December 11 (part 1)

The Three Kings

Three Kings came riding from far away,
Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar;
Three Wise Men out of the East were they,
And they travelled by night and they slept by day,
For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star.

The star was so beautiful, large, and clear,
That all the other stars of the sky
Became a white mist in the atmosphere,
And by this they knew that the coming was near
Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy.

Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows,
Three caskets of gold with golden keys;
Their robes were of crimson silk with rows
Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows,
Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees.

And so the Three Kings rode into the West,
Through the dusk of night, over hill and dell,
And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast
And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest,
With the people they met at some wayside well.

"Of the child that is born," said Baltasar,
"Good people, I pray you, tell us the news;
For we in the East have seen his star,
And have ridden fast, and have ridden far,
To find and worship the King of the Jews."

And the people answered, "You ask in vain;
We know of no king but Herod the Great!"
They thought the Wise Men were men insane,
As they spurred their horses across the plain,
Like riders in haste, and who cannot wait.

And when they came to Jerusalem,
Herod the Great, who had heard this thing,
Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them;
And said, "Go down unto Bethlehem,
And bring me tidings of this new king."

So they rode away; and the star stood still,
The only one in the gray of morn
Yes, it stopped, it stood still of its own free will,
Right over Bethlehem on the hill,
The city of David, where Christ was born.

And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard,
Through the silent street, till their horses turned
And neighed as they entered the great inn-yard;
But the windows were closed, and the doors were barred,
And only a light in the stable burned.

And cradled there in the scented hay,
In the air made sweet by the breath of kine,
The little child in the manger lay,
The child, that would be king one day
Of a kingdom not human but divine.

His mother Mary of Nazareth
Sat watching beside his place of rest,
Watching the even flow of his breath,
For the joy of life and the terror of death
Were mingled together in her breast.

They laid their offerings at his feet:
The gold was their tribute to a King,
The frankincense, with its odor sweet,
Was for the Priest, the Paraclete,
The myrrh for the body's burying.

And the mother wondered and bowed her head,
And sat as still as a statue of stone;
Her heart was troubled yet comforted,
Remembering what the Angel had said
Of an endless reign and of David's throne.

Then the Kings rode out of the city gate,
With a clatter of hoofs in proud array;
But they went not back to Herod the Great,
For they knew his malice and feared his hate,
And returned to their homes by another way.

December 11 (part 2)

The Christmas I Remember Best
by Rheuama A. West

It should have been the worst, the bleakest of Christmases. It turned out to be the loveliest of all my life. I was nine years old, one of seven children, and we lived in a little farming town in Utah. It had been a tragic year for all of us. But we still had our father, and that made all the difference. Every year in our town a Christmas Eve Social was held at the church. How well I remember Dad buttoning our coats, placing us all on our long, homemade sleigh and pulling us to the church about a mile away. It as snowing. How cold and good it felt on our faces. We held tight to one another, and above the crunch of snow beneath Dad’s feet we could hear him softly whistling “Silent Night.” Mama had died that previous summer. She had been confined to bed for three years, so Dad had assumed all mother and father responsibilities. I remember him standing me on a stool by our big round kitchen table and teaching me to mix bread. But by main task was being Mama’s hand and feet unto that day in June, her own birthday, when she died. Two months later came the big fire. Our barns, sheds, haystacks and livestock were destroyed. It was a calamity, but dad stood between us and the disaster. We weren’t even aware of how poor we were. We had no money at all. I don’t remember much about the Christmas Eve Social. I just remember Dad pulling us there and pulling us back. Later, in the front room around our pot bellied stove, he served us our warm milk and bread. Our Christmas tree, topped by a worn cardboard angel, had been brought from the nearby hills. Strings of our home-grown popcorn made it the most beautiful tree I had ever seen–or smelled. After supper, Dad make all seven of us sit in a half circle by the tree. I remember I wore a long flannel nightgown. He sat on the floor facing us and told us that he was ready to give us our Christmas gift. We waited, puzzled because we thought Christmas presents were for Christmas morning. Dad looked at our expectant faces. “Long ago,” he said, “on a night like this, some poor shepherds were watching their sheep on a lonely hillside, when all of a sudden…” He quiet voice went on and on, telling the story of the Christ Child in his own simple words, and I’ll never forget how love and gratitude seemed to fill the room. There was light from the oil lamp and warmth from the stove, but somehow it was more than that. We felt Mama’s presence. We learned that loving someone was far more important than having something. We were filled with peace and happiness and joy. When the story was ended Dad had us all kneel for family prayer. Then he said, “Try to remember, when everything else seems to be lost, the greatest thing of all remains: “God’s love for us. That’s what Christmas means. That’s the gift that can never be taken away.” The next morning we found that Dad had whittled little presents for each of us and hung them on the tree, dolls for the girls, whistles for the boys. But he was right; he had given us our real gift the night before. All this happened long ago, but to this day it all comes back to me whenever I hear “Silent Night” or feel snowflakes on my face, or–best of all–when I get an occasional glimpse of Christ shining in my 90-year-old father’s face.

December 12 (part 1)

A Boy Learns A Lesson
by Thomas S. Monson

In about my tenth year, as Christmas approached, I longed for an electric train. The times were those of economic depression, yet Mother and Dad purchased for me a lovely electric train.
Christmas morning bright and early I thrilled when I noticed my train. The next few hours were devoted to operating the transformer and watching the engine pull its cars forward -- then backward around the track.
Mother said that she had purchased the windup train for Widow Hansen's boy, Mark, who lived down the lane at Gale Street. As I looked at his train, I noted a tanker car which I so much admired. I put up such a fuss that my Mother succumbed to my pleading and gave me the tanker car. I put it with my train set and felt pleased.
Mother and I took the remaining cars and the engine down to Mark Hansen. The young boy was a year or two older than I. He had never anticipated such a gift. He was thrilled beyond words. He wound the key in his engine, it not being electric nor expensive like mine, and was overjoyed as the engine and three cars, plus a caboose, went around the track.
I felt a horrible sense of guilt as I returned home. The tanker car no longer appealed to me. Suddenly, I took the tank car in my hand, plus an additional car of my own, and an all the way down to Gale Street an proudly announced to Mark, "We forgot to bring two cars which belong to your train."
I don't know when a deed has made me feel any better than that experience as a ten-year-old boy.

December 12 (part 2)

The C-C-Choir Boy
By Fred Bauer
Everyone was surprised- everyone except Mrs. Brown, the choir director—when Herbie showed up in November to rehearse for the church’s annual Christmas cantata.
Mrs. Brown wasn’t surprised because she had persuaded Herbie to “at least try.” That was an accomplishment, for lately he had quit trying nearly everything—reciting in class, playing ball or even asking his brothers or sisters to pass the potatoes.
It was easy to understand: He stuttered. Not just a little, either, and sometimes when his tongue spun on a word, like a car on ice, the kids laughed. Not a big ha-ha laugh, but you can tell when people are laughing at you even if you’re only nine.
Mrs. Brown had figured Herbie could sing with the other tenors—Charley and Billy—and not have any trouble, which is exactly the way it worked. Billy was given the only boy’s solo and the rest of the time the three of them sang in unison, until Charley contracted the measles. Even so, Billy had a strong voice and Herbie knew he could follow him.
At 7:15, the night of the cantata, a scrubbed and combed Herbie arrived at church, wearing a white shirt, a new blue and yellow bow tie and his only suit, a brown one with high-water pant legs. Mrs. Brown was waiting for him at the door.
“Billy is home in bed with the flu,” she said. “You’ll have to sing the solo.” Herbie’s thin face grew pale.
“I c-c-can’t,” he answered.
“We need you,” Mrs. Brown insisted.
It was unfair. He wouldn’t do it. She couldn’t make him. All of these thoughts tumbled through Herbies mind until Mrs. Brown told him this:
“Herbie, I know you can do this—with God’s help. Across from the choir loft is a stained-glass window showing the manger scene. When you sing the solo, I want you to sing it only to the Baby Jesus. Forget that there is anyone else present. Don’t even glance at the audience.” She looked at her watch. It was time for the program to begin.
“Will you do it?”
Herbie studied his shoes.
“I’ll t-t-try,” he finally answered in a whisper.
A long 20 minutes later, it came time for Herbie’s solo. Intently, he studied the stained-glass window. Mrs. Brown nodded, and he opened his mouth, but at that exact instant someone in the congregation coughed.
“H-H-Hallelujah,” he stammered. Mrs. Brown stopped playing and started over. Again Herbie fixed his eyes on the Christ Child. Again he sang.
“Hallelujah, the Lord is born,” his voice rang out, clear and confident. And the rest of his solo was just as perfect.
After the program, Herbie slipped into his coat and darted out the back door—so fast that Mrs. Brown had to run to catch him. From the top of the steps, she called, “Herbie, you were wonderful. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas to you, Mrs. Brown,” he shouted back. Then turning, he raced off into the night through ankle-deep snow—with-out boots. But then he didn’t really need them. His feet weren’t touching the ground.

December 12 (part 3)

TROUBLE AT THE INN

By Dina Donahue 

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

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

Wally fancied the ideal of being a shepherd with a flute in the Christmas pageant that year, but the play's director, Miss Lumbar, assigned him to a more important role.  After all, she reasoned, the Innkeeper did not have too many lines and Wally's size would make his refusal of lodging to Joseph more forceful. 

And so it happened that the usual large, partisan audience gathered for the town’s yearly extravaganza of beard, crown, halos and a whole stage full of squeaky voices.  No one on stage or off was more caught up on the magic of the night than Wallace Purling.  They said later that he stood in the wings and watched the performance with such fascination that from time to time Miss Lumbar had to make sure he didn't' wander on stage before his cue. 

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

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

"We seek lodging." 

"Seek it elsewhere,” Wally looked straight ahead but spoke vigorously. "The Inn is filled." 

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

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

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

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

"No! Be gone!" the prompter whispered from the wings. 

"No!"  Wally repeated automatically, "Be gone!" 

Joseph sadly placed his arm around Mary and Mary laid her head upon her husband’s shoulder and the two of them started to move away.  The Innkeeper did not return inside his Inn, however. 

Wally stood there in the doorway, watching the forlorn couple. His mouth was open, his brow creased with concern, his eyes filling unmistakable with tears. And suddenly the Christmas pageant became different from all the others. 

"Don't go, Joseph," Wally called out. "Bring Mary back."

And Wallace Purling's face grew into a bright smile.

"You can have my room!" 

Some people in town thought that the pageant had been ruined. Yet there were others....many, many others...who considered it the most Christmas-y of all Christmas pageants they had ever seen.

December 12 (part 4)

Gentle Jesus
by Mabel Jones Gabbott

Gentle Jesus in the manger
Came to teach us all to care
For each other, for the stranger,
Came to show us love and prayer.

Gentle Jesus, Holy Baby
Born in little Bethlehem.
Shepherds brought their gifts to praise Him.
Magi left him precious gems.

Gentl Jesus in the starlight,
Heav'nly angels sang His birth.
Gentle Jesus in the stable,
Lord of heav'n and Lord of earth.

When Love Came Down
by Mabel Jones Gabbott

The night was still, and then a song awakened shepherds 'round their fire,
And hastened them to Bethlehem! Hosannas from a heav'nly choir!

This was the night when Love came down, as promised in God's holy word.
The angels heralded in song the blessed birth of Christ, our Lord.

This was the night the King was born, as stars foretold in distant space;
And three who watched the skies were led to Bethlehem, that holy place.

This was the night when Love came down, as promised in God's holy word.
The angels heralded in song the blessed birth of Christ, our Lord.

This was the night, that holy night, when Love came down to bless the earth.
And med and angels worshipped Him this night, the night of Jesus' birth.

This was the night when Love came down, as promised in God's holy word.
The angels heralded in song the blessed birth of Christ, our Lord.

This was the birth of Christ, our Lord.

December 12 (part 5)

Legend of the Christmas Candle

Once upon a time, many, many years ago, an old cobbler and his wife lived in a tiny cottage at the edge of a village in Austria.
This humble shoemaker had few worldly possessions, but whatever he owned he shared with others. Symbolic of this generosity and love of mankind was the lighted candle he placed in the window of his cottage.
Every night this light would shine forth as a welcomed sign of hospitality to any weary traveler who might be in search of shelter.
Over a period of several years, war, famine and near-destruction fell upon this little village - but never once did the little candle fail to send its beams as a message of hope and cheer to all.
Hardships and losses came to the village as a result of the war. Loved sons were killed in battle; crops failed; and animals starved for want of grain. And yet, through all this trouble, the little cobbler and his wife suffered far less than the other villagers. It seemed that there was a magical charm guarding these two.
Discouraged and weary, the village peasants gathered together one evening to discuss the cobbler's fortune.
"Surely there is something special about him; he is always spared from our misfortunes. What does he do that we can not do?" "Perhaps it is his little candle," said one of the villagers. "Let us put a candle in our window, too, and see if this is a mysterious charm."
Now it so happened that the day of the peasants' meeting was the day before Christmas, and the first night that a candle was lighted in the window of every home was Christmas Eve.
The candles burned all the night. When morning came, it seemed as though a miracle had occurred. A soft mantle of snow covered all of the village, and an air of hope and contentment filled the hearts of the villagers.
Before the first ray of the morning sun had cast its first gleam upon the new fallen snow, a messenger rode into the village to bring the great news - peace had come!
Tine silver church bells chimed as the people knelt in prayer on this most wonderful morning. Never before had there been such a feeling of Christmas glory and joy as there was on this day.
The peasants were awed; "It was the candles," they whispered. "They have guided the Christ Child to our very doorsteps, and have brought an answer to all of our prayers. We must never again fail to light our candles on His birthday."
And now, many, many years later, this beautiful custom has spread all over the world - until today, millions of candles flicker all over the world sending forth a message of love, hope and cheer that will never grow old!

"Love is the Light of Christmas!"