Recipe to a Happy New Year!

Take twelve whole months,
Clean them thoroughly of all bitterness, hate, and jealousy,
Make them just as fresh and clean as possible.

Now cut each month into twenty-eight, thirty, or
thirty-one different parts,
but don't make up the whole batch at once.
Prepare it one day at a time out of these ingredients.

Mix well into each day one part of faith,
one part of patience, one part of courage,
and one part of work.

Add to each day one part of hope,
faithfulness, generosity, and kindness.
Blend with one part prayer,
one part meditation, and one good deed.
Season the whole with a dash of good spirits,
a sprinkle of fun, a pinch of play,
and a cupful of good humor.

Pour all of this into a vessel of love.
Cook thoroughly over radiant joy,
garnish with a smile,
and serve with quietness, unselfishness,
and cheerfulness.

You're bound to have a happy new year.

Just a few thoughts.........

 

Each day as you wake up, make the decision to strive to do what's right. Approach your life as you would your game.... ...when you make a mistake, learn from it, correct it, and get ready for the next point. Life moves too fast to sulk and dwell on the past. ...when you're down, fight harder to get back on top. Life is full of hardships. Fight hard against those feelings of despair. ...when you're doing everything right and still can't win, be patient. No matter how good we are or how hard we struggle to make the right decisions, life often makes us wait. ...when you are on top of your game, relax and enjoy it. Life is fully appreciated when we survive adversity and can relax in the sunlight of success. Each sunrise brings a new opportunity. No matter how bad the day before was, today is brand new. When you wake up, seek the strength and courage to do the right thing.

 “The truth of the matter is that you always know the right thing to do. The hard part is doing it.”

H. Norman Schwarzkopf, American General 1934-2012

It Really is the Little Things

It really is the little things

That mean the most of all…

The “let me help you with that” things

That may seem so very small

The “I’ll be glad to do it” things

That make your cares much lighter,

The “laugh with me, it’s funny” things

That make your outlook brighter…

The “never mind the trouble” things,

The “yes, I understands,”

The interest and encouragement

In everything you’ve planned

It really is the little things,

 The friendly word or smile,

That add such happiness to life

And make it more worth while

By: Mary Dawson Hughes

The Little Things

It really is the little things That mean the most of all... The "let me help you with that" things That may seem very small The "I'll be glad to do it" things That make your cares much lighter, The "laugh with me, it's funny" things That make your outlook brighter... The "never mind the trouble" things, The "yes, I understand," The interest and encouragement In everything you've planned It really is the little things, The friendly word or smile, That add such happiness to life And make it more worth while. Mary Dawson Hughes

The Wishing Star

Davey looked out the window at the falling snow. Usually he loved snow, but today he was sad. It was Christmas Eve, and the snow was so deep that it might ruin Christmas for Davey. Because of the snowstorm, Davey was afraid that his older brother Josh would never make it home for Christmas.

“And I have such a special present for him!” Davey said to himself. “If only he could get here!" With his best crayons, Davey had drawn a picture of the barn on their farm. He was going to give it to Josh for Christmas to hang in his room at college. Davey turned away from the window with a sigh.

Just then, Dad called, “How about some help shoveling the driveway? We’re going to try to make it into town to finish our Christmas shopping. We also have to buy our tree, don’t forget.”

Davey ran to get his boots and coat. He followed Dad out into the snow. Davey picked up his small shovel and set to work, while Dad used his bigger one. Helping Dad shovel the snow made Davey feel better.

Davey felt great after helping dad shovel the snow. He didn't feel so sad anymore.

Soon, Davey and Dad and Mom were on their way to town. Because of the snow, they had to drive slowly. “I brought my picture for Josh with me,” Davey said as they rode along. “Maybe I can find a frame to fit it when we get to the store.” “Good idea,” said Mom. “I’ll help you look.”

When they got to town, they went to the Christmas tree lot. Davey was the first one out of the car. He ran over to a beautiful, glossy, tall tree. “Look at this one!” he shouted to Mom and Dad. “Josh will love this tree!” Then he remembered. Josh probably wouldn’t be home at all. Davey felt sad again.

Mom and Dad came over to see the tree Davey had found. “That’s a great tree, Davey,” said Dad with a smile. “I think you’re right. It’s the one we should get.” Mom added, “And even if Josh doesn’t get here to see it, he’d still be happy we have such a beautiful tree.”

Davey was excited to find the perfect Christmas tree.

Later, at the store, Mom took Davey to the counter where picture frames were sold. Davey looked at all the frames. Finally he said, “I like this wooden one. It reminds me of the wooden barn in my picture.”

The wooden frame was just the right size for his picture. Davey was very pleased. “I’m getting this just in case Josh makes it home for Christmas,” he said. Mom patted him on the shoulder. “I know how much you want Josh to be here tonight,” she said, “but it is still snowing hard. I really don’t think hell make it. So you mustn’t be too disappointed.”

“At least I can wish he’d come,” Davey said. As they were about to leave the store, Davey saw a crowd of people. “What are all those people looking at?” Davey wondered. He ran to get a closer look. Looking around the man in front of him, Davey could see what was at the center of the crowd.

Davey was desperate to speak to Santa, so he asked his parents permission.

It was Santa! Children were sitting on Santa’s lap and talking to him. “Can we get in line, please Dad?” begged Davey. “Well, we’re kind of in a hurry. We need to be back home before the snow gets too deep,” said Dad. “But since this is Santa, I guess we can spare the time.”

Davey gave Dad a big thank-you hug and ran to get in line. It seemed to take forever, but at last it was his turn. When Davey climbed up on Santa’s lap, Santa said, “Well, well, and what would you like for Christmas?”

“I wish my brother Josh could get home for Christmas,” Davey said. “But the snow is so deep that Mom and Dad don’t think he can make it.” “I don’t usually deliver people on Christmas Eve, just toys,” said Santa. “But I’ll tell you what. Tonight, before you go to sleep, make your wish on the biggest, brightest star in the sky. That’s the Wishing Star.”

“Will it really work?” Davey asked Santa. “Well, you never can tell about wishes, so I don’t make any guarantees,” said Santa. “But it surely doesn’t hurt to try!”

Davey just knew Santa could help bring Josh home for Christmas.

On the way home in the car, Davey saw that the snow was coming down harder and harder. When he and Mom and Dad were almost to the house, Davey talked about Santa’s Wishing Star. “We all make wishes every now and then,” said Mom, “but sometimes they just can’t come true.”

“I’m going to try, anyway,” insisted Davey. That night after dinner, Dad put the Christmas tree in its stand, and Mom and Davey joined him in decorating it with colored lights and balls and lots of tinsel.While they were working, Davey thought sadly, “It would be so great if Josh were here to see our beautiful tree.” Dad Put a golden angel on the very top. “I think this is the best tree we’ve ever had!” he exclaimed.

Davey and his family put the final touches on the Christmas tree.

Davey went over to the window and looked out. The snow had stopped falling. And there, right overhead, was a star Davey had never seen before. It was big and bright and sparkling. It was the biggest and brightest star in the sky, just as Santa had said.

Davey looked at the star and said, “Wishing Star, please let my Christmas wish come true. I wish that Josh would come home tonight, so we can all be together for Christmas.” Then Davey closed his eyes and wished as hard as he could.

Davey spoke to the wishing star one last time before bed. He hoped to see his brother Josh for Christmas.

Too soon, Davey heard Mom’s voice. “Time for bed, little one. If you go right to sleep, it will be Christmas morning before you know it.” Davey hung his stocking by the fireplace. He kissed Mom and Dad and started up the stairs to his room.

Just then, the three of them heard a sound outside the front door. “Who could that be?” asked Dad.Suddenly the door flew open, and there was Josh! Davey raced to the door, flung his arms around his brother, and gave him the biggest hug he could manage. Josh had made it home after all. Davey’s Christmas wish had come true!
Later that night, when Davey was finally in bed, he looked out his window. Sure enough, the Wishing Star was still high in the sky. “Thank you, Wishing Star,” he whispered. “I knew you could do it. You’ve made this my best Christmas ever!”

The Legend of the Poinsettia

Maria and Pablo lived in a tiny village in Mexico. Because Christmastime at their house did not include many gifts, Maria and Pablo looked forward to the Christmas festivities at the village church with great joy and anticipation.

To honor the birth of Christ, the church displayed a beautiful manger that drew crowds of admirers. Villagers walked miles to admire the manger, bringing lovely, expensive gifts for the Baby Jesus. As Maria and Pablo watched the villagers place their gifts in the soft hay around the manger, they felt sad. They had no money to buy gifts for their family and no money to buy a gift for the Baby Jesus.

One Christmas Eve, Maria and Pablo walked to the church for that evening's services, wishing desperately that they had a gift to bring. Just then, a soft glowing light shone through the darkness, and the shadowy outline of an angel appeared above them.

Maria and Pablo were afraid, but the angel comforted them, instructing them to pick some of the short green weeds that were growing by the road. They should bring the plants to the church, the angel explained, and place them near the manger as their gift to the Baby Jesus. Then just as quickly as she had appeared, the angel was gone, leaving Maria and Pablo on the road looking up into the dark sky. Confused but excited, the children filled their arms with large bunches of the green weeds and hurried to the church.

When the children entered the church, many of the villagers turned to stare. As Maria and Pablo began placing the weeds around the manger, some of the villagers laughed at them. "Why are those children putting weeds by the manger?" they asked each other. Maria and Pablo began to feel embarrassed and ashamed of their gift to the Baby Jesus, but they stood bravely near the manger, placing the plants on the soft hay, as the angel had instructed.

Suddenly, the dull green leaves on the tops of the plants began to turn a beautiful shade of red, surrounding the Baby with beautiful blooms. The laughing villagers became silent as they watched the green plants transform into the lovely star-shaped crimson flowers we call poinsettias. As they watched the weeds bloom before their eyes, Maria and Pablo knew they had no reason to be ashamed anymore. They had given the Baby Jesus the only gift they could--and it was the most beautiful gift of all.

Today, poinsettias are a traditional symbol of Christmas, thanks to young Maria and Pablo and their special gifts to the Baby Jesus.

-- By Stephanie Herbek

A Doubtful Christmas

During the summer of 1944, my father sold everything we owned, took all the money and disappeared from our lives. My mother suddenly found herself alone to care for five boys. I was the oldest, barely ten years old. My youngest brother still wore diapers.

My grandparents welcomed us to their place – eighty acres of rocky hill country, twenty miles from the nearest town. They scratched a living out of growing row crops in the thin topsoil, and running beef cattle on open range.

Grandpa butchered an extra hog that year, and we planted a field of turnips to mature in the cool fall weather. We didn’t know a lot of different ways to prepare turnips, but the farm supplied adequate food. My mother worked in the fields and cared for us kids while I started fifth grade at school.

Changes in our lives couldn’t be avoided. My father had been abusive at times, but he’d always provided for us. Now, I worried about what might happen, but my mother stayed positive, and assured us that she would keep us together as a family and safe from harm.

Relatives donated hand-me-down clothes whenever they could, and the farm produced enough food to nourish all of us every day. I milked cows before catching the school bus, and did chores after I got home each day. The younger boys washed dishes, fed chickens and pigs, and carried in firewood. Six-year-old Jerry was paired with me on a crosscut saw, and we regularly cut wood to heat the house during the winter.

Our efforts paled in comparison to what our mother did, however. At one hundred-five pounds, she could swing an axe, manhandle heavy horse-drawn plows, haul hay for the cattle, and harvest crops. Still, she found time to help us with homework and say prayers with the younger boys. She also made sure we attended church regularly, and taught us to appreciate music.

As Christmas approached, my mother didn’t seem to smile as much. She hinted that Santa might have trouble bringing us presents this year. I considered myself practically grown, so I hid my disappointment, but when I overheard a conversation between my mother and grandma, I really started to worry.

“I can’t afford to buy Christmas presents for the kids,” my mother said.

“You need to have something for them,” grandma replied. “Maybe you could wrap some of the hand-me-downs.”

“The kids would be terribly disappointed to find old clothes under the tree. I have to do better than that. Maybe I can make toys.”

Homemade toys didn’t excite me, but I realized she had no money to buy presents. Explaining that to the younger kids might be difficult, though.

One day, my mother took a saw into the forest and returned with a stack of tree limbs. She left them in the harness room in the barn and refused to tell her curious children what they were for.

She worked on her project while I was in school, but I peeked when I had a chance. Pieces of wood had been cut into different shapes, then planed and sanded smooth. Later I found a stack of discs cut from a round oak limb. She also had started to carve a long piece of hickory, but I couldn’t figure out its purpose.

She hid everything from us and frustrated my attempts to snoop. But I saw that she had used nails, glue, and paint from grandpa’s workshop. I concluded that she had to be making presents.

By Christmas week, my mother was her normal happy self again. Her project was apparently complete, and she evidently kept it secret because I’d looked everywhere without success.

When school let out for the holiday, my brothers and I cut a Christmas tree in the forest and dragged it home through the early snow. The whole family helped decorate it with ornaments, pinecones, and strings of popcorn. We gathered mistletoe and holly boughs and hung them throughout the house.

While my mother and grandma prepared food for Christmas dinner, I helped grandpa with chores. The younger kids kept a diligent watch on pastries in the cupboard.

On Christmas Eve, we sang carols, and grandpa read aloud from his Bible. After my mother shooed us off to bed, I lay awake for a long while, anticipating Christmas morning. Aunts, uncles, and cousins would come for dinner, and I was curious about what my mother’s project would yield. I doubted that it could be anything elaborate, and homemade toys still didn’t sound exciting, but I couldn’t help noticing that she’d made a huge effort to provide for us.

I was already awake when she tapped on our door. “Merry Christmas, boys.”

We hurried into the living room, and saw that a stack of packages had magically appeared overnight under the tree. But before we were allowed to investigate what Santa had brought, my mother herded us into the kitchen for breakfast.

We gathered around the tree a little later, and my mother handed out the presents. My brothers opened packages stuffed with brightly colored trucks, tractors and trains. Those odd pieces of wood she had handled in secret were assembled and painted to form toys. The round discs made wheels that rolled, and the trucks and trains carried tiny logs and blocks. A tractor pulled a miniature wagon. The toys were beautifully crafted, and my siblings were thrilled.

When I tore off the newspaper wrapping my present, I found a hand carved bow and a quiver of blunt arrows. Blunt was fine, because I knew how to make them suitable for hunting rabbits by forging steel arrowheads in grandpa’s shop.

Many difficult years would follow that particular Christmas, but I never again doubted my mother’s ability to care for us. That Christmas would have been bleak without her skill and dedication, and it foretold her ability to provide for us. We were never hungry, and she made sure we got an education. She taught us faith in God and faith in our own abilities. That faith sustains me still.

Looking back, my mother’s determination and perseverance changed the harsh reality of that time, transforming our poverty into a memorable Christmas filled with delight. And as it tuned out, the craftsmanship in those toys predicted her later accomplishments as an artist and sculptor.

Sixty-three winters have come and gone since that special holiday – that doubtful Christmas. I’m quite sure, in fact I have no doubts, that I’ve never had a happier one.

On Sants's Team

My grandma taught me everything about Christmas. I was just a kid. I remember tearing across town on my bike to visit her on the day my big sister dropped the bomb: "There is no Santa Claus," jeered my sister. "Even dummies know that!"

My grandma was not the gushy kind, never had been. I fled to her that day because I knew she would be straight with me. I knew Grandma always told the truth, and I knew that the truth always went down a whole lot easier when swallowed with one of her world-famous cinnamon buns.

Grandma was home, and the buns were still warm. Between bites, I told her everything. She was ready for me.

"No Santa Claus!" she snorted. "Ridiculous! Don't believe it. That rumor has been going around for years, and it makes me mad, plain mad. Now, put on your coat, and let's go."

"Go? Go where, Grandma?" I asked. I hadn't even finished my second cinnamon bun.

"Where" turned out to be Kerby's General Store, the one store in town that had a little bit of just about everything. As we walked through its doors, Grandma handed me ten dollars. That was a bundle in those days.

"Take this money," she said, "and buy something for someone who needs it. I'll wait for you in the car." Then she turned and walked out of Kerby's.

I was only eight years old. I'd often gone shopping with my mother, but never had I shopped for anything all by myself. The store seemed big and crowded, full of people scrambling to finish their Christmas shopping. For a few moments I just stood there, confused, clutching that ten-dollar bill, wondering what to buy, and who on earth to buy it for. I thought of everybody I knew: my family, my friends, my neighbors, the kids at school, the people who went to my church.

I was just about thought out, when I suddenly thought of Bobbie Decker. He was a kid with bad breath and messy hair, and he sat right behind me in Mrs. Pollock's grade-two class. Bobbie Decker didn't have a coat. I knew that because he never went out for recess during the winter. His mother always wrote a note, telling the teacher that he had a cough; but all we kids knew that Bobbie Decker didn't have a cough, and he didn't have a coat.

I fingered the ten-dollar bill with growing excitement. I would buy Bobbie Decker a coat. I settled on a red corduroy one that had a hood to it. It looked real warm, and he would like that. I didn't see a price tag, but ten dollars ought to buy anything. I put the coat and my ten-dollar bill on the counter and pushed them toward the lady behind it.

She looked at the coat, the money, and me. "Is this a Christmas present for someone?" she asked kindly. "Yes," I replied shyly. "It's ... for Bobbie. He's in my class, and he doesn't have a coat." The nice lady smiled at me. I didn't get any change, but she put the coat in a bag and wished me a Merry Christmas.

That evening, Grandma helped me wrap the coat in Christmas paper and ribbons, and write, "To Bobbie, From Santa Claus" on it ... Grandma said that Santa always insisted on secrecy.

Then she drove me over to Bobbie Decker's house, explaining as we went that I was now and forever officially one of Santa's helpers. Grandma parked down the street from Bobbie's house, and she and I crept noiselessly and hid in the bushes by his front walk.

Suddenly, Grandma gave me a nudge. "All right, Santa Claus," she whispered, "get going."

I took a deep breath, dashed for his front door, threw the present down on his step, pounded his doorbell twice and flew back to the safety of the bushes and Grandma. Together we waited breathlessly in the darkness for the front door to open. Finally it did, and there stood Bobbie. He looked down, looked around, picked up his present, took it inside and closed the door.

Forty years haven't dimmed the thrill of those moments spent shivering, beside my grandma, in Bobbie Decker's bushes. That night, I realized that those awful rumors about Santa Claus were just what Grandma said they were: Ridiculous!

Santa was alive and well ... AND WE WERE ON HIS TEAM!

Author Unknown

'The Story of Silent Night'

Father Joseph Mohr sat at the old organ. His fingers stretched over the keys, forming the notes of a chord. He took a deep breath and pressed down. Nothing. He lifted his fingers and tried again. Silence echoed through the church.

Father Joseph shook his head. It was no use. The pipes were rusted, the bellows mildewed. The organ had been wheezing and growing quieter for months, and Father Joseph had been hoping it would hold together until the organ builder arrived to repair it in the spring. But now, on December 23, 1818, the organ had finally given out. St. Nicholas Church would have no music for Christmas.

Father Joseph sighed. Maybe a brisk walk would make him feel better. He pulled on his overcoat and stepped out into the night. His white breath puffed out before him. Moonlight sparkled off the snow-crusted trees and houses in the village of Oberndorf. Father Joseph crunched through the snowy streets to the edge of the little Austrian town and climbed the path leading up the mountain.

From high above Oberndorf, Father Joseph watched the Salzach River ripple past St. Nicholas Church. In the spring, when melting snow flowed down the mountains and the river swelled in its banks, water lapped at the foundation of the church. It was moisture from the flooding river that had caused the organ to mildew and rust.

Father Joseph looked out over the Austrian Alps. Stars shone above in the still and silent night.

Silent night? Father Joseph stopped. Of course! "Silent Night!" He had written a poem a few years before, when he had first become a priest, and he had given it that very title. "Silent Night."

Father Joseph scrambled down the mountain. Suddenly he knew how to bring music to the church.

The next morning, Father Joseph set out on another walk. This time he carried his poem. And this time he knew exactly where he was going -- to see his friend Franz Gruber, the organist for St. Nicholas, who lived in the next village.

Franz Gruber was surprised to see the priest so far from home on Christmas Eve, and even more surprised when Father Joseph handed him the poem.

That night Father Joseph and Franz Gruber stood at the altar of St. Nicholas Church. Father Joseph held his guitar. He could see members of the congregation giving each other puzzled looks. They had never heard a guitar played in church before, and certainly not during midnight mass on Christmas Eve, the holiest night of the year.

Father Joseph picked out a few notes on the guitar, and he and Franz Gruber began to sing. Their two voices rang out, joined by the church choir on the chorus. Franz Gruber's melody matched the simplicity and honesty of Father Joseph's words.

When the last notes faded into the night, the congregation remained still for a moment, then began to clap their hands. Applause filled the church. The villagers of Oberndorf loved the song! Father Joseph's plan to bring music to St. Nicholas Church had worked.

A few months later, the organ builder arrived in Oberndorf and found the words and music to "Silent Night" lying on the organ. The song enchanted him, and when he left, he took a copy of it with him.

The organ builder gave the song to two families of traveling singers who lived near his home. The traveling singers performed "Silent Night" in concerts all over Europe, and soon the song spread throughout the world.

Today, cathedral choirs and carolers from New York to New Zealand sing the simple song that was first played in a mountain church in Austria on Christmas Eve nearly 200 years ago.

 -- By Dick Smolinski

Silent Night by Elvis Presley

The Story of Santa Claus

Once upon a time a man called Nicholas lived in Patara, a town in the East. Because he was very fond of children and was kind and generous to them, they came to think of him as their dear friend and their beloved saint. So it was that after a time the wonderful things he did were woven into a beautiful legend. You know that Santa means Saint and Claus stands for Nicholas, and that is how he came to be known as Santa Claus.

In Santa Claus's own town, Patara, lived a great lord who had three daughters. He was very poor, so poor that one day he was on the point of sending his daughters out to beg for food from his neighbors. But it happened that Saint Nicholas not long before had come into a fortune, and as he loved giving to those in need, he no sooner heard of the trouble the poor lord was in than he made up his mind to help him secretly. So he went to the nobleman's house at night, and as the moon shone out from behind a cloud, he saw an open window into which he threw a bag of gold, and with this timely gift the father was able to provide for his eldest daughter so that she could be married. On another night Santa Claus set off with another bag of gold, and threw it in at the window, so the second daughter was provided for. But by this time, the father had grown eager to discover who the mysterious visitor could be, and next night he kept on the lookout. Then for the third time Santa Claus came with a bag of gold upon his back and itched it in at the window. The old lord at once recognized his fellow townsman, and falling on his knees, cried out "Oh! Nicholas, servant of God, why seek to hide yourself?"

Is it not wonderful to think that this was so long ago, sixteen hundred years, yet we still look for the secret coming of Santa Claus with his Christmas gifts? At first he was said to come on his own birthday, which is early in December, but after awhile, as was very natural with Christmas so near, the night of his coming was moved on in the calendar, and now we hang up our stockings to receive his gifts on Christmas Eve. In some countries children still put their shoes by the fireside on his birthday. In others they say it is the Christ-Kindlein or Christ Child who brings the gifts at Christmastime. But it is always a surprise visit, and though it has happened so many hundreds or times, the hanging up of the Christmas stocking is still as great a delight as ever.

In Santa Claus's own town, Patara, lived a great lord who had three daughters. He was very poor, so poor that one day he was on the point of sending his daughters out to beg for food from his neighbors. But it happened that Saint Nicholas not long before had come into a fortune, and as he loved giving to those in need, he no sooner heard of the trouble the poor lord was in than he made up his mind to help him secretly. So he went to the nobleman's house at night, and as the moon shone out from behind a cloud, he saw an open window into which he threw a bag of gold, and with this timely gift the father was able to provide for his eldest daughter so that she could be married. On another night Santa Claus set off with another bag of gold, and threw it in at the window, so the second daughter was provided for. But by this time, the father had grown eager to discover who the mysterious visitor could be, and next night he kept on the lookout. Then for the third time Santa Claus came with a bag of gold upon his back and itched it in at the window. The old lord at once recognized his fellow townsman, and falling on his knees, cried out "Oh! Nicholas, servant of God, why seek to hide yourself?"

Is it not wonderful to think that this was so long ago, sixteen hundred years, yet we still look for the secret coming of Santa Claus with his Christmas gifts? At first he was said to come on his own birthday, which is early in December, but after awhile, as was very natural with Christmas so near, the night of his coming was moved on in the calendar, and now we hang up our stockings to receive his gifts on Christmas Eve. In some countries children still put their shoes by the fireside on his birthday. In others they say it is the Christ-Kindlein or Christ Child who brings the gifts at Christmastime. But it is always a surprise visit, and though it has happened so many hundreds or times, the hanging up of the Christmas stocking is still as great a delight as ever.

A Child's Letter to Santa

Snowflakes softly falling, upon your window they play.
Your blanket is snug around you, into sleep you drift away.

I bend to gently kiss you, when I see that on the floor,
There's a letter neatly written, I wonder whom it's for.

I quietly unfold it, making sure you're still asleep.
It's a Christmas list for Santa; one my heart will always keep.

It started just as always, with the toys seen on TV,
A new watch for your father and a winter coat for me.

But as my eyes read on, I could see that deep inside,
There were many things you wished for, that your loving heart would hide.

You asked if your friend Molly could have another Dad.
It seems her father hits her, and it makes you very sad.

Then you asked dear Santa, if the neighbor down the street,
Could find a job that he might have some food, and clothes, and heat.

You saw a family on the news, whose house had blown away.
"Dear Santa, send them just one thing, a place where they can stay."

"And Santa, those four cookies, that I left you for a treat,
Could you take them to the children, who have nothing else to eat?"

"Do you know that little bear I have, the one I love so dear?
I'm leaving it for you to take to Africa this year".

"And as you fly your reindeer, on this night of Jesus' birth,
Could your magic bring to everyone, goodwill and peace on earth?"

"There's one last thing before you go, so grateful I would be,
If you'd smile at Baby Jesus, in the manger by our tree."

I pulled the letter close to me, I felt it melt my heart.
Those tiny hands had written what no other could impart.

"And a little child shall lead them," was whispered in my ear,
As I watched you sleep on Christmas Eve, while Santa Claus was here.

--- Author Unknown ---

The Ruby

It was three days before Christmas and I was driving alone on a country road in our small mountain community delivering home-baked cookies to shut-ins.

I had spent the last couple of days with church friends, mixing dough, shaping date balls, melting chocolate, baking dozens and dozens of several varieties of Christmas cookies. We had covered every surface in my kitchen with cookies, laughing uproariously at our own jokes, singing off-key.

I was having a conversation with my Lord about the death of my mother four months earlier. We had had this conversation before and each time the Lord had provided a measure of peace.

And yet, they surfaced again and again; the same questions. Over and over and over: "Why did my saintly mother have to endure so many years of mind-numbing pain before her death? Why don't I have peace about where she is at this moment? Why, Lord, why?"

I delivered all the cookies that were assigned to me, warmly greeting the shut-ins who had no inclination of the battle being waged within me. At my final stop, a lady, accepting a box of cookies, kissed me on the cheek and whispered "You're an angel, do you know that?"

I was hardly an angel and I knew it.

Back in the car, I drove a short distance, then pulled over next to an old, weathered split-rail fence and parked. No farmhouses were in view. I laid my head down on the steering wheel and wept. I missed my mother. This was my first Christmas season without her. I had no peace in my heart about where she was. I knew well the verse, "to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord." Still, I wept alone on that country road, unable to accept the peace that God was so willing to give me.

Finally, in desperation, and with no thought of Biblical precedent, I asked the Lord for a sign. A sign that He cared; a sign that He heard me; a sign that He loved me.

Wiping my eyes, I returned to our country home where I quietly prepared dinner for my husband. We were alone; our sons were married and living in another part of the state.

The next morning, while dressing for church, my husband turned quickly to me in surprise and asked, "Where on earth did you find it?"

"Find what?" I asked, straightening my skirt before the mirror.

"The ruby!" he replied. "Is that your ruby there on the bedspread?"

I rushed to the bed, picked up the ruby, held it close to my breast and began to weep.

A year earlier, my husband and I had celebrated an important wedding anniversary. My siblings, pooling their resources, had presented me with a lovely ruby on a simple gold chain. The next week, the stone had inexplicably come loose from its setting and was never found, leaving me distraught beyond reason.

I had searched for nearly a year, combing the carpets, checking our closets, looking in the most unlikely places for this ruby which had lovingly tied me to my siblings with umbilical strength.

And now, on this Sunday morning, the ruby appeared from nowhere in the center of our bedspread. More curiously, the bed had been made less than a half-hour before.

My husband, sensing my suspicion, placed his hands firmly on my shoulders and assured me that, as a Christian, he could affirm that he knew nothing about the ruby's whereabouts or how it ended up on our bedspread. Looking deeply into his eyes, I believed him.

I turned the precious stone over and over in the palm of my hand. How like God! He knew my flawed faith. He surprised me with joy.

There could be no other explanation.

And I sought none.
--- Copyright © 2006 Mariane Holbrook

The True Story of Rudolph

A man named Bob May, depressed and brokenhearted, stared out his drafty apartment window into the chilling December night.

His 4-year-old daughter Barbara sat on his lap quietly sobbing. Bob's wife, Evelyn, was dying of cancer. Little Barbara couldn't understand why her mommy could never come home. Barbara looked up into her dad's eyes and asked, "Why isn't Mommy just like everybody else's Mommy?" Bob's jaw tightened and his eyes welled with tears. Her question brought waves of grief, but also of anger. It had been the story of Bob's life. Life always had to be different for Bob.

Small when he was a kid, Bob was often bullied by other boys. He was too little at the time to compete in sports. He was often called names he'd rather not remember. From childhood, Bob was different and never seemed to fit in. Bob did complete college, married his loving wife and was grateful to get his job as a copywriter at Montgomery Ward during the Great Depression.

Then he was blessed with his little girl. But it was all short-lived. Evelyn's bout with cancer stripped them of all their savings and now Bob and his daughter were forced to live in a two-room apartment in the Chicago slums. Evelyn died just days before Christmas in 1938.

Bob struggled to give hope to his child, for whom he couldn't even afford to buy a Christmas gift. But if he couldn't buy a gift, he was determined to make one - a storybook! Bob had created an animal character in his own mind and told the animal's story to little Barbara to give her comfort and hope.

Again and again Bob told the story, embellishing it more with each telling. Who was the character? What was the story all about?

The story Bob May created was his own autobiography in fable form. The character he created was a misfit outcast like he was. The name of the character? A little reindeer named Rudolph, with a big shiny nose. Bob finished the book just in time to give it to his little girl on Christmas Day.

But the story doesn't end there.

The general manager of Montgomery Ward caught wind of the little storybook and offered Bob May a nominal fee to purchase the rights to print the book. Wards went on to print, "Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer" and distribute it to children visiting Santa Claus in their stores.

By 1946 Wards had printed and distributed more than six million copies of Rudolph. That same year, a major publisher wanted to purchase the rights from Wards to print an updated version of the book.

In an unprecedented gesture of kindness, the CEO of Wards returned all rights back to Bob May. The book became a best seller. Many toy and marketing deals followed and Bob May, now remarried with a growing family, became wealthy from the story he created to comfort his grieving daughter.

But the story doesn't end there either.

Bob's brother-in-law, Johnny Marks, made a song adaptation to Rudolph. Though the song was turned down by such popular vocalists as Bing Crosby and Dinah Shore, it was recorded by the singing cowboy, Gene Autry. "Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer" was released in 1949 and became a phenomenal success, selling more records than any other Christmas song, with the exception of "White Christmas."

The gift of love that Bob May created for his daughter so long ago kept on returning back to bless him again and again. And Bob May learned the lesson, just like his dear friend Rudolph, that being different isn't so bad. In fact, being different can be a blessing.

--- Author Unknown ---

The Wish Tree

At Christmas time my children, like so many others, have a wish list a mile long. I decided that I wanted them to know that not all children have a wonderful Christmas. We took them to one of the "wish trees" at a local mall and had them each pick out a child that was the same age as they are. Then we all went to the toy store and picked something that they would like for Christmas and in turn gave it to the child they picked. The kids loved doing this and it soon became a family tradition.

One year money was a very tight and I just didn't know how we were going to buy presents for 3 "extra" children that year. I asked God to help me find some "extra" money somewhere. The very next day a lady knocked on my door and introduced herself as a representative from a major cookie company. They were trying out a new cookie and wanted us to be test subjects. For doing this for them, they would pay quite a little sum. Just about enough for 3 extra gifts! Once again our tradition continued and still continues to this day!

by: Tracie Simpson,

Will the Christ Child Come?

One Christmas we had an interesting experience that I would like to share. Halfway through December we were doing the regular evening things when there was a knock at the door. We opened it to find a small package with a beautiful ceramic lamb inside. We looked at the calendar and realized that the 12 days of Christmas were beginning! We waited excitedly for the next night's surprise and only then, with the gift of a matching shepherd, did we realized that the lamb was part of a nativity set.

Each night we grew more excited to see what piece we would receive. Each was exquisitely beautiful. The kids kept trying to catch the givers as we slowing built the scene at the manager and began to focus on Christ's birth.

On Christmas Eve, all the pieces were in place, but the baby Jesus. My 12 year-old son really wanted to catch our benefactors and began to devise all kinds of ways to trap them. He ate his dinner in the mini-van watching and waiting, but no one came.

Finally we called him in to go through our family's Christmas Eve traditions. But before the kids went to bed we checked the front step -- No Baby Jesus! We began to worry that my son had scared them off.

My husband suggested that maybe they dropped the Jesus and there wouldn't be anything coming. Somehow something was missing that Christmas Eve. There was a feeling that things weren't complete. The kids went to bed and I put out Christmas, but before I went to bed I again checked to see if the Jesus had come -- no, the doorstep was empty.

In our family the kids can open their stockings when they want to, but they have to wait to open any presents until Dad wakes up. So one by one they woke up very early and I also woke up to watch them. Even before they opened their stockings, each child checked to see if perhaps during the night the baby Jesus had come. Missing that piece of the set seemed to have an odd effect. At least it changed my focus. I knew there were presents under the tree for me and I was excited to watch the children open their gifts, but first on my mind was the feeling of waiting for the ceramic Christ Child.

We had opened just about all of the presents when one of the children found one more for me buried deep beneath the limbs of the tree. He handed me a small package from my former visiting teaching companion. This sister was somewhat less-active in the church. I had been her visiting teacher for a couple of years and then, when she was asked to be a visiting teacher, she requested to go with me. I had learned over time they didn't have much for Christmas, so that their focus was the children. It sounded like she didn't get many gifts to open, so I had always given her a small package--new dish towels, the next year's Relief Society lesson manual--not much, but something for her to open. I was touched when at Church on the day before Christmas, she had given me this small package, saying it was just a token of her love and appreciation.

As I took off the bow, I remembered my friendship with her and was filled with gratitude for knowing her and for her kindness and sacrifice In this year giving me a gift. But as the paper fell away, I began to tremble and cry. There in the small brown box was the baby Jesus. He had come! I realized on that Christmas Day that Christ will come into our lives in ways that we don't expect. The spirit of Christ comes into our hearts as we serve one another. We had waited and watched for him to come, expecting the dramatic "knock at the door and scurrying of feet" but he came in a small, simple package that represented service friendship, gratitude, and love.

This experience taught me that the beginning of the true spirit of Christmas comes as we open our hearts and actively focus on the Savior. But we will most likely find him in the small and simple acts of love, friendship and service that we give to each other. This Christmas I want to feel again the joy of knowing that Christ is in our home. I want to focus on loving and serving. More than that I want to open my heart to him all year that I may see him again.

I'll See You

There are many occurrences in our day to day lives that go unnoticed, but there is one which will remain clear in my mind for the rest of my life, and I would love to share it with you, as a Christmas story.

Throughout much of 1996 and 1997 I was forced to watch helplessly as Parkinson's disease claimed my father. It is a horrible disease which strips its' victims of their dignity, but not their will to live.

My father had not lived an easy life, but he never complained or tried to lay blame elsewhere. He was a warm and loving father and husband who would spend many hours of every day working on our farm, but each fall he loved to take a breather and enjoy his favorite sport, hunting. It was like he was totally transformed when hunting season opened. It was his holiday and you could see how much he loved to get out with some of his friends or my brothers for a few days away from the daily demands of farmlife. He was always happy if lady luck smiled on him and he were able to bring home a nice deer, but it was just the release that brought out that special something in him at that time of year.

Then as he got older and hunting became too hard for him he would spend hours going for drives in the evening just to see if he could catch a glimpse of some deer. He loved to sit and watch them graze and see if there may be a fawn appear with the doe.

Towards the end, he was confined to hospital for a long time and there were days when he would simply lay there looking out the window towards the hills, and you could see a tear trickle from his eye. I often thought that he must just be wishing he could be out there again, but it was not to be. He passed away on October 22, 1997, and just before he died he looked directly at me and with a final effort said, "I'll see you."

My father and I had always been especially close, and it was so hard for me to accept he was finally gone. The thought of getting life back to normal just didn't seem possible. Then before we knew it, it was time to begin preparations for Christmas. That winter proved to be a harsh one and we were buried under mounds of snow. Time slipped away and when Christmas day arrived a storm made travel very difficult and we decided to stay home.

All day I kept busy with preparations, and by early afternoon the storm seemed to subside. Just before supper the sky cleared, the wind died down, and everything was so still.

Then, just as I was about to call everyone to sit in to the table, I looked out our big living room window. I was nearly blinded by the brilliance of the sunset on the fresh snow, but out of the corner of my eye I saw some movement. It was a beautiful whitetail doe, and she seemed to have her mind set or at least her eye set on something. She had her head held high, and she jumped the fence and plunged through the heavy snowdrifts heading directly towards the house. I called for everyone to come and see her. She didn't stop until she was right up to the window. We all stood side by side at the window looking face to face at her only three feet away. Then she took a step to the right and it was like she was staring straight into my eyes. In that instant, and I do not know why, it was like my mind was bombarded with this intense image of my father saying "I'll see you."

We stood there in such close contact with this beautiful creature for several minutes, and then she just slowly turned and went back the way she had come.

No one will ever know why she paid us that special visit, but in my heart and in my mind I will never forget the impact it had on me, because I had been wishing all day that my Father were with us.

It will remain a cherished memory for me throughout my life, a wonderful Christmas gift.

by: Marla Poncsak

Just Detours

I have a little story I thought I would share with all of you. I recently relocated, bought a house and moved in the first weekend of July.

Since I have been in my new neighborhood, I have had the pleasure of meeting a few of my neighbors who seem to be extremely nice people. For Christmas, I thought I would do something nice for each of the neighbors that I know. I sat down and counted. There were nine neighbors whom I knew by name or spoke with often when I was out in my yard. I also knew which houses they lived in.

I decided to add one more person to my list for a total of ten. This lady that I decided to add lives down the street from me. I meet her every morning walking to work as I drive down the street. She always manages a contagious smile and a hearty wave. I had no idea what her name was and not even sure which house she lived in.

My gift idea was to make small fruit baskets and leave them on each of my neighbor's front porches or door steps the night of Christmas Eve for them to find, either that night or the next morning. I signed the cards: "Happy Holidays from 5104 Northumberland Road."

I saved the friendly lady for last, since I was still not exactly sure where she lived. I finally decided upon a house down about where I met her each morning and felt relatively sure that it was hers.

My neighbors really appreciated the baskets and would tell me as they saw me in the yard or they would call, and a couple even came by to thank me.

This morning on my way to work, I placed my mail in the mailbox and noticed a small note inside. It was addressed simply -- Resident, 5104 Northumberland Road.

I opened the envelope and took out a Thank You card. I opened the card and read the message which really caught me by surprise.

The card said. "Thank you for the lovely fruit basket you left on the porch of Richard Kelly. It was very thoughtful. Richard Kelly passed away on January 19, 1999. He never stopped talking about how nice it was that someone remembered him in his time of illness. He really appreciated it."

I was sincerely stunned. I had no idea who Richard Kelly was or that he had been gravely ill. I had left that nice lady's basket on Mr. Kelly's porch by accident. I wanted to say by mistake, but that would be wrong. I believe that Richard Kelly was meant to have that basket and the Lord knew that he only had less than a month to live. I hate that the nice lady did not get to receive a fruit basket from me this Christmas, but I believe that if she knew what happened, she would have not had outcome any other way.

I feel blessed to have helped Richard Kelly's last days be more cheerful. This just further reinforces my belief that there are never any mistakes in life -- just detours, shortcuts, and small excursions along the way.

The Promised Bracelet

The glitter of green stones drew me to the solitary display case. The light bounced off the silver and glass. Amidst the jumble of holiday shoppers, I made my way to the corner area reserved for fine jewelry and gazed upon the bracelet, noticing the unique handiwork. The beaten silver, fashioned in such a way as to resemble diamond chips, was delightful. Seeing dozens of dark green emeralds, I knew this was a one-of-a-kind treasure.

As I stared in wonder at the intricate piece, I remembered a promise my husband had made. David had bought me a lovely gift four years before on our honeymoon. He had selected an emerald green Austrian crystal and seed pearl bracelet in honor of my May birthstone. As he fastened it on my wrist, he lovingly said, "I promise you that soon I will buy you real emeralds. Just wait." Though I loved the honeymoon gift, deep down I looked forward to David’s promise.

Until that time however, I still delighted in wearing the delicate creation. I wore it frequently, each time remembering the island boutique. Whenever David saw the bracelet, he remembered his promise, and would reassure me that the time was coming soon when he would keep it.

It became our habit over the years to look in every jewelry store window as if searching for the Holy Grail. We wandered in and out of countless shops, becoming discouraged when we realized the cost of the promise was well beyond our means. I soon wavered in my belief that I would ever own what David desired to give me. However David never lost faith.

Now we were in the mall during the last week before Christmas to buy gifts for our children. Finances were tight; we had agreed there would be no exchange of gifts between us. We had just completed one of the most stressful years possible. With David’s diagnosis of Huntington's Disease, our lives had forever changed. This terminal, neurological disorder had pitched us into a panic, not to mention near bankruptcy.

I looked up from the case into David's eyes and saw love shining even brighter than the stones. I could tell in his mind that nothing short of this bracelet would satisfy his honeymoon promise, but I knew there was no way we could possibly afford it. I tried to tell him but the words died on my lips. He he'd had so many disappointments this year, I didn’t have the heart to tell him the answer was no.

Thinking fast, I came up with a reason to decline what I knew was an offer I could not accept. I have large wrists and normally bracelets don’t fit. As the store clerk reverently lifted the object out of the case, I knew it would be too small.

The silver and green made a colorful contrast against my brown skin. I silently acknowledged how much I wanted this bracelet while hoping it would not fit. As the clerk reached around my wrist and closed the intricate clasp, my heart both plummeted and leapt. It fit! It was perfect, yet I knew there was no way we could afford it. The unpaid bills, with more looming in the future, had placed a vise around our checkbook.

I glanced at my best friend and saw his shining smile burst forth. This man, who had never hurt anyone, was now the victim of one of the cruelest diseases known to man. His was a sentence with only one verdict. Death. Untimely, slow and cruel death. My eyes brimmed with tears as I realized we would not live out our dream of growing old together. To David, this was not just one more bauble in an already overcrowded jewelry box. Rather, this was his love displayed on my arm for all the world to see. To David, a promise made was a promise kept. I sadly realized that he might not have many more months or years to keep his promise. Suddenly it became the most important covenant ever made. Somehow I had to juggle the bills to let him have the honor of keeping his promise.

"Do you like it?" he whispered. Hearing the hope in his voice, mingled with seeing the love in his eyes, was something I am sure few women ever have the privilege of experiencing. It was clear that David cherished me. All he ever wanted, from the day we met, was to please me.

"Yes, honey, I love it." I answered. "It’s exactly what I want."

The clerk reached for my arm to remove the bracelet. I could not believe this little object had worked its way into my heart so quickly. "How much is it?" I finally asked. Slowly the man turned over the little white tag. Two-hundred fifty dollars it read. Surely it was a mistake! I had seen enough to know that price was only a fraction of its worth.

The man began to extol the virtues of the item pointing out the one hundred and eighty emeralds in a hand made Brazilian setting. But even though two hundred fifty dollars was an incredible price, it might as well have been $2,500.00, for all we could stretch our meager budget. Without thinking I asked, "Would you take two hundred twenty-five dollars, tax included?" I surprised myself at that question because shops in malls do not normally bargain. He looked at me in surprise and answered, "That will be fine."

Before he could change his mind I whipped out my credit card, all the while watching as David beamed with pride. The man quickly handled the transaction and we were on our way. Every few steps we would stop and look at the bracelet. Before we reached the car, David said, "When I get sicker and eventually die, you need to look at each emerald. Each one will remind you of something special we’ve done. A trip we took, a movie we saw, or a moment we shared. This will be your memory bracelet." I began to cry. David's concern was not his own failing health but for how I would handle life without him.

As we worked our way home in the bumper to bumper traffic in rush hour Honolulu, I wondered just how we could pay for the bracelet. Oddly enough I never really panicked, I was just somehow curious how it would all work out. We talked as we travelled and every so often looked at the miracle of the promise kept.

On the way into the house I grabbed the mail and began to open it as we walked inside. Amidst the usual bills were two cards. I opened the first which was from a church where I had sung several times that year. It was a thank you note for my music ministry along with a gift. I was speechless. I was looking at a check for two hundred dollars! I reached for the second card and slit it open. Out fell two bills; a twenty and a five. The card was simply signed, "A friend in Christ."

I looked up at David and we both began to laugh. I remembered how I had felt the need to ask the clerk if he would take two hundred twenty-five dollars, tax included. Even as we were in the mall, the payment for David's promise was in the mailbox. God had already taken care of every detail, including the twenty-five dollars plus tax.

It is just a piece of jewelry. Something I could have lived without. But the memories attached to our time together have helped to make me the woman I am today. The exquisite joy and the unspeakable grief of this relationship have grown me in ways I could never have anticipated. The promise David spoke on our honeymoon had been fulfilled. It was only through God that we stopped at that shop on that day to find that specific bracelet. The pastor of a small church, coupled with an unknown friend, listened to God as they decided their holiday giving.

Before I was ever born, God made another promise. He promised me eternal salvation. He promised He would be with me every step of the way. All I had to do was ask. Just as God never stopped believing I would claim that first promise, David never stopped believing in his bracelet promise. When I wear my emeralds, I pull out memories I have tucked away in my heart. I also remember David's faith and God’s promises.

By Carmen Leal-Pock