Last December, I vowed to make Christmas a calm and peaceful experience. I had cut back on nonessential obligations - extensive card writing, endless baking, decorating, and even overspending. Yet still, I found myself exhausted, unable to appreciate the precious family moments, and of course, the true meaning of Christmas.
My son, Nicholas, was in kindergarten that year. It was an exciting season for a six year old. For weeks, he'd been memorizing songs for his school's "Winter Pageant." I didn't have the heart to tell him I'd be working the night of the production. Unwilling to miss his shining moment, I spoke with his teacher. She assured me there'd be a dress rehearsal the morning of the presentation. All parents unable to attend that evening were welcome to come then. Fortunately, Nicholas seemed happy with the compromise.
So, the morning of the dress rehearsal, I filed in ten minutes early, found a spot on the cafeteria floor and sat down. Around the room, I saw several other parents quietly scampering to their seats. As I waited, students were led into the room. Each class, accompanied by their teacher, sat cross-legged on the floor. Then, each group, one by one, rose to perform their song. Because the public school system had long stopped referring to the holiday as "Christmas," I didn't expect anything other than fun, commercial entertainment - songs of reindeer, Santa Claus, snowflakes and good cheer.
So, when my son's class rose to sing, "Christmas Love," I was slightly taken aback by its bold title. Nicholas was aglow, as were all of his classmates, adorned in fuzzy mittens, red sweaters, and bright snowcaps upon their heads. Those in the front row- center stage - held up large letters, one by one, to spell out the title of the song. As the class would sing "C is for Christmas," a child would hold up the letter C. Then, "H is for Happy," and on and on, until each child holding up his portion had presented the complete message, "Christmas Love."
The performance was going smoothly, until suddenly, we noticed her; a small, quiet, girl in the front row holding the letter "M" upside down - totally unaware her letter "M" appeared as a "W". The audience of 1st through 6th graders snickered at this little one's mistake. But she had no idea they were laughing at her, so she stood tall, proudly holding her "W". Although many teachers tried to shush the children, the laughter continued until the last letter was raised, and we all saw it together. A hush came over the audience and eyes began to widen. In that instant, we understood the reason we were there, why we celebrated the holiday in the first place, why even in the chaos, there was a purpose for our festivities. For when the last letter was held high, the message read loud and clear:
"GOD IS L O V E"
And, I believe, He still is.
-Author unknown-
Merry Christmas to all readers who celebrate Christmas!
"Mommy, mommy look at the beautiful glitter card," the little girl said.
"Yes Amanda, it is a beautiful card.
Would you like me to buy it for you?"
Asked her mother. Amanda nodded her head yes.
Note from MWS:
During this festive season, do remember the orphans, the elderly, the handicapped and spread a little love and kindness to those less fortunate than us. God bless you and have a blessed Christmas.
This year those of us who cherish the phrase “Merry Christmas” have started to say “Merry Christ-mas” to reinsert the name Christ into the greeting. Here’s a reminder of how we started to lose “Merry Christmas” 40 years ago.
On the day before Christmas in 1971 the New York Times ran an article about a new “holiday” called Kwanzaa that was invented by an America hating Black separatist named Ron Everett. Everett now uses the made up “African” name Maulana Ron Karenga to show the world he wants nothing to do with White America.
That Mr. Karenga was in a California prison doing a one to ten year stretch for illegally imprisoning and maiming two Black women he thought were plotting to kill him meant nothing to the Times. They didn’t want to talk about how their new hero had been certified as a paranoid schizophrenic by a court, so they didn’t.
Karenga called his new “holiday” Kwanzaa, a Swahili phrase meaning “first fruits” because he says it is a harvest festival. This is a lie. Kwanzaa is Karenga’s answer to Christmas. He would like nothing better than to see Kwanzaa actually become the “Black Christmas” he has always fantasized about.
In his 1977 book on Kwanzaa, Karenga said it “…was chosen to give a Black alternative to the existing holiday and give Blacks an opportunity to celebrate themselves and history, rather than simply imitate the practice of the dominant [White] society.”
READ MORE HERE.
December is the busiest time of the year. Everyone's busy preparing for the holidays and continuing family traditions. Has it ever crossed your mind, as to how many really stop and think what Christmas is all about? Are we teaching our children the true meaning of Christmas or how many gifts need to be bought? If we have taught our children the true meaning of Christmas, what we've instilled in them will be carried into generations to come. I like to see families create traditions all year long. Afterall, the original gift to all of us here on earth, was given from His heart. For through our hearts, one single gift of kindness, can touch an endless amount of hearts forever.
This is a story about a child that saw the importance of giving and never thought about giving up. Some may think a child isn't old enough to carry enough wisdom to teach us all a lesson in living. But I've learned a heart grows from life's many challenges and sometimes a child's challenges can be far greater than some adults. We met a little girl seven years ago, during one of my daughter's occasional hospital stays. Her name was Beth and she was my daughter's room mate for a week. Beth was a very happy girl despite her medical problems she was facing. Her long blonde curls always seemed to bounce with her smile. The girls got to know each other well and had become good friends. On the pediatric floor of the hospital, we saw many seriously ill children. It was so sad, even though my daughter had an uncurable kidney disease and not a very good chance of living to see old age herself. We always saw many children with all kinds of cancer, and sadly enough Beth was one of those children. She was doing two weeks of chemo and radiation. I was amazed at her will and determination to never give up despite how very sick her treatments made her. She was always concerned about my daughter and the other children with cancer she grew to know over her many hospital stays.
My daughter's IV treatments were done after a week and I was happy to finally bring her home. We were awaiting the final discharge orders when Beth appeared from the other side of the curtain that separated their beds. She said, "I want you to have this. I know you need a new kidney, so keep this angel pin with you till you get better. She will watch over you so you smile all over. My friend, John gave this to me to watch over me, but it's time for this angel to watch over you. When you get your new kidney and smile, you can give this angel to someone that needs her too. I'm done reading my book so here's my bookmark that has a poem on it called, Don't Quit!, I know it by heart anyhow." My daughter thanked her and the girls exchanged hugs and big smiles. I knew, we may never see Beth again, but we never forgot the gift she gave from her heart that day. During that year, we found out Beth has passed away. It was so sad to know such a beautiful little girl was no longer bouncing smiles to everyone she would meet. Her sincere kindness will stay with us forever.
We kept that angel for six more years. My daughter had gone beyond what medical journals had studied and expected from her disease. Was it the angel watching over her or pure luck? My daughter ended up on kidney dialysis for over a year, and one month after almost loosing her, a kidney became available and she received a transplant. My heart tells me, an angel upstairs was watching with a loving smile. My daughter had kept that angel pin and now she felt it was time to give it to someone who needed watched over till they could smile again. She gave it to an elderly man trying to overcome the damage from heart problems and undergoing extensive therapy. His family has informed us, that when he returns home he wants to give the angel to someone he knows suffering from a brain tumor.
How many families and hearts this angel has touched no one knows for sure.
But all it took was one single gift of kindness, that has and will touch an endless amount of hearts forever.
So this Christmas season, look around and see that gift that can't be bought. Create a tradition with your children or maybe someone you love. Make someone's day and do the unexpected, let a friend know you care, or greet a stranger with a warm smile. Give the gift that keeps on giving. It's open twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year, it's a gift from your heart. Afterall, isn't that what Christmas is all about?
On a December night in Chicago, a little girl climbed onto her father's lap and asked a question. It was a simple question, asked in children's curiosity, yet it had a heart-rending effect on Robert May.
"Daddy," four-year old Barbara asked, "Why isn't my Mommy just like everybody else's mommy?"
Bob May stole a glance across his shabby two room apartment. On a couch lay his young wife, Evelyn, racked with cancer. For two years she had been bedridden; for two years, all Bob's income and smaller savings had gone to pay for treatments and medicines.
The terrible ordeal already had shattered two adult lives. Now Bob suddenly realized the happiness of his growing daughter was also in jeopardy. As he ran his fingers through Barbara's hair, he prayed for some satisfactory answer to her question.
Bob May knew only too well what it meant to be "different." As a child he had been weak and delicate. With the innocent cruelty of children, his playmates had continually goaded the stunted, skinny lad to tears. Later at Dartmouth, from which he was graduated in 1926, Bob May was so small that he was always being mistaken for someone's little brother.
Nor was his adult life much happier. Unlike many of his classmates who floated from college into plush jobs, Bob became a lowly copy writer for Montgomery Ward, the big Chicago mail order house. Now at 33, Bob was deep in debt, depressed and sad.
Although Bob did not know it at the time, the answer he gave the tousled haired child on his lap was to bring him to fame and fortune. It was also to bring joy to countless thousands of children like his own Barbara. On that December night in the shabby Chicago apartment, Bob cradled his little girl's head against his shoulder and began to tell a story.
"Once upon a time there was a reindeer named Rudolph, the only reindeer in the world that had a big red nose. Naturally people called him Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer." As Bob went on to tell about Rudolph, he tried desperately to communicate to Barbara the knowledge that, even though some creatures of God are strange and different, they often enjoy the miraculous power to make others happy.
Rudolph, Bob explained, was terribly embarrassed by his unique nose. Other reindeer laughed at him; his mother and father and sister were mortified too.
Even Rudolph wallowed in self pity.
"Well," continued Bob, "one Christmas Eve, Santa Claus got his team of husky reindeer -Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, and Vixon ready for their yearly trip around the world. The entire reindeer community assembled to cheer these great heroes on their way. But a terrible fog engulfed the earth that evening, and Santa knew that the mist was so thick he wouldn't be able to find any chimney.
Suddenly Rudolph appeared, his red nose glowing brighter than ever. Santa sensed at once that here was the answer to his perplexing problem. He led Rudolph to the front of the sleigh, fastened the harness and climbed in.
They were off! Rudolph guided Santa safely to every chimney that night. Rain and fog, snow and sleet; nothing bothered Rudolph, for his bright nose penetrated the mist like a beacon.
And so it was that Rudolph became the most famous and beloved of all the reindeer. The huge red nose he once hid in shame was now the envy of every buck and doe in the reindeer world. Santa Claus told everyone that Rudolph had saved the day and from that Christmas, Rudolph has been living serenely and happy."
Little Barbara laughed with glee when her father finished. Every night she begged him to repeat the tale until finally Bob could rattle it off in his sleep. Then, at Christmas time he decided to make the story into a poem like "The Night Before Christmas" and prepare it in bookish form illustrated with pictures, for Barbara's personal gift. Night after night, Bob worked on the verses after Barbara had gone to bed for he was determined his daughter should have a worthwhile gift, even though he could not afford to buy one...
Then as Bob was about to put the finishing touches on Rudolph, tragedy struck.
Evelyn May died. Bob, his hopes crushed, turned to Barbara as chief comfort. Yet, despite his grief, he sat at his desk in the quiet, now lonely apartment, and worked on "Rudolph" with tears in his eyes.
Shortly after Barbara had cried with joy over his handmade gift on Christmas morning, Bob was asked to an employee's holiday party at Montgomery Wards. He didn't want to go, but his office associates insisted. When Bob finally agreed, he took with him the poem and read it to the crowd. First the noisy throng listened in laughter and gaiety. Then they became silent, and at the end, broke into spontaneous applause. That was in 1938.
By Christmas of 1947, some 6 million copies of the booklet had been given away or sold, making Rudolph one of the most widely distributed books in the world. The demand for Rudolph sponsored products, increased so much in variety and number that educators and historians predicted Rudolph would come to occupy a permanent place in the Christmas legend.
-Author Unknown-
MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL MY CHRISTIAN READERS AND FRIENDS
Christmas is for love. It is for joy, for giving and sharing, for laughter, for reuniting with family and friends, for tinsel and brightly decorated packages. But mostly, Christmas is for love. I had not believed this until a small elf-like student with wide-eyed innocent eyes and soft rosy cheeks gave me a wondrous gift one Christmas.
Mark was an 11 year old orphan who lived with his aunt, a bitter middle aged woman greatly annoyed with the burden of caring for her dead sister's son. She never failed to remind young Mark, if it hadn't been for her generosity, he would be a vagrant, homeless waif. Still, with all the scolding and chilliness at home, he was a sweet and gentle child.
I had not noticed Mark particularly until he began staying after class each day (at the risk of arousing his aunt's anger, I later found) to help me straighten up the room. We did this quietly and comfortably, not speaking much, but enjoying the solitude of that hour of the day. When we did talk, Mark spoke mostly of his mother. Though he was quite small when she died, he remembered a kind, gentle, loving woman, who always spent much time with him.
As Christmas drew near however, Mark failed to stay after school each day. I looked forward to his coming, and when the days passed and he continued to scamper hurriedly from the room after class, I stopped him one afternoon and asked why he no longer helped me in the room. I told him how I had missed him, and his large gray eyes lit up eagerly as he replied, "Did you really miss me?"
I explained how he had been my best helper. "I was making you a surprise," he whispered confidentially. "It's for Christmas." With that, he became embarrassed and dashed from the room. He didn't stay after school any more after that.
Finally came the last school day before Christmas. Mark crept slowly into the room late that afternoon with his hands concealing something behind his back. "I have your present," he said timidly when I looked up. "I hope you like it." He held out his hands, and there lying in his small palms was a tiny wooden box.
"Its beautiful, Mark. Is there something in it?" I asked opening the top to look inside. "
"Oh you can't see what's in it," He replied, "and you can't touch it, or taste it or feel it, but mother always said it makes you feel good all the time, warm on cold nights, and safe when you're all alone."
I gazed into the empty box. "What is it Mark," I asked gently, "that will make me feel so good?" "It's love," he whispered softly, "and mother always said it's best when you give it away." And he turned and quietly left the room.
So now I keep a small box crudely made of scraps of wood on the piano in my living room and only smile as inquiring friends raise quizzical eyebrows when I explain to them that there is love in it.
Yes, Christmas is for gaiety, mirth and song, for good and wondrous gifts. But mostly, Christmas is for love.
-Author Unknown-
Every Christmas, I post the following story which is obviously one of my favourites. May it touch you in ways unknown. Merry Christmas!
Bobby was getting cold sitting out in his back yard in the snow. Bobby didn't wear boots; he didn't like them and anyway he didn't own any. The thin sneakers he wore had a few holes in them and they did a poor job of keeping out the cold.
Bobby had been in his backyard for about an hour already. And, try as he might, he could not come up with an idea for his mother's Christmas gift. He shook his head as he thought, "This is useless, even if I do come up with an idea, I don't have any money to spend."
Ever since his father had passed away three years ago, the family of five had struggled. It wasn't because his mother didn't care, or try, there just never seemed to be enough. She worked nights at the hospital, but the small wage that she was earning could only be stretched so far.
What the family lacked in money and material things, they more than made up for in love and family unity. Bobby had two older and one younger sister, who ran the household in their mother's absence.
All three of his sisters had already made beautiful gifts for their mother. Somehow it just wasn't fair. Here it was Christmas Eve already, and he had nothing.
Wiping a tear from his eye, Bobby kicked the snow and started to walk down to the street where the shops and stores were. It wasn't easy being six without a father, especially when he needed a man to talk to.
Bobby walked from shop to shop, looking into each decorated window. Everything seemed so beautiful and so out of reach. It was starting to get dark and Bobby reluctantly turned to walk home when suddenly his eyes caught the glimmer of the setting sun's rays reflecting off of something along the curb. He reached down and discovered a shiny dime.
Never before has anyone felt so wealthy as Bobby felt at that moment. As he held his new found treasure, a warmth spread throughout his entire body and he walked into the first store he saw. His excitement quickly turned cold when salesperson after salesperson told him that he could not buy anything with only a dime.
He saw a flower shop and went inside to wait in line. When the shop owner asked if he could help him, Bobby presented the dime and asked if he could buy one flower for his mother's Christmas gift. The shop owner looked at Bobby and his ten cent offering. Then he put his hand on Bobby's shoulder and said to him, "You just wait here and I'll see what I can do for you."
As Bobby waited, he looked at the beautiful flowers and even though he was a boy, he could see why mothers and girls liked flowers.
The sound of the door closing as the last customer left, jolted Bobby back to reality. All alone in the shop, Bobby began to feel alone and afraid.
Suddenly the shop owner came out and moved to the counter. There, before Bobby's eyes, lay twelve long stem, red roses, with leaves of green and tiny white flowers all tied together with a big silver bow. Bobby's heart sank as the owner picked them up and placed them gently into a long white box.
"That will be ten cents young man." the shop owner said reaching out his hand for the dime. Slowly, Bobby moved his hand to give the man his dime. Could this be true? No one else would give him a thing for his dime! Sensing the boy's reluctance, the shop owner added, "I just happened to have some roses on sale for ten cents a dozen. Would you like them?"
This time Bobby did not hesitate, and when the man placed the long box into his hands, he knew it was true. Walking out the door that the owner was holding for Bobby, he heard the shop keeper say, "Merry Christmas, son."
As he returned inside, the shop keepers wife walked out. "Who were you talking to back there and where are the roses you were fixing?"
Staring out the window, and blinking the tears from his own eyes, he replied, "A strange thing happened to me this morning. While I was setting up things to open the shop, I thought I heard a voice telling me to set aside a dozen of my best roses for a special gift. I wasn't sure at the time whether I had lost my mind or what, but I set them aside anyway. Then just a few minutes ago, a little boy came into the shop and wanted to buy a flower for his mother with one small dime.
"When I looked at him, I saw myself, many years ago. I too, was a poor boy with nothing to buy my mother a Christmas gift. A bearded man, whom I never knew, stopped me on the street and told me that he wanted to give me ten dollars.
"When I saw that little boy tonight, I knew who that voice was, and I put together a dozen of my very best roses."
The shop owner and his wife hugged each other tightly, and as they stepped out into the bitter cold air, they somehow didn't feel cold at all.
Shakespeare said..."If music be the food of love, play on..." and that is what I have been doing with my sons and their friends...It has been music music music music the whole day and night since he returned yesterday. It was a looooooong wait for the bus to arrive as the jam along the highway was pretty bad. Apart from that, it has been lots of eating and I will have to start exercising on December 26th.
Before my son came home, he did an awesome recording of Skrillex - Scary Monsters and Nice Sprites Violin Dubstep Cover Freestyle and you can watch it AT THIS YOUTUBE LINK.
This afternoon, two of Jon's friends came over to pulay their kind of music. I was hovering around ...offering snacks, drinks and hoping to be invited to play with them and when I could wait no longer, I joined them only to be told that I had to wait till they finished planning their repertoire for an event tomorrow. Nonetheless, I enjoyed listening to them jamming... I believe the best one is when the boys composed a song on the spot...
WATCH IT AT THIS LINK.
On percussion is Joshua, Jon's schoolmate from wayyyyy back in Form 1 and the other gentleman is his fellow engineer from an American MNC. Nick was playing the violin and did not want be filmed...
In reality, I am sharing these videos to share my joy at having my son with me for the first time in four years!!!! It is not to show off for there is nothing to show off but our love for music. I am not musically trained and play by ear on the piano and what I did not have, I made sure my boys got it - sound and meaningfully creative music education. And you cannot imagine how long I waited for my younger boy to grow up and to join us in making music together.
Sorry my study is a mess as there are too many books to sort out. What you see is just the front layer for each shelf has three rows of books and other books stacked on top so to reorganize them would be a monumental task. The place is untidy but it is home! My mobile phone was placed on top of the piano so there is some distortion in the recording as hubby was having his evening jog. I don't mind seeing my white hair :-) cos I will be a year older tomorrow and life is for living, not worrying about white hair! :-) The whole idea is to celebrate love, music via spontaneity and to have fun together as a family. You can see we didn't have musical scores or music books - we were merely expressing our love for music the way we feel ...from our hearts...In fact, most of the time, our eyes were closed as we lost ourselves to the pure pleasure of making music...
We also jammed two Chinese songs:
Tong Hua
My favourite The Moon Represents My Heart
And of course my favourite Moon River. We also played other songs but it is too tedious and time-consuming to upload. Maybe next time.
This morning, they recorded Gangnam -Violin and Guitar style and you can watch it AT THIS LINK.
Finally, here's something we recorded after dinner on Saturday night - our version of Merry Christmas.
If you missed y earlier posts on my boys, check The Gift and also The Blues Brothers.
Take care and may you be blessed during this Christmas season and the coming new year!
Slice. Scoop. Plop. I don't feel like doing this. Slice. Scoop. Plop. I don't want to do this. I don't want to shop . . . Slice. Scoop. Plop. I don't want to decorate. I just want to skip it . . . Slice. Scoop. Plop. And pretend I didn't notice this year.
I plopped the last of the ready-made cookie dough onto the cookie sheet and shoved it into the oven. These standard-issue chocolate chip cookies would be a far cry from the bejeweled affairs I'd baked for 26 years, but the only reason I'd even summoned the effort was because my youngest son, Ross, had opened and reopened the cookie jar four times the previous night, saying with 14-year-old tact, "What? No Christmas cookies this year?"
A big piece of the family was now missing-or hadn't anybody noticed?
Since today was the 23rd, and his older siblings, Patrick and Molly, would be arriving Christmas Eve, Ross informed me that they would be "big-time disappointed" if there wasn't "cool stuff" to eat. This from the same kid who had never watched a Christmas TV special in his life and had to be dragged into the family photo for the annual Christmas card. I never considered a family picture this year. A big piece of the family was now missing-or hadn't anybody noticed?
The First Christmas
All my friends had been telling me the same thing since the day of the funeral: "Pam, the first year after you lose your husband is the hardest. You have to go through the first Valentine's Day without him, the first birthday, the first anniversary . . ." They hadn't been kidding. What they hadn't told me was that Christmas was going to top them all in hard-to-take.
It wasn't that Tom had loved Christmas that much. He'd always complained that the whole thing was too commercial and that when you really thought about it, Easter was a much more important celebration in the church. The phone rang. Molly was calling collect from the road. She and two dorm buddies were driving home after finals.
"Do you know what I'm looking forward to?" she said.
"Sleeping for 72 straight hours?" I said.
"No." She sounded a little deflated. "Coming home from Christmas Eve services and seeing all those presents piled up under the tree. It's been years since I've cared what was in them or how many were for me-I just like seeing them there. How weird is that?
"Not weird at all, my love, I thought. I sighed, took a piece of paper, and penciled in a few gift ideas for Ross; Molly; Patrick; his wife, Amy; my grandson, Shane.
A Sense of Normalcy
And then I snapped the pencil down on the counter. A part of me understood that the kids were in denial. Tom's sudden death 11 months earlier had left them bewildered and scared. And now at Christmas, their shock was translated into exaggerated enthusiasm.
The Cobb family Christmas traditions provided a sense of normalcy for them. Patrick had even asked me last week if I still had the old John Denver Christmas album. But as far as I was concerned, there just wasn't that much to deck the halls about. Tom was gone. I was empty and unmotivated. At worst, I wished they'd all just open the presents and carve the turkey without me.
When the oven dinged, I piled two dozen brown circles on a plate and left a note for Ross: I don't want to hear any more complaining! Gone shopping. I love you. Mom.
The complaining, however, went on in my head as I elbowed my way through the mob at the mall. Tom was right, I thought. This is all a joke.
It really was everything he hated-canned music droning its false merriment, garish signs luring me to buy, tired-looking families dragging themselves around, worrying about their credit card limits as they snapped at their children.
Funny, I thought while gazing at a display of earrings I knew Molly wouldn't wear. All the time Tom was here pointing this out to me, it never bothered me. Now it's all I can see. I abandoned the earring idea and took to wandering the mall, hoping for inspiration so Molly would have something to look at under the tree. It wasn't going to be like years past-I should have told her that. She wasn't going to see a knee-deep collection of exquisitely wrapped treasures that Tom always shook his head over.
"You've gone hog-wild again," he would always tell me-before adding one more contribution. Instead of buying me a gift, he'd write a check in my name to Compassion International or a local food pantry, place it in a red envelope, and tuck it onto a branch of our Christmas tree. "This is a true gift," he'd tell me. "It's a small demonstration that God is real in our lives."
I stopped in mid-mall, lettings the crowds swirl past me. Tom wasn't there, a fact that the rest of the family didn't want to face or discuss. But he could still be with us, maybe just a little.
Christmas Decorating
I left the mall and quickly found a Christmas tree lot. The man looked happy to unload one very dry tree for half price. He even tied it to my roof rack. Then it was off to Safeway, where I bought a 24-pound Butterball and all the trimmings. Back home, the decoration boxes weren't buried too deeply in the garage. I'd barely gotten them put away last year when Tom had his heart attack.
I was still sorting boxes when Ross emerged from the kitchen, munching the last of the two dozen cookies.
"Oh, I thought we weren't going to have a tree this year," he said between mouthfuls.
"Well, we are. Can you give me a hand getting it up?"
Two hours later, Ross and I stood back and admired our Christmas tree. The lights winked softly as I straightened a misshapen glittery angel Molly had made in second-grade and Ross' first-birthday Christmas ball. I wanted to cry.
Christmas Eve
The house sprang to life when everyone arrived Christmas Eve. In the middle of our church service, however, my spirits sagged. There was no lonelier feeling than standing in the midst of one's family singing "Silent Night" -surrounded by a vivacious college daughter; a sweet, gentle daughter-in-law; a handsome, successful 25-year-old son; a wide-eyed, mile-a-minute 3-year-old grandson; and an awkward teenager whose hugs were like wet shoelaces-and be keenly aware that someone was missing. Back at home, everyone continued to avoid the subject.
"The tree is gorgeous, Mom," Molly said. She knelt down and began hauling gifts out of a shopping bag to add to my pile.
"I love what you did with the wrappings, Pam," Amy said. "You're always so creative."
"I forgot to buy wrapping paper," I told her. "I had to use newspaper."
It was Christmas as usual-easier to pretend everything was normal than deal with harsh reality. Ross and Patrick sparred over whose stocking was whose, and Shane parked himself in front of a bowl of M&Ms. They all got to open the customary one present on Christmas Eve, and after doing so, we schlepped off to bed. It was Christmas as usual-easier to pretend everything was normal than deal with harsh reality.
But there was one more thing that had to be done. I went over to Tom's desk, found a red envelope in the top drawer, and stuck into it a check made out to the American Heart Association. It seemed appropriate. "I know the kids-and even I-have to go on with our lives, Tom," I whispered. "But I wish you were here." It occurred to me as I tucked the red envelope midway up the tree that one of the kids would say, "Oh, yeah-I remember he always did that."
And then there would be an awkward silence and perhaps sheepish looks. I hoped so.
Christmas Day
Morning-or at least dawn-came way too soon. Shane was up before the paper carrier. I dragged myself into the kitchen and found it already smelling like a Seattle coffee house.
"This is what we drink at school," Molly told me and handed me a cup.
"Is anyone else awake?" I asked.
She nodded her head, and for the first time I noticed a twinkle in her eye that was unprecedented for this hour of the morning.
"What are you up to?" I said.
"Mom!" Patrick yelled from the living room. "You've got to see this!"
"At this hour of the . . ."
What I saw was my family perched on the couch like a row of deliciously guilty canaries. What I saw next was our Christmas tree, dotted with bright red envelopes.
"Man, it got crowded in here last night," Ross said. "I came down here about 2 o'clock and freaked Amy out."
"I almost called 911 when I came down," Patrick said. "Till I saw it was Molly and not some burglar."
I had never heard a thing. I walked over to the tree and touched each one of the five envelopes I hadn't put there.
"Open them, Mom," Molly said. "This was always the best part of Christmas."
>From Patrick, there was a check for Youth for Christ, to help kids go on missions trips like the one Dad supported him on to Haiti five years earlier.
>From Amy, a check to our church for sheet music, because some of her best memories of her father-in-law were of him helping the children's choir.
>From Molly, several $20 bills for the local crisis pregnancy center, because many of the women who go there have probably never experienced the love of a husband like Daddy," she said.
>From Ross, a $20 bill for a local drug program for kids, "since Dad was all freaked out about me staying clean."
The last envelope was lumpy. When I opened it, a handful of change spilled out. "Mine, Gamma," Shane said, his little bow-mouth pursed importantly. Amy finished his thought. "He wants this to go to the animal shelter-you know, for lost dogs, like the one he visited with Dad just before he died."
I pulled all the envelopes against my chest and hugged them.
"You know what's weird?" Molly said. "I feel like Daddy's right here with us."
"Yeah, that's pretty weird," Ross said.
"But true," Patrick said. "I feel like he's been here this whole time. I thought I'd be all bummed out this Christmas-but I don't need to be."
"No, you don't, my love," I said. To myself, I added, Neither do I. I have my family, and I have God.
Thanks to an old friend who sent me the following story Merry Christmas, My Friend by Christa Holder Ocker. "I will never forget you," the old man said. A tear rolled down his leathery cheek. "I'm getting old. I can't take care of you anymore." With his head tilted to one side, Monsieur DuPree watched his master. "Woof woof! Woof woof!" He wagged his tail back and forth, wondering, What's he up to now? "I can't take care of myself anymore, let alone take care of you." The old man cleared his throat. He pulled a hankie from his pocket and blew his nose with a mighty blast. "Soon, I'll move to an old age home and, I'm sorry to say, you can't come along. They don't allow dogs there, you know." Bent over from age, the old man limped over to Monsieur DuPree and stroked his head. "Don't worry, my friend. We'll find a home. We'll find a nice new home for you." And, as an afterthought he added, "Why, with your good looks, we'll have no trouble at all. Anyone would be proud to own such a fine dog." Monsieur DuPree wagged his tail really hard and strutted up and down the kitchen floor. "Woof, woof, woof, woof." For a moment, the familiar musky scent of the old man mingling with the odor of greasy food gave the dog the feeling of well being. But then, a sense of dread took hold again. His tail hung between his legs and he stood very still. "Come here." With great difficulty, the old man knelt down on the floor and lovingly pulled Monsieur Dupree close to him. He tied a ribbon around his neck with a huge red bow, and then he attached a note to it. Monsieur DuPree wondered what it said. "It says," the old man read aloud, "Merry Christmas! My name is Monsieur DuPree. For breakfast, I like bacon and eggs -- even corn flakes will do. For dinner, I prefer mashed potatoes and some meat. That's all. I eat just two meals a day. In return, I will be your most loyal friend." "Woof woof! Woof woof!" Monsieur DuPree was confused and his eyes begged, What's going on? The old man blew his nose into his hankie once more. Then, hanging onto a chair, he pulled himself up from the floor. Buttoning his overcoat, he reached for the dog's leash and softly said, "Come here my friend." He opened the door against a gust of cold air and stepped outside, pulling the dog behind. Dusk was beginning to fall. Monsieur DuPree pulled back. He didn't want to go. "Don't make this any harder for me. I promise you, you'll be much better off with someone else." The street was deserted. It began to snow. Leaning into the wintry air, the old man and his dog pushed on. The pavement, trees, and houses were soon covered with a blanket of snow. After a very long time, they came upon an old Victorian house surrounded by tall trees, which were swaying and humming in the wind. The old man stopped. Monsieur DuPree stopped, too. Shivering in the cold, they appraised the house. Glimmering lights adorned every window, and the muffled sound of a Christmas song was carried on the wind. "This will be a nice home for you," the old man said, choking on his words. He bent down and unleashed his dog, then opened the gate slowly, so that it wouldn't creak. "Go on now. Go up the steps and scratch on the door." Monsieur DuPree looked from the house to his master and back again to the house. He did not understand. "Woof woof! Woof woof!" "Go on." The old man gave the dog a shove. "I have no use for you anymore," he said in a gruff voice. "Get going now!" Monsieur DuPree was hurt. He thought his master didn't love him anymore. He didn't understand that, indeed, the old man loved him very much, yet he could no longer care for him. Slowly he straggled toward the house and up the steps. He scratched with one paw at the front door. "Woof woof! Woof woof!" Looking back, he saw his master step behind a tree just as someone from inside turned the front doorknob. A little boy appeared, framed in the door by the light coming from behind. When he saw Monsieur DuPree, he threw both arms into the air and shouted with delight, "Oh boy! Oh boy! Mom and Dad, come and see what Santa brought!" Through teary eyes, the old man watched from behind the tree. He saw the mother read the note, and tenderly pull the dog inside. Smiling, the old man wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his cold, damp coat as he disappeared into the night whispering, "Merry Christmas, my friend."
It’s just a small, white envelope stuck among the branches of our Christmas tree. No name, no identification, no inscription. It has peeked through the branches of our tree for the past 10 years or so.
It all began because my husband Mike hated Christmas—oh, not the true meaning of Christmas, but the commercial aspects of it- overspending… the frantic running around at the last minute to get a tie for Uncle Harry and the dusting powder for Grandma—the gifts given in desperation because you couldn’t think of anything else. Knowing he felt this way, I decided one year to bypass the usual shirts, sweaters, ties and so forth. I reached for something special just for Mike. The inspiration came in an unusual way.
Our son Kevin, who was 12 that year, was wrestling at the junior level at the school he attended; and shortly before Christmas, there was a non-league match against a team sponsored by an inner-city church, mostly black. These youngsters, dressed in sneakers so ragged that shoestrings seemed to be the only thing holding them together, presented a sharp contrast to our boys in their spiffy blue and gold uniforms and sparkling new wrestling shoes. As the match began, I was alarmed to see that the other team was wrestling without headgear, a kind of light helmet designed to protect a wrestler?ears. It was a luxury the ragtag team obviously could not afford.
Well, we ended up walloping them. We took every weight class. And as each of their boys got up from the mat, he swaggered around in his tatters with false bravado, a kind of street pride that couldn’t knowledge defeat.
Mike, seated beside me, shook his head sadly, “I wish just one of them could have won,” he said. “They have a lot of potential, but losing like this could take the heart right out of them.” Mike loved kids-all kids-and he knew them, having coached little league football, baseball and lacrosse.
That’s when the idea for his present came. That afternoon, I went to a local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes and sent them anonymously to the inner-city church. On Christmas Eve, I placed the envelope on the tree, the note inside telling Mike what I had done and that this was his gift from me. His smile was the brightest thing about Christmas that year and in succeeding years. For each Christmas, I followed the tradition—one year sending a group of mentally handicapped youngsters to a hockey game, another year a check to a pair of elderly brothers whose home had burned to the ground the week before Christmas, and on and on.
The envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always the last thing opened on Christmas morning and our children, ignoring their new toys, would stand with wide-eyed anticipation as their dad lifted the envelope from the tree to reveal its contents. As the children grew, the toys gave way to more practical presents, but the envelope never lost its allure. The story doesn’t end there.
You see, we lost Mike last year due to dreaded cancer. When Christmas rolled around, I was still so wrapped in grief that I barely got the tree up. But Christmas Eve found me placing an envelope on the tree, and in the morning, it was joined by three more. Each of our children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed an envelope on the tree for their dad. The tradition has grown and someday will expand even further with our grandchildren standing around the tree with wide- eyed anticipation watching as their fathers take down the envelope. Mike’s spirit, like the Christmas spirit, will always be with us.
– Author Unknown-
It’s just a small, white envelope stuck among the branches of our Christmas tree. No name, no identification, no inscription. It has peeked through the branches of our tree for the past 10 years or so.
It all began because my husband Mike hated Christmas—oh, not the true meaning of Christmas, but the commercial aspects of it- overspending… the frantic running around at the last minute to get a tie for Uncle Harry and the dusting powder for Grandma—the gifts given in desperation because you couldn’t think of anything else. Knowing he felt this way, I decided one year to bypass the usual shirts, sweaters, ties and so forth. I reached for something special just for Mike. The inspiration came in an unusual way.
Our son Kevin, who was 12 that year, was wrestling at the junior level at the school he attended; and shortly before Christmas, there was a non-league match against a team sponsored by an inner-city church, mostly black. These youngsters, dressed in sneakers so ragged that shoestrings seemed to be the only thing holding them together, presented a sharp contrast to our boys in their spiffy blue and gold uniforms and sparkling new wrestling shoes. As the match began, I was alarmed to see that the other team was wrestling without headgear, a kind of light helmet designed to protect a wrestler?ears. It was a luxury the ragtag team obviously could not afford.
Well, we ended up walloping them. We took every weight class. And as each of their boys got up from the mat, he swaggered around in his tatters with false bravado, a kind of street pride that couldn’t knowledge defeat.
Mike, seated beside me, shook his head sadly, “I wish just one of them could have won,” he said. “They have a lot of potential, but losing like this could take the heart right out of them.” Mike loved kids-all kids-and he knew them, having coached little league football, baseball and lacrosse.
That’s when the idea for his present came. That afternoon, I went to a local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes and sent them anonymously to the inner-city church. On Christmas Eve, I placed the envelope on the tree, the note inside telling Mike what I had done and that this was his gift from me. His smile was the brightest thing about Christmas that year and in succeeding years. For each Christmas, I followed the tradition—one year sending a group of mentally handicapped youngsters to a hockey game, another year a check to a pair of elderly brothers whose home had burned to the ground the week before Christmas, and on and on.
The envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always the last thing opened on Christmas morning and our children, ignoring their new toys, would stand with wide-eyed anticipation as their dad lifted the envelope from the tree to reveal its contents. As the children grew, the toys gave way to more practical presents, but the envelope never lost its allure. The story doesn’t end there.
You see, we lost Mike last year due to dreaded cancer. When Christmas rolled around, I was still so wrapped in grief that I barely got the tree up. But Christmas Eve found me placing an envelope on the tree, and in the morning, it was joined by three more. Each of our children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed an envelope on the tree for their dad. The tradition has grown and someday will expand even further with our grandchildren standing around the tree with wide- eyed anticipation watching as their fathers take down the envelope. Mike’s spirit, like the Christmas spirit, will always be with us.
– Author Unknown-
Dear readers,
A special card for all of you....
Take care and have a blessed Christmas!
The second World War raged in Europe during Christmas Eve in 1944. Mother, with four small children, had fled our native Ukraine with the retreating German army. Father had been reported missing in action.
Now we were refugees living in a two-room shack in Dieterwald, Poland. But again the fighting front was only about fifty kilometres away. Frequent air raids sent us scurrying for cover. Explosions rattled the windows. Army trucks brought in the wounded and the dead. Hay wagons filled with refugees rumbled west; bombers droned overhead and army tanks rolled east. Partisans (underground resistance) attacked innocent women and children at night.
Nobody in his right mind went out into the dark winter night.
And yet, it was Christmas Eve. Two women had prepared a Christmas party in a neighbouring village and invited us. Mother, wanting to give us children joy, accepted.
She instructed my sister and me to dress warmly against the winter's cold. "Tonight we're going to a party," she said. Being only eight-years old, I sensed no danger--only wondrous excitement.
Hurriedly my sister, two years younger, and I dressed. If only Mother would hurry! A simple wick flickered in a saucer of oil--our only light. We could barely see her shadowy form as she bustled about getting my four-year-old brother, Fred, and almost two-year-old sister, Katie, ready. Finally Mother was putting on her heavy winter coat, kerchief, and warm felt boots.
With one small breath, she blew out the oil lamp. It was pitch dark now.
"Open the door, Lena," she called to me.
We stepped onto the crisp snow covering the farmyard. A moon crescent hung above a large house across the yard where the estate owners lived--kind people who treated us refugees well. It, too, was shrouded in darkness.
Mother lifted Katie and shuffled her to her back: she'd carry her piggyback for the five kilometres.
"Hang tight onto my coat collar," she coaxed. Then, turning towards us girls, she said, "You take Fred's hands." My younger sister and I complied. We had often taken care of our little brother while mother had culled potatoes in the big barns or had done other chores for the landowners.
At the road, we stopped. Although I knew it well from my treks to school, I could barely make out the houses on either side of the street. No street lights were allowed now. Windows heavily draped permitted no light to seep out of the houses.
My mother hesitated for a brief moment. Then she said, "Come, we'll take the shortcut across the fields."
The snow crunched as four pairs of feet punched holes in the white expanse of open fields. Stars spangled the vault of sky above us. A blood-red glow smeared the eastern sky. At times an explosion sent flames shooting into the sky.
"Girls, recite your poems to me." Mother's voice sounded a bit shaky. Her arms aching, she put Katie down on the snowy ground. Our recitations of Christmas poems made white puffs in the cold night air.
When we finished, Mother said, "Speak up loud and clear when your turn comes. No mumbling."
She lifted Katie once more onto her back, and we began to walk again. On and on we walked. But we were far too excited to be tired.
Finally we arrived at our friends' house. The door opened and we stepped inside. I felt I had stepped into heaven itself. Lights! A whole room-full of lights.
Candlelight flickered from a small Christmas tree and bounced out of happy children's eyes. Heavily draped windows kept the light inside--for us to revel in. Red paper chains decked the tree; delicate paper cherubs smiled down upon us.
We squeezed in amongst women and children sitting on the floor. Soon the room filled with singing: "Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht."(Silent Night, Holy Night) Some mothers sang alto, the rest of us, soprano. We sang with gusto and from memory, songs that lifted our hearts above the terrors of war and inspired new hope for the days ahead.
I can't remember our long trek home that night, but I do remember the wonderful gifts I received; my right pocket bulged with the most beautiful ball I'd ever seen. A very colourful ball it was. Much later, I learned it had been made out of scrunched up rags wrapped in rainbow coloured yarn probably gleaned from unravelling old sweaters. The other pocket held three cookies!
Soon after that wonderful Christmas party, we were evacuated. Icy winds blew snow into our faces as we cowered on an uncovered hay wagon pulled by two scrawny horses. With the front so close behind, we traveled day and night. Once it was safe to stop, we slept in drafty barns. We ate hunks of frozen bread and drank the occasional cup of milk supplied by a Red Cross jeep.
But the warm memory of that Christmas celebration shone like a small candle in the darkness.
by Helen Grace Lescheid
Merry Christmas everyone! May the reason for the season fill your heart with love overflowing for those around you and beyond! God bless you, dear reader!
On a December night in Chicago, a little girl climbed onto her father's lap and asked a question. It was a simple question, asked in children's curiosity, yet it had a heart-rending effect on Robert May.
"Daddy," four-year old Barbara asked, "Why isn't my Mommy just like everybody else's mommy?"
Bob May stole a glance across his shabby two room apartment. On a couch lay his young wife, Evelyn, racked with cancer. For two years she had been bedridden; for two years, all Bob's income and smaller savings had gone to pay for treatments and medicines.
The terrible ordeal already had shattered two adult lives. Now Bob suddenly realized the happiness of his growing daughter was also in jeopardy. As he ran his fingers through Barbara's hair, he prayed for some satisfactory answer to her question.
Bob May knew only too well what it meant to be "different." As a child he had been weak and delicate. With the innocent cruelty of children, his playmates had continually goaded the stunted, skinny lad to tears. Later at Dartmouth, from which he was graduated in 1926, Bob May was so small that he was always being mistaken for someone's little brother.
Nor was his adult life much happier. Unlike many of his classmates who floated from college into plush jobs, Bob became a lowly copy writer for Montgomery Ward, the big Chicago mail order house. Now at 33, Bob was deep in debt, depressed and sad.
Although Bob did not know it at the time, the answer he gave the tousled haired child on his lap was to bring him to fame and fortune. It was also to bring joy to countless thousands of children like his own Barbara. On that December night in the shabby Chicago apartment, Bob cradled his little girl's head against his shoulder and began to tell a story.
"Once upon a time there was a reindeer named Rudolph, the only reindeer in the world that had a big red nose. Naturally people called him Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer." As Bob went on to tell about Rudolph, he tried desperately to communicate to Barbara the knowledge that, even though some creatures of God are strange and different, they often enjoy the miraculous power to make others happy.
Rudolph, Bob explained, was terribly embarrassed by his unique nose. Other reindeer laughed at him; his mother and father and sister were mortified too.
Even Rudolph wallowed in self pity.
"Well," continued Bob, "one Christmas Eve, Santa Claus got his team of husky reindeer -Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, and Vixon ready for their yearly trip around the world. The entire reindeer community assembled to cheer these great heroes on their way. But a terrible fog engulfed the earth that evening, and Santa knew that the mist was so thick he wouldn't be able to find any chimney.
Suddenly Rudolph appeared, his red nose glowing brighter than ever. Santa sensed at once that here was the answer to his perplexing problem. He led Rudolph to the front of the sleigh, fastened the harness and climbed in.
They were off! Rudolph guided Santa safely to every chimney that night. Rain and fog, snow and sleet; nothing bothered Rudolph, for his bright nose penetrated the mist like a beacon.
And so it was that Rudolph became the most famous and beloved of all the reindeer. The huge red nose he once hid in shame was now the envy of every buck and doe in the reindeer world. Santa Claus told everyone that Rudolph had saved the day and from that Christmas, Rudolph has been living serenely and happy."
Little Barbara laughed with glee when her father finished. Every night she begged him to repeat the tale until finally Bob could rattle it off in his sleep. Then, at Christmas time he decided to make the story into a poem like "The Night Before Christmas" and prepare it in bookish form illustrated with pictures, for Barbara's personal gift. Night after night, Bob worked on the verses after Barbara had gone to bed for he was determined his daughter should have a worthwhile gift, even though he could not afford to buy one...
Then as Bob was about to put the finishing touches on Rudolph, tragedy struck.
Evelyn May died. Bob, his hopes crushed, turned to Barbara as chief comfort. Yet, despite his grief, he sat at his desk in the quiet, now lonely apartment, and worked on "Rudolph" with tears in his eyes.
Shortly after Barbara had cried with joy over his handmade gift on Christmas morning, Bob was asked to an employee's holiday party at Montgomery Wards. He didn't want to go, but his office associates insisted. When Bob finally agreed, he took with him the poem and read it to the crowd. First the noisy throng listened in laughter and gaiety. Then they became silent, and at the end, broke into spontaneous applause. That was in 1938.
By Christmas of 1947, some 6 million copies of the booklet had been given away or sold, making Rudolph one of the most widely distributed books in the world. The demand for Rudolph sponsored products, increased so much in variety and number that educators and historians predicted Rudolph would come to occupy a permanent place in the Christmas legend.
-Author Unknown-
MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL MY CHRISTIAN READERS AND FRIENDS
What did Adam say on the day before Christmas ?
It's Christmas, Eve !
How do you make an idiot laugh on boxing day ?
Tell him a joke on Christmas Eve !
What do you have in December that you don't have in any other month ?
The letter "D" !
What does Father Christmas suffer from if he gets stuck in a chimney ?
Santa Claustrophobia !
What do you call a letter sent up the chimney on Christmas Eve ?
Black mail !
Who delievers cat's Christmas presents ?
Santa Paws !
Why does Father Christmas go down the chimney ?
Because it soots him !
Who delievers elephants's Christmas presents?
Elephanta Claus !
How many chimney does Father Christmas go down ?
Stacks !
Why is Santa like a bear on Christmas Eve ?
Because he's Sooty !
How many elves does it take to change a light bulb?
Ten! One to change the light bulb and nine to stand on each other?s shoulders!
Why did Santa's helper see the doctor?
Because he had a low ?elf?esteem!
ELF JOKES
How long should an elf's legs be?
Just long enough to reach the ground!
What did the elf say was the first step in using a Christmas computer?
"First, YULE LOGon"!
What's the first thing elves learn in school?
The "elf"-abet!
Who sings "Blue Christmas" and makes toy guitars?
Elfis!
One elf said to another elf, "We had Grandma for Christmas dinner".
And the other elf said, "Really? We had turkey!"
How do elves greet each other?
"Small world, isn't it?"
Santa rides in a sleigh. What do elves ride in?
Mini vans!
Finally, please enjoy this video clip that is different. Thanks for sharing!
CLICK HERE FOR THE CLIP.
Sing along...dance and be happy! Have a nice day!
When I was in elementary school in Saginaw, Michigan, back in the 1950's, Paul Davis was my neighbor as well as classmate. Paul's birthday is December 16th. Every year for his birthday treat he would take to school wonderful Santa face cookies, complete with raisin eyes and coconut beards.
I would always make sure to walk home with Paul on those days, just in case someone had been absent and he had an extra cookie or two. Somehow, one cookie survived long enough for me to show my mother. She got the recipe from Paul's mother and bought the special cookie cutter at Morley Brothers, our wonderful all-purpose department store.
Over the years, my mother and I would continue to make these cookies. After I got married in the mid-60's, I bought my own cookie cutter. We had three daughters and the cookies remained a must-do at Christmas time. I was a stay-at-home mother in those days and would make the Santa cookies for my daughters' class parties. Some special teachers would get a plate of them years after they taught our daughters. Eventually, my mother gave me her Santa cookie cutter and I guarded both of them because Morley's had closed years before and we never saw anything even resembling these wonderful Santa faces.
Several years ago in late December, I had made several batches and the two plastic cutters were sitting on the cupboard waiting to be handwashed and put away for another year. Well, my oldest daughter decided to help out by loading the dishwasher. You guessed it ... the two treasured plastic cutters came out distorted and totally unusable. I was sick!
For some reason, I had kept the original paper insert from the cookie cutter box. So, I knew that they were from Aunt Chick's in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Now, it was time to see if that company was still in business. Honestly, I wasn't optimistic but if I couldn't replace them, then a long-standing tradition had come to an abrupt halt.
That January, I wrote to the Tulsa Chamber of Commerce and inquired about Aunt Chick's cookie cutters. I enclosed a copy of the insert that I'd kept for so many years. Within days I received a reply. They even sent me newspaper clippings about Aunt Chick (she had died in 1982) and they told me that the cookie cutters were still available at The Final Touch in Tulsa. They also told me that Aunt Chick's granddaughter, Pat Kimbrel, had taken over the business and it was now called Chickadees Cookery Company in Irving, Texas.
I was elated! I phoned The Final Touch and explained what had happened and said that I wanted to buy TEN Santa cookie cutters. The woman told me that they were only available in sets (Santa, star, tree, stocking.) But I didn't want the other designs and couldn't afford to buy ten SETS.
So, I decided to call Chickadees Cookery Company. I was able to talk with Pat Kimbrel and tell her about the happy memories connected with her grandmother's cookie cutters. She said that she hoped to get them back into distribution once again. Through Pat I was able to buy four Santa cutters. Then, several weeks later, I received a note from The Final Touch saying that they found six Santa cutters and asked if I still want them.
I phoned to say "Yes!" and sent a check. So, within about four months I went from having no Santa cutters to having ten, the exact number that I stated that I wanted in the first place!
It was wonderful to be able to do business with two women who went out of their way to satisfy a customer. And, now the family tradition of the Santa face cookie cutters continues not only in our house but also in the home of our oldest daughter, who has since married. At this point, it's three generations strong.
So, Happy Birthday, Paul Davis, this December 16th wherever you are. I'll bet you just never knew that your old friend, neighbor and classmate would perpetuate the cookie tradition for nearly a half-century. Thanks to you and your mother and with the help of some dear women in both Oklahoma and Texas, we'll be enjoying our very special Santa cookies for many years to come.
Sometimes you just never know how many lives you affect or for how many years the influence will be felt. Merry Christmas!
-Author Unknown-
Christmas is for love. It is for joy, for giving and sharing, for laughter, for reuniting with family and friends, for tinsel and brightly decorated packages. But mostly, Christmas is for love. I had not believed this until a small elf-like student with wide-eyed innocent eyes and soft rosy cheeks gave me a wondrous gift one Christmas.
Mark was an 11 year old orphan who lived with his aunt, a bitter middle aged woman greatly annoyed with the burden of caring for her dead sister's son. She never failed to remind young Mark, if it hadn't been for her generosity, he would be a vagrant, homeless waif. Still, with all the scolding and chilliness at home, he was a sweet and gentle child.
I had not noticed Mark particularly until he began staying after class each day (at the risk of arousing his aunt's anger, I later found) to help me straighten up the room. We did this quietly and comfortably, not speaking much, but enjoying the solitude of that hour of the day. When we did talk, Mark spoke mostly of his mother. Though he was quite small when she died, he remembered a kind, gentle, loving woman, who always spent much time with him.
As Christmas drew near however, Mark failed to stay after school each day. I looked forward to his coming, and when the days passed and he continued to scamper hurriedly from the room after class, I stopped him one afternoon and asked why he no longer helped me in the room. I told him how I had missed him, and his large gray eyes lit up eagerly as he replied, "Did you really miss me?"
I explained how he had been my best helper. "I was making you a surprise," he whispered confidentially. "It's for Christmas." With that, he became embarrassed and dashed from the room. He didn't stay after school any more after that.
Finally came the last school day before Christmas. Mark crept slowly into the room late that afternoon with his hands concealing something behind his back. "I have your present," he said timidly when I looked up. "I hope you like it." He held out his hands, and there lying in his small palms was a tiny wooden box.
"Its beautiful, Mark. Is there something in it?" I asked opening the top to look inside. "
"Oh you can't see what's in it," He replied, "and you can't touch it, or taste it or feel it, but mother always said it makes you feel good all the time, warm on cold nights, and safe when you're all alone."
I gazed into the empty box. "What is it Mark," I asked gently, "that will make me feel so good?" "It's love," he whispered softly, "and mother always said it's best when you give it away." And he turned and quietly left the room.
So now I keep a small box crudely made of scraps of wood on the piano in my living room and only smile as inquiring friends raise quizzical eyebrows when I explain to them that there is love in it.
Yes, Christmas is for gaiety, mirth and song, for good and wondrous gifts. But mostly, Christmas is for love.
-Author Unknown-
Christmas is just round the corner and many have started their Christmas shopping. I have also received a few presents already even though it's still slightly more than a week to Christmas. In case, you have run out of ideas for presents, here are some ideas for gifts that don't cost a cent...and the best part is - these will multiply when you give them. Take care and have a blessed season and a great day!
1. THE GIFT OF LISTENING...
But you must REALLY listen. No interrupting, no daydreaming, no planning your response. Just listening.
2. THE GIFT OF AFFECTION...
Be generous with appropriate hugs, kisses, pats on the back and holds. Let these small actions demonstrate the love you have for family and friends.
3. THE GIFT OF LAUGHTER...
Clip cartoons. Share articles and funny stories. Your gift will say, "I love to laugh with you."
4. THE GIFT OF A WRITTEN NOTE...
It can be a simple "Thanks for the help" note or a full sonnet. A brief, handwritten note may be remembered for a lifetime, and may even change a life.
5. THE GIFT OF A COMPLIMENT...
A simple and sincere, "You look great in red," "You did a super job" or "That was a wonderful meal" can make someone's day.
6. THE GIFT OF A FAVOR...
Every day, go out of your way to do something kind.
7. THE GIFT OF SOLITUDE...
There are times when we want nothing better than to be left alone. Be sensitive to those times and give the gift of solitude to others.
8. THE GIFT OF A CHEERFUL DISPOSITION...
The easiest way to feel good is to extend a kind word to someone, really it's not that hard to say, Hello or Thank You.
Take care and remember to smile a lot and be happy always...Have a lovely weekend!
Here's a beautiful piece about Christmas that I would like to share with you....
Eight Days before Christmas by Timothy David
When did my life begin? In all truth I would have to say that it began eight days before Christmas when I was already the mature age of nine years old. Or to be more exact, I was nine and a half. That extra half makes all the difference in the world to a child who wants to grow up quickly. December 17, 1986, that is the day I so vividly remember. My mind is a VCR that can play, rewind, fast forward and pause any second of that day. But regretfully, I cannot stop it.
Oh yes, it started out just like any regular day for a young boy just itching to get out of school as quickly as possible. I was always the teacher's pet and the quiet type but just between you and me, school was no roller coaster ride. The most terrifying thing I remember is my teacher from that year. Oh how I would dread the end of the school day. Miss Tanner would stand by the door as we filed out one by one and kiss us on the cheek. It was a slobbering mess.
I cannot recall what the weather was like that day - it seems like such a trite and needless detail. But I can tell you this much; we lived in South Florida, so I can pretty much guarantee you that it was hotter than hell on Fry Day. The sky may have been blue but your skin would be bright red. No, I don't remember what the weather was like, but I do know that it couldn't have been beautiful.
I would meet my sister, Sarah, at the bike racks as soon as school let out. She was two years younger than I and probably a lot prettier. We lived nearly two miles from the school grounds and had driven our bikes to and from the campus all year. We walked the distance before that year because there were no sidewalks along the side of the road leading to our home. Our parents both worked full time and riding our bikes back and forth wasn't exactly a hardship, it was more like a grown-up responsibility. More importantly, it was fun.
Now you have to understand, we needed to get home as quickly as possible. With Christmas being so close, we assured ourselves that there were possibly unwrapped presents lying around hidden in our parents' room. The goal was to get home before Mom and Dad. My sister and I were cohorts in this great and terrible deed. Pssst?it wasn't the first time.
Anyway, we rode like mad, passing by tons of new houses going up in our developing city. New hotels and supermarkets were arriving nearly everyday. There were many times we saw a tour bus drive by slowly filled with people eager to spend every penny they had. On what, I have no idea. Royal Palm Beach was just a speck becoming a star at the time.
A smiling crossing guard led us silently across the last intersection before our intended destination. Just four more blocks and we waited side by side for the traffic to subside before crossing the street to the dirt road our house was on. Two more minutes and we might have to chance to sneak a peek at our presents.
I don't know which way my eyes were looking but I did see the white van. It was the last vehicle that would pass us before we crossed the street. I looked over at Sarah. Her eyes were focused on something down the road in the opposite direction. That's when I realized that her feet were propelling her bike forward.
"Sarah, No!" I screamed at the top of my lungs. She was in the opposite lane, almost across the street. Screeching tires. My sister never turned her head. I watched her fly off of her bike and skid several feet along the harsh pavement.
"Sarah! Sarah!"
The driver of the white van jumped out quickly. He slammed the door shut and pressed his body against the side of his vehicle. He pounded his fists furiously against it. I looked at my sister lying there helplessly. There was no movement.
"I'm going to get my parents!" I shouted at the driver, not knowing what I should do or say. He glanced at me but said nothing. I ran down that old dirt road faster than a cheetah could dare ever hope for. All the while I was shouting, " Mom, Dad?Mom, Dad!" Our house was the fifth one on the right. It was a small, prefabricated home sitting on a large hill on two acres with a nice pond in the front.
I could see the front door open from halfway down the street. My mother had a hand over her chest.
"Sarah got run over! Sarah got run over!" My mother bounded furiously down the steps and ran down that road faster in flip-flops much faster than I had in my tennis shoes. She never once looked at me or anything else on her desperate journey. Her sights were only set on keeping her daughter alive.
I continued to run all the way to our house. My father stood there looming in the hallway. I couldn't understand why he just stood there. I told him again that his daughter had been run over. He walked slowly to the phone and started dialing. He only dialed one number before asking, "This is a joke, isn't it?"
A neighbor took me over to her house only a few moments later. My father disappeared to join my mother. I wanted so badly to know what was going on. I deserved to be with my sister. She was my best friend. A friend of my mother's picked my up nearly thirty minutes later. She had a daughter that was my age that was a friend of my sister and I.
At their house I watched the movie 'Never Ending Story' nearly all the way through. I spent most of the time crying by myself though. It was then that Mrs. Cramer came to me and said it was time to go home. She looked tired and her daughter was crying hysterically. I was only confused. No one told me anything. I just wanted to see my sister and make sure she was going to okay. She was going to just fine, I never doubted that for one minute.
Mrs. Cramer stopped the car halfway down the driveway and told her daughter to go pick a rose from the rosebushes in their front yard. She only cried more as she did so.
When we finally got back to my house there were people everywhere. Friends, neighbors, family, and police. My father grabbed me by the shoulders and led me to an old wooden swing just in front of the house. He sat beside me and without any fanfare or explanation he said, " Tim, your sister is dead."
Yes, that is the day my life began, eight days before Christmas. It changed the way I feel about people and events.
Christmas presents aren't the most important things in life? Family and friends are.
I cherish and respect every living day. I learned early on that you must let the ones you love know that you love them. Thirteen years later I still cry when I think about my sister and that terrible day. I don't remember much about her and I can't even picture what she looks like in my mind. But I do know this; I know I loved her.
written by Timothy David.
