Sing We Noel

The year of my tenth birthday marked the first time that
our entire family had jobs. Dad had been laid off from
his regular employment, but found painting and carpentry
work all around town. Mom sewed fancy dresses and baked
pies for folks of means and I worked after school and
weekends for Mrs. Brenner, a neighbor who raised cocker
spaniels. I loved my job, especially the care and feeding
of her frisky litters of puppies. Proudly, I gave my
earnings to Mom to help out, but the job was such fun, I
would have worked for no pay at all.

I was content during these “hard times” to wear thrift
shop dresses and faded jeans. I waved good-by to puppies
going to fancy homes with no remorse. But that all
changed when the Christmas litter arrived in the puppy
house. These six would be the last available pups until
after Christmas.

As I stepped into the house for their first feeding, my
heart did a flip flop. One shiny red puppy with sad
brown eyes wagged her tail and bounced forward to greet
me.

“Looks as if you have a friend already,” Mrs. Brenner
chuckled. “You’ll be in charge of her feedings.”

“Noel,” I whispered, holding the pup close to my heart,
sensing instantly that she was something special. Each
day that followed forged an inexplicable bond between us.

Christmas was approaching, and one night, at dinner, I
was bubbling over about all of Noel’s special qualities
for about the hundredth time.

“Listen, Kiddo,” Dad put down his fork. “Perhaps someday
you can have a puppy of your own, but now times are very
hard. You know I’ve been laid off at the plant. If it
wasn’t for the job I’ve had this month remodeling Mrs.
Brenner’s kitchen, I don’t know what we’d do.”

“I know, Dad, I know.” I couldn’t bear the pained
expression on his face.

“We’ll have to brave it out this year,” he sighed.

By Christmas Eve, only Noel and a large male remained.
“They’re being picked up later,” Mrs. Brenner explained.
“I know the family taking Noel,” she continued. She’ll
be raised with tons of love.” No one could love her as
much as I did, I thought. No one.

“Can you come tomorrow morning? I’ll be weaning new
pups the day after Christmas. Mop the floor with pine,
and spread fresh bedding for the new litter. Would you
be a dear and feed the kennel dogs too? I’ll have a
house full of guests. Oh, and ask your Dad to stop over
with you. One of the kitchen cabinet doors needs a
little adjustment. He did such a beautiful job that I’ll
enjoy showing it off!”

I nodded my head, barely able to focus on her words. The
new puppies would be cute, but there’d never be another
Noel. Never. The thought of someone else raising my
puppy was almost too much to bear.

Christmas morning, after church, we opened our meager
gifts. Mom modeled the apron I made her in home economics
with a flair befitting a Paris gown. Dad raved about the
watchband I gave him. It wasn’t even real leather, but he
replaced his frayed band and admired it as if it was
golden. He handed me the book “Beautiful Joe,” and I
hugged them both. They had no gifts for each other. What
a sad Christmas, with all of us pretending that it wasn’t.

After breakfast, Dad and I changed clothes to go to Mrs.
Brenner’s. On our short walk, we chatted and waved to
passing neighbors, each of us deliberately avoiding the
subjects of Christmas and puppies.

Dad waved good-by as he headed toward the Brenner’s
kitchen door. I walked directly to the puppy house in the
back yard. It was strangely silent, no puppy growls, tiny
barks nor rustling paper. It felt as sad and dreary as I
did. My head gave the order to begin cleaning, but in my
heart I wanted to sit down on the lonely floor and bawl.

It’s funny looking back at childhood days. Some events
are fuzzy, the details sketchy and faces indistinct. But
I remember returning home that Christmas afternoon so
clearly; entering the kitchen with the aroma of pot roast
simmering on the stove, Mom clearing her throat and
calling to Dad who suddenly appeared in the dining room
doorway.

With an odd huskiness in his voice, he whispered, “Merry
Christmas, Kiddo,” and smiling, he gently placed Noel,
clad in a red bow, into my arms. My parent’s love for me
merged with my overwhelming love for Noel and sprang from
my heart, like a sparkling fountain of joy. At that
moment, it became, without a doubt, absolutely the most
wonderful Christmas I have ever had.

Gift From Two Strangers, The

Written by B.V. Dahlen

It was to be our second Christmas in Germany and we decided to avoid the naked
tree problem that we had the year before.
We tried ordering an artificial tree from the States, only to learn that the
packaging was too big to send through the A.P.O. mail system. We then wrote to
my father, and he agreed to purchase a tree for us. He would ship it to us in
several smaller boxes.

Two days before Christmas we were in a panic. All the boxes that my father had
sent us had arrived except for one. The tree trunk and stand were still missing.
We rushed out to buy a live tree, only to find what was left on the tree lot at
that late date made the tree from the year before look great. We decided to wait
one more day.

Meanwhile, in Bremerhaven, a young mail clerk spotted a long thin box under a
counter. He picked it up and saw the customs tag which read ‘artificial
Christmas tree trunk and stand’. He realized that someone in Mannheim would be
without a tree for Christmas. He felt sorry for them, but there wasn’t much he
could do. It took at least a day to process the mail and get it to Mannheim. He
was closing up now and there was no delivery on Christmas.

He put the package on the proper shelf and headed to the snack bar for a cup of
coffee. The place was crowded and he ended up sharing a table. Two men were
speaking and the clerk discovered that one of his companions at the table was
stationed in Mannheim. He had just picked up the car he had shipped from the
States and was driving back that afternoon. The clerk thought of the package and
said to the man, “You could really play Santa for someone in Mannheim tonight if
you’d like to.” He
explained about the lost tree trunk. The man agreed to deliver it and the two
walked to the mail room to retrieve the package.

Back in Mannheim, we were frantically trying to devise some way to put our tree
together. We were thinking of chicken wire and drilled broom handles, but
couldn’t come up with a workable solution. By dinner time we gave up.

It looked as if we were doomed to settle for the dregs of the Boy Scout lot or
no tree at all. My husband was reaching for his coat when the door bell rang.
There stood a stranger holding a long thin carton, our tree trunk. He explained
about the clerk and the snack bar meeting. We invited him in, but it was
Christmas Eve and he was in a hurry to get home to his own family.

He left quickly before we had a chance to get his name.

We never did find out who they were, our Santa with the package, or the
thoughtful mail clerk in Bremerhaven. The next day as we watched our little
boy’s eyes light up at the sight of our beautiful tree, I whispered a little
prayer:
“Please Dear God, bless those two strangers who brightened our Christmas with
their kindness.”

Christmas (1864) in the Confederate White House

Written especially for the Sunday World Magazine
by Mrs. Jefferson (Varina) Davis.

Upon her writing (1896):

“While looking over the advertisements of the toys and everything else intended to make the children joyful in the columns of the city papers, I have been impressed with the contrast between the present time and the con-[missing] of the Southern country thirty-one years ago, but not withstanding the great facilities of the present time, have been unable to decide whether for the young it was not as gay then as now.”

Upon her reflections of a Christmas 31yrs earlier (1864):

“For as Christmas season was ushered in under the darkest clouds, everyone felt the cataclysm which [missing] but the rosy, expectant faces of our little children were a constant reminder that self-sacrifice must be the personal offering of each member of the family. How to satisfy the children when nothing better could be done than the little makeshift attainable in the Confederacy was the problem of the older members of each household. There were no currants, raisins or other ingredients to fill the old Virginia recipe for mince pie. [Missing] the children considered that at least a slice of that much-coveted dainty was their right and the price of indigestion paid for it was a debt of honor [missing] from them to the season’s exactions. Apple trees grew and bore in spite of war’s alarms, so the foundation of the mixture was assured. The many excited housekeepers in Richmond had preserved all the fruits attainable, and these were substituted for the time-honored raisins and currants. The brandy [missing] for seasoning at one hundred dollars a bottle. [Missing] was forthcoming, the cider was obtained. Suet at a dollar a pound was ordered — and the [missing] seemed a blessed certainty — but the eggnog — [missing] were the eggs and liquors to be procured — without which Christmas would be a failure to the [missing].

Rice, flour, molasses and tiny pieces of meat, most of them sent to the President’s wife anonymously to be distributed to the poor, had all been weighed and issued, and the playtime of the family began, but like a clap of thunder out of a clear sky came the information that the orphans at the Episcopalian home had been promised a Christmas tree and the toys, candy and cakes must be provided, as well as one pretty prize for the most orderly girl among the orphans. The kind-hearted confectioner was interviewed by our committee of managers, and he promised a certain amount of his simpler kinds of candy, which he sold easily a dollar and a half a pound, but he drew the line at cornucopias to hold it, or sugared fruits to hang on the tree, and all the other vestiges of Christmas creations which had lain on his hands for years. The ladies dispersed in anxious squads of toy-hunters, and each one turned over the store of her children’s treasures for a contribution to the orphans’ tree, my little ones rushed over the great house looking up their treasure eyeless dolls, three-legged horses, tops with the upper peg broken off, rubber tops, monkeys with all the squeak gone silent and all the ruck of children’s toys that gather in a nursery closet.

MAKESHIFT TOYS FOR THE ORPHANS

Some small feathered chickens and parrots which nodded their heads in obedience to a weight beneath them were furnished with new tail feathers, lambs minus much of their wool were supplied with a cotton wool substitute, rag dolls were plumped out and recovered with clean cloth, and the young ladies painted their fat faces in bright colors and furnished them with beads for eyes.

But the tug of war was how to get something with which to decorate the orphans’ tree. Our man servant, Robert Brown, was much interested and offered to make the prize toy. He contemplated a “sure enough house, with four rooms.” His part in the domestic service was delegated to another and he gave himself over in silence and solitude to the labors of the architect.

My sister painted mantel shelves, door panels, pictures and frames for the walls, and finished with black grates in which their blazed a roaring fire, which was pronounced marvelously realistic. We all made furniture of twigs and pasteboard, and my mother made pillows, mattresses, sheets and pillow cases for the two little bedrooms.

Christmas Eve a number of young people were invited to come and string apples and popcorn for the trees; a neighbor very deft in domestic arts had tiny candle moulds made and furnished all the candles for the tree. However the puzzle and triumph of all was the construction of a large number of cornucopias. At last someone suggested a conical block of wood, about which the drawing paper could be wound and pasted. In a little book shop a number of small, highly colored pictures cut out and ready to apply were unearthed, and our old confectioner friend, Mr. Piazzi, consented, with a broad smile, to give “all the love verses the young people wanted to roll with the candy.”

A CHRISTMAS EVE PARTY

About twenty young men and girls gathered around small tables in one of the drawing rooms of the mansion and the cornucopias were begun. The men wrapped the squares of candy, first reading the “sentiments” printed upon them, such as “Roses are red, violets blue, sugar’s sweet and so are you,” “If you love me as I love you no knife can cut our love in two.” The fresh young faces, wreathed in smiles, nodded attention to the reading, while with their small deft hands they gined [?] the cornucopias and pasted on the pictures. Where were the silk tops to come from? Trunks of old things were turned out and snippings of silk and even woolen of bright colors were found to close the tops, and some of the young people twisted sewing silk into cords with which to draw the bags up. The beauty of those home-made things astonished us all, for they looked quite “custom-made,” but when the “sure enough house” was revealed to our longing gaze the young people clapped their approbation, while Robert, whose sense of dignity did not permit him to smile, stood the impersonation of successful artist and bowed his thanks for our approval. Then the coveted eggnog was passed around in tiny glass cups and pronounced good. Crisp home-made ginger snaps and snowy lady cake completed the refreshments of Christmas Eve. The children allowed to sit up and be noisy in their way as an indulgence took a sip of eggnog out of my cup, and the eldest boy confided to his father: “Now I just know this is Christmas.” In most of the houses in Richmond these same scenes were enacted, certainly in every one of the homes of the managers of the Episcopalian Orphanage. A bowl of eggnog was sent to the servants, and a part of everything they coveted of the dainties.

At last quiet settled on the household and the older members of the family began to stuff stockings with molasses candy, red apples, an orange, small whips plaited by the family with high-colored crackers, worsted reins knitted at home, paper dolls, teetotums made of large horn bottoms and a match which could spin indefinitely, balls of worsted rags wound hard and covered with old kid gloves, a pair of pretty woolen gloves for each, either cut of cloth and embroidered on the back or knitted by some deft hand out of home-spun wool. For the President there were a pair of chamois-skin riding gauntlets exquisitely embroidered on the back with his monogram in red and white silk, made, as the giver wrote, under the guns of Fortress Monroe late at night for fear of discovery. There was a hemstitched linen handkerchief, with a little sketch in indelible ink in one corner; the children had written him little letters, their grandmother having held their hands, the burthen of which compositions was how they loved their dear father. For one of the inmates of the home, who was greatly loved but whose irritable temper was his prominent failing, their was a pretty cravat, the ends of which were embroidered, as was the fashion of the day. The pattern chosen was simple and on it was pinned a card with the word “amiable” to complete the sentence. One of the [missing] received a present of an illuminated copy of Solomon’s proverbs found in the same old store from which the pictures came. He studied it for some time and announced: “I have changed my opinion of Solomon, he uttered such unnecessary platitudes — now why should he have said ‘The foolishness of a fool is his folly’?”

On Christmas morning the children awoke early and came in to see their toys. They were followed by the negro women, who one after another “caught” us by wishing us a merry Christmas before we could say it to them, which gave them a right to a gift. Of course, there was a present for every one, small though it might be, and one who had been born and brought up at our plantation was vocal in her admiration of a gay handkerchief. As she left the room she ejaculated: “Lord knows mistress knows our insides; she jest got the very thing I wanted.”

MRS. DAVIS’ STRANGE PRESENTS

For me there were six cakes of delicious soap, made from the grease of ham boiled for a family at Farmville, a skein of exquisitely fine gray linen thread spun at home, a pincushion of some plain brown cotton material made by some poor woman and stuffed with wool from her pet sheep, and a little baby hat plaited by the orphans and presented by the industrious little pain who sewed the straw together. They pushed each other silently to speak, and at last mutely offered the hat, and considered the kiss they gave the sleeping little one ample reward for the industry and far above the fruit with which they were laden. Another present was a fine, delicate little baby frock without an inch of lace or embroidery upon it, but the delicate fabric was set with fairy stitches by the dear invalid neighbor who made it, and it was very precious in my eyes. There were also a few of Swinburne’s best songs bound in wall-paper and a chamois needlebook left for me by young Mr. P., now succeeded to his title in England. In it was a Brobdinagian thimble “for my own finger, you know,” said the handsome, cheerful young fellow.

After breakfast, at which all the family, great and small, were present, came the walk to St. Paul’s Church. We did not use our carriage on Christmas or, if possible to avoid it, on Sunday. The saintly Dr. Minnegerode preached a sermon on Christian love, the introit was sung by a beautiful young society woman and the angels might have joyfully listened. Our chef did wonders with the turkey and roast beef, and drove the children quite out of their propriety by a spun sugar hen, life-size, on a nest full of blanc mange eggs. The mince pie and plum pudding made them feel, as one of the gentlemen laughingly remarked, “like their jackets were buttoned,” a strong description of repletion which I have never forgotten. They waited with great impatience and evident dyspeptic symptoms for the crowning amusement of the day, “the children’s tree.” My eldest boy, a chubby little fellow of seven, came to me several times to whisper: “Do you think I ought to give the orphans my I.D. studs?” When told no, he beamed with the delight of an approving conscience. All throughout the afternoon first one little head and then another popped in at the door to ask: “Isn’t it 8 o’clock yet?,” burning with impatience to see the “children’s tree.”

DAVIS HELPED SANTA CLAUS

When at last we reached the basement of St. Paul’s Church the tree burst upon their view like the realization of Aladdin’s subterranean orchard, and they were awed by its grandeur.

The orphans sat mute with astonishment until the opening hymn and prayer and the last amen had been said, and then they at a signal warily and slowly gathered around the tree to receive from a lovely young girl their allotted present. The different gradations from joy to ecstasy which illuminated their faces was “worth two years of peaceful life” to see. The President became so enthusiastic that he undertook to help in the distribution, but worked such wild confusion giving everything asked for into their outstretched hands, that we called a halt, so he contented himself with unwinding one or two tots from a network of strung popcorn in which they had become entangled and taking off all apples he could when unobserved, and presenting them to the smaller children. When at last the house was given to the “honor girl” she moved her lips without emitting a sound, but held it close to her breast and went off in a corner to look and be glad without witnesses.

“When the lights were fled, the garlands dead, and all but we departed” we also went home to find that Gen. Lee had called in our absence, and many other people. Gen. Lee had left word that he had received a barrel of sweet potatoes for us, which had been sent to him by mistake. He did not discover the mistake until he had taken his share (a dishful) and given the rest to the soldiers! We wished it had been much more for them and him.

OFFICERS IN A STARVATION DANCE

The night closed with a “starvation” party, where there were no refreshments, at a neighboring house. The rooms lighted as well as practicable, some one willing to play dance music on the piano and plenty of young men and girls comprised the entertainment. Sam Weller’s soiry[sic], consisting of boiled mutton and capers, would have been a royal feast in the Confederacy. The officers, who rode into town with their long cavalry boots pulled well up over their knees, but splashed up their waists, put up their horses and rushed to the places where their dress uniform suits had been left for safekeeping. They very soon emerged, however, in full toggery and entered into the pleasures of their dance with the bright-eyed girls, who many of them were fragile as fairies, but worked like peasants for their home and country. These young people are gray-haired now, but the lessons of self-denial, industry and frugality in which they became past mistresses then, have made of them the most dignified, self-reliant and tender women I have ever known — all honor to them.

So, in the interchange of the courtesies and charities of life, to which we could not add its comforts and pleasures, passed the last Christmas in the Confederate mansion.”

Ornament

By MIKE MARSHALL
December 2002

Anyone who knew Kelly Paries wasn’t surprised by what she did on Christmas
Eve morning, hours after she learned her 16-year-old son, Kory, had died in
a one-car wreck on Jeff Road.

Sitting in the waiting room of the Neurological Intensive Care Unit at
Huntsville Hospital, where another son, Kris, lay unconscious with head
injuries from the same accident, Paries turned to longtime friend Mary
Howard.

”I’ve got to turn this around,” Paries said. ”I’m concerned that all of
this has happened at this time of year.”

This was a time when Paries and her family usually spent Christmas Eve in
matching pajamas, a holiday tradition. At the family’s home on Shoalford
Drive in Monrovia were 15 unopened presents for Kory, scattered under a tree
in the den.

Kory and Kris had bought a cheese grater for their mom on Dec. 23, the night
of the wreck. They had driven to Parkway Place mall to shop, then to
Hollywood Stadium 18 cinemas for a late showing of ”The Lord of the Rings:
The Two Towers.”

Around 11:30 p.m., Kory, Kris and Ryse Anderson, a friend from Sparkman High
School, were riding home when Kory lost control of his 1992 Mazda. He
hydroplaned on the rain-slick road and slammed into a tree. The impact
killed him instantly.

The next morning, Kelly Paries became consumed with the grief on the faces
of family and friends in the Neurological ICU. How could she lift them out
of this tragedy?

She also wondered what she could do to prevent her family’s future
Christmases from being ruined. Around 11 a.m. on Christmas Eve, she told
Howard, one of her best friends, of her desire to salvage the holiday
spirit.

”I want Christmas to be wonderful, like it always is,” Paries said. ”I’ve
got to turn it into an uplifting experience.”

Ultimately, Paries began to focus on Christmas ornaments. When friends asked
what they could do for her, the answer was always the same: Bring an
ornament to the visitation or funeral. Her plan was to put the ornaments on
a tree that would be displayed at Spry Funeral Home and at the Church of
Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints on Slaughter Road, where Kory’s funeral
was to be held the morning of Dec. 28.

She also wanted those ornaments to be among her primary holiday decorations
for as long as her family celebrates Christmas.

”Next year,” she said, ”I won’t take out any of our old, traditional
ones.”

Howard wasn’t surprised by Paries’ response. She considered Paries, a friend
and fellow church member for 14 years, one of the spiritually strongest
people she has known.

”How do you think of these things when you’ve lost a child?” Howard asked.
”It’s only through inspiration.”

233 different ornaments

The result of Paries’ inspiration now covers her dining room table: 233
ornaments, all carefully arranged by Paries and Kris, home from the hospital
since Christmas Day.

Christmas balls and glass ornaments are on the left side of the table. Ice
skates and hockey players are in the middle. Angels are on the right.

”Each of them has a story behind them,” Paries said.

One of her favorite stories is about the grade-school daughter of her
lawn-care man. After learning of Paries’ request for ornaments, the girl
gave Paries a cluster of gold bells. The girl’s choice of ornaments came
from a line from ”It’s a Wonderful Life,” the classic holiday movie: Every
time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings.

Another favorite story: the strangers who ring her door bell, hand her an
ornament and leave without identifying themselves.

”I’ve learned how good people are,” she said. ”It was amazing. I had no
idea about the depth people felt in our loss.”

A tree at the funeral home

Early on the morning of Dec. 26, Paries bought a 5-foot tree, a tangle of
fiber optics that cost $39 at Target.

The next afternoon, she placed the tree in the north foyer of Spry Funeral
Home. One by one, Kory’s classmates, students and hockey teammates passed by
the tree and hung their ornaments.

Members of the Sparkman basketball team brought an orange Christmas ball.
Members of the Bob Jones High School hockey team hung a red ball.

Mary Howard’s 15-year-old daughter, Cardin, hung a crystal snowflake

Who Started Christmas?

This morning I heard a story on the radio of a woman who was out Christmas
shopping with her two children; after many hours of looking at row after row
of toys and everything else imaginable, and after hours of hearing both her
children asking for everything they saw on those many shelves, she finally
made it to the elevator with her two kids.

She was feeling what so many of us feel during the holiday season time of
the year—overwhelming pressure to go to every party, every housewarming,
taste all the holiday food and treats, get that perfect gift for every
single person on our shopping list, make sure we don’t forget anyone on our
card list, and the pressure of making sure we respond to everyone who sent
us a card.

Finally the elevator doors opened and there was already a crowd in the car.
She pushed her way into the car and dragged her two kids in with her and all
the bags of stuff. When the doors closed she couldn’t take it anymore and
stated, “Whoever started this whole Christmas thing should be found, strung
up and shot.”

From the back of the car everyone heard a quiet, calm voice respond, “Don’t
worry. We already crucified him.”

For the rest of the trip down the elevator it was so quiet you could have
heard a pin drop.

Don’t forget this year to keep the One who started this whole Christmas
thing in your every thought, deed, purchase, and word. If we all did it,
just think of how different this whole world would be.

The Reason For The Season!

The Tricycle

January 1969

by CATHRYN ROTHERY, Marblehead, Massachusetts

When I was a child, my father was a physician on the staff of a large state
mental hospital. At the top of the hospital community’s social ladder were
the doctors and their families. Then came the business manager and chief
engineer, nurses, electricians, carpenters and plumbers, and finally, the
skilled and semi-skilled workers.

Near the bottom of the ladder were the attendants. They were largely
untrained, relatively uneducated people. Most of them lived with their
families nearby the hospital. We never went near their houses. Some of their
children, though, had to pass our home on the hospital grounds on their walk
to their little school on the other side. Naturally we, the doctors’
children, did not attend this country school. We were driven two miles into
town where, for a small tuition fee, we were educated.

We resented these “trespassers” who traversed “our” domain each day. We were
always back from our school before they passed by on their way home. At
first we simply stared at them–and they returned the silent hostility. Then
one fall day we began to use words, and soon were hurling insults at each
other. We needed a name for them, so we began to call them the “Meanies.”

After a while, words were not enough. I have forgotten who cast the first
stone. Soon the little group began to gather stones on their way home from
school. In the meantime, we prepared and waited for them. The battle never
lasted more than a few minutes, which was the only reason our parents
remained unaware for a while. Actually, little damage was done. But once,
when one of the “Meanies” was hit, she cried angrily, “I’m gonna tell my
daddy on you!”

“We’re not afraid of your daddy,” we jeered. “Our daddy can fire your
daddy!” Of course, as soon as our parents realized what was going on, they
put a stop to it.

It was about that time that my sister and I outgrew our tricycles. We wanted
bicycles. The trikes were still in good shape, and we decided to try to sell
them in order to have Christmas money. For several days we displayed the two
trikes in the front yard with a big “For Sale” sign, but there were no
buyers. Then my mother insisted that the trikes be put downstairs.

Weeks passed. Then one afternoon a small knock sounded at the door. I opened
it, and standing there was a pale little girl, about my age, poorly but
cleanly dressed. She was one of the “Meanies”! What could she want? Then she
said in a quiet voice, “Have you sold the tricycles?”

It took a minute for me to recover myself enough to ask her in–how strange
it seemed to do that–and to call my mother. We conducted the little girl
downstairs to see the tricycles. I wanted to say something, but the best I
could do was, “You look a little big for that trike.”

“Oh, it’s not for me,” she said quickly. “I’m buying it for my little sister
for Christmas. I saw them out in the yard last month, but I had to wait
until I saved some money. I did chores after school.” Then she bent down to
examine the two vehicles more carefully. Suddenly I admired this little girl
immensely.

She stood up and looked directly at me. It wasn’t a hostile look, but her
eyes said, “Even though I am poor and my daddy is just an attendant, I have
a right to be here. You offered something for sale, and I came to buy it and
I am proud of what I am doing.” But when she spoke, her voice held a trace
of anxiety as she said, “How much is it?”

I remember wondering how much money she had saved. I conferred with Mama.

“Two dollars,” I said, hoping it was not too much.

A wisp of a smile brightened her face as she took out her purse and began to
count out the money, all of it in coins. I was happy to see a few left. She
handed over the money, and I helped her get the trike out to the street.

We were smiling now, but the little girl never relaxed her slight reserve. I
wanted to apologize to her, but there were no words that would do. I looked
at her, hoping my eyes would tell her. She looked at me and said shyly,
“Well . . . goodbye.”

She took the trike by the handlebar and, walking along beside it, guided it
away. Pride and triumph showed in every line of her back.

I felt overwhelmed at all I had discovered in this brief time. She hadn’t
been a real person before, and now she had revealed herself as a human
being–one who loved her family.

And one little girl–I could never call her a “Meanie” again–had taught me
that what she thought of herself was more important than what I thought of
her.

I watched until she disappeared around the curve.

Boy With A Doll, The

I hurried into the local department store to grab some last
minute Christmas gifts. I looked at all the people and grumbled
to myself. I would be in here forever, and had so much to do.

Christmas was beginning to become such a drag. I sort of wished
I could just sleep through it, but I hurried the best I could
through all the people to the toy department. Once again I
mumbled to myself at the prices of all the toys, and wondered if
the kids would even play with them. I found myself in the doll
aisle.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a little boy about 5, holding a
lovely doll. He kept touching her hair and held her so gently. I
just kept looking over at the little boy, I could not seem to
help myself, and wondered who the doll was for. I watched him
turn to a woman whom he identified as his aunt, and said, “Are
you sure I don’t have enough money?”

She replied rather sadly, “Honey, I’m sorry, but you don’t have
enough money for it.”

His aunt told him not to go anywhere, to stay and look at all the
toys, that she had to get some other things, and would be back in
a few minutes. The boy continued to hold the doll. After a
moment, I asked the boy who the doll was for. He said, “It is
the doll my sister wanted real bad for Christmas. She just knew
that Santa would bring it.”

I told him that maybe Santa was going to bring it. He said, “No,
Santa can’t go where my sister is…I have to give the doll to my
Mama to take to her.” I asked him where his sister was. He
looked at me with the saddest eyes and said, “She has gone to be
with Jesus. My Daddy says that Mama is going to have to go be
with her.”

My heart nearly stopped beating. Then the boy looked at me again
and said, “I told my Daddy to tell Mama not to go yet. I told
him to tell her to wait till I got back from the store.” He then
asked me if I wanted to see his picture.

I told him I would love to. He pulled out some pictures that had
been taken at the front of the store in one of those quick photo
booths. He said, “I want my Mamma to take this with her so she
won’t ever forget me. I love my Mama so much I wish she did not
have to leave me, but Daddy says she’s going to go be with my
sister.”

The little boy lowered his head and grew very quiet. While he was
not looking, I reached into my purse and pulled out some money. I
asked the little boy, “Shall we count that money one more time?”
He grew excited and said, “Yes, I just know it has to be enough.”
As we counted, I carefully slipped the money in with his. Of
course it was plenty for the doll. He softly said, “Oh, thank
you, Jesus, for giving me enough money.” Then the boy said, “I
just asked Jesus to give me enough money to buy this doll so Mama
can take it with her to give to my sister. And He heard my
prayer. I wanted to ask him for enough to buy my Mama a white
rose, but I didn’t ask Him, and He gave me enough to buy the doll
and a rose for my Mama! She loves white roses a whole lot.”

In a few minutes the aunt came back, and I went about my
shopping.

I could not keep from thinking about the little boy as I finished
what I needed to do in a totally different spirit than when I had
started. I kept remembering a story I had seen in the newspaper
several days earlier, about a drunk driver hitting a car, killing
a little girl, and leaving the Mother in critical condition, and
the family with the decision as to whether to remove the life
support or not.

Surely this little boy did not belong with that story. Two days
later, I read in the paper where the family had disconnected the
life support and the young woman had died. I could not forget
the little boy, and kept wondering if the two were somehow
connected. Later that day, I went out and bought some white
roses and took them to the funeral home where the young woman
was. There she lay, holding a lovely white rose, the beautiful
doll, and the picture of the little boy in the store. I left
there in tears, my life changed forever – overwhelmed by the love
that little boy had for his little sister and his mother, and how
cruel it seemed that in a split second, a drunk driver had ripped
the life of that little boy to pieces.

Monument of Truth

It had been years since I had seen my grandfather’s old
farm.

It was sold about fifteen years ago. When we moved back
into the area, I wanted my wife and children to see the
place that had meant so much to me growing up.

Off the main highway, we wended through the countryside
on familiar gravel roads. Every mile was a treasury of
memories and stories to tell. Up Sadie’s Hill which was
always such an adventure in the winter, past the Burger’s
place and around the last bend before the farm would come
into view.

The pond seemed so much smaller than I remembered. The
raspberry patch behind the house was gone. My favorite
tire swing was missing from the big oak across the lane
from the house. Some of the outbuildings had given way
to the years. The farm was not as I remembered it.

But one thing caused me to catch my breath in surprise.

At Christmas time we would always crowd toward the window
of the car as we took the last turn in the road. The
farm lay in the valley below and we would strain to see
the lights on the little evergreen beside the spring
run. One Thanksgiving, I remember helping grandpa
decorate the tree with a six-foot stepladder.

The tree was still there, but it towered over the old
two-story farmhouse. The little pine by the spring run
was now over forty feet high!

The next time our whole family was together, I told
grandma about how the tree had grown. My father
laughed and assuming a Paul Harvey-like voice said;
“How would you like me to tell you the rest of the
story?”

Years ago my dad and his younger brother, Bill,
skipped school on the opening day of rabbit season to
hunt with grandpa. Grandpa gave his approval on the
condition that the boys would not lie when asked the
reason for their absence. They took the deal and
skipped school to hunt rabbits. Evening came quickly
and after a nice dinner with fresh meat the boys
tumbled into bed, but they would face the judgement
at school the next day.

They weren’t alone.

The boys were called upon to account for their absence
the following day. They joined a long line of boys at
the principal’s office. Most of the other boys
claimed there were sick (they were sick of having to
go to school on opening day of rabbit season).

My father and uncle, true to their word, told the
truth. “We were rabbit hunting with our dad,” they
said.

“Are you sure you weren’t feeling just a little under
the weather boys?” the principal asked.

“No, sir, we were feeling fine, and we were rabbit
hunting with our dad.”

For punishment they were made to stay after school
one hour each night until they had made up the time
they had missed.

On the final day of my dad’s punishment, the teacher,
out of sympathy, walked back to the aisle where he
was sitting and gave him a little gift. It was tiny
start of a pine tree in a cut-off milk carton. It
didn’t seem like much compensation for the suffering
he endured, but he carried it home.

That night, he and grandpa set it out in the back
yard of their home on Bowers Avenue in Newark, Ohio.

A few years later, my father was serving in the Navy
in Korea, and my Uncle Bill was married and gone.
My grandfather had also realized a life long dream
when he and grandma were able to buy a small farm
north of town. It was nestled in the hills where he
had grown up. Along with their other belongings,
grandpa took the time to dig up the little pine tree
to bring to his new farm. He set it out at the base
of the hill by the spring run.

It’s always been a source of beauty. It’s a haven
for birds. In the winter its branches are flocked
with snow and the glow of multi-colored lights.
It’s fed year round by the spring at its feet.

But I know that it is more than that.

It is a forty foot tall monument to the virtue of
truthfulness.

– Kenneth L. Pierpont

Pres. Hinckley’s 2001 Christmas address

Complete transcript:
Pres. Hinckley’s 2001 Christmas address

The following is a transcript of President Hinckley’s Christmas Devotional address delivered at the Conference Center in Salt Lake City, Sunday, Dec. 2, 2001.

By President Gordon B. Hinckley

Merry Christmas to each of you wherever you may be.
I rejoice with you at this glad season when our thoughts center on the Lord Jesus Christ who is our precious Savior and who means so very much to each one of us.
What a glorious thing it is that, at least at this time of the year, hearts of men and women across the world turn in adoration to the Son of God who left the royal courts on high and came to earth to be born under the most humble of circumstances.
He was the firstborn of the Father, a prince of the royal household of God. When Satan’s plan concerning the salvation of all men was rejected, it was the Lord Jesus Christ who stepped forward and said that He would follow the plan of His Father concerning the sons and daughters of God. He would preserve their right to choose good or evil. He would take upon Himself a mortal body and then give His life as a great atoning sacrifice for their sins and shortcomings.
Satan and his followers were cast out, and the other spirits of men agreed to the plan of the Almighty to be executed through their Redeemer Jesus Christ.
Under His Father’s direction, He became the Creator of this earth, for, as John declares, “All things were made by him, and without him was not anything made that was made” (John 1:3).
He became the great Jehovah, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, whose finger wrote the Ten Commandments upon the tablets of stone which Moses carried up the mountain. His was the thundering voice of the prophets of the Old Testament.
In the meridian of time He was born in the flesh, Son of God and Son of Mary. Angels sang at His coming and wise men came out of the east to bring unto Him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. He was the promised Messiah who came with healing in His wings.
He was the object of Herod’s slaughter of the innocents. He was the boy who stayed behind in Jerusalem talking with the wise men and declared to His mother who came seeking Him, “Wist ye not that I must be about my Father’s business?” (Luke 2:49).
He rejected the temptations of Satan. He was baptized by immersion in Jordan. On that wonderful occasion the Holy Ghost descended “like a dove” and the voice of God was heard declaring the divinity of His Only Begotten Son.
He healed the sick as no man before had ever done. He raised the dead. He taught as none before ever had taught. He went about doing good. For this men sought His life. Following the agony of Gethsemane He was betrayed by one of His own. He, the Son of the living God, was mocked and tortured by vile and evil men. They cried out for his blood. He was nailed to a cross and died on Calvary’s hill in unspeakable suffering. He was buried in Joseph’s tomb by loving hands. On the third day He rose from the grave, “the firstfruits of them that slept” (1 Cor. 15:20). He appeared to many. He spoke to them. They understood His words and His majestic declaration concerning His divinity. As the Centurion who witnessed His crucifixion said, “Truly this was the Son of God” (Matt. 27:54).
Following His resurrection, He visited His other sheep. He came to this hemisphere after the terrible destruction of the wicked had occurred. He taught the people. He ministered to their children. He instituted the sacrament. He organized His work and left His blessing.
Through all of the centuries that have passed, His shining figure stands supreme before the entire human family.
And now, in the fulness of times, He has come again.
His Father appeared with Him to the 14-year-old Joseph Smith who came praying, seeking knowledge. The Son was introduced by the Father. They spoke to the boy. After centuries of darkness, They parted the curtains and let in the light of a new and glorious dispensation. Another volume of scripture came forth testifying of His divinity. His royal priesthood was restored with all of its keys and blessings reaching out to both the living and the dead.
That boy to whom They spoke became His great testator saying:

“And now, after the many testimonies which have been given of him, this is the testimony, last of all which we give of him: That he lives!
“For we saw him, even on the right hand of God; and we heard the voice bearing record that he is the Only Begotten of the Father

Everything Money Cannot Buy

Complete transcript:
Everything Money Cannot Buy

The following is a transcript of Sister Smoot’s address at a Church Educational System fireside Feb. 3, 2002.

Mary Ellen Smoot
Relief Society General President

I am humbled by the opportunity to speak to each of you this evening. Thank you for your righteousness, for your valiant stand against the forces that would pull you under, and for your desire to be the person our Father in Heaven would have you be. I believe you comprise some of the most outstanding young people who have ever lived on this earth. You were truly sent for such a time as this. I love you and pray for you and have confidence in you.
I have a good friend whose car was vandalized just a few days before Christmas. Among other things, the thieves took her attache which contained everything from her cell phone and Palm Pilot to a personal journal, some other sensitive papers, and her passport. By nearly miraculous circumstances, a few days later her briefcase was recovered. Everything that was valuable by the world’s standards

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