December 10 (part 1)

The Most Beautiful Thing

The sides of the path were covered with rugs of white snow. But in the center, its whiteness was crushed and churned into a foaming brown by the tramp, tramp of hundreds of hurrying feet. It was the day before Christmas. People rushed up and down the path carrying arm loads of bundles. They laughed and called to each other as they pushed their way through the crowds.

Above the path, the long arms of an ancient tree reached upward to the sky. It swayed and moaned as strong winds grasped its branches and bent them toward the earth. Down below a haughty laugh sounded, and a lovely fir tree stretched and preened its thick green branches, sending a fine spray of snow shimmering downward to the ground.

"I should think," said the fir in a high smug voice, "That you'd try a little harder to stand still. Goodness knows you're ugly enough with the leaves you've already lost. If you move around anymore, you'll soon be quite bare."

"I know," answered the old tree. "Everything has put on its most beautiful clothes for the celebration of the birth of Christ. Even from here I can see the decorations shining from each street corner. And yesterday some men came and put the brightest, loveliest lights on every tree along the path--except me of course." He sighed softly, and a flake of snow melted in the form of a teardrop and ran down his gnarled trunk.

"Oh, indeed! And did you expect they'd put lights upon you so your ugliness would stand out even more?" smirked the fir.

"I guess you're right," replied the old tree in a sad voice. "If there were only somewhere I could hide until after the celebrations are over, but here I stand, the only ugly thing among all this beauty. If they would only come and chop me down," and he sighed sorrowfully.

"Well, I don't wish you any ill will," replied the fir, "But you are an eyesore. Perhaps it would be better for us all if they came and chopped you down." Once again he stretched his lovely thick branches. "You might try to hang onto those three small leaves you still have. At least you wouldn't be completely bare."

"Oh, I've tried so hard," cried the old tree "Each fall I say to myself, 'this year I won't give up a single leaf, no matter what the cause,' but someone always comes along who seems to need them more than I," And he sighed once again.

"I told you not to give so many to that dirty little paper boy," said the fir. "Why you even lowered your branches a little bit, so that he could reach them. You can't say I didn't warn you then."

"Yes you did at that," the old tree replied. "But they made him so happy. I heard him say he would pick some for his invalid mother,~

"Oh, they all had good causes," mocked the fir, that young girl, for instance, colored leaves for her party indeed! They were your leaves!"

"She took a lot, didn't she?" said the old tree, and he seemed to smile.

Just then a cold wind blew down the path and a tiny brown bird fell to the ground at the foot of the old tree and lay there shivering, too cold to lift its wings. The old tree looked down in pity and then he quickly let go of his last three leaves. The golden leaves fluttered down and settled softly over the shivering little bird, and it lay there quietly under the warmth of them.

"Now you've done it!" shrieked the fir. You've given away every single leaf! Christmas morning you'll make your path the ugliest sight in the whole city!"

The old tree said nothing. Instead he stretched out his branches to gather what snowflakes he could that they might not fall on the tiny bird. The young fir turned away in anger, and it was then he noticed a painter sitting quietly a few feet from the path, intent upon his long brushes and his canvas. His clothes were old and tattered, and his face wore a sad expression. He was thinking of his loved ones and the empty, cheerless Christmas morning they would face, for he had sold not a single painting in the last months.

But the little tree didn't see this. Instead he turned back to the old tree and said in a haughty voice, "At least keep those bare branches as far away from me as possible. I'm being painted and hideousness will mar the background."

"I'll try," replied the old tree. And he raised his branches as high as possible. It was almost dark when the painter picked up his easel and left. And the little fir was tired and cross from all his preening and posing.

Christmas morning he awoke late, and as he proudly shook away the snow from his lovely branches, he was amazed to see a huge crowd of people surrounding the old tree, ah-ing and oh-ing as they stood back and gazed upward. And even those hurrying along the path had to stop for a moment to sigh before they went on.

"Whatever could it be?" thought the haughty fir, and he too looked up to see if perhaps the top of the old tree had been broken off during the night.

Just then a paper blew away from the hands of an enraptured newsboy and sailed straight into the young fir. The fir gasped in amazement, for there on the front page was a picture of the painter holding his painting of a great white tree whose leafless branches, laden with snow, stretched upward into the sky. While down below lay a tiny brown bird almost covered by three golden leaves. And beneath the picture were the words, "The Most Beautiful Thing Is That Which Hath Given All."

The young fir quietly bowed its head beneath the great beauty of the humble old tree.

December 10 (part 2)

The Christmas Orange

Jake lived in an orphanage with nine other young boys. In the wintertime it seemed that any extra money went for coal to heat the old building. At Christmas, the building always seemed a little warmer, and the food a little more plentiful. But more than this...Christmas meant an orange. At Christmas each child received an orange. It was the only time of the year such a rare treat was provided and it was coveted by each boy like no other thing that they ever possessed.

Each boy would save his orange for several days, admiring it, feeling it, loving it, and contemplating the moment he would eat it. Some would even save it until New Year's Day or later, muck like many of us relish saving our Christmas trees and decorations until New Year's just to remind us of the joy of Christmas.

This particular day, Jake had broken the orphanage rules by starting a fight. The orphanage mother took Jake's orange away as punishment for breaking the rules. Jake spent Christmas Day empty and alone. Nighttime came and Jake could not sleep. Silently, he sobbed because this year he would not have his orange with the other boys.

A soft hand placed on Jake's shoulder startled him and an object was quickly shoved into his hands. The child then disappeared into the dark to leave Jake alone to discover a strange looking orange...an orange made from the segments of nine other oranges...nine highly prized oranges that the boys would have had to break open that Christmas night, instead of saved, admired and cherished until a later date.

At this Christmastime may this orange remind us all of the unselfish love of nine orphaned boys - unselfish love taught us by our Savior, whose birth we celebrate!

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.