Goodbye 2011

New Year's Eve 2011.  I can't say I'm sorry to see 2011 go.  It has not been a good year for me.  Although death is part of life and dad lived a good, full life, his passing has impacted me more than I would have thought.  Intellectually I knew as 2011 began that we had only a few years at best before he and mom would be gone.  But to actually have him gone, to know that in this life I can't ask his advice or talk to him, has hurt more than I thought.  With all that needs to be done for mom, I think I have not completed the grieving process for him that I need to.  I hope that in 2012 I can do that so that the new year will be better.  In the meantime, good riddance 2011.

December 24

The Nativity

Luke 2:1-20

On Christmas Eve throughout the world, when the partying, the decorating, the feasting and the merry-making are finished, family Bibles are opened, children gather around a father, a mother, a grandfather or a grandmother, and the familiar story is told once again.

            And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus, that all the world should be taxed.

            (And this taxing was first made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria.)

            And all went to be taxed, every one to his own city.

            And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem; (because he was of the house and lineage of David;)

            To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child.

            And so it was that, while they were there, the days were accoplished that she should be delivered.

            And she brought forth her first-born son and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn.

            And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.

            And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.

            And the angel said to them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.

            For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.

            And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.

            And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying,

            Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.

            And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us.

            And they came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger.

            And when they had seen it, they made known abroad the saying which was told them concerning this child.

            And all they that heard it wondered at those things which were told them by the shepherds.

            But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart.

            And the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things that they had heard and seen, as it was told to them.

December 23

Silent Night

Music by Franz Gruber

Text by Joseph Mohr

There are thousands of Christmas carols, some beautiful, some humorous, some just plain bad.  Many of the traditional hymns are musical homages to the birth of our Lord.  Some, such as Handel’s Messiah, or Joy to the World, are jubilant paeans to His majesty.  Others evoke images of our Savior’s humble birth.  “Silent Night” is instantly recognizable, whether sung in English, French, German or any language, or simply played instrumentally.  Its haunting melody transports us to the manger over two thousand years ago and speaks peace to a troubled soul.  Though still and soft, it commands attention so much that the words often become secondary.  Yet the words carry no less power and force and welcome not only the newborn babe but the Savior of the world.

Silent night, holy night.  All is calm, all is bright

Round yon virgin mother and Child.

Holy infant so tender and mild,

Sleep in heavenly peace, sleep in heavenly peace.

Silent night, holy night.  Shepherds quake at the sight.

Glories stream from heaven afar;

Heavenly hosts sing, Alleluia!

Christ the savior is born!  Christ the savior is born!

Silent night, holy night.  Son of God, love’s pure light.

Radiant beams from thy holy face,

With the dawn of redeeming grace.

Jesus Lord at thy birth; Jesus Lord at thy birth.

December 22

What It Means to Be a Christian on Christmas Eve

By Pres. Ezra Taft Benson

Being a Christian means to do what Christ would do, even when it is not convenient.

            There was a little crippled boy who ran a small newsstand in a crowded railroad station.  He must have been about twelve years old.  Every day he would sell papers, candy, gum and magazines to the thousands of commuters passing through the terminal.

            On night two men were rushing through the crowded station to catch a train.  One was fifteen or twenty yards in front of the other.  It was Christmas Eve.  Their train was scheduled to depart in a matter of minutes.

            The first man turned a corner and in his haste to get home to a Christmas party plowed right into the little crippled boy.  He knocked him off his stool, and candy, newspapers and gum were scattered everywhere.  Without so much as stopping, he cursed the little fellow for being there and rushed on to catch the train that would take him to celebrate Christmas in the way he had chosen for himself.

            It was only a matter of seconds before the second commuter arrived on the scene.  He stopped, knelt, and gently picked up the boy.  After making sure the child was unhurt, the man gathered up the scattered newspapers, sweets and magazines.  Then he took his wallet and gave the boy a five dollar bill.  “Son,” he said, “I think this will take care of what was lost or soiled.  Merry Christmas!”

            Without waiting for a reply, the commuter now picked up his briefcase and hurried on his way.  As he did, the little crippled boy cupped his hands together and called out, “Mister, Mister!”

            The man stopped as the boy asked, “Are you Jesus Christ?”

            By the look on his face, it was obvious the man was embarrassed by the question.  But he smiled and said, “No, son.  I am not Jesus Christ, but I am trying hard to do what He would do if He were here.”

And that, my friend, is what it means to be a Christian, even on Christmas Eve.

December 21

Stubby Pringle’s Christmas

By Jack Schaefer

I first read this story in the Readers’ Digest about 1982.  It stuck with me over the years.  Originally published in 1964, it was picked up by the Readers’ Digest and since has been re-published twice in Boys’ Life, the magazine of the Boy Scouts of America.  I have searched to no avail to find a verbatim copy.  This version is true to the original, though not all the words are the author’s.

            Over a century ago, in the 1890s, the west was still a pretty wild place.  Settlers had followed the frontiersmen, but the land was sparsely occupied and towns were few and far between.  Cowboys still worked on ranches, driving cattle in the summer over well-worn trails to the stockyards where they were loaded on trains to Chicago, Oklahoma City and other cattle towns.  During the winter, these same cowboys lived a life of isolation on the ranches, tending to the cattle through the cold snows, only rarely going to town.

            One of these cowboys was Stubby Pringle, a young man of 18 or so.  He was called Stubby because he was short.  Stubby was one of those perpetually happy people, always a smile on his face and the first to offer a hand to a stranger.  Despite his short stature, Stubby had a way with the girls and loved to go to town every chance he got.  But Stubby was also a good cow hand.  He never shirked his duties and would help another cowboy even after his own chores were finished.

            One cold, lonely December on the plains of central Wyoming, Stubby was looking forward to December 24.  The town always put on a Christmas Eve dance and Stubby had been planning to go for several weeks.  It was the highlight of Christmas for him.  Christmas day was just another day to cowboys.  The cattle still needed to be watered and fed, calves got lost and had to be found, and there was plenty to do.  For a few hours, though, Stubby could forget all that and twirl a young lady or two at the dance.  He had his eye on one in particular, and, truth be told, she was looking forward to seeing Stubby as much as he was looking forward to seeing her.

            “What d’ya wanna go to town, fer?” Jake teased him.  Jake was one of the old cow hands, a rough man who had spent many more than his share of years in the saddle and sleeping on the ground.  “You know you can’t leave here till your chores are done,” Jake went on.  “And by the time you get to town, it’ll be near 9:00.  You’ll have a couple, maybe three hours then you got a long ride back here.  You won’t be gittin’ to bed till near 3:00 a.m. and tomorrow’s another day, just like any other.  You got to be up by 6:00.”

            “I know,” Stubby grinned, “but it’ll be worth it.”

            “No woman, nor no number of women, is worth that,” Jake snorted.

            “You’re wrong, Jake,” Stubby answered.  “The one I have in mind is.”

            “Ahh, yer just a young fool,” Jake replied.  “One day you’ll come to your senses.  While you’re out there in the dark and cold on the back of a horse, I’ll be snug in my bed.”

            But Stubby knew that secretly Jake was a softie.  Stubby had tried to get Jake to go to the dance with him, but Jake begged off, choosing instead to needle Stubby and sleep.

            On December 24, Stubby hurried through his chores so that he had time to take a cold bath and shave.  Then, bundling himself up as best he could, he walked out to the stable for his horse, who looked at him quizzically.  Why on earth was Stubby going out, the horse seemed to ask.  We’ve done our work and it’s time for a warm stall and a bucket of oats.  But Stubby swung his leg up over the saddle, dug his heels into the horse’s ribs and pulled hard on the reins.  Obediently, the horse turned into the wind and moved slowly west, toward town.

            Stubby hunkered down in the saddle, pulled the hat farther over his eyes and tucked his chin into the collar of his sheepskin jacket.  Even with his woolen muffler wrapped around his hat, over his ears and under his chin, the wind stung his face.  He patted his coat pocket one more time to make sure his Christmas gift to his young lady was there.  It wasn’t much, just a piece of calico that he had crudely fashioned into a handerchief, but it was all he had.  He had wrapped it in some colored paper he had managed to scrounge up and tied it with a piece of dyed yarn.  He knew she would be pleased at the thought.

            As Stubby rode on, the sky darkened to a deep blue and finally black.  The stars twinkled overhead, the cold, crisp air making them seem even closer.  Now the wind had died down somewhat and he could hear the snow crunch under the horse’s hooves.  Stubby sunk into his own thoughts, faraway thoughts of Christmases past with his family back east.  Stubby had left when he was 15 to find work in the West and to escape the mines.  He hadn’t seen his family for over three years.  He got letters only occasionally.  He knew, though, that his parents and younger brothers and sister would be gathered around the tree this night, waiting until they could open their gifts.  For Stubby, there would be no gift beyond the dance that lay before him.  To Stubby, it would be the best Christmas present he could receive.  Silently, he urged the horse on and she seemed to understand, picking up her feet just a little faster.

            Now the air was almost still.  How long he had been able to hear the sound, Stubby didn’t know, but suddenly he became aware of the dull thud of someone chopping wood.

            “Not much of an ax-man,” Stubby thought.  The blows were irregular and, to his trained ear, glancing.  He could tell it was coming from just behind a rise to his right.

            “Best check,” he thought.  “Someone is going to cut a foot off if that keeps up.”  He pulled on the reins and his horse swung right.  As he crested the rise, he could see a figure awkwardly swing an ax.  As he moved closer, he could see it was a woman in a long coat.  She stood in the light coming from the open door of a sod house, a small pile of wood beside her.  She would take a couple of half-hearted strokes, then put the ax down and lean on the handle.

            “At that rate, she’ll take all night,” Stubby thought.  “Maybe I should stop and help her.  Won’t take but a minute.”

            “Evening, ma’am,” Stubby called out, so as not to frighten her.  Still, she jerked at the sound of his voice and turned sharply.  He could see some concern, perhaps a bit of fear, in her face, so he smiled brightly and tipped the brim of his hat.

            “Can I lend a hand?” he asked, swinging his leg off the saddle without waiting for an answer.  He walked to the woman and reached for the ax before she could protest.

            “Well, yes, that would be nice,” she finally answered, hesitantly handing the ax to him.

            Stubby hefted the ax and swung it expertly.  The log gave a sharp crack and split neatly down the middle.  In less than five minutes Stubby had a pile of wood that would last through Christmas day for the woman.

            He handed the ax back.  So far, she had said nothing.  Now, as he turned to leave, she spoke.  “Thank you,” she said.  “We’ve been sick here, me and my two boys, and haven’t been able to chop any wood for about a week.”

            “What about your husband?” Stubby asked.

            She paused.  Then, “He died last spring.  Pneumonia, the doctor said.”

            “I’m sorry,” Stubby answered.  An embarrassed pause followed.

            “We’re doing fine now,” the woman smiled weakly.  A fit of coughing took her and Stubby knew that they weren’t doing fine.

            “Why don’t you let me chop a bit more wood?” he asked.  “It won’t take long and there’s plenty of time for me to get where I’m going.”

            “That would be nice,” the woman replied.  “I still haven’t gotten the Christmas decorations up and I can do that while you chop.  That would be very nice,” she repeated.

            Stubby took off his coat and laid it carefully aside.  He picked up the ax and for about thirty minutes he methodically attacked the woodpile.  When he was finished, there was a pile of wood that would last the family through a week of howling plains blizzard.  By then the woman would be strong enough to make it.  Stubby stepped inside the rude hut to say his goodbyes.  There was but one room.  In the far corner was a crude bunk bed.  Two young boys slept peacefully under thin covers.  The younger, on top, had fine, straw-colored hair.  The older, on the bottom, had dark hair tousled by sleep.

            As he entered, the woman turned and he could see her face clearly for the first time.  Her eyes were tired but filled with gratitude.  Her skin was lined with hard work and long days in the sun and wind.  She held a few strands of colored paper that she was stringing over the fireplace.  In a basket were a few ornaments.  He saw no tree.  The woman seemed to read his thoughts.

            “We didn’t have time to get a tree.  With the sickness and all, there just wasn’t. . . .” Her voice trailed off and she turned to hide a tear.  Stubby could imagine the boys waking in the morning to no tree.

            “Ma’am, it would please me if you would let me get you a tree,” he offered.  “There’s a fine stand of pines about a mile back.  I know I could find you a tree in no time.”

            “Oh, no, I couldn’t let you do that,” she protested.  He could tell she was more determined than when he had offered to cut the wood, but still she wanted him to get them a tree.

            “It’s no trouble at all,” he said.  “You can’t have Christmas without a tree.”  Without another word Stubby turned and walked out the door, picking up the ax as he left.

            It took him longer than he had planned to get a tree, but finally he found the perfect one, not too big, but nicely shaped.  With a few swift strokes he felled the tree and tied it to his saddle, then began the trip back to the hut.

            He knocked but got no answer.  Quietly he opened the door.  The woman was asleep in an old rocking chair by the fire.  He could see that she had brought in a supply of the wood he’d chopped and built a nice fire.  Then, no doubt exhausted, she sat down to wait for him.  Now she was asleep, the ornaments untouched.  The boys didn’t look as if they had moved.

            Stubby looked closer at the boys.  The older one seemed to be about nine, the younger maybe five or six.  He shook his head in wonderment.  This little family, alone here on the plains, trying to hew a living out of the earth.  Farmers, most likely, he surmised, for he had seen no cattle or other livestock.  Their situation made his own childhood seem like one of princely riches.

            Stubby didn’t know what time it was.  He guessed it to be after 10:00, maybe close to 11:00.  He was still an hour from town.  By the time he got there, the dance would be over.  He might as well turn around and head back to the bunkhouse.  At least he could get a little more sleep.

            But he couldn’t go, at least not yet.  He knew what had to be done.  As quickly and quietly as he could, he brought in the tree and set it up in the corner.  Then, taking the few decorations there were, he decorated the tree, placing a shiny star on top.  He stood back and surveyed his work.  A smile spread across his face, then was quickly replaced by a frown.  There were no gifts!  Well, he had no use for that piece of calico now.  Taking it out of his pocket, he lay it softly in the woman’s lap.  Then, by the light of the fire, he took his pocketknife, the one his grandfather had given him, and skillfully carved a piece of wood into a wolf, the head thrown back, howling defiance at the moon.  He set that on the bunk by the younger boy.

            What about the older boy?  He had nothing else, nothing except. . . . Stubby took the knife out of his pocket again and held it lovingly in his hand.  He watched the flames from the fire dance over the shiny blade.  Stubby kept this knife in perfect condition, cleaning and oiling it after every use.  It was sharpened to a razor’s edge.  He ran his thumb over the keen edge, feeling it cut every so slightly into his skin.  He ran his fingers over the carved wood body, feeling the familiar ridges and grooves.  Quietly, slowly, he closed the blade, hearing and feeling it snap home one last time.  Then, tenderly, he laid it next to the older boy.  Now it was perfect.  Stubby turned and crept out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.

            The moon was low on the horizon.  Stubby walked to his horse and rubbed her nose.  She turned and nuzzled him.  “Let’s go home, girl,” he said, climbing back into the saddle.

            Stubby didn’t remember much about the ride back to the ranch, other than the warm glow that seemed to surround him as the horse plodded on.  The wind started up again, portending a Christmas morning storm.  He knew, though, that the woman and her boys would have enough wood no matter how long the storm lasted.

            As Stubby came up on the final rise he could see the bunkhouse far below in the fading moonlight.  In the distance he heard the familiar ring of a cow bell.  Surely, the horse picked her way down the hill right to the stable.

            As Stubby slipped into the cold blankets, old Jake rolled over and spoke to him groggily.  “Well, was it worth it?” he asked.

            “Oh, yeah,” Stubby replied.  “It was worth every minute.”

            The wind picked up.  You know, I know, any darn fool knows, that wind does strange things to tired ears and cow bells in the distance can sound like sleigh bells, but Stubby swore that, as he drifted off to sleep, he heard sleigh bells and a faint voice calling to him, “Merry Christmas, Stubby, and thanks for the help.”

December 20

The Gift

Author Unknown

All that is known of this poem is that it was written by a Marine in Okinawa.  That would lead one to believe that it was written during World War II, but when it was written is of no matter, for soldiers have always spent Christmases far from home.  Particularly at this time in our nation’s history, we should pause to think of those who are willing to leave their families and friends to assure the survival of liberty.

T'was the night before Christmas,
he lived all alone,
in a one bedroom house made of
plaster and stone.

I had come down the chimney
with presents to give,
and to see just who
in this home did live.

I looked all about,
a strange sight did I see,
no tinsel, no presents,
not even a tree.

No stocking by mantle,
just boots filled with sand.
On the wall hung pictures
of far distant lands.

With medals and badges,
awards of all kinds,
a somber thought
came through my mind.

For this house was different,
it was dark and dreary,
I found the home of a soldier,
once I could see clearly.

The soldier lay sleeping,
silent, alone,
curled up on the floor
in this one bedroom home.

The face was so gentle,
the room in such disorder,
not how I pictured
A United States soldier.

Was this the hero of whom I’d just read?
curled up on a poncho, the floor for a bed?
I realized the families
that I saw this night,
owed their lives to these soldiers
who were willing to fight.

Soon round the world
the children would play,
and grownups would celebrate
a bright Christmas Day.

They all enjoyed freedom
each moment of the year,
because of the soldiers,
like the one lying here.

I couldn’t help wonder
how many lay alone
on a cold Christmas Eve
in a land far from home.

The very thought
brought a tear to my eye,
I dropped to my knees
and started to cry.

The soldier awakened
and I heard a soft voice,
"Santa, don’t cry,
this life is my choice;

I fight for freedom,
I don’t ask for more,
My life is my God,
my country, my corps."

The soldier rolled over
and soon drifted to sleep.
I couldn’t control it,
I continued to weep.

I kept watch for hours,
so silent and still
And we both shivered
from the cold night’s chill.

I didn’t want to leave,
on that cold, dark night,
this guardian of honor
so willing to fight.

Then the soldier rolled over,
with a voice soft and pure,
whispered, “Carry on, Santa,
it’s Christmas Day, all is secure."

One look at my watch and I knew he was right.
"Merry Christmas, my friend, and to all a Good Night."

December 19

Hanukkah Hymn

Traditional

Hanukkah is the Jewish Feast of Lights.  In 165 B.C., after a three-year struggle, the Jews defeated the Syrian tyrant Antiochus IV and re-took the Temple in Jerusalem.  They cleansed the Temple of Syrian idols but found only one cruse of oil with which to light their holy lamps.  Miraculously the oil lasted for eight days.  In memoriam of this event, the eight candles of the menorah are lit, one candle every day.  During Hanukkah, gifts are exchanged and contributions made to the poor.  Hanukkah begins on the eve of the 25^th day of the Hebrew month of Kislev and usually falls in December.  This Hymn expresses the praise, joy and hope that accopanied the cleansing of the Temple.  It is also appropriate to express the praise, joy and hope that accompanies the celebration of the birth of the Lord Jesus Christ.

Rock of Ages, let our song

Praise Thy saving power;

Thou, amidst the raging foes,

Wast our sheltering tower.

Furious, they assailed us,

But Thine arm availed us,

And Thy word

Broke their sword

When our own strength failed us.

Kindling new the holy lamps,

Priest approved in suffering,

Purified the nation’s shrine,

Brought to God their offering.

And His courts surrounding,

Hear, in joy abounding,

Happy throngs

Singing songs

With a mighty sounding.

Children of the martyr race,

Whether free or fettered,

Wake the echoes of the songs,

Where ye may be scattered.

You’re the message cheering

That the time is nearing

Which will see

All men free

Tyrants disappearing.

December 18

Keeping Christmas

By Henry Van Dyke

There is a better thing than the observance of Christmas day, and that is, keeping Christmas.
Are you willing...

·         to forget what you have done for other people, and to remember what other people have done for you;

·         to ignore what the world owes you, and to think what you owe the world;

·         to put your rights in the background, and your duties in the middle distance, and your chances to do a little more than your duty in the foreground;

·         to see that men and women are just as real as you are, and try to look behind their faces to their hearts, hungry for joy;

·         to own up to the fact that probably the only good reason for your existence is not what you are going to get out of life, but what you are going to give to life;

·         to close your book of complaints against the management of the universe, and look around you for a place where you can sow a few seeds of happiness.

Are you willing to do these things even for a day? Then you can keep Christmas.
Are you willing...

·         to stoop down and consider the needs and desires of little children;

·         to remember the weakness and loneliness of people growing old;

·         to stop asking how much your friends love you, and ask yourself whether you love them enough;

·         to bear in mind the things that other people have to bear in their hearts;

·         to try to understand what those who live in the same home with you really want, without waiting for them to tell you;

·         to trim your lamp so that it will give more light and less smoke, and to carry it in front so that your shadow will fall behind you;

·         to make a grave for your ugly thoughts, and a garden for your kindly feelings, with the gate open—

Are you willing to do these things, even for a day? Then you can keep Christmas.

Are you willing...

·         to believe that love is the strongest thing in the world—

·         stronger than hate, stronger than evil, stronger than death—

·         and that the blessed life which began in Bethlehem nineteen hundred years ago is the image and brightness of the Eternal Love?

Then you can keep Christmas.
And if you can keep it for a day, why not always?
But you can never keep it alone. 

December 17

The Christmas Guest

By Helen Steiner Rice

It happened one day at the year’s white end,
Two neighbors called on an old-time friend

And they found his shop so meager and mean,
Made gay with a thousand boughs of green,

And Conrad was sitting with face a-shine
When he suddenly stopped as he stitched a twine

And said, “Old friends, at dawn today,
When the cock was crowing the night away,

The Lord appeared in a dream to me
And said, ‘I am coming your guest to be’.

So I’ve been busy with feet astir,
Strewing my shop with branches of fir,

The table is spread and the kettle is shined
And over the rafters the holly is twined,

And now I will wait for my Lord to appear
And listen closely so I will hear

His step as He nears my humble place,
And I open the door and look in His face. . .”

So his friends went home and left Conrad alone,
For this was the happiest day he had known,

For, long since, his family had passed away
And Conrad has spent a sad Christmas Day.

But he knew with the Lord as his Christmas guest
This Christmas would be the dearest and best,

And he listened with only joy in his heart.
And with every sound he would rise with a start

And look for the Lord to be standing there
In answer to his earnest prayer

So he ran to the window after hearing a sound,
But all that he saw on the snow-covered ground

Was a shabby beggar whose shoes were torn
And all of his clothes were ragged and worn.

So Conrad was touched and went to the door
And he said, “Your feet must be frozen and sore,

And I have some shoes in my shop for you
And a coat that will keep you warmer, too.”

So with grateful heart the man went away,
But as Conrad noticed the time of day

He wondered what made the dear Lord so late
And how much longer he’d have to wait,

When he heard a knock and ran to the door,
But it was only a stranger once more,

A bent, old crone with a shawl of black,
A bundle of faggots piled on her back.

She asked for only a place to rest,
But that was reserved for Conrad’s Great Guest.

But her voice seemed to plead, “Don’t send me away
Let me rest awhile on Christmas day.”

So Conrad brewed her a steaming cup
And told her to sit at the table and sup.

But after she left he was filled with dismay
For he saw that the hours were passing away

And the Lord had not come as He said He would,
And Conrad felt sure he had misunderstood.

When out of the stillness he heard a cry,
”Please help me and tell me where am I.”

So again he opened his friendly door
And stood disappointed as twice before,

It was only a child who had wandered away
And was lost from her family on Christmas Day. .

Again Conrad’s heart was heavy and sad,
But he knew he should make this little child glad,

So he called her in and wiped her tears
And quieted her childish fears.

Then he led her back to her home once more
But as he entered his own darkened door,

He knew that the Lord was not coming today
For the hours of Christmas had passed away.

So he went to his room and knelt down to pray
And he said, “Dear Lord, why did you delay,

What kept You from coming to call on me,
For I wanted so much Your face to see. . .”

When soft in the silence a voice he heard,
”Lift up your head for I kept My word—

Three times My shadow crossed your floor--
Three times I came to your lonely door—

For I was the beggar with bruised, cold feet,
I was the woman you gave to eat,
And I was the child on the homeless street.”

December 16

Why the Chimes Rang

Adapted from Raymond M. Alden

The next two stories have a theme common in Christmas tales from around the world.  All retell the parable given in Matthew 25:40:  “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”

            There was once in a faraway country a wonderful church with a gray stone tower, with ivy growing over it as far up as one could see.  In the tower was a chime of Christmas bells.

            Every Christmas eve, all the people of the city brought to the church their offerings to the Christ Child.  When the greatest and best offering was laid on the altar, there would come sounding through the music of the choir the voices of the Christmas Chimes far up in the tower.  Some said the wind rang them, and other that they were so high that the angels could set them swinging.

            But the fact was that no one had heard the chimes for years and years.  There was an old man living not far from the church who said that his mother had spoken of hearing them when she was a little girl.  But now it was said the people had been growing less careful of their gifts to the Christ Child, and that no offering was brought great enough to deserve the music of the chimes.

            A number of miles from the city, in a little country village, lived a boy named Pedro and his little brother.

            The day before Christmas was bitterly cold, but the two boys started on their way to the Christmas celebration.  Before nightfall they had trudged so far, hand in hand, that they saw the lights of the big city just ahead of them.  Indeed, they were about to enter one of the great gates in the wall that surrounded it when they saw something on the dark snow near their path, and stepped aside to look at it.  It was a poor woman who had fallen just outside the city, too sick and tired and cold to get in where she might have found shelter.  Pedro, finding that he could not rouse her, said, “It’s no use, little brother.  You will have to go alone to the church.”

            “Alone?” cried the little brother.  “And you will not see the great Christmas festival?”

            “No,” said Pedro, and he could not help a little choking sound of disappointment in his throat.  “See this poor woman, her face looks like the Madonna in the chapel window and she will freeze to death if nobody cares for her.  If you get a chance, little brother, to slip up to the altar without getting in anyone’s way, take this little silver piece of mine and lay it down for my offering, when no one is looking.”

            The great church was truly a wonderful place that night.  After the service, the people took their gifts to the altar for the Christ Child.  Some brought wonderful jewels; some baskets of gold so heavy that they could scarcely carry them down the aisle.  A great writer laid down a book that he had been making for years and years.  And last of all walked the king of the country, hoping with all the rest to win for himself the chime of theChristmas bells.

            There was a great murmur through the church as the people saw the king take from his head the royal crown, all set with diamonds and other precious stones, and lay it gleaming on the altar as his offering to the Holy Child.  “Surely,” they said, “we shall hear the bells now.”  But the chimes did not ring.

            The procession was over.  The gifts were all on the altar, and the choir had begun the closing hymn.  Suddenly, the organist stopped playing, and everyone looked at the old minister, who was standing in his place and holding up his hand for silence.  As the people strained their ears to listen, there came softly but distinctly, swinging through the air, the sound of the bells in the tower!  So far away and yet so clear seemed the music, so much sweeter were the notes than anything else that had been heard before, rising and falling away up there in the sky, that the people in the church sat for a moment very still.  Then they all stood up together and stared at the altar to see what great gift had awakened the long-silent bells.

            But all that the nearest of them saw was the childish figure of Pedro’s brother, who had crept softly down the aisle when no one was looking, and had laid Pedro’s little piece of silver on the altar.

December 15

The Year Without a Santa Claus

By Phyllis McGinley

In 1975, Nancy and I were celebrating our second Christmas together.  Our first had come only three weeks after we were married and had been filled with the excitement of being newlyweds, finishing the fall quarter at school and a delayed honeymoon.  So 1975, though it was our second holiday season, was, in many ways, our first.  Our first Christmas really on our own.  Our apartment could barely hold the three-foot tree we bought, and a single strand of lights was almost too much for its tiny limbs to hold.  Nancy found some unpainted ceramic decorations and went spent many hours together painting our first Christmas tree ornaments.  As we painted, we watched TV on our little black and white set.  One night we came across an animated special called The Year Without a Santa Claus.  Some years later, Nancy found this on video.  It has become a staple of our Christmas Eve tradition.  Here is the story.

Have you been told?  Did you ever hear?

Of the curious, furious, fidgety year

When Santa Claus unhitched his sleigh

And vowed he was taking a holiday?

How did it happen?

This way –

It was long ago, before you were living,

Not yet Christmas, but past Thanksgiving,

Though I can’t give you the very date

Santa got up that morning, late;

Pulled on one boot, and then its twin,

Ruffled the whiskers on his chin

And sat back down on the sid of the bed.

“Great North Star, but I’m tired” he said.

“Painting wagons red and bright

Sharpening ice-skates half the night,

Wrapping presents in ribbons and gauze,

Has worn me weary,” said Santa Claus.

“Crick in my back, cold in my nose,

Aches in my fingers and all ten toes,

And a sort of a kind of a kink inside

Whenever I think of that Christmas ride.”

Into his workroom limped the Saint

He sniffed the varnish, he smelled the paint.

And a reeling feeling came over him stealing

The see things crammed from floor to ceiling;

Rocking horses with shaggy manes,

Balls, dolls and electric trains,

Gloves, mitts, doctor’s kits,

Rubber boots, cowboy suits,

Kites for flying in the parks,

Bicycles and Noah’s Arks.

And he started to shake and he started to shiver

At the thought of the load he must soon deliver.

And he sighed, “Oh dear!” as he buttoned his vest,

“I wish ONE YEAR I could take a rest.”

When the words were out, he stood stockstill

And then he whispered, “I think I will!

I will!” he cried with his eyes a-blaze

“Everyone else gets holidays!

“Sailors and tailors and cooks do

Policemen and writers of books do;

Tamers of lions and leopards,

Preachers and teachers and shepherds;

Watchmen, Scotchmen, Spaniards, Turks;

Butchers and bakers and grocery clerks –

They all take time off as Christmas nears.

All except me, so it appears.

Saint or not, it’s time I got,

My first vacation in a thousand years.”

Out in the stable, nuzzling hay,

The reindeer dreamed of Christmas day.

But Santa phoned to the reindeer groom,

“Hang up the harness, in the big storeroom.”

He called to the elves, he told each gnome,

“Cover up the shelves, we’re staying home.”

“What! Cover the shelves?”

Cried the gnomes and elves.

“Cover the dolls and electric trains

And the rocking horses with shaggy manes

And the rubber boots for splashing in parks

And the cowboy suits and the Noah’s Arks?

Alas!  Alack!”

For they couldn’t believe

He wouldn’t go riding on Christmas Eve.

“Put ‘em away,” roared Santa, vexed.

“This year’s presents will do for next.

Warn the people, tell the papers

I’m much too old for Christmas capers.

Crick in my back, a cold that lingers,

Aches in my toes and all ten fingers,

Bit of lumbago, touch of gout,

Climbing down chimneys is simply out.

I may be the saint of the children’s nation,

But this is the year of my first vacation.”

Well, you can imagine, more or less

What happened when that news hit the press.

Headlines screamed, wires went humming,

“SANTA SAYS ‘TOO TIRED,’ NOT COMING!”

And as the word flashed far and wide

You should have heard how the children cried!

So violently they sobbed their griefs

The shops ran out of handerchiefs.

Their tears filled up the kitchen sinks

And cellars and empty skating rinks.

They wept in school, at play they wept

They dampened their pillows while they slept.

Before those darlings’ eyes got drier

The rivers rose three feet higher.

And I don’t know what would have happened, quite,

Except for Ignatius Thistlewhite.

Ignatius Thistlewhite was a boy

In Texas (or what it Illinois?)

Six years old, but brave for his years,

He sobbed no sobs, he wept no tears,

But stood up tall in his class to say,

“Santa deserves a holiday!”

“No, no, no!” came the children’s plaint

What is Christmas without our saint?

“Shucks, now fellows! Gosh, goodness gracious!

Christmas is Christmas!” cried Ignatius

“And everyone tells me, whom I’ve met,

It’s a day to give as well as get.

Since all these years in the children’s cause

Santa’s been giving without one pause,

Let’s pull together in the Christmas weather

And give this year to Santa Claus!”

“Hooray,” his classmates said, “he’s right!

Three cheers for Ignatius Thistlewhite!”

Fast as a hurricane, children hurled

That happy message around the world,

Over each continent, isle and isthmus,

“Let’s give Santa a Merry Christmas!”

With snow the earth was already whit’ning

But they rolled up their sleeves and worked light lightning.

They opened their piggy banks, racked their brains,

They chartered buses and special trains

And ships and sledges and hydroplanes,

To reach the Pole by the 24^th

Was all their goal.  East, south, west, north

Came gifts and gifts and gifts to spare

From clever children everywhere:

Slippers with zippers to zip on;

Soap for his bath, or to slip on;

Geraniums pink in a pot;

One guppy, a puppy named Spot;

Balsam pillows, strawberry jam

Dressing gowns with his monogram.

Ten harmonicas for him to play on,

Handpainted pictures done in crayon.

Mufflers, pipes, an easy chair,

And lots of winter underwear.

In New York State, a boy called Pudge

Cooked him a plate of home-made fudge.

And little Girl Guides of Britain

Each made him a scarlet mitten,

While a boy in Siam sent a Siamese kitten.

They sent him lemon-drops by the carton;

Ashtrays modeled in kindergarten;

Jack-knives, pen-wipers, cakes and crullers,

And magic pencils that wrote three colors.

Tots who hadn’t a penny to send

Wrote him letters signed, “A FRIEND”

And they had more fun that strange December

(They said) than any they could remember.

Up at the Pole, in the fragrant hay,

The idle reindeer dreamed at play.

Comet nickered for oats and corn,

Dancer brandished his velvet horn,

While sadly, sorrily, lounged at home

Each idle elf and gnome.

Santa sat poking the fire, and blinking,

But nobody knew what he was thinking.

Then suddenly from the sky

There came the sound of planes

He heard the hoot and cry

Of ships and special trains.

“Noel!” tootled the sledges

“Honk!” the buses said

And out of his study window

Santa put his head.

He looked to the left, he stared to the right.

He didn’t trust his own eye-sight,

So many, so merry, so more and more

Packages were rolling to his front door.

Smack at his doorstep they thundered.

A million!  A thousand!  A hund’erd!

Flat ones and fat ones and lean ones;

Crimson and silver and green ones,

Broad ones

Odd ones

Plain and romantic ones,

Little and big and GIGANTIC ones;

Parcels from London, Rome, Atlanta

And each addressed alike:  “TO SANTA.”

Atop them all a banner glinted

Where Ignatius Thistelwhite had printed

These words:  “Good luck and holiday mirth

From all the children upon the earth.”

With toots and hoots

And honks light-hearted

The buses turned and trains departed,

Leaving the Saint surrounded by

Parcels piled to the Polar sky.

Santa was silent for a minute.

His eye looked bright but a tear stood in it.

Then he blew his nose like a trumpet blast.

“God bless my soul,” he said at last.

“By the Big Borealis!  By my maps and charts!

I didn’t know children had such kind hearts.

How could a man feel gladder, prouder?”

He turned to his staff and his voice got louder

“Gnomes! Elves! Every mother’s son!

Don’t stand staring; there’s work to be done.

Bring in the barrels, fetch in the boxes,

Carry in those packages

And don’t break one!”

Where to put them?

There wasn’t space

In parlor or study or any place

They overflowed bureau, couch and table

Filled the house, the sheds the stable;

Slid from mantels, jammed the casement,

Bulged from the attic and burst from the basement.

“There’s nothing to do,” exclaimed the elves,

“Except to empty some workshop shelves.”

Off those shelves, then, Santa’s forces

Whisked the painted rocking horses.

When the presents wouldn’t fit

Down came kite and doctor’s kit.

Still there wasn’t room for all

So away went basketball

Cowboy suit, rubber boot,

Bicycle and talking doll.

Till by the time that twilight reigned

Not a single toy on the shelves remained,

All were sacked and packed away

In the one place left –

The Christmas sleigh.

Then Santa gazed from floor to rafter

And gave his mightiest shout of laughter;

Laughed loud ho-ho’s, laughed vast ha-ha’s

“What a joke,” he chortled, “on Santa Claus.

“You might as well phone the reindeer groom

To take down the harness in the big store room.

Get me my gloves, the robe for my lap.

And my coat and my warmest stocking cap.

There sits the sleigh with the toys inside.

So what can I do tonight, but ride?”

“What about your gout?”

The gnomes cried out.

“What about your aches and the crick in your spine?”

“Pooh!” laughed Santa, “My back feels fine!

Never felt younger, never felt stronger.

Haven’t got a symptom any longer.

And before the midnight bells go chiming

I’d like to do some chimney climbing.

So harness up the reindeer, let ‘em rip!

It’s time to begin my favorite trip.”

With flurry and scurry and chatter and hurry

They brought him his cap and his laprobe furry.

They roused up Cupid, they rubbed down Vixen

They polished the bells on Donner and Blitzen.

There were cheers from the gnomes, from the elves applause

Then off through the night flew Santa Claus.

And I’ve heard old people often say

There NEVER was such a Christmas Day.

Never such joy after Santa’d swirled

From rooftop to rooftop around the world.

While at the home of a sleepy boy

In Texas (or was it Illinois?)

A special letter left that night

Addressed to IGNATIUS THISTLEWHITE.

It was clipped to the hndlebars (like a medal)

Of the best two-wheeler a boy could pedal.

“Dear Sir,” was written in Santa’s hand,

“Please tell the children in every land.

Tell them I’ll take good care, I hope,

Of the guppy, the puppy

And the slippery soap.

I like my pipes, I love my chair,

I do appreciate the underwear.

And I pledge this promise on my sled and pack:

Year after year, I’ll be coming back.

Vacations I guess weren’t meant for me

I’ll never want another one.

Yours, S.C.”

And that’s one reason, you may believe,

Why children are merry on Christmas Eve.

You know, yourself, as you hang your stocking

It doesn’t matter if the winds are knocking.

Though the storm falls heavy,

Though the great gale roars,

Though no one else would budge outdoors,

Snug in your bed while the tempest drums

You can count your blessings on fingers and thumbs,

For yearly, newly, faithfully, truly,

Somehow Santa Claus ALWAYS COMES.