December 1

Finding the Christmas Spirit
By – Sandi Schureman

Time was running out. It was December 24, Christmas Eve, and I still hadn’t found that magical feeling, the spirit of Christmas. I had done the things I thought would bring it – attending my children’s school performance of Christmas carols, decorated our tree, baked, shopped, wrapped. Yet nothing seemed to spark the Christmas spirit within me. I had resigned myself to the fact that this just might not be a very good Christmas.
My husband, Steve, a firefighter, was on his routine 24-hour shift at the firehouse, which meant he would not be home for either Christmas Eve or Christmas morning. Our four children and I were eager to spend what time we could with him, so we all drove down to the station.
As we arrived, the firefighters had just returned from a first-aid call to a nearby motel, where they had rendered care to a young boy with a fever and other symptoms. My husband expressed to us his feelings of concern and his desire to do something more for the boy and his brother and their mother. They had fled an abusive, alcoholic situation and were now hundreds of miles from home, with one change of clothes each, very little money and now an ill child on Christmas Eve.
Steve looked at me and at each of our children and asked, “What else can we do to help them? We picked up a small tree on the way back to the station that we want to decorate for them, but what more can we do this late?” It was 9:25 p.m.
Our children began to clamor of ideas. My daughter was sure a toy store somewhere was still open. My oldest son, then fifteen years old offered a prayer and asked Heavenly Father to guide us to a place where we would find the gifts we needed. This filled the children with hope that we could find a toy store still open. I didn’t share their hope, largely because even if we did find a store open, I didn’t know how we would pay for anything we found.
I wanted to share, as much as my children did, but this Christmas was already our leanest ever. Our own children were receiving only two gifts each. Still, we drove eagerly around looking for anything open, planning to meet Steve and the other firefighters back at the motel room before the little family returned from the hospital, where they’d gone for medicine.
Every store we saw was closed. Then one of my sons said, “Hey, I know somewhere that’s open.”
“Yeah, and they’ve got presents already wrapped!” declared the other son. Wondering what they were talking about, I pulled the car to the side of the street, and in frustration I turned to the kids and asked, “Oh yeah, just where is this great place?” Their answer was so enthusiastic and genuine that it instantly ignited within me the flame of the Christmas spirit. “We can go to our house,” they chimed together. “The presents are already wrapped and under the tree.”
I asked them each if they really wanted to do this, and their eager response was “Yes! Yes! Yes! Now hurry!” Once we were home, I watched with wonder as each pulled their name tags off of their presents and each picked certain ornaments from our tree. At first I was surprised to see that the ornaments they picked were the ones they themselves had made over the years. Then I realized that they were giving of themselves, and these had special value.
Two of my boys came out of their bedroom with their baseball gloves, their “pride and joy” mitts. We loaded the presents, some tree lights, and candy and goodies that were our family’s stocking stuffers, and we were off to the motel. The manager let us into the austere little room, and we set right to work with the firefighters, who had also brought things.
We set the tree on the tabletop and adorned it with lights and the ornaments. Some of the firefighters hung candy bars and twenty-dollar bills on it with paper clips. Presents were in place under the tree, canned goods stacked in the corner, and clothes for the mother and children folded neatly on the nightstand. The room had been transformed.
On each of the bed pillows lay a somewhat used baseball glove from our boys, and I saw my fifteen-year-old place between the mitts one of his most prized possessions. It was his home run baseball. I doubted that the little boys receiving this prize could possibly know what a sacrifice this was or what a revered spot it had held in my son’s room for the past six months. But that moment I knew that in my son’s heart, the spirit of Christmas flamed brightly, lighting that little room even after we turned off all the lights except the diamond-like ones on the tree.
I had almost given up on finding that precious spirit of Christmas. But it was given to me by my dear husband who recognized a need when he saw it, my children who so eagerly responded, and my Savior, whose love for all mankind serves to remind me that I’ll never need to be without the Christmas spirit again. I realize as never before that the Christmas spirit comes to us as we give of ourselves to others.

December 2 (part 1)

The Other Mother at the Manger
by Pamela Kennedy

"Miriam! Hurry, the guests need their breakfast! Miriam!"
The irritated and urgent voice of her husband broke through Miriam's daydreams and she swiftly refolded the tiny gown she had been holding, tucking it hastily back into the acacia trunk.
"Coming Benjamin!" she called. Quickly smoothing a few errant strands of hair back under her scarf and lifting her long skits, she dashed down the steps to the large eating room below. She spied her husband with his arms folded, a scowl on his face as he listened to a complaining customer. Ducking into the kitchen, Miriam soon had the serving girls dashing about with trays of fruit and oat cakes, waiting upon the hungry men with efficiency.
"Miriam!" She started at her name and spun around to face Benjamin. He towered over her, his dark hair and eyebrows glinting in the early morning sun that streamed into the small kitchen. He was a handsome man with smooth, olive skin and bright, dark eyes. His attractiveness was marred only by the scowl he habitually wore these days. Miriam suspected it was because of her, and the blame wore heavily on her heart.
"Yes, Benjamin?" Her eyes searched his for the hint of tenderness she used to see there.
"This is the time of the census," he scolded. "You cannot be lolling in bed when the inn is filled with guests who need to be cared for. We cannot expect to keep their business if we do not serve them well."
A caustic retort hovered behind Miriam's lip, but she swallowed it like a hard lump of dough and only nodded.
Apparently satisfied, Benjamin turned and left the kitchen. Angrily, Miriam stoked the fire in the small oven, sending sparks and ashes falling in the morning breeze. "Lolling in bed," she muttered as she banged crockery and emptied dirty plates and goblets. Suddenly, like an uncontrollable wave within her, a great sob welled up and she ran from the kitchen into the tiny garden behind the house. There, she fell on her knees beneath the solitary olive tree and wept.
Behind her, in silence, Benjamin stood and watched. The dark scowl was gone and tenderness filled his deep-set eyes. But he did not go to Miriam. He was afraid; afraid she blamed him and would never forgive him, afraid they could never recapture their love and joy now that the baby was gone. And so he left her alone with her grief and tied his own in an angry knot within himself.
Her despair spent, Miriam leaned against the narrow trunk of the tree and breathed deeply of the morning scents. Small birds skipped among the tree tops and chirped to one another, quarreling over a bit of berry or a leaf.
"How does the world continue as if nothing has happened?" she wondered. The Bethlehem sky was still a bright azure blue, the birds and insects still labored, and the wind still blew, the flowers continued to bloom. Only her child, her tiny son, was no more.
A quarrel from the kitchen interrupted her thoughts and she hurried back inside to see what was the matter. After settling the dispute between two jealous serving girls, Miriam saw to the cleaning of the dining room and supervised the dusting and sweeping out of the rooms of the inn. The day passed quickly, one demand following upon the heels of another, and it was soon time to prepare the evening meal.
Caesar's census, although generating much displeasure among the populace, certainly kept the innkeeper busy. The previous months had been lean, and Miriam was please that though the work was hard, they would experience some security as a result of it.
The sun had set and the early evening sky was punctuated with glimmering stars. Miriam overheard Benjamin's voice as she entered the dining room. "No, I am sorry, we are filled we have no more room." She walked to his side and spoke as she shut the heavy wooden door.
"How many have you turned away?" she asked.
"At least a dozen," he answered. "It's a pity we haven't more space. I could fill every room and turn a good profit." He looked into her dark eyes for a moment, then smiled. "And you could buy those silver bracelets you have been eyeing at old Pash's stall in the market!"
Miriam blushed at his teasing words and returned his smile with a timid one of her own.
Apparently awkward with even this small exchange of emotion, Benjamin cleared his throat and surveyed his guests as they dined. "They seem to be enjoying your meal tonight," he declared without even looking at Miriam.
She nodded. "Lamb is always popular," she replied, wishing she could say something to recapture the fragile moment they had just shared. "Have you eaten, Benjamin? Perhaps I could bring you a plate..."
Her suggestion was interrupted by a loud banging on the door. Benjamin turned and pulled it open, revealing a tired and dusty man. Before the fellow could speak, Benjamin told him the inn was full.
Miriam watched as the hopeful expression faded on the weary face.
"Isn't there anywhere you could put us? My wife is with child and her time is near. We have come all the way from Nazareth."
"Joseph. Oh, Joseph."
Miriam recognized the urgency and anguish of the woman's cry and pushed past Benjamin and around the man outside. She reached up and lifted the young woman from the back of the tired little donkey. her own recent pregnancy caused Miriam to feel an immediate bond with the poor girl.
"Benjamin," she insisted with a rare forcefulness. "we must take them in. The girl is in labor!"
Benjamin glowered at his wife. He didn't want a stranger to her talk to him in such a way and he didn't want anything to do with another woman in labor.
"There is no room!" he repeated, folding his arms over his chest with finality.
"Then make room!" Miriam snapped at him.
Benjamin's eyes blazed with fury and his face reddened at her insolence
"There is no room!" he cried once more and slammed the heavy door.
Joseph turned with embarrassment and began to apologize to Miriam, but she waved off his words with a gesture of impatience.
"Don't worry, it will be all right." Her mind raced as she tried to think of a solution. The girl groaned again and Joseph picked her up, holding her in his arms, calming her with soft assurances.
"Come," Miriam commanded as she grabbed the lead on the donkey. She guided the couple around the inn to the stable behind. After tethering the animal, Miriam cleared out a small area behind the sheep's pen. Wielding an old straw broom, she vigorously swept out the dust and stones, disturbing several roosting hens and dozing sheep. Having cleared the stony floor, she grabbed large armfuls of sweet hay and arranged a deep, soft bed. Unfastening her shawl, she spread it across the hay and then turned to Joseph.
"Put her down here," she directed. "It's not fancy, but it is clean and will be quiet. Loosen her robes and make her comfortable. I need to get a few things."
As Joseph placed his wife upon the hay, Miriam caught a glimpse of her face. It was pale and oval, framed by dark auburn hair. Her skin had the dewy freshness of youth, but her eyes shone an ageless serenity.
"What's your name?" Miriam asked softly as she prepared to go.
"Mary," the young woman answered.
"Well Mary," Miriam continued with a smile of assurance, "I think you will be a mother by morning! Now you lie here and count the stars until I return. It will help pass the time."
"Avoiding the dining area and the chance of an encounter with her husband, Miriam dashed up the back stairway and into their room. She threw open the small acacia chest and felt a sharp tightening in her heart. Forcing herself to reach inside, she removed the small garments she had so lovingly and tearfully stored there only weeks ago. Sorting quickly, she decided upon two wrapping clothes of fine wool and a pure white linen gown embroidered in pale yellow. Grabbing a stack of towels and a basin for water, Miriam ran back down the stairway and out to the stable.
Joseph knelt beside Mary, holding her hand and speaking to her softly. Miriam watched them for a moment, envying the love they shared. Then she spoke quietly.
"Joseph, would you fill this with water from the jar beside the kitchen door? I'll tend to Mary." Miriam sat beside the laboring woman and helped her through the ever-stronger contractions. When Joseph returned with the water, she dipped a towel into the basin and cooled Mary's brown and bathed her dusty arms and feet.
Throughout the night the two women worked together, and as they did each spoke of her dreams and longings. Bound together by the common experience of bringing forth life, they were no longer strangers.
When at last the tiny newborn came, he was perfect and strong. Quickly, Miriam wrapped him in a soft, swaddling clothes she had so lovingly prepared for her own son. Then she laid him gently in his mother's arms and felt the emptiness in her own.
Mary gazed into her baby's eyes - the eyes so filled with the promise of eternity. Then she glanced at Miriam and saw the longing there. "Would you like to hold him?" She offered.
Miriam hesitated before holding out her arms to take the child. Instead of feeling the pain of loneliness, she knew a flood of peace as she looked upon the babe. Something deep within her was released and a new hope took its place.
"What will you call him?" She whispered.
"His name is Jesus," Mary replied, "for he is the Father's promise now fulfilled."
Miriam shifted and the light from a single brilliant star illuminated the tiny sleeping face.
"Jesus," she said. "Welcome, little Jesus. Welcome to the world."
A soft cough broke the stillness and Miriam turned quickly, catching sight of Benjamin walking slowly away from the stables. His shoulders were stooped and his steps weary.
Miriam looked once more at the baby Jesus, tenderly kissed his flawless cheek, then gently returned him to his mother.
"I must go," she whispered.
Noiselessly, Miriam caught up with her husband and pulled at his sleeve to stop him. As he looked at her, she saw the shimmer of tears reflected in the light from the star above. There were no words, but non were needed. She slipped her hand into his and as they walked up the narrow stairway together, Miriam knew something more than a baby had been born that night.

December 2 (part 2)

Is there a Santa Claus?
by Francis P. Church
an editorial from the New York Sun
September 21, 1897

Dear Editor:
I am eight years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says, "If you see it in "The Sun" it's so." Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus?
Virginia O'Hanlan
115 West 95th Street
New York City, NY

Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.
Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you kno that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! How dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as if there were no Virginias. There would be no childlike faith, then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this exsistence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.
Not believe in Santa Claus?! You might as well not believe in fairies. You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.
You tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else more real and abiding!

December 3

The Other Wise Man
*from the story by Henry Van Dyke*

The other wise man’s name was Artaban. He was one of the Magi and he lived in Persia. He was a man of great wealth, great learning and great faith. With his learned companions, he searched the scriptures as to the time that the Savior should be born. They knew that a new star would appear and it was agreed between then that Artaban would watch from Persia and the others would observe the sky from Babylon.

On the night he believed the sign was to be given, Artaban went out on his roof to watch the night sky. “If the star appears, they will wait for me ten days, then we will all set out together for Jerusalem. I have made ready for the journey by selling all of my possessions and have bought three jewels – a sapphire, a ruby and a pearl. I intend to present them; my tribute to the King.”

As he watched, an azure spark was born out of the darkness, rounding itself with splendor into a crimson sphere. Artaban bowed his head. “It is the sign,” he said, “The King is coming, and I will go to meet Him.”

The swiftest of Artaban’s horses had been waiting saddled and bridled in her stall, pawing the ground impatiently. She shared the eagerness of her master’s purpose.

As Artaban placed himself upon her back, he said, “God bless us both from failing and [keep] our souls from death.”

They began their journey. Each day, his faithful horse measured off the allotted proposal of the distance, and at nightfall on the tenth day, they approached the outskirts of Babylon. In a little island of the desert palm trees, Artaban’s horse scented difficulty and slackened her pace. Then she stood still, quivering in every muscle.

Artaban dismounted. The dim starlight revealed the form of a man lying in the roadway. His skin bore the mark of a deadly fever. The chill of death was in his lean hand. As Artaban turned to go, a sigh came from the sick man’s lips.

Artaban felt sorry that he could not stay to minister to this dying stranger, but this was the hour toward which his entire life had been directed. He could not forfeit the reward of years of study and faith to do a single deed of human mercy. But then, how could he leave his fellow man alone to die?

“God of truth and mercy,” prayed Artaban, “direct me in the path of wisdom which only Thou knowest.” The he knew that he could not go on. The Magi were physicians as well as astronomers. He took off his robe and began his work of healing. Several hours later, the patient regained consciousness. Artaban gave him all that was left of his bread and wine. He left a potion of healing herbs and instructions for his care.

Though Artaban rode with the greatest haste the rest of the way, it was after dawn that he arrived at the designated meeting place. His friends were nowhere to be seen. Finally his eyes caught a piece of parchment arranged to attract his attention. It said, “We have waited till past midnight, and can delay no longer. We go to find the King, follow us across the desert.”

Artaban sat down in despair and covered his face with his hands. “How can I cross the desert with no food and with a spent horse? I must return to Babylon, sell my sapphire and buy camels and provisions for the journey. I may never overtake my friends. Only the merciful God knows whether or not I shall lose my purpose because I tarried to show mercy.”

Several days later when Artaban arrived at Bethlehem, the streets were deserted. It was rumored that Herod was sending soldiers, presumable to enforce some new tax, and that men of the city had taken their flocks into the hills beyond his reach.

The door of one dwelling was open, and Artaban could hear a mother singing a lullaby to her child. He entered and introduced himself. The woman told him that it was now the third day since the three wise men had appeared in Bethlehem. They had found Joseph and Mary and the young child, and had laid their gifts at His feet. Then they had gone mysteriously as they had come. Joseph had taken his wife and babe that same night and had secretly fled. It was whispered that they were going far away into Egypt.

As Artaban listened, the baby reached up its dimpled hand and touched his cheek and smiled. His heart warmed at the touch. Then suddenly, outside there arose a wild confusion of sounds. Women were shrieking. Then a desperate cry was heard, “The soldiers of Herod are killing the children.”

Araban went to the doorway. A band of soldiers came hurrying down the street. The captain approached the door to thrust Artaban aside, but Artaban did not stir. His face was as calm as though he were still watching the stars. Finally his out-stretched hand revealed the giant ruby. He said, “I am waiting to give this jewel to the prudent captain who will go on his way and leave this house alone.”

The captain, amazed at the splendor of the gem, took it and said to his men, “March on, there are no children here.”

Then Artaban prayed, “Oh, God, forgive me my sin, I have spent for men that which was meant for Thy Son. Shall I ever be worthy to see the face of the King?”

But the voice of the woman, weeping of joy in the shadows behind him said softly, “Thou hast saved the life of my little one. May the Lord bless thee and keep thee and give thee peace.”

Artaban, still following the King went on into Egypt seeking everywhere for traces of the little family that had fled before him. For many years we follow Artaban in his search. We see him at the pyramids. We see him in Alexandria taking counsel with a Hebrew rabbi who told him to see the King not among the rich, but among the poor.

He passé through countries where famine lay heavy upon the land, and the poor were crying for bread. He made his dwelling in plague-stricken cities. He visited the oppressed and the afflicted in prisons. He searched the crowded slave-markets. Though he found no one to worship, he found many to serve. As the years passed, he fed the hungry, clothed the naked, healed the sick and comforted the captive.

Thirty-three years have now passed away since Artaban began his search. His hair is now white as snow. He knows his life’s end is near, but he is still desperate with hope that he will find the King. He has come for the last time to Jerusalem.

It was the season of the Passover and the city was thronged with strangers. Artaban inquired where they were going. One answered, “We are going to the execution on Golgotha, outside the city walls. Two robbers are to be crucified, and whit them another called Jesus of Nazareth, a man who has done many wonderful works among the people. He claims to be the Son of God and the priests and elders have said that he must die. Pilate sent him to the cross.”

How strangely these familiar words fell upon the tired heart of Artaban. They had led him for a lifetime over land and sea. And now they came to him like a message of despair. The King had been denied and cast out. Perhaps he was already dying. Could he be the same one for whom the star had appeared thirty-three long years ago?

Artaban’s heart beat loudly within him. He thought, “It may be that I shall yet find the King and be able to ransom him from death by giving my treasure to his enemies.

But as Artaban started toward Calvary, he saw a troop of soldiers coming down the street, dragging a sobbing young woman. As Artaban paused, she broke away from her tormentors and threw herself at his feet, her arms clasped around his knees.

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

Artaban trembled as he again felt the conflict arising in his soul. It was the same as he had experienced in the palm grove of Babylon and in the cottage at Bethlehem. Twice the gift which he had consecrated to the King had been drawn from his hand to the service of humanity. Would he now fail again? One thing was clear, he must rescue this helpless child from evil.

He took the pearl and laid it in the hand of the girl and said “Daughter, this is the ransom. It is the last of my treasures which I had hoped to keep for the King.”

While he spoke, the darkness of the sky thickened and the shuddering tremors of an earthquake ran through the ground. The houses rocked. The soldiers fled in terror. Artaban sank beside a protesting wall. What had he to fear? What had he to hope for? He had given away the last of his tribute to the King. The quest was over and he had failed. What else mattered?

The earthquake quivered beneath him. A heavy tile, shaken from a roof, fell and struck him. He lay breathless and pale. Then there came a still small voice through the twilight. It was like distant music. The rescued girl leaned over him and heard him say, “Not so, my Lord; for when saw I thee hungered and fed thee? Thirsty and gave thee drink? When saw I thee a stranger and took thee in? Or naked and clothed thee? When saw I thee sick or in prison and came unto thee? Thirty-three years have I looked for thee; but I have never seen thy face, nor ministered unto thee, my King.”

The sweet voice came again, “Verily I say unto thee, that inasmuch as thou hast done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, thou hast done it unto me.”

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

December 4

The Gift of the Magi
From the story by O. Henry

One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty- seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.
There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.

When Della finished her cry, she attended to her cheeks with a powder puff.  She stood by the window and looked out dully.  Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim.  Her Jim.  Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him.  Something fine and rare and sterling - something just a bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.
Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the looking glass.  Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall into its full length.
Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs' in which they both took a mighty pride.  One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and grandfather's.  The other was Della's hair.
So now, Della's beautiful hair fell about her, rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters.  She did it up again nervously and quickly.  Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.  On went her old brown jacket; on when her old brown hat.  With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.
Where she stopped, the sign read: "Mme. Sofronie. Hair Goods Of All Kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting.
"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.
"I buy hair," saide Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight of it."
Down rippled the brown cascade.
"Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practiced hand.
"Give it to me quick," Said Della
Oh, the next two hours were rosy as she ransacked the stores for Jim's present.
She found it at last.  It surely had been made for Jim and no one else.  There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out.  It was a platinum watch-chain, simple in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by ornamentation - as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch.  As soon as she saw it, she knew that it must be Jim's.  Quietness and value - the description applied to both.
Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the eighty-seven cents.  With that chain on his watch, Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company.  Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly, on account of the old leather strap he used in place of a chain.
When Della reached home, she got out her curling irons and went to work.  Within forty minutes, her head was covered with tiny close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a school-boy.  She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critical.
"If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me - But what could I do with a dollar and eighty-seven cents?"
Jim was never late.  Della held the watch chain in her hand.  She heard his step on the stairs and she turned white for just a moment.  She had a habit of saying little silent prayers about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered; "Please, God, make him think I am still pretty."
The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it.  He looked thin and very serious.  Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two - and to be burdened with a family! He needed an overcoat and he was without gloves.
Jim's eyes were fixed on Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read.  It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments she had been prepared for.  he simply stared at her.
"Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold it because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present.  It'll grow out again - you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it.  My hair grows awfully fast. So, 'Merry Christmas' Jim and let's be happy. You don't know what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."
"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, as if he had not arrived at that fact yet.
"Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well anyhow? I'm me without my hair, aren't I?"
Jim looked about the room curiously. "You say your hair is gone?"
"You needn't look for it," said Della.  "Its sold and gone, I tell you. Be good to me, for it went for you!"
Out of his trance, Jim seemed to quickly wake.  He enfolded his Della in his arms. Jim then drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.
"Don't make any mistake, Della," he said, "about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or shampoo that could make me like my girl any less.  But if you'll unwrap tha package you may see why you had me going a while at first."
White fingers tore at the string and paper.  And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, a quick feminine change to tears and wails, necessitating all of Jim's comforting powers.
For there lay The Combs - the set of combs that Della had wanted for so long.  Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell with jeweled rims - just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had yearned for them without the least hope of possession.  And now they were hers - but the hair was gone.
She hugged them to her, and at length was able to look up with a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"
And then Della leaped up and cried, "Oh, oh!"
Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She heald it out to him eagerly upon her open palm.  The precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her own bright spirit.
"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it.  You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch.  I want to see how it looks on it!"
Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.
"Dell," he said, "Let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em awhile. They're too nice to use just now.  I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs.  And now, suppose you put dinner on."

Eight dollars a week or a million dollars a year - what is the difference?

The Magi, as you know, were wise men - who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents.  Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication.  And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house.  But in a last word to the wise of these days, let it be said that of all who give gifts, these two were the wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts such as they, are wisest.  Everywhere they are wisest.  They are the Magi.

December 5

The Great Walled Country
by Raymond MacDonald Alden

Away at the North End of the World, farther than men have ever gone with their ships or their sleds, is a land filled with children. It’s filled with children because nobody who lives there ever grows up. The king and queen, the princes and the courtiers, may be as old as you please, but they are children for all that. They play a great deal of the time with dolls and tin soldiers, and every night at seven o’clock have a bowl of bread and milk and go to bed.
There are all sorts of curious things about the way they live in the Great Walled Country, but this story is only of their Christmas season. One can imagine what a fine thing their Christmas must be so near the North Pole, with ice and snow everywhere; but this is not all. Grandfather Christmas lives just on the north side of the country, so that his house leans against the great wall and would tip over if it were not for its support. Grandfather Christmas is his name in the Great Walled country; no doubt we would call him Santa Claus here. At any rate, he is the same person, and best of all the children in the world, he loves the children behind the great wall of ice.
One very pleasant thing about having Grandfather Christmas for a neighbor is that in the Great Walled Country they never have to buy their Christmas presents. Every year on the day before Christmas, before he makes up his bundles for the rest of the world, Grandfather Christmas goes into a great forest of Christmas trees that grows just back of the home and fills the trees with candy and books and toys and all sorts of good things, so when night comes, all the children wrap up snugly, so that none of his friends can see what he has gathered, and no one ever thinks of such a thing as taking a present for himself. The forest is so big that there is room for all the people and no one sees the secrets and presents, and there are always enough nice things to go around.
But there was once a time, so many years ago that they would have forgotten about it if the story were not written in their Big book and read to them every year, when the children in the Great Walled country had a very strange Christmas. There came a visitor to the land. He was an old man, and was the first stranger, for very many years, who had succeeded in getting over the wall.
When this old man inquired about their Christmas celebration, and was told how they carried it out every year he said to the king, “That is very well, but I should think that children who have Grandfather Christmas for a neighbor could find a better and easier way. You tell me you all go out on Christmas Eve to gather presents to give to one another the next morning. Why take so much trouble, and act in such a round-about way? Why not go out together, and everyone could pick out just what he wanted for himself.”
They decided it was a very practical idea and so the proclamation was made, and the plan seemed as wise to the children of the country as it had to the king and his counselors. Everyone at some time had been a little disappointed with his Christmas gifts, and now there would be no danger of that.
On Christmas Eve they always had a meeting at the palace, and sang carols until the time for going to the forest. When the clock struck ten, everyone said, “I wish you a Merry Christmas!” to the person nearest him, and then they separated to go on their way to the forest. On this particular night it seemed to the king that the music was not quite so merry as usual, and that when the spoke to one another their eyes did not shine as gladly as he had noticed them in other years; but there could be no reason for this, since everyone was expecting a better time than usual. So he thought no more of it.
There was only one other person at the palace that night who was not pleased with the new
proclamation about the Christmas gifts. This was a little boy named Inge, who lived not far from the palace with his sister. Now this sister was a cripple, and had to sit all day looking out of the window from her chair; and Inge took care of her, and tried to make her happy form morning to night. He had always gone to the forest on Christmas Eve and returned with his arms and pockets full of pretty things for his sister, which would keep her amused all the coming year. And although she was not able to go after presents for her brother, he did not mind at all, especially as he had other friends who never forgot to divide their good things with him.
But now, said Inge to himself, what would his sister do? For the King had ordered that no one should gather presents except for himself, or any more than he could carry away at once. All of Inge’s friends were busy planning what they would pick for themselves, but the poor crippled child could not go a step toward the forest. After thinking about it for a long time, Inge decided that it would not be wrong, if, instead of taking gifts for himself, he took them altogether for his sister. This he would be very glad to do; for what did a boy who could run about and play in the snow, care for presents, compared with a little girl who could only sit still and watch others having a good time? Inge did not ask the advice of anyone, for he was a little afraid others would tell him not to do it, but he silently made up his mind not to obey the proclamation.
And now the chimes had struck ten, and the children were making their way toward the forest, in starlight that was so bright that it almost showed their shadows on the sparkling snow. As soon as they came to the edge of the forest, they separated, each on going by himself in the old way, though now there was really no reason why they should have secrets from one another.
Ten minutes later, if you had been in the forest, you might have seen the children standing in dismay with tears on their faces, and exclaiming that they had never seen such a Christmas Eve before. For as they looked eagerly about them to the low-bending branches of the evergreen trees, they saw nothing hanging from them that they had seen other Christmas Eves. No presents. No one could guess whether Grandfather Christmas had forgotten them, or whether some dreadful accident had kept him away.
As the children were trooping out of the forest after hours of weary searching, some of them came upon little Inge, who carried over his shoulder a bag that seemed to be full to overflowing. When he saw them looking at him he cried; “Are they not beautiful things? I think Grandfather Christmas was never so good to us before.”
“Why, what do you mean?” cried the children. “There are no presents in the forest!”
“No presents!” Inge said. “I have a bag full of them.” But he did not offer to show them, because he did not want the children to see that they were really all for his sister, instead of him.
Then the children begged him to tell them in what part of the forest he had found his presents, and he turned back and pointed them to the place where he had been.
“I left many more behind than I brought away,” he said. “There they are! I can see some of the things shining on the trees even from here.” But when the children followed his footsteps in the snow to the place where he had been, they still saw nothing on the trees, and thought that Inge must be walking in his sleep, and dreaming that he had found presents. Perhaps he had filled his bag with the cones form the evergreen trees.
On Christmas Day there was sadness all through The Great Walled Country. But those who came to the house of Inge and His sister saw plenty of books and dolls and beautiful toys piled up about the little cripple’s chair, and when they asked where those things came from, and were told. “Why, from the Christmas tree forest.” And they shook their heads, not knowing what it meant.
The king held a council and appointed a committee to go on a very hard journey to visit Grandfather Christmas and see if they could find out what was the matter.
They had to go down Father Christmas’s chimney and when they reached the bottom of it they found themselves in the very room where Grandfather Christmas lay sound asleep. It was very difficult to wake him, but when they finally did, the prince, who was in charge of the committee said, “Oh, sir! We have come from the king of The Great Walled Country, who has sent us to ask why you forgot us this Christmas, and left no presents in the forest?”
“No presents?” said Grandfather Christmas. “I never forgot anything. The presents were there. You did not see them, that’s all.
The children told him they had searched long and hard and found nothing. “Indeed!” said Grandfather Christmas.
“And did little Inge, the boy with crippled sister find none?” The committee had heard about that and didn’t know what to say.
“The presents were there, but they were not intended for children who were looking only for
themselves. I am not surprised that you could not see them. Remember, that not everything that wise travelers tell you is wise.”
The Proclamation was made next year that everyone was to seek gifts for others!

December 6 (part 1)

Pattern of Love

by Jack Smith

I didn't question Timmy, age nine, or his seven-year-old brother Billy about the brown wrapping paper they passed back and forth between them as we visited each store.

Every year at Christmas time, our service club takes the needy children in our town on a personally conducted shopping tour. I was assigned Timmy and Billy, whose father was out of work. After giving them the allotted $4 each, we began our trip. At different stores I made suggestions, but always their answer was a solemn shake of the head, no. Finally I asked, "Where would you suggest we look?"

"Could we go to a shoe store, sir?" answered Timmy, "we'd like a pair of shoes for our Daddy so he can go to work."

In the shoe store the clerk asked what the boys wanted. Out came the brown paper. "We want a pair of work shoes to fit this foot." Billy explained that it was a pattern of their Daddy's foot. They had drawn it while he was asleep in a chair.

The clerk held the paper against a measuring stick, then walked away. Soon he came with an open box. "Will these do?" he asked. Timmy and Billy handled the shoes with great eagerness.

"How much do they cost?" asked Billy.

Then Timmy saw the price on the box. "They're $16.95," he said in dismay. "We only have $8."

I looked at the clerk and he cleared his throat. "That's the regular price," he said, "but they're on sale for $3.98, today only." Then with shoes happily in hand the boys bought gifts for their mother and two little sisters. Not once did they think of themselves.

The day after Christmas the boys' father stopped me on the street. The new shoes were on his feet, gratitude was in his eyes. "I just thank Jesus for people who care," he said.

"And I thank Jesus for your two sons," I replied. "They taught me more about Christmas in one evening than I had learned in a lifetime."

December 6 (part 2)

Mr. Jinks Hands Out The Holly

David had just finished making a snowman. He was very large and round with the jolliest face ever. He wore a high hat and a red plaid muffler, although, why any snowman should want a muffler, David didn’t quite know. He only knew that it seemed to suit Mr. Jinks.

Of course his name was Mr. Jinks because that was what David named every snowman he had ever made. He had made several—three this very winter, but not one of them had seemed as handsome and jolly looking as the present Mr. Jinks.

“I’m glad that you’re close to the sidewalk,” David told him, “because you look as if you were wishing everyone a Merry Christmas.”

He had just added another coal button when the parcel-post truck drove up and the driver carried a huge box into the house. “I’ll bet that’s the holly Grandpa sent from Oregon, “ David called, following the man into the house.

“Yes, I’m sure it is,” replied his mother. When they had opened the box she said, “there’s an extra lot this year. We can make wreaths for every one of the front windows.”

David helped, and when all the wreaths had been made, there was a large basket of small pieces left over.

“I wonder what we can do with these,” David’s mother asked? “They are much too pretty to be thrown away.”

“I know!” cried David. “I’ll let Mr. Jinks give them away. He can help make a merry Christmas for everyone who passes.”

“I think that’s a lovely idea,” Mother agreed. “And I’m sure that Mr. Jinks will think so too.”

First, David made a sign which read “Merry Christmas. Help yourself.” Then he took the basket of holly out and propped it up in front of the snowman. After that he stood in one of the front windows to watch the people pass.

Mr. Bromley, the banker, was the first one to come by. He was walking very fast and looking straight ahead. David was very much afraid that Mr. Bromley was going to pass right by without so much as a glance.

But no, he saw the sign and stopped long enough to put a sprig of holly in his button hole. David could see a smile on the banker’s face and he couldn’t remember ever having seen him smile before. David quickly reminded himself that he didn’t see Mr. Bromley very often and that maybe it worried him to have so much money in the bank that belonged to other people.

Next came Mrs. Ross, who worked in the bakery. She was walking slowly, as if she was very tired. “I guess that she has been making hundreds of fruit cakes, “ said David to himself. When she noticed Mr. Jinks’ smiling face, she smiled back and took a sprig of holly. Then she walked along as if she weren’t nearly so tired.

Some boys with ice skates came next. They each took some holly and called to the snowman, “Thanks, old fellow. A Merry Christmas to you, too”

David watched people go by until it grew too dark for him to see any longer. “Mr. Jinks sure made a merry Christmas for a lot of people,” he said to his mother.

“So he did,” she smiled. “With the help of you and Grandpa”

December 6 (part 3)

Christmas Is For Sharing
by Richard Warner

I knew that Homer had wanted canyon boots for as long as I could remember. He was eleven and I ten, and we had spent many nights under the blue quilts at the cabin talking about how great it would be to have some real boots...boots that would climb through thorny bushes, that would ward off rattlesnakes, that would nudge the ribs of the pony; we had planned the kind of leather they should be and what kind of decoration they should have. But we both knew it was just talk. The depression had been hard on Father's business, and even shoes for school were usually half soled hand me downs.
Christmas that year had promised as always to be exciting, though mainly because of the handmade things we'd worked on in school for our parents. We never had money to spend on each other, but we had caught early in our lives a sort of contagion from our mother. She loved to give, and her anticipation of the joy that a just right gift would bring to someone inflected our whole household. We were swept up in the breathless waiting to see how others would like what we had to give. Secrecy ruled - open exaggerated secrecy, as we made and hid our gifts. The only one whose hiding place we never discovered was my Grandmother's. Her gifts seemed to materialize by magic on Christmas morning and were always more expensive than they should have been.
That Christmas I was glowing because Mother had been so happy with the parchment lamp shade I'd made in the fourth grade, and Father had raved over the clay jewelry case I had molded and baked for him. Gill and Emma Lou had been pleased with figures I'd whittled out of clothespins, and Homer had liked the Scout pin I'd bargained for with my flint. Then Grandma started to pass out her presents.
Mine was heavy and square. I'd been in the hospital that year and then on crutches, and I'd wondered how it would be to have an Erector set to build with. Grandma had a knack at reading boy's minds, and I was sure that's what it was. But it wasn't. It was a pair of boots, brown tangy-smelling leather boots.
I looked quickly to Homer's package. his was a sweater. he'd needed one all fall. I wanted to cover my box before he saw what it was. I didn't want the boots; they should have been his. He came toward me, asking to see, and I started to say, "I'm sorry, bruv."
But he was grinning, and he shouted, "Hey everybody....look what Richard's got." He swooped the boots out of the box, and fondled them like treasure, and then sat on the floor at my feet to take off my half-soled shoes and put on the brand new boots.
I don't remember how the boots felt, nor even how they looked. But Christmas rang in my soul because my brother was glad for me.

December 7 (part 1)

The Legend of the Spiders

Many, many Christmas Eves ago, in a certain house in a little town in Germany, it was customary for all the house animals to gather after the family was in bed and view the Christmas tree (which was, of course, decorated from top to bottom with beautiful sparkling lights and glistening glass balls).
And so, when the last footstep had sounded on the upstairs floor, and deep, sleepy snores filled the bedrooms, the creatures gathered around the twinkling tree. the yellow canary chirped and warbled in wonder, flitting brightly from branch to branch. The aloof tabby at first lounged about licking its paws, but was soon prowling intently beneath the glimmering tree, eyes round and shining with obvious delight. The family dog gazed contentedly at the happy sight, and even the shy, little mice scuttled in for a merry peek.
In this manner, all the creatures of the house appeared. All except the small gray spiders. And where were they? Well, the house mother (a neat and tidy woman) had no use for spiders. She was continually going around with a big broom, sweeping things up, so the spiders had to run off double quick. It was only in the most remote nooks and crannies of the house that the spiders were even close to being safe.
But the spiders longed to see the marvelous tree, the beautiful tree all bright and shining. So they complained to the Christmas Fairy (who loves all creatures, even the homeliest and most humble) and the Christmas Fairy let them in to see the tree when everyone else was gone.
What a time they had! They all came...creepy, creepy, creepy...from the attic and the cellar, from the walls and along the hall, and into the beautiful room. Dainty little mama spiders and big proud papa spiders and teensy weensy baby spiders and respected old grandpa spiders all came and looked. Such a marvelous sight! And then, they began to climb, branch to branch, needle to needle, ball to ball. To the very tip top star and down again they went, creepy, crawly, in and out, right up close to every pretty little thing they could see.
Finally, they were done. Slowly, silently, contentedly, they crept down and disappeared and vanished - just like that! But the tree - it was now covered with cobwebs - dull, gray cobwebs from top to bottom! Not a twig had the little spiders missed.
Now the Christmas Fairy knew well how the house mother disliked cobwebs, and she knew how much the children would be disappointed to find their tree, so carefully decorated, covered with dull webs. And she loved them all too. So she leaned and touched the webs and in a brief moment they all turned to shimmering silver, like glimmering icicles. Never, in all time, had there been such a tree, and it was hard to say who had been more excited to see it, all the little spiders or the children when they awoke on Christmas morning!

December 7 (part 2)

Keeping Baby Warm
by Lynda H. Laughlin

It was an inexpensive dime-store Nativity set, and he was only three years old. His back was toward me, but I could see that his chubby little hands were busily working on something at the old table.
"What are you doing?" I asked him impatiently, annoyed at him for touching the decorations after he had been told not to.
As I started toward the scene of his latest mischief, he turned toward me with wide blue eyes, a single tear started down his cherubic cheek. Then I saw it. A carefully folded tissue had been tenderly placed over the small ceramic infant.
"Baby Jesus was cold, Mommy," he whispered.
Ten years have passed, and the tiny Nativity has been replaced by a much larger one. But this year, as every year, I found a carefully folded tissue covering the baby Jesus. I think I know who did it, and I hope he never stops.

A Christmas Prayer
by Robert Lewis Stevenson

Loving Father, help us remember the birth of Jesus, that we may share in the song of the angels, the gladness of the shepherds, and the worship of the wise men.
Close the door of hate and open the door of love all over the world. Let kindness come with every gift and good desires with every greeting.
Deliver us from evil by the blessing which Christ brings, and teach us to be merry with clear hearts.
May the Christmas morning make us happy to be Thy children, and the Christmas evening bring us to our beds with grateful thoughts, forgiving and forgiven, for Jesus' sake. Amen.

December 7 (part 3)

The Travelers
by Margery S. Stewart

It was a hot, dusty, turbulent day in Bethlehem. The narrow, dirty streets were crowded with camels and donkeys and tired travelers. The women found it hard to draw water from the wells because of the press of the crowd.
At the inn, it seemed more brawling, more noisy, more dusty than anywhere else. We were filled from courtyard to gate, sleeping spaces as valuable as camels. It was a grim, endless day for me, for I must superintend the maids and the stable boys, and strive to keep a semblance of order about the place. My husband, Jasper, strode back and forth, shouting at the servants, browbeating the more humble of the travelers and berating me for a thousand and on things that had gone amiss.
"Dorcas!" thundered my husband for the dozenth time in an hour. "More men come seeking shelter. Turn them away."
I went swiftly, the anger and impatience in his voice taking seed in my heart and spourting swiftly into its own dark violence. "There is no room," I shouted, without waiting for their request. "No room at all."
There were fice of them, five dusty, bearded men. Their leader bowed. "But we have sickness among us, surely that makes a difference." I looked to where they pointed and saw an old woman lying in the dust of the street on an improvised litter. She was like my mother, little and fragile, the wrinkles like a veil over her face. I went to Jasper.
"There is an old one," I pleaded, "a little old one and very sick. Let us make room for her."
Jasper turned on me in rage, clawing his black beard. "I told you to send them away. Sick! There be many sick among them. That is no concern of ours. Send them away and ask me no more for any." He glared at me, his eyes cold and menacing under the eave of his brows.
I backed away. "As you say, Jasper." I went back to the gate. "There is no room." I shouted. "No room at all. Begone all of you! All of you!"
My shouting voice seemed to take all my strength with it. I leaned against the gate, shaken and sick: I was aware of someone standing beside me. I looked up.
He was a tall man, with a long brown beard, well flecked with gray. his eyes were brown, too. He wore a rough robe and carried a staff. There was a compelling quietness about him for all his dusty clothes, and his knotted hands and the dust upon his feet. "I must have a room," he said.
He did not nod with his head, no indicate in any way, but I looked past him as though drawn by the force of his concern and saw her. My first thought was wonder, that his wife should be so young, her face tender as a maids, with the clear color in it. She was sitting on a small gray donkey; her blue robes trailed down her side. She was with child, and I started, wondering that anyone would travel in such condition, until I remembered that all the travelers were under a decree and came not of choice.
I wrung my hands. "There isn't room." I said. "All day we have had to turn men away. There is no corner left."
"I must have room," said the tall traveler. "You are a woman, there is compassion in you for a sister in need."
"There is no room," I repeated heavily. "If I should ask my husband, his anger would lash on me, and for no good reason, for one cannot make space where there is none."
He turned instantly to her. "Let us go to the well, Mary. There be many there, you shall have fresh water and I will meet with many people. Surely we will find a place for you."
He picked up the reins and the small gray beast lifted his head and plodded on.
I should have gone in - there were linens to be counted, water pitchers to be filled, straw to be strewn. Instead I leaned against the gate following the blue robed figure in the malestrom of the street.
"Why stand you thus, dreaming?: Jasper demanded behind me, his voice rsping. "There is much to be done. One of the maids is sick and there is none to take her place at the milking."
"I will help," I said, and fled from his presence which was like darkness after sunlight.
It was quiet and cool in the stable. It had been built out of a great cave in the hills behind the inn. Jasper was a careful man with all his goods, and the stable was not less clean then the inn. I caught my breath and stared about me. With the cattle in their stalls and the floor swept and scrubbed, it would be a place - oh, better than the roadside and other places more dreadful, where the man Joseph might be driven to take the little Mary.
I caught up the bucket of milk and carried it to the kitchen. I said to Miriam, the cook, "I will go for the water this evening."
She nodded her covered head. "Aye", and I caught up the pitcher, put it on my shoulder and hurried out of the inn, into the whirling current of the street. The crowd around the well was deeper than it had been at noonday. The faces here were troubled and very tired. The man, Joseph was talking to Marya, the widow. She had a large house.
But she shook her head abruptly and turned away from him.
So they still had no place at all. I stepped forward. "Sir," I said, "I have a room."
Even in his great anxiety, his turning was quiet.
"It is a very poor place, in the stable, but I will scrub it myself, and sweep and prepare a place for you."
Joseph touched my shoulder, "You are kind," he said, "But a stable...for Mary? I will look further..."
Mary leaned down from the donkey. "There is no time, Joseph, we must take it and be grateful for it."
I said, "I will run ahead and prepare a bed for you."
I forced my way through the crowd about the well, let down my pitcher, drew of the cold delicious water and hurried through the crowds back to the inn. I should have asked Jasper first. What if he turned on me and ordered me to send them away again?
"Jasper," I said, giving the pitcher to Miriam, "There is a favor I would ask of you."
He threw down his napkin. "Always you come whining for favors when my mind is reeling with all the things my guests have asked me to do. Well, what is it?"
"The stable," I said, "Is a clean, quiet place. I thought I might give it to pilgrims for the night. At least they would have shelter."
"No!" shouted Jasper, and then his face grew still and speculative. "They would have to pay for it, the same as any room."
"They would pay, Jasper. I would see to that."
He rose and wiped his mouth. "Then fill the stable if you like. I care not."
All the weariness the day had fastened upon me vanished like an oxen yoke lifted by the master. I seized brooms and brushes and wooden buckets.
The floor was still damp when Mary and Joseph bent their heads to enter the low door, but the place had the clean smell of a fresh scrubbing. I was making a bed of straw. "Miriam," I said, "run swiftly to the house and get me linens and a coverlet." I gave her the key. "But this key is to your good linens," She said.
"You have the key," I said coldly, and went forward to receive the guests. Mary looked all about. "How quiet it is," she said, "and cool.
Joseph looked troubled. "But a stable." He protested, "Mary, Mary, this is no place for thee."
"Peace Joseph, it shall be well with me."
I said, "I...found a little manger you might use. I filled it with straw."
Mary looked to where I pointed. She smiled and went slowly and heavily to the rough, makeshift crib and touched it. Her fingers pressed down the straw. "I will put my robe under him, folded several times. It will make a good bed."
She straightened and was still. Her eyes closed and the whiteness ran into her lips. I took her arm. "Come, sit here on this stool until I make your bed."
She straightened and was still. Her eyes closed and the whiteness ran into her lips. I took her arm. "Come, sit here on this stool until I make your bed."
Miriam came bustling in, her arms filled with linens. Together we made the bed and stretched Mary upon it and covered her over with the coverlet, one never used before, one I had woven the previous winter.
Miriam looked down on Mary. "Poor, poor child. What a pity she couldn't have had her baby at home, in her own home, under her own roof, with her people near."
"The weariness of the journey makes a double portion," I said. "Do go swiftly and bring her a cup of your good soup, and some of the bread you baked this afternoon."
I said to Joseph, "Build a fire outside the stable and put water on to boil. This night will be a busy one for us all."
And so it was, the hours grinding away, and no noise at all in the stable except the blowing of the cattle and the stamping of their feet and the unheard sound of pain that women know. I knew. I had borne two and lost them both...I knew well the wracking of the flesh when they came and the tearing of the soul when they were taken away. But this I had not known before, that such a hush should come, that the stillness would grow and deepen until we talked seldom, and then only in whispers. The great hush that was in us all and in the humble room deepened and deepened and grew in intensity, until Miriam and I could only speak with our eyes as we bent above Mary.
We smoothed her forehead in silence and we held her hands. Then suddenly in the night, in the hush and the quietness, the child was born.
I held him and he cried, the new child cry, that is like no other in all the world. My arms circled him about, hungrily, loving his smallness and perfectness. My eyes marveled over him, seeing in him the seed from which the tree of the man grow. Seeing in him the buds of his hearing and sight that would open and unfurl and see and har, knowing that in him beat the perfect and untouched heart that would grow and know suffering and happiness and grief and be scarred with many scars before it should be still.
"This is not a usual child," I said to Miriam, as I bathed him.
"They say that always," said Miriam soberly, "and yet I say with you, this is not a usual child."
One of the maids came running with the summons from Jasper that he wanted me at once.
I rose and brought the child to Mary. She opened her eyes when she felt me standing beside her and smiled and held out her hands for the baby.
"It is a son," I said.
"I know."
Running along the pathway to the inn, I marveled that she had said that. How could she have known.
When I returned from the inn, two hours later, in the stable, all was still. Joseph sat beside Mary's bed, not speaking; the baby slept in the manger. I tiptoed over to look at him. he slept sweetly, small, mysteriously as all babies are mysterious, beautiful as new babies are, with their small curled fists and closed eyes and tender skin.
Suddenly there was a commotion at the door. Joseph rose up instantly and I went behind him. We peered out in the darkness and saw the torches coming along the path from the Inn. Joseph stepped out. the men surged forward. "Whom do you seek?" Joseph asked quietly.
The leader stepped forward, a great, rugged man. "We seek a child, born this night in Bethlehem."
Joseph said, after a moment, "There is here a child born this night."
The four men behind the leader fell back. They murmured one to another and tears gleamed on their harsh bearded cheeks.
The leader spoke gruffly, tears thickening his voice. "This night we wer ewatching our sheep on the hills east of Bethlehem...suddenly...suddenly an angel of the Lord appeared unto us."
"We were sore afraid," murmured the shepherds, crowding behind him, "sore afraid."
The leader nodded. "It is like a sword in the bosom to behold an angel of God. But he said unto us, to fear not, but to be of great joy, for unto us is born, this night, in the city of David, a Saviour, who is...Christ...the Lord."
"Oh, no!" I fell back from his word. I looked from the ragged man in the darkness to the baby in the manger, his small face lighted by the candle burning beside him.
"But the Great One cometh in clouds of glory, in a golden chariot." I whispered.
The grizzled leader nodded. "So thought we all, until this night. Christ...the Lord, in a manger. But there was not only this angel, but the skies were filled with a multitude..." his voice deepened with wonder and tears crowded him, "a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and singing, "Peace on earth, good will toward men."
"Peace on earth." I whispered. I trembled there in the cave.
Joseph stepped aside. "The child lieth in the manger."
One of the men pushed forward. "That spoke the angel also, 'and this shall be a sign unto you, that you will find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger.'"
They came forward hesitantly their faces shining, tears wet on their cheeks. They knelt beside the manger and prayed and worshipped the baby. I wept, too, standing back in the shadows. There was a glory in the night that filled my heart and overflowed through all my being.
Jasper woke when I crept into the room. "Where have you been, Dorcas?"
"In the stable with a young mother who had her first child," I told him, "A beautiful boy!"
Jasper grunted. "Ther is strange tales that go about the streets. They say shepherds came down from the hills seeking a first born son, saying he was the Savior...Christ the Lord."
I caught my breath. "The came to the stable." I whispered. "They worshipped the child."
Jasper sat up. "Preposterous!" he exploded. "Blasphemy. Have no more to do with them. Do you hear!"
"But Japser, I was there. There was a glory. I felt it. Why should it be so strange? Moses was fished from the river...Samuel, the prophet, was a little lad when he heard the voice of God...humble ones."
Jasper pounded his fist in his palm. "But I know, Dorcas. I know. Emmanuel shall not come in humble fashion, but in a chariot of gold. He shall ride out of the skies and deliver us from our enemies."
"Yes, Jasper...but this..."
"You doubt me, we woman, small woman! You doubt me?!"
"No Jasper...only...only." I lay on my pallet. The night swept back and forth in my mind, all the small details. The shepherds' rough robes, and the broken sandal on the leader's foot. mary's face, pale with pain in the candlelight. The hush before the birth. The angel's song. "Peace on earth...god will toward men..." I turned on my pillow and prayed, but I was only a woman, childless and lonely, not greatly loved by my husband.
Sleep would not come. I rose at last and put on my robes and went softly out into the dawning. The world was very still. In the courtyard the shepherds knelt in prayer, before they hastened back to the hills.
I went along the path to the stables. Inside all was dark. Joseph slept on a pallet by the door. Mary slept in the bed we had made for her, one arm thrown across her face. The baby slept, too, the light, lovely sleep of new, little ones.
I looked at him for a long time, and then, I too, dropped to my knees, for within me, not from without, came the singing knowledge, the beauty and the promise.
I touched the forehead, small and fair beneath my work-coursened finger. "Sleep well, little one...sleep well...Long lieth the road before Thee."

December 8

A Different Kind Of Christmas

Martha had tried to ignore the approach of Christmas. It was fairly easy, what with all the work to do around the cabin—the meals to prepare, the rugs to braid to cover the earthen floors, the lye soap to make, the snow to keep cleared away from the door, and the myriad of other things necessary to sustain life in the bleak valley. She would have kept it almost entirely out of her thoughts if Jed had not come eagerly into the cabin one day, stomping the snow from his cold feet as he said in an excited voice, "Martha, we're going to have a Christmas tree this year anyway. I spotted a cedar on that rise out south of the wheat field, over near the Norton's place. It's a scrubby thing, but it will do, since we can't get a pine. Maybe Christmas will be a little different here, but it will still be the kind of Christmas we used to have." It was a two-day journey from their home on the floor of the wide valley to the mountains where there were pine trees, and none of the settlers felt they could spare the time that busy first year to go after trees. Besides, the snow was too high to do any unnecessary travel.

As she shook her head, Martha noticed that Daniel glanced quickly up from the corner where he was playing, patiently tying together some sticks with bits of string left over from the quilt she had tied a few days earlier. She drew Jed as far away from the boy as possible.

"I don't want a tree," she said. "We won't be celebrating Christmas. Even a tree couldn't make it the kind of Christmas we used to have." Jed's face set in lines that were becoming familiar. "Martha, we've got to do something. For the boy, at least. Children set such a store by Christmas."

"Don't you think I know? All those years of fixing things for Maybelle and Stellie. I know all about kids and Christmas." She stopped and drew a deep breath, glancing over to see that Daniel was occupied and not listening. "But I can't do those things for him. It would be like a knife in my heart, fixing a tree and baking cookies and making things for—for another woman's child when my own girls are back there on that prairie."
"Martha, Martha," Jed said softly. "It's been almost a year and a half. That's all over, and Danny needs you. He needs a Christmas like he remembers." She turned her back to his pleading face. "I can't," she said. "Besides, what could he remember? He was only a little more than five when his own mother died, and I don't think his pa did much last Christmas." Jed touched her shoulder gently. "I know how hard it is for you, Martha. But think of the boy." He turned and went back out into the snowy weather.

Think of the boy. Why should she think of him when her own children, her two blue-eyed, golden-curled daughters, had been left beside the trail back there on that endless, empty prairie? The boy came to her not because she wanted him but because she couldn't say no to the bishop back in Salt Lake City last April before they came to settle in this valley. Bishop Clay had brought Daniel to her and Jed one day and said, "I want you to care for this lad. His mother died on the trek last summer and his father passed away last week. He needs a good home."

Jed had gripped the bishop's hand and with tears in his eyes thanked him, but Martha had turned away from the sight of the thin, ragged, six-year-old boy who stood before them, not fast enough, however, to miss the sudden brief smile he flashed at her, a smile that should have caught her heart and opened it wide. Her heart was closed, though, locked tightly around the memory of her two gentle little girls. She didn't want a noisy, rowdy boy banging around, disturbing those memories, filling the cabin with a boy's loud games.

Yet she had taken him, because she felt she had no choice. Faced with the bishop's request—more of an order, really—and Jed's obvious joy, she couldn't refuse. He came with them out to this new valley west of the Salt lake settlement and had proved himself a great help to Jed, despite his young age. Sometimes Martha felt pity for him, but she didn't love him.

With Jed it was different. He had accepted Daniel immediately as his own son and enjoyed having the boy with him. They had a special relationship, a secret sharing that sometimes shut Martha out and made her wonder once, when she could bear to think of it, how Jed had felt about somehow seeming to be just outside the charmed circle she and her daughters had formed. Not that she really resented Jed and Daniel's relationship—she was glad Jed gave the boy some attention since she so often ignored him—but sometimes she felt that Jed had grown to love the boy more than he did her. She told him as much one evening after the man and boy had come laughing together into the cabin only to sober up when they saw her, but not before one of those quick smiles from Daniel, the smile she was never sure had actually been there, it was gone so fast.

When Daniel went back outside for a bucket of water, Martha spoke to Jed." Seems as if you enjoy the boy's company more than you do mine these days." Jed didn't look her quite squarely in the eye. "That's not so, Martha." "The two of you laughing together all the time. You never laugh with me anymore." His voice was quiet. "You don't seem to find much to laugh about lately, Martha." It was true, of course. When the girls were with them they had been a happy family, laughing at humor and hardship alike. It just seemed as if all her laughter had also been buried on that grim morning back on the desolate prairie. "I'm sorry, Jed," Martha said. "I just can't seem to forget my girls. I can't feel that close to that boy. He's always so serious around me. Almost like he's afraid. Calls me 'Aunt Martha.' I notice he calls you 'Pa.' Did you tell him to call you that?" "No. He just started doing it. He's just a little fellow, Martha, but he knows how people feel about him. He needs more than just a full stomach and a place to sleep."

"I know," she said. "I know." She was ashamed that she could deny love to a child. Any child. She tried harder after that, but she found she was always comparing him with her daughters. They had been soft and yielding, a pleasure to hold close. Daniel was bony and wiry, and his small body was hard-muscled from the work he did with Jed. The girls had been golden-curled and had taken pride in keeping their little pinafores neat and clean. Daniel was always grimy; he seemed to attract dirt, and his shirt always hung out from his overalls. The girls had liked to play quietly in the house with their rag dolls. Daniel preferred the outdoors, where he had full-scale, one-man battles, playing the parts of both settlers and Indians and making enough noise for any real fight.

It seemed as if he was always doing something to plague her. Not intentionally, to be sure. At least Jed said not. Just the high spirits and imagination of a boy, Jed said. There was the time he took her best tied quilt outside to build a tepee by the creek bank. By the time she found it, it was muddy and bedraggled and had to be laboriously washed.

Another day he got into the trunk she had brought across the plains and was playing with the carved wooden animals Grandpa Elliot had made for Maybelle and Stellie. She couldn't bear to see them in his hands and had scolded him soundly for opening the trunk. Another day he pulled up most of the flowers she had grown from the precious seeds brought from Nauvoo. He said he wanted to surprise her by pulling the weeds, but he couldn't tell which were weeds and which were flowers. He broke precious dishes and tore clothes that could not easily be replaced. And so Martha told Jed that she wanted him to take Daniel back to Salt Lake on his next trip for supplies and to give him back to Bishop Clay.

Jed looked at her for a long time before he answered, "Yes, maybe that would be best. For the boy's sake. I'll take him when I go in January."
Daniel seemed to sense something, because he tried to please her after that and was careful not to annoy her. When winter came and he had to be indoors much of the time, he tried to play quietly, although occasionally the natural inclinations of a boy took over and he had to be reprimanded. Martha wished that Sister Norton had been able to establish the school for the children of the settlers, but she had been unable to get any slates or copy books and had decided to wait until the next fall.

Daniel mentioned Christmas only once. One day it was too cold and snowy to play outside, and he had been humming softly to himself as he played in his corner. Suddenly he looked up at Martha and asked, "Can you sing, Aunt Martha?" Martha paused and straightened up from the table where she was kneading bread. She used to sing for her girls all the time. "No, I can't, Daniel," she said. "Not any more." "My mother used to sing a pretty song at Christmas," he said. "I wish I could remember it." He said nothing more, and she did not question him. She didn't want to stir up any further memories of Christmas, since she didn't intend to observe the day. Perhaps he did recall snatches of past Christmases, but certainly he wouldn't remember enough that it would make any difference to him.

Martha couldn't help thinking of Christmases past as the day approached. Three years ago had been the best one, before the persecution of the Saints in Nauvoo got so bad. Maybelle had been seven then, and Stellie five. She had made rag dolls for them with pretty, flouncy dresses and cunning little bonnets. That was the year Grandpa Elliot had given them the carved animals and had also carved a beautiful little toy horse and carriage for Maybelle, promising Stellie he'd make her one when she was seven. Dwelling as she did in her past memories, Martha paid very little attention to Daniel those last few days before Christmas. He went in and out with Jed and she didn't attempt to keep track of him. On the day before Christmas Jed went through the deep snow to do some chores for Brother Norton, who was ill. Daniel was alone outside most of the day, although he made several rather furtive trips in and out of the cabin. On one trip he took the sticks he had been tying together.

Toward evening Martha went out to the stable to milk Rosie, since Jed had not yet returned. As she approached, she saw there was a light inside. Opening the door softly, she peered within. Daniel had lit the barn lantern, and within its glow he knelt in the straw by Rosie's stall. In front of him were the sticks he had tied together, which Martha recognized now as a crude cradle. It held Stellie's rag doll, all wrapped up in the white shawl Martha kept in her trunk, the shawl she had used to wrap her babies. Her impulse was to rush in and snatch it, but she stopped, because the scene was strangely beautiful in the soft light from the lantern. Rosie and the two sheep stood close by, watching Daniel. He seemed to be addressing them when he spoke.

"The shepherds came following the star," he was saying. "And they found the baby Jesus who had been born in a stable." He paused for a moment, then went on. "And his mother loved him." Martha felt suddenly that she couldn't breathe. Another mother, another day, had loved her little boy and had told him the beautiful story of the Christ Child with such love that he hadn't forgotten it, young as he was. And she, Martha, had failed that mother. In the silence she began to sing. "Silent night," she sang. "Holy night." Daniel didn't move until the song was finished. Then he turned with that quick, heart-melting smile. "That's the one," he whispered. "That's the song that my mother used to sing to me."

Martha ran forward and gathered the boy into her arms. He responded immediately, clasping her arms tightly around her. "Danny," Martha said, "it's beautiful. Your cradle and little scene here." "You never called me Danny before," he murmured, his head against her neck. "I didn't do a lot of things," she said. As she held him close, the bands around her heart seemed to loosen and break. "Danny," she said, sitting on the edge of Rosie's manger, "let's go in and get the cabin ready for Christmas. Maybe it isn't too late for Jed—for Pa to get that tree. It might be a little different kind of Christmas, but it will still be a little like the Christmases we used to know. We'll set up your cradle with the Christ Child in it under the tree, because that's what Christmas is all about."

"Do you mind it being different?" Danny asked. "I mean with a boy instead of your girls?" Martha wondered how long it would take her to make up to him for the hurts she had inflicted these many months. "No," she said. "After all, the Baby Jesus was a boy." "That's right," he said wonderingly. "I'll open my trunk," said Martha. "We'll get out those carved animals to put around your manger scene. We'll string some dried berries to put on the tree, and when it's all done the three of us will sing 'Silent Night' and Pa will tell us the story of the Christ Child." She thought about the lovely little carved horse and carriage Maybelle had loved so much, and knew it would be the perfect gift to put under the tree for Danny's Christmas morning. She set him down on the floor and put her arm around his shoulders. "Merry Christmas," she said. "Merry Christmas, Danny." He looked up at her with a smile that did not fade quickly away this time, a sweet smile full of the love he had been waiting to give her.

"Merry Christmas," he said, and then added softly, "Mother."

December 9

The Man Who Missed Christmas
by J. Edgar Park

It was Christmas Eve, and as usual, George Mason was the last to leave the office. He walked over to a massive safe, spun the dials, and swung the heavy door open. Making sure the door would not close behind him, he stepped inside.

A square of white cardboard was taped just above the topmost row of strongboxes. On the card a few words were written. George Mason stared at those words, remembering...

Exactly one year ago he had entered this self-same vault. And then, behind his back, slowly, noiselessly, the ponderous door swung shut. He was trapped--entombed in the sudden and terrifying dark.

He hurled himself at the unyielding door, his hoarse cry sounding like an explosion. Through his mind flashed all the stories he had heard of men found suffocated in time vaults. No time clock controlled this mechanism; the safe would remain locked until it was opened from the outside. Tomorrow morning.

Then realization hit him. No one would come tomorrow--tomorrow was Christmas.

Once more he flung himself at the door, shouting wildly, until he sank on his knees exhausted. Silence came, high-pitched, singing silence that seemed deafening. More than thirty-six hours in a steel box three feet wide, eight feet long, and seven feet high. Would the oxygen last? Panting and breathing heavily, he felt his way around the floor. Then, in the far right-hand corner, just above the floor, he found a small, circular opening. Quickly he thrust his finger into it and felt a faint but unmistakable, cool current of air.

The tension release was so sudden that he burst into tears. But at last he sat up. Surely he would not have to stay trapped for the full thirty-six hours. Somebody would miss him. But who? He was unmarried and lived alone. The maid who cleaned his apartment was just a servant; he had always treated her as such. He had been invited to spend Christmas Eve with his brother's family, but children got on his nerves and expected presents.

A friend had asked him to go to a home for elderly people on Christmas Day and play the piano--George Mason was a good musician. But he had made some excuse or other; he had intended to sit at home, listening to some new recordings he was giving himself.

George Mason dug his nails into the palms of his hands until the pain balanced the misery in his mind. Nobody would come and let him out, nobody, nobody, nobody...

Miserably the whole of Christmas Day went by, and the succeeding night.

On the morning after Christmas the head clerk came into the office at the usual time, opened the safe, then went on into his private office.

No one saw George Mason stagger out into the corridor, run to the water cooler, and drink great gulps of water. No one paid any attention to him as he left and took a taxi home.

Then he shaved, changed his wrinkled clothes, ate breakfast, and returned to his office where his employees greeted him casually.

That day he met several acquaintances and talked to his own brother. Grimly, the truth closed in on George Mason. He had vanished from human society during the great festival of brotherhood and no one had missed him at all.

Reluctantly, George Mason began to think about the true meaning of Christmas. Was it possible that he had been blind all these years with selfishness, indifference, and pride? Was not giving, after all, the essence of Christmas because it marked the time God gave His Son to the world?

All through the year that followed, with little hesitant deeds of kindness, with small, unnoticed acts of unselfishness, George Mason tried to prepare himself..

Now, once more, it was Christmas Eve.

Slowly he backed out of the safe and closed it. He touched its grim, steel face lightly, almost affectionately, and left the office.

There he goes now in his black overcoat and hat, the same George Mason as a year ago. Or is it? He walks a few blocks, and then flags a taxi, anxious not to be late. His nephews are expecting him to help them trim the tree. Afterwards, he is taking his brother and his sister-in-law to a Christmas play. Why is he so happy? Why does this jostling against others, laden as he is with bundles, exhilarate and delight him?

Perhaps the card has something to do with it, the card he taped inside his office safe last New Year's Day. On the card is written, in George Mason's own hand:

"To love people, to be indispensable somewhere, that is the purpose of life. That is the secret of happiness."