rides with Santa on their new sleigh which looks just like a Can Am 2 up 4-Wheeler because she loves to wrap her arms around him and hold him tight!

Now you know.

It was an unusually quiet day in the emergency room on December twenty-fifth. Quiet, that is, except for the nurses who were standing around the nurses' station grumbling about having to work Christmas Day.

I was triage nurse that day and had just been out to the waiting room to clean up. Since there were no patients waiting to be seen at the time, I came back to the nurses' station for a cup of hot cider from the crockpot someone had brought in for Christmas. Just then an admitting clerk came back and told me I had five patients waiting to be evaluated.

I whined, "Five, how did I get five; I was just out there and no one was in the waiting room."

"Well, there are five signed in." So I went straight out and called the first name. Five bodies showed up at my triage desk, a pale petite woman and four small children in somewhat rumpled clothing.

"Are you all sick?" I asked suspiciously.

"Yes," she said weakly, and lowered her head.

"Okay," I replied, unconvinced, "who's first?" One by one they sat down, and I asked the usual preliminary questions. When it came to descriptions of their presenting problems, things got a little vague. Two of the children had headaches, but the headaches weren't accompanied by the normal body language of holding the head or trying to keep it still or squinting or grimacing. Two children had earaches, but only one could tell me which ear was affected. The mother complained of a cough, but seemed to work to produce it.

Something was wrong with the picture. Our hospital policy, however, was not to turn away any patient, so we would see them. When I explained to the mother that it might be a little while before a doctor saw her because, even though the waiting room was empty, ambulances had brought in several, more critical patients, in the back, she responded, "Take your time, it's warm in here." She turned and, with a smile, guided her brood into the waiting room.

On a hunch (call it nursing judgment), I checked the chart after the admitting clerk had finished registering the family. No address -- they were homeless. The waiting room was warm.

I looked out at the family huddled by the Christmas tree. The littlest one was pointing at the television and exclaiming something to her mother. The oldest one was looking at her reflection in an ornament on the Christmas tree.

I went back to the nurses station and mentioned we had a homeless family in the waiting room -- a mother and four children between four and ten years of age. The nurses, grumbling about working Christmas, turned to compassion for a family just trying to get warm on Christmas. The team went into action, much as we do when there's a medical emergency. But this one was a Christmas emergency.

We were all offered a free meal in the hospital cafeteria on Christmas Day, so we claimed that meal and prepared a banquet for our Christmas guests.

We needed presents. We put together oranges and apples in a basket one of our vendors had brought the department for Christmas. We made little goodie bags of stickers we borrowed from the X-ray department, candy that one of the doctors had brought the nurses, crayons the hospital had from a recent coloring contest, nurse bear buttons the hospital had given the nurses at annual training day and little fuzzy bears that nurses clipped onto their stethoscopes. We also found a mug, a package of powdered cocoa, and a few other odds and ends. We pulled ribbon and wrapping paper and bells off the department's decorations that we had all contributed to. As seriously as we met physical needs of the patients that came to us that day, our team worked to meet the needs, and exceed the expectations, of a family who just wanted to be warm on Christmas Day.

We took turns joining the Christmas party in the waiting room. Each nurse took his or her lunch break with the family, choosing to spend their "off duty" time with these people whose laughter and delightful chatter became quite contagious.

When it was my turn, I sat with them at the little banquet table we had created in the waiting room. We talked for a while about dreams. The four children were telling me about what they would like to be when they grow up. The six-year-old started the conversation. "I want to be a nurse and help people," she declared.

After the four children had shared their dreams, I looked at the Mom. She smiled and said, "I just want my family to be safe, warm and content -- just like they are right now."

The "party" lasted most of the shift, before we were able to locate a shelter that would take the family in on Christmas Day. The mother had asked that their charts be pulled, so these patients were not seen that day in the emergency department. But they were treated.

As they walked to the door to leave, the four-year-old came running back, gave me a hug and whispered, "Thanks for being our angels today." As she ran back to join her family, they all waved one more time before the door closed. I turned around slowly to get back to work, a little embarrassed for the tears in my eyes. There stood a group of my coworkers, one with a box of tissues, which she passed around to each nurse who worked a Christmas Day she will never forget.