Day 11 - Only 14 more days till Christmas!!

“Tim Ryan and the Angels”

By John W. Walter III

Tim Ryan listened to the wind howling through the empty city streets. Night was rapidly approaching, the night of December 24. In other years the day of the 24th itself and most especially the day to follow would have been joyful days for Tim Ryan. But not this year. No, most definitely anything but joyful. Upstairs in the back bedroom on the third floor of the house that he was just leaving, Maggie was dying.

“Only hours,” the young doctor had said. “Your wife has a very short time to live, Mr. Ryan.” He seemed to take a smug satisfaction in being able to so casually measure off the time of life remaining to another human being.

That had been this morning. The hours had dragged by slowly since then. The pale sunlight of December had brought little warmth to Timothy Edward Ryan, caught in the middle of his 67th year.

Long ago, and it seemed to be a part of that other world in which he and Maggie had been born, little Tim would have taken comfort from what the priests would have offered him. He had been faithful in his church, and when he married Maggie, the ceremony had been performed by Father Kelly. He hadn’t considered any other alternative.

Forty-eight years had gone by since that day. In those 48 years, Christmastime had been special to the Ryans. Their house had been filled with the laughter of six children and the children’s friends. Twenty years ago the first grandchild had seen Christmas at the Ryan’s.

Now December 24 or 25, and it didn’t really matter which, was about to become a day etched in pain and sorrow in the mind of Tim Ryan. There was a part of him up there, a part of him that was slowly, painfully slipping away. He wanted to cry, but no tears would come.

As he began to move away from the front steps, moving in some direction, any direction to be away from this place, he took a companion with him. The companion was Bitterness, and he had been with Tim for some time now.

Bitterness laughed at long-held beliefs. “See, Tim? It all must end this way. This is the end of the laughter. That was temporary; this is not.”

At 4:30 he pulled on his scarf and followed with his heavy parka. He told the nurse that he would be back, that he needed to get out and get some air. Really Tim wanted to go and embrace the cold and the coming darkness, for without Maggie, would there be anything left but cold and darkness in his life?

The sunlight had faded rapidly away and become the dark of night. Tim walked aimlessly through the streets of his adopted city, about to be alone for the first time. “I must make a plan,” he thought. “I must see to the future. There is hope—”

The word hope stuck in his throat. His companion, Bitterness, told him that to believe in hope at this point was a cruel joke on himself. Why, it was like believing that angels would come and lift their voices to the heavens! Both hope and angels were things of the past, Bitterness told him.

Bitterness became quiet as Tim turned his mind to thoughts of past years. When he was just a boy, he had left Ireland with his two older brothers and a younger sister to come to America. They landed in New York and then moved to Baltimore to join an uncle.

The streets of Baltimore hadn’t been paved with gold. They had had to work long hours in their uncle’s store. Slowly the hours began to pay off, and the sweat and toil became the mortgage price of prosperity. Ever so slowly, poverty released its strong icy fingers from around the immigrants.

When he was 17, Tim Ryan had let his brother Michael talk him into going to a parish dance. “Come along, Timmy. It’s time that you began to think about the ladies. And what better place to meet them than at the parish house?”

Tim went with Michael, shyly, unwillingly at first. He stood off on the sidelines, watching the others dance and hating them for their social graces and himself for his shyness. Then Maggie appeared and the climate changed.

She was short, no taller than his five foot three inches, with long black hair. She smiled often, and once, when he looked enough in her direction, she smiled at him. He could feel the color rising in his cheeks.

He summoned up the courage to go over and introduce himself. She asked him with that ever-present smile if he always blushed so brightly. “No,” he said, “it only happens when I talk with a beautiful young lady. And by the way, may I have the next dance?” She said yes.

Tim Ryan walked Maggie Rourke home that night after the dance. They saw each other often in the next year. Then, one night, on the anniversary of that dance in the parish house, he asked her another question. She answered yes to this one too, and they made arrangements with Father Kelly to perform the ceremony.

The old man that Tim Ryan had become shook himself to break the train of thought. He had walked so far as to arrive in the department store district. The big stores were closed now, their displays of Christmas merchandise garish in the neon sun.

“I will walk a little further,” Tim thought. “Just a few more minutes here in the cold and I will be ready to return and face what I know I cannot avoid.” He headed slowly up the hill into the wind, with its blasts tearing at his face and jacket.

“One more house, Brother Henderson?” That was Jan Andrews’s question.

Gregory Henderson looked at his group. He had come into the city with a dozen of the kids from his Sunday School class to visit some of the older members of the ward and sing Christmas carols. They had seen all of the families on their list with the exception of the Billings, and it was getting late and the kids were getting cold.

“Face it, Henderson,” he thought, “you’d like to go home too. You have a family to be with on Christmas Eve and a wife who would like some help in decorating the Christmas tree.” Another part of him spoke up quickly, though, and put things into perspective.

“Yes, we’re going to see the Billings. They live on Clayton Avenue. It shouldn’t take too long to get there. I think we’ll sing three songs, like we’ve been doing, and then head for home.”

As the kids piled into his car and Dave Maxfield’s van, he could see on their faces that one last visit would be about enough. He hoped that the project had touched some of them. They needed to start learning a little about service.

His car moved on through the dark Baltimore streets in silence. Inside were the most active kids in the ward, the doers and movers. Jan Andrews, Tony Morgan, Bob Smith, Carol Miller—his wife called them the angels. They had been the biggest helps to him so far.

After several minutes’ ride, Greg saw the turn-off for Clayton Avenue. He swung the big Dodge into the narrow street and continued down the two blocks to the Billings’ house. The young people piled out again, ready to conclude the project, thinking thoughts of home and the next morning.

Jan called the group together outside the house: “Let’s start off with ‘I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day,’ then go to ‘Joy to the World,’ and close with ‘Silent Night.’ The Billings are both pretty sick and haven’t been able to get out to church for a long time. They’ll appreciate this a lot.”

Tim Ryan turned the corner onto Clayton Avenue. He was only a few blocks from home, but he might as well have been a thousand miles away. His thoughts had led him downward into a valley of despair. His normal energetic step had become the shuffle of a man worn down by age.

Then he heard the voices. Like the clear, pure sound of a tinkling chandelier, the voices cut through the cold night air, reaching his ear with cheerfulness. They brought his mind back to what day would fall tomorrow.

Tim stopped to listen more closely, despite the still-insistent voice of Bitterness inside. He wanted to hear what they were singing and find out who they were. How could they be happy on a night like this when he was about to lose the most important thing in his life? Didn’t they have any feelings?

The words, carried to him on the back of the wind, began to enter his mind. Subtly at first, and then more quickly, a light that had been burning low within Tim Ryan began to flare up once again. The flame began to thaw the ice that had been forming inside and outside.

Once upon a time, when Michael had asked him what about Maggie had first attracted him, he had said that she had the laughter of an angel. Laughter fell clear and pure from her lips. Hearing her laugh made him feel that he had been able to set a foot into heaven.

Now, this group of young people, singing to an unseen audience in the house across the street, were touching him in that same way. They were like angels with their clear voices, simple and pure in the message which they presented.

“Oh, Lord,” he thought, “I cannot turn the tide of what must come. But I can learn to hear the bells again and look past tragedies. I must go home quickly, quickly.” Tim had intended to stay and talk with them when they finished. Instead, the urgency of the moment directed him homeward.

In the back of his mind, Greg Henderson wondered if the old man standing across the street was enjoying the singing. The thought faded just as rapidly as it had come, and Greg turned his mind back to the music.

It was late, almost midnight. Tim sat by the bed, holding Maggie’s hand. It was an act that he had performed often in 48 years. Tonight it took on special meaning.

“My dear, you would have loved it. They were like angels with their clear voices. I doubt that I have ever heard the songs of Christmas sung so beautifully or received such enjoyment out of the sacred music.”

She said nothing for a long time. Then she looked up at him with a smile, one like the smile that he had first seen so many years ago.

“Tim, you’re happier tonight than I’ve seen you at any time since I … since I’ve been ill. That makes me happy.”

Maggie lapsed into silence again.

The clock stretched forth both its hands to 12. Christmas would have already dawned over the desert where it had first been celebrated so many years ago.

“Tim.”

“Yes, dear. What is it?”

“Tim, I think I’ll sleep now. I feel so in need of rest. Will you hold my hand while I sleep?” She closed her eyes. Some of the worry and pain that had written itself across her face in the last year began to fade.

The little man with the shock of wind-blown white hair looked down at his Maggie. Great soft tears, tears like the drops of a gentle spring rain awakening the earth, began to well up in his eyes. The tears were sweet, though. He had heard the angels sing, and he was beginning to understand.

Somewhere out in the suburbs, Greg Henderson rolled over in bed. He had just finished assembling the last toys, and he was tired and wanted to rest before the children would patter in asking mommy and daddy if they knew that it was Christmas Day.

Just before the last trace of consciousness fled, Greg thought about the old man who had listened to them sing on Clayton Avenue. Greg wondered if the man had liked the kids’ singing. Then sleep came and chased the thought from his mind.

Day 10 - Only 15 more days till Christmas!!

“Wanted: A Guy for Christmas”

By Ann Edwards Cannon

All I wanted for Christmas was a guy who walked, talked, and acted like Jed Campbell. In fact it should be Jed Campbell!

“Okay, class, we have just about five minutes left for journal writing,” says Mr. Haupt, our sophomore English teacher. “And since Christmas is next week, I want you to write about the one thing you want more than anything else. I’m not terribly concerned about structure at the moment. I do, however, want details. Lots and lots of concrete details. As I’ve said before, well-chosen details make the difference between lifeless writing and writing that …” Mr. Haupt startles us all by taking in a sudden rush of air through his nostrils, “… that breathes.”

Writing that breathes. Only an English teacher, even if he is good-looking in a ’70s kind of way, could say something so truly undecipherable.

I can hear the rustle of paper all around me as kids fish for their class journals. “I hate it when he makes us write in these dumb things,” grumbles the girl behind me.

Usually I feel the same. Only today I know exactly what I’m going to write about. In fact, I can practically feel the words surging through my pen, getting ready to

“Wanted: a guy for Christmas. Should be very tall and slim like Jed Campbell. Should have green eyes like Jed Campbell and also light brown hair with streaks of sun like Jed Campbell. Should look really great in a pair of stone-washed jeans like Jed Campbell. Should adore pizza and Hires root beer like Jed Campbell. Should walk and talk like Jed Campbell. Should, in fact, be Jed Campbell.”

As you may have guessed by now, I have a major crush on Jed Campbell, who happens to sit on the back row of English class. My three older sisters (one’s married, one’s on a mission, one’s away at college) always tease me about my crushes, saying that I fall in and out of love more often than some people (namely me) clean up their bedrooms. But it’s different this time. This is it. The real thing. I’ve felt this way since November.

Here’s the best part. I think maybe he likes me too. Sometimes he waits for me after class, and he always smiles at me in the hall. Yesterday at lunch he and his friend even sat down by me and my friends. I think that’s a good sign.

The bell rings. I slam my journal shut and stuff it in my backpack, then get up to leave.

“Cynthia?”

Did you just hear that loud pounding noise? Well, it’s my heart.

“Oh, hi, Jed.”

He falls into step next to me as we walk out of the classroom and into the hall.

“Hey,” he says, “I was wondering if you wanted to do something tonight. Maybe we could go to a movie.” Jed smiles, and I can’t help but notice what white teeth he has. That would be another good detail to add to my paragraph.

“A movie would be great,” I say.

“So I’ll pick you up around 6:00. Okay?”

“That would also be great.”

“Great.”

We both laugh before splitting up and going to our separate classes. I practically float through the door. Sometimes life is just so fine, don’t you know.

When I get home from school, I can hardly wait to tell Mom my big news about Jed. She’s tending my five-year-old nephew, Travis, on the couch next to our Christmas tree, reading The Cat in the Hat. Travis is the son of my big sister Emily and her husband, Gary.

“Cynthia! Thank goodness you’re home!” Mom looks pretty frazzled. I’m dying to tell her about tonight, but I can tell she’s really stressed, so I do the mature thing and ask her what’s going on in her life first.

“What isn’t ‘going on in my life?’ ” Mom replies, standing up and brushing back a strand of hair. “Your father is still out of town. I’m supposed to be at a meeting as we speak, both Gary and Emily have to work late tonight, and Travis’s baby-sitter canceled on them at the last minute. I’ve been staying with him until you could get home.” She looks at me, expectantly.

“Oh, no. Not tonight. I definitely have plans.”

“Cynthia, honey, please. This is an emergency.”

I have to admit she does look like someone getting ready to appear on an episode of Rescue 911.

“But, Mom …”

“But, Cynthia …”

I fold my arms across my chest and tap my foot. “Okay, fine.” I really hope she can tell how happy I am not.

Mom puts an arm around my shoulder. “You’re the best, Cynthia. You have no idea how much this helps.”

Then she turns to Travis, who is still sitting on the couch pretending to read. He’s doing his Cat in the Hat voice right now: “Give me all your hats, you guys, or I’m gonna bite your legs off.”

“Travis, Cynthia will take care of you for the next little while. Okay?”

He looks up for a second and flashes me a smile. Then Mom unloads the rest of the bad news. “Gary gets off at 9:00, and Emily doesn’t finish closing out until 10:00. I’m not sure when I’ll be home, but I have a feeling it will be late.”

Of course. Naturally. I didn’t have something else I really wanted to do tonight. Sometimes life is just so not fine.

Mom flies out the door, pulling her coat on as she goes, and I go to the telephone to call Jed. I’m both relieved and disappointed when I get the answering machine.

“Jed, it’s me, Cynthia. Hey, things are kind of desperate here. It turns out I have to baby-sit my nephew, Travis, so I can’t go out tonight. I’m really sorry.” I pause, “So anyway, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

There. I’ve just ruined my one and only chance for true happiness in this life and possibly in the next.

“Hey, Cynthia,” says Travis, joining me. “Wanna play G.I. Joes with me?”

I sigh. “Sure, Travis. Go get your guys.”

Before I know it, he’s got everything set up in the middle of the living room floor. He gets to be the good guys. I get to be the bad guys.

“Heh, heh, heh,” I say, using my best bad guy voice, “Let’s go wipe out the Joes.”

Travis gives me a withering look. “That’s not how they talk, Cynthia.”

Don’t you just love it when a five-year-old starts giving you instructions? He tells me what I have to say and where I get to move my guys. In other words, I’m just the furniture mover.

Travis and I play G.I. Joes for about half an hour, which I think is pretty nice of me. Enough, however, is definitely enough.

“Hey, Travis, I’m getting tired. Why don’t you watch cartoons for a little while?” Actually, I want some time to think about not going out with Jed tonight. I’m in the mood to suffer.

Travis grumbles, but in the end he trudges into the family room by himself where he flips on the television. Naturally he leaves his stuff all over the floor for me to pick up, which I do. Then I collapse in a chair by the living room window and watch the snow fall. It’s five o’clock. Just another hour from now I might have been going to a movie.

“Cynthia?”

It’s Travis already.

“Will you play Old Maid with me?” he asks.

What I want to say is, Thanks to you, Travis, I am an old maid. But instead I give him a weak smile and say, “Maybe later.”

It’s not that I don’t think Travis is a real cute kid. He’s got a killer grin and these huge brown eyes that usually knock my socks off. I don’t even mind baby-sitting him most of the time. But tonight, I have to be honest, Travis is getting on my nerves in a big way.

“Go get your coloring book and color for a little while,” I tell him.

“Will you color with me, Cynthia?”

“Not right now.”

“Please. Pl-e-e-e-e-a-a-a-s-e.”

“No!” I snap. “I want to be alone right now, Travis. Okay?”

He doesn’t say a thing, just looks at me for a long time, then turns around and walks back to the family room.

So what do you think? Don’t you agree that I’m entitled to have a little time to myself, especially after my big sacrifice and everything?

Then why do I feel like such an incredible jerk?

I try to shake off the feeling by watching the snow some more. It’s really coming down hard, and the flakes are so huge they almost look like those old-fashioned doilies you see draped on the backs of overstuffed chairs. When I was a kid, I absolutely loved storms like this. I’d bundle up and run outside and try to catch snowflakes on the tip of my tongue. Maybe you did the same thing too.

Something pricks at me. My conscience maybe? Sometimes I really hate my conscience. I heave a sigh and walk into the family room where Travis is busy pretending to be a ninja.

“Hey there, Travis.”

He totally ignores me and gives the air a deadly kick.

“Do you want to go outside and play in the snow with me?” I ask.

Travis drops the ninja routine and turns with a full-court smile. “YES!”

So the two of us stuff ourselves like sausages into winter clothes and run outside where we make angels and throw snow into each other’s face. Pretty soon the neighbor’s big black Newfoundland dog, Rudy, joins us, his tail swishing behind him like a flag. I know from past experience that this dog definitely has a special talent.

“Hey, watch this, Travis.” I lightly pack a snowball and throw it in Rudy’s general direction. He bellows out a bark and lunges, catching up the snowball in his mouth.

Travis laughs, then throws Rudy another snowball. Sure enough, Rudy snags that one too, just like he’s playing shortstop for the Yankees.

We keep this up until our arms are tired.

“No more, Rudy,” I say. Rudy, who looks pretty disappointed for a dog, lumbers back to his front porch and resumes residence.

Travis drops backwards in the snow and makes another angel, but this time, instead of getting up, he just stares at the night sky, full of stars. “I wonder if that star is still up there somewhere.”

“Which star?”

“You know, Cynthia. The one over the barn where Baby Jesus was born.”

“The Star of Bethlehem,” I say, smiling. “I don’t know where it is now.”

“I know what!” Travis springs to his feet. “Let’s go find it!”

I start laughing until I realize I’ve made Travis feel stupid. I used to hate it when grown-ups did that to me, even though I realize now they didn’t mean to.

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go look for it.”

So Travis and I start walking around the block, looking for the Star of Bethlehem. When he’s not throwing his head back to search the sky, Travis is running ahead, singing Christmas carols at the top of his lungs. He doesn’t know most of the words, but that’s okay. He’d rather make up his own. All I know is that I suddenly love the sound of his high-pitched voice ringing across the evening snow.

And then the most amazing thing happens.

Travis stands beneath a street lamp and looks up to the sky again, but this time his whole face is shining, filled with light. The forgotten words of an old Primary “Jesus once was a little child, a little child like me.”

I almost stop breathing, and it’s suddenly as though the winter air around me is warm and full of the smell of the sea and the sound of gulls laughing and that the boy in front of me is another little boy from long ago, standing on the shore, his hair and face blazing with sun.

The moment passes, and it’s just me and Travis again, looking for stars. We finish our trip around the block, Travis still blasting through a billion songs and kicking snow with his feet, me bringing up the rear more slowly.

“Who’s that on the porch, Cynthia?” Travis wants to know as we round the corner. I squint to see through the night.

You’re really not going to believe this. It’s Jed.

“Hey, you guys,” he says, walking toward us with that loping step I just love. In fact, he looks so adorable right now I could just faint dead in the snow. “I wanted to know if you want to go to 7-Eleven and buy some hot chocolate with me.”

Travis whoops, and I smile. Sometimes life is just so fine.

Later when I’m in bed, I’m still thinking about how fine life can be but also about how it can take you so totally by surprise. Let me give you an example of what I mean, since Mr. Haupt, our English teacher, always says that specific examples make your writing stronger.

I got the guy I wanted for Christmas all right, and he’s even more wonderful than I imagined he would be. It just turns out there was something I wanted even more, only I didn’t even know it.

What I really wanted was to feel the presence of the Savior in my life, and thanks to a five-year-old kid, I did.

So, Travis, even though I know you’re home asleep right now, surrounded by the zoo of stuffed animals you take to bed with you every night even though it drives your mother crazy because there’s no room left for you, I have something I want to say.

I love you, Travis. Merry Christmas.

Day 9 - Only 16 more days till Christmas!!

“Christmas in Paradise”

by Siri-Lee Edwards

It wasn’t easy, living at Dad’s vet clinic. But was Christmas going to the dogs?

“No Santa this year,” my sister Lindi whispered to me. “But we have each other. Besides, next Christmas we’ll have a house.”

What! No Santa? My sister’s remark echoed in my mind. I could do without Santa, and I knew we were lucky to even have a place to live, but how would the younger children understand? Tears formed in my eyes when I thought that the lack of money would make my younger brothers and sisters learn the truth about Santa.

It was almost December. Two years earlier we had left our home in New Jersey for California to support our dad’s dream of owning his own veterinary practice. We left with the hope our house there would sell within a few weeks and we’d buy one in California. It didn’t sell, and the eight of us, and our large German shepherd, spent our first California Christmas in a 20-foot trailer.

A year later the house still hadn’t sold, but we were able to move into the back of Dad’s veterinary clinic. Six of us shared one bedroom, but we each had separate “areas” and thought it wonderful to have our own beds.

Paradise, California, was not a wealthy community. There were a lot of retired people and a lot of young families. Dad couldn’t stand charging those with financial struggles the normal fees, so we adjusted to less material lives, shopped at bargain stores, and dreamed about our future house. In those two years we made a lot of friends and not very much money.

But as Christmas approached, I knew friendship wouldn’t fill the stockings.

I was wrong.

The week before Christmas Dad came back into our apartment at least twice a day with tears in his eyes and candy, cookies, or fruit in his hands. The cards attached to these presents were messages of love and faith. Newly found friends were acting as if we were family.

On Christmas Eve we returned our clients’ kindness by caroling to their doorsteps. We gave our voices, and then a jar of honey from the bees we raised in New Jersey. Our off-key voices competed with barking watchdogs. Then we hugged a lot of adopted grand-aunts and -uncles and went home laughing.

When we got back to the clinic, my brother Vance jumped out of the Suburban. He came back quickly with a ham in his arms. “Santa came! Look! There’s a box of food and this big thing.”

We dashed to the back porch. “Cake mixes and Jello! Wow!” Laurel screamed.

“Dad, look—tamales in cans. You love tamales,” Brett said. We sat under the porch light joyously pulling things out.

Christmas morning we ran to the waiting room where our stockings had been propped in front of the reception desk. “I don’t think Santa left much this year,” Mom said. “What’s in there? Oh, look Lee, he left oranges in the toes.”

“And walnuts and almonds!” Vance said, excitedly. We dug through our stockings for the trinkets and some change Santa also left. Laurel told me she was glad Santa found out where we had moved. “They believe Santa came!” I thought.

Mom and Dad went out back to bring in their presents when we heard Mom call, “Oh, come here!” We all went running and looked outside to see two boxes this time—one full of presents and one stuffed with a turkey.

We brought it all into the cage room and unloaded our third bundle from “Santa” with excitement and disbelief. There were gifts for each of us—all from Santa Claus.

“Does Santa come more than once a year?” asked Bliss.

“I guess anything is possible,” Dad said, and I watched as he and Mom exchanged a look of shock and relief.

Later, as we ate dinner, we heard singing and then a deep voice calling, “Santa’s here!” We hurried for the fourth time to the door. There was a mobile home with Santa and Mrs. Claus out front carrying presents. “Hey, little one,” Santa said to my sister, “what would you like for Christmas? How about a big doll that walks?” He unloaded a doll for Laurel. She nearly burst saying thank you, then hugged him around the neck.

“How about you, young man?” Santa handed a packet to Vance. Vance was speechless. He gently took the package and stood staring with wonder.

The process continued. Mom tried to get their identity, but they simply said, “Merry Christmas!” and left after our abundant thank-yous.

When we got back to the cage room we looked at everything that had been brought and talked about the blessings we had. I will never forget what we learned in our home that season—that the presents were a treasure, but the real gifts were in our appreciation and the generosity of others. Our neighbors and friends shared the most priceless gift with us, the pure love of Jesus Christ.

“The Old Blue Bike”

By Joel R. Bryan

It was a Christmas when my three older sisters were 12, 10, and 7 just after my father, a young engineer, had accepted a transfer from Schenectady, New York, to Los Angeles, California. On Christmas Eve, my mother made preparations for the traditional Christmas dinner the next afternoon. My sisters took turns trying to keep me and my three-year-old brother from playing baseball with the shining Christmas tree ornaments. Mother found time to tend our new baby sister.

Amid the bustle of the Christmas Eve excitement, my father was preoccupied. His thoughts kept returning to the used bicycle hidden carefully in the garage rafters. Next to it lay the boxes holding two brand-new, shining black, matching three-speed bikes which he had purchased for my two older sisters. The budget strains of Christmas had prevented Dad from buying a third black three-speed for Leanne. Instead, he set about restoring the old single-speed, fat-tired bike the older two no longer rode. Scouring pads and elbow grease made the rusty spokes shine. The inner tubes were patched, and a new coat of paint erased the battle scars of collisions and neglect. A replacement set of handgrips made the handlebars look almost new.

My father realized Leanne would probably recognize the old war horse, but he was sure she could be happy just having her own bike. And in a year or two, when she outgrew this one, he would be able to buy her a brand-new one. Leanne had already received a big share of hand-me-downs from her older sisters. Many of her clothes, toys, and books had been previously used.

This Christmas Eve, as my mother tucked all of us in bed, Dad commenced his marathon toy and bicycle assembly projects. When he finished the new, black bicycles, he placed them side by side near the Christmas tree. He then carefully rolled out and placed the rejuvenated old bike next to the new ones. The stark contrast of the old half-sized, blue, thick-tubed bike against the sleek, black beauties made the revamped two-wheeler suddenly look small and old-fashioned. Dad reconsidered. Had he made a mistake in trying to redo the old bike for Leanne? Would she feel slighted? Leanne was too young to understand the economics of family finances, but she would be quick to spot this injustice perpetrated by Santa Claus: new bikes for her sisters, the old war horse for her.

A gradual panic swept over Dad as he realized he’d slipped up. Better run to the store and buy a matching bike, quick! But on Christmas Eve? It was already 11:30 p.m., and the stores would probably be closed. A few hurried telephone calls confirmed the worst. Everything was closed.

My grandmother, who was visiting for the holidays, tried to comfort Dad. “Don’t worry, Ray. She’ll love the bike. You’ve made it look just like new.”

Dad was not comforted. He kept imagining the disappointed look on Leanne’s face as she recognized the old hand-me-down. Though it was very late when he finished the last stocking and exhausted as he was from his assembly projects, Dad did not sleep well that night.

Early Christmas morning, we were poised in our annual positions in the hall—all in a row, youngest to the oldest. It was still dark outside, but we were already hopping with that special excitement of children on Christmas morning. Dad was in the living room making the movie camera and lights ready to record our grand entrance. Finally he yelled, “Okay, come on in,” and we blazed through the doorway like a shot. In a matter of minutes, the beautiful array of packages and ornaments was transformed into a mountain of strewn boxes, wrappings, and ribbons. My older sisters spotted their black beauties, gave them the once over with due praise and admiration, and moved on to the Christmas tree to locate more presents. Amid the chaos and clutter, Leanne stood firmly next to the old blue bike. She was touching every part and talking aloud, “Look, it has new grips and new paint! A brand-new seat! Just look at those pedals, and it’s my very own, my very own bike.”

Leanne didn’t seem to notice there were other presents for her under the tree. She stayed near the bike and repeated the same speech several times, though no one was listening, no one, that is, except my father. He stood silently on the other side of the room, oblivious to the rest of the children, the movie camera held low at his side, listening to Leanne. Tears of joy streamed down his face as he witnessed this perfect acceptance of his imperfect gift.

It has been a long time since the black beauties were worn out and discarded. Even the old war horse was sent to the glue factory years ago. But the image of my father’s tear-streaked face on Christmas Day reminds me still of the warmth of a Christmas gift well given and well received.

Day 7 - Only 18 More days till Christmas!!

“The Necklace”

By Dayle King Searle

My family has a tradition of drawing names for Christmas. It began when we were all still quite young and had to buy presents for each other from the meager handfuls of change in our piggy banks. We decided that it would be better to buy one brother or sister a nice gift than to buy smaller ones for all six. Secrecy was part of the tradition during our growing up years. At times we went to great lengths to keep one another from knowing whose name we had, or to be the first one to figure out who everyone else had. It added an air of mystery and excitement to the gift giving.

One year when I was in my early teens, my younger brother Eric drew my name. Christmas morning there was a present wrapped and under the tree from Eric to me. When my turn to open a present came, I tore the festive paper from the package while Eric watched in anticipation. When the package was finally open and I saw the gift, I stopped in astonishment. Eric had bought me an imitation turquoise necklace.

Now before you get visions of a dainty necklace that could be worn inconspicuously with nearly anything, let me describe it. The necklace hung halfway to my waist when I wore it. The main stone was at least the size of a silver dollar, and all the way up the chain were smaller stones. The setting was cheap tin fashioned to vaguely resemble the silver settings of genuine turquoise jewelry. Protruding from between the stones on the chain were geometric shapes of metal. In short, the necklace was huge.

Now, I was at an age when one is not extremely sensitive to the feelings of others (especially if they are the feelings of a younger brother), but somehow I realized that in Eric’s mind the necklace was exquisitely beautiful. Perhaps it was the look of rapture in his eyes, but I could imagine how he had searched for just the right gift for me and how excited he had felt when he finally found that necklace. So that left me with just one problem: What was I going to do with it?

This problem was compounded by the fact that gaudy turquoise jewelry was not the vogue right then. And even had it been, this was not the kind of necklace one could wear with just anything. So the necklace sat on my dresser for several weeks while I pondered what to do with it.

Then one Sunday morning I decided that it could wait no longer; it was time to wear the necklace—in public. (I had already decided that when I did wear it, it would be to church where there would not be so many of my friends to see it.) I chose a plain denim skirt and a white sweater to go with the necklace. When I was dressed, I stood in front of the mirror for a long time trying to decide if my appearance was acceptable. I almost changed into a different outfit—one without the necklace—but finally heaved a sigh and went upstairs.

Eric and my younger sister, Gaigh, were in the living room. When I entered, Eric’s face brightened and he turned to Gaigh.

Then in a triumphant tone of voice he said, “See, I told you she liked it!”

Knowing the two and the constant brother-sister bickering between them, it was not hard to figure out what had gone on.

“She doesn’t like your present,” Gaigh had probably taunted.

“Yes, she does,” Eric would have replied in that defensive tone we all take when we are ardently defending something of which we are not totally convinced ourselves. Now as I wore the necklace, Eric was vindicated.

Standing there, seeing the look of delight on his face at the sight of the necklace hanging around my neck, I realized that wearing the necklace was more important than all the embarrassment I might receive by doing so. After all, it was a gift given in the true spirit of giving. I would have been ungrateful to have accepted it in a manner any less gracious than the manner it had been given in.

That day I found an unexpected pleasure in wearing the necklace. When people asked about it (and many did because it was not the kind of thing one can easily ignore), I announced proudly that my brother had given it to me.

I’ve received many gifts since then. Some have been exactly what I’ve hoped for, others not. But each time I have tried to remember that behind each gift is a giver. And to offend someone who gives, no matter how humble or startling their gift, is to commit the grave sin of ingratitude.

I don’t have the necklace anymore. I doubt I wore it more than half a dozen times. And I think it was sent off to the thrift store when I sorted through my things while packing for college. In fact, I’m not even sure what made me remember it now, but the other night lying in bed I thought of the necklace and wished I still had it. Not because it is any more the style now than it was then, but because of the tender memories it holds—memories of the eagerness of a young boy in giving a gift, and the lesson an older sister learned in receiving it.

Day 6 - Only 19 more days till Christmas!!

“The Christmas Letter”

By Charles M. Manwaring

Miles of gray desert ended abruptly in a mirage like valley of green. A cluster of neat houses sparsely shaded by poplar and cedar trees flanked both sides of the road. Near the center of town stood a bank, a mini-supermarket, a hardware and general mercantile store, and a combination garage and service station.

A few strings of tinsel and pasteboard Santa Claus placards swung wearily in the hot breeze above the street. In the doubtful shade of a large cedar stood a small frame building with a weathered sign that read: U.S. post office, desert city, Arizona, population 467. The cedar was decorated with colored bulbs and strands of red and green paper. Inside the post office a wreath of holly hung over a grilled window which boasted a faded sign: general delivery … stamps.

Behind the window, Luke Jones sorted the mail without conscious thought or effort. After 30 years in Desert City there was little he didn’t know about every resident—with one exception, the stranger who had arrived in town two days before. Luke shrugged, murmuring under his breath, “Curiosity killed the cat.” His lips twitched into a wry grin. “Must be a mighty long trail of dead cats behind me.”

Luke heard a scuffle of feet and turned toward the door. Mrs. Abbie Smithers walked in, and just behind her stood the stranger. Luke’s eyes watched the stranger, but his words were to Mrs. Smithers. “Got a postcard for you, Abbie. From your sister in Colorado. She ain’t going to get here for Christmas after all.”

“For pity’s sake!” Mrs. Smithers said. “I’ve cleaned house until the whole place shines like a new pin.”

“Don’t fret,” Luke said calmly. “It’s only a delay. Her little girl came down with the chicken pox. Here—you better read it yourself.”

As Mrs. Smithers left the window, the stranger asked, “Anything for Bill Anders?”

Luke’s sharp eyes studied him. He knew without looking that there was nothing, yet he turned and slowly sorted through some letters, his gaze darting sideways at the young man. “Ain’t you the fellar whose car broke down here day before yesterday?”

“That’s right.”

“Too bad,” Luke said. He looked directly at the serious-faced young man. “I hear it’s costing you $70 to get it fixed.” His glance was shrewd. “Garageman was in a while ago. Said it’s been ready for you since yesterday.”

“That’s right. Have I got a letter?”

“Where you expecting this letter from?”

Anders’s face flushed. “Look, I just want to know—”

“If I know where it’s from,” Luke interrupted, “maybe I can tell you when it’ll be here.”

Anders looked down at the floor. “It’s coming from Los Angeles. I wrote airmail two days ago when my car broke down.”

“Ain’t here yet,” Luke drawled.

Anders’s face shadowed. He turned to leave.

“Should be in tomorrow,” Luke said. “Mail gets in at 11:00.”

Anders limped toward the door, and Luke noticed that he wore a heavy brace with a built-up shoe on one foot.

“Hey, Anders!”

The young man stopped and turned around.

“You clear broke?” An angry flush reddened Anders’s face. “None of your business!”

Slyly Luke said, “You got money coming in that letter, ain’t you?”

“What’s it to you?” He stopped, took a deep breath, and said more quietly, “Yes, 100 dollars. Anything else you’d like to know?”

Without expression, Luke said, “From your folks, hey?”

Anders hobbled back to the window; his face was white. “Look, my folks are dead. A friend of mine in L.A. is sending me the money. At least, I asked him to send it, and I’m sure he will.”

“Maybe,” Luke said dryly, “maybe not.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sometimes you find out you ain’t got a friend when you ask for money.”

Anders stared at him, then said, “Jim isn’t that way.”

Luke could sense an uncertainty behind the words. “Where you going from here if this Jim sends the money?”

Bill Anders’s mood changed suddenly. He looked at Luke and grinned. “Darned if you aren’t the most nosy, old … curious man I’ve ever seen.”

“I’ve been told that.”

Anders laughed. “All right, you might as well know. I’ve got a job waiting for me in Albuquerque that I’ve been trying to get since high school. A good job. A big chance for me.” His voice lowered. “I’ve got to get there in time to begin work the day after Christmas. I’ve got to!” He turned abruptly and limped out to the street.

Luke rubbed his chin and stared after him.

At 11:30 the next morning Luke finished sorting the mail to the barely audible Christmas carols coming from the battered radio on the shelf. He examined again the letter addressed to Bill Anders. The postmark was smudged beyond recognition; the name and the address were typed. Luke held the envelope up to the light. He could see the outline of currency inside. He fingered the envelope. It crinkled like crisp, new greenbacks crinkle. Yes, it contained the 100 dollars Bill Anders was waiting for.

Luke’s lips thinned a little. A hundred dollars could mean a lot to a person, even to a man in his position. It could mean that new fishing outfit he wanted for his next vacation. He smiled at the thought. A Christmas gift to himself …

He fondled the letter. What he would have given years ago for this money! It might have changed his whole life—marriage, children, grandchildren—but he had been unable to borrow the money. Friends—even relatives—had turned him down. He slammed the letter into the mail slot. Why should he worry about a crippled young man, a stranger he would never see again?

Luke heard dragging footsteps on the wood floor and turned around to see a subdued Bill Anders, a face lined with worry, yet eyes which still held a lurking hope.

Luke hesitated, and then he reached into the slot and pulled out the mail under the letter A. Deliberately he sorted through the letters; indecision still weighed upon him. He didn’t have to give this letter to the boy. But if he didn’t, could he ever live with himself? Could he look into a mirror without seeing the disappointment on the young man’s face?

He held the letter away from the others.

“Is that for me?” Anders’s voice was strained.

Luke held the letter up to the light. “Postmark’s smudged. Can’t tell where it’s from.”

“Is it for me?”

“Ain’t got a return address on it,” Luke drawled.

“It’s from Jim! It must be!”

Luke watched the boy’s face. It was transformed. His eyes were shining now, the lines of strain and worry vanished. Luke waited a moment longer, and then he tossed the letter through the iron grill.

Anders ripped open the envelope. Five crisp, 20-dollar bills fell out. There was no message. Carefully he picked up the money, handling each greenback almost with reverence. He glanced up at Luke. “Jim isn’t one to write,” he explained, “but when a guy needs help, he comes through.”

“Guess you got a real friend, hey?” Luke said softly.

As he reached the door, his shoulders straight, Anders looked back and smiled. “Merry Christmas!”

Luke watched him limp down the street toward the garage. He sighed heavily and turned again to the mail rack. From the A slot he withdrew a postcard. It was postmarked Los Angeles and addressed to Bill Anders. The few scribbled words on the back were still fresh in Luke’s memory. “Dear Bill: Sorry I can’t help. Things are tight for me too. Jim.”

Slowly Luke placed the card on the counter and stamped it “UNCLAIMED.”

His voice was fretful as he muttered, “Curiosity cost more than a cat this time.” But he was smiling as he turned back to his work.

From the battered radio came the soft strains of “Peace on Earth, Good Will to Men.”

Day 5 - Only 20 more days till Christmas!!

I hope your enjoying this year’s Christmas stories. Be warned – this one definitely brought the tears! I love these stories!! Have a great Day!! Love, Tricia

“The Christmas Project”

Ron Woods

Crouched and shivering behind the hedge, I watched my little brother Nickie do his best rendition of an Indian scout sneaking across Brother Henry’s front lawn. First he edged his way around the power pole that held the street light, and then he skittered to the locust tree. He paused for a moment before dashing for the corner of the house where he waited a long time, listening, I suppose, for crunching leaves or whatever ten-year-old Indian scouts listen for.

Since there aren’t many crunching leaves in December, and there was apparently no danger, Nickie made his final sprint to the door. He laid his gift on the step, rang the bell, and dashed back to the hedge.

“Did they see me?” he gasped.

“Not unless they can see through the door,” I whispered. “They haven’t even opened it yet.”

We crouched behind the hedge in the yard next to the Henry’s and waited. It was cold, but not bad. Maybe it would snow. I hoped so. What snow we’d had so far had melted a couple of weeks earlier and now, three days before Christmas, the trees and lawns were bare, bleak, and un-Christmaslike. To me, Christmas just wasn’t Christmas without snow.

I was puzzled as I watched Nickie, sitting beside me on the cold, yellow grass. All of a sudden he seemed so excited about our Christmas project. His attitude had practically done an “about face” in the last hour.

Playing Santa to the Henrys was Dad’s idea. At home evening two weeks earlier he asked if the family wanted to do a Christmas project again this year. We did our first project about six years ago; I was Nickie’s age. We took some toys to the Sub-for-Santa program, and I remember that I wasn’t very excited about giving away my toys, except for a few old broken ones that I thought I could part with. Then at school I heard a man talk about how much some gifts had meant to his family. He cried, and I barely managed not to. I went right home and wrapped up my biggest Tonka truck. It was only two years old and still in great shape.

Every year since, our family has contributed to Sub-for-Santa. When Dad asked about this year’s project, I thought that he intended to do the same. “There’s a family in our neighborhood who could use some help,” he said. I was surprised; I never thought that there were people in our own neighborhood who would not have a good Christmas.

“Who?” the family asked, almost in unison.

“Well, you know the Arnold Henry family, don’t you?” Dad started.

I knew the Henrys only slightly. They had moved into the ward in September or October. There were three or four kids, all young. The oldest boy was about eight or nine. That’s all I knew about them, but some of my little brothers and sisters were acquainted with the Henry children.

“Brother Henry had a job at the steel plant, but they had a cutback,” Dad continued. “The bishop mentioned last Sunday that Brother Henry hasn’t yet found work.” Dad paused long enough for us to get his message, and unanimously we adopted the Henry family as our Christmas project.

The grass was damp, but Nickie and I continued to peer through the hedge at the house. “Why don’t they come to the door?” Nickie whispered impatiently.

“Did you hear the bell ring?” I asked.

“I’m not sure,” he said.

“The first rule of successfully rousing people,” I sermonized, “is to listen for the ring. You were in too much of a hurry.”

“I’ll do it again,” Nickie said.

I guessed that he wasn’t sorry to have to repeat his dramatic approach. I watched him go again. This time he crawled to the locust tree like an infantryman under fire. Too much TV, I figured, had programmed him against simply walking up to the door, ringing the bell, and then running. I thought how silly he would look to the Henrys if they opened their door and saw this ten-year-old boy elbowing his way across their lawn. And I thought again about the change I’d seen in Nickie in the last hour.

From the time that we had decided as a family to assist the Henrys, the bulk of the work had fallen on Mom. She’s a good organizer—or maybe prodder is a better word. Every day she’d ask, “Who has an idea for the Henry’s three-year-old girl?” or “What should we do about a tree? Will they have one or shall we take one?” She kept us interested and excited.

On the first day my littlest brother, Tommy, age four, ran to his room and came back with a toy car he wanted to give. I suggested that we take a small decorated tree, whether or not they already had one. Since I had an after-school job and was earning a little money, I offered to buy it as my contribution. My two sisters, Ann, 13, and Tricia, 7, started working together to make presents.

Everyone got involved except Nickie. I don’t know why, unless ten is a selfish age or something, but he just wasn’t very interested. When Mom pressed him for a commitment, he said he’d put in a “quarter or something” on a present. I could tell that she was disappointed because he wasn’t catching the spirit of the project. But I remembered how I felt at his age on our first Sub-for-Santa, and I couldn’t be too hard on him.

It wasn’t that Nickie wasn’t a good kid. Once when he was about three, a neighborhood friend complained to Nickie that he was hungry. Nickie went to the refrigerator, stuck his hand into a bottle of home-canned fruit, and carried a dripping peach half to his buddy. He can be generous all right. So Mom didn’t push him; I think she knows that sometimes good deeds just can’t be forced.

Finally, the big night arrived. The excitement mounted as we gathered the things together to take to the Henrys. Even Nickie seemed a little more interested, but I don’t think he felt as much a part of it because he hadn’t really contributed.

The Henrys live only four blocks away; and we thought it would be fun to walk. But because we had quite a few things to carry, including a decorated tree, we loaded the station wagon instead. As the holder of the family’s newest driver’s license—only—six months old—I took my now-unquestioned place behind the wheel and drove past the Henry’s house. Only the porch light was lit. “Great,” said Dad, who was facing backwards in the third seat, holding the tree out the rear window. “They’re not home. We can take our time.”

I made a U-turn and drove past the house from the other direction. Still no sign of life, so I coasted to the curb two houses away, and we unloaded. We must have looked comical strolling down the sidewalk like a Christmas parade in the dark. We were quiet, so as not to draw attention from the neighbors, and we kept an eye out for cars, hoping the Henrys wouldn’t return too soon.

After everything was positioned on the front step, right under the porch light, we went to the neighbor’s yard to watch through the hedge, but we weren’t very well hidden. It was cold enough that it wasn’t fun staring at the porch, and we were just about to leave when a car turned in the Henry’s driveway.

“Come on,” Mom said. “They’ll see us when they get out of the car.” We tried to look casual as we strolled down the walk to the car. But Nickie, his spying instincts aroused, insisted on staying.

“Dad, can I stay?” he pleaded. “I won’t let them see me. I just want to watch while they find all that stuff. Then I’ll run home. Okay?” Dad consented, so Nickie crawled back to the hedge while the rest of us got in the car and drove home.

We’d been home about ten minutes and were sitting around the Christmas tree talking about our adventure when the front door flew open. In ran Nickie, all out of breath. It was obvious that he was excited about something. Without saying a word he went straight to the tree and pulled out a square box wrapped in shiny red paper.

“What’s up, son?” Dad asked.

“I want to take this present to the Henrys, Dad. I … didn’t give very much,” he said.

I couldn’t believe it! Everyone knew what was in that package. Nickie’s Little League baseball mitt, which he had inherited from me and which had already snared more than its share of fly balls, had seen its day. Since the end of last season Nickie had been talking about getting a new one. “And if I happen to get it at Christmas,” he had hinted with ten-year-old subtlety, “I’ll have plenty of time to break it in before spring.”

When Dad and I handed Nickie the wrapped mitt for him to put under the tree until Christmas morning, we could tell from the grin on his face that he knew what it was. And now he was going to give it to a family he hardly knew! Up until ten minutes ago he was only willing to give them a quarter! It didn’t make sense.

“They’ve got a nine-year-old boy, Dad,” Nickie said quietly. Dad swallowed and looked at Mom. She had a strange expression on her face. I wanted to say, “Hey, man, you can’t give away your new mitt!” but Mom just said, “Are you sure that’s what you want to do, Nickie?”

“Yea, Mom, I’m sure,” he replied as he ran out the door.

No one said anything for a minute, and then Dad asked if I would go with Nickie. It was a little late for him to be out alone, and I knew that Dad wanted me to find out what was going on—if I could. By the time I grabbed a coat and ran outside, Nickie was already a block away. I couldn’t catch him, and by the time I reached the hedge, he was doing that Indian scout thing across the lawn.

Nickie was now back with me behind the hedge after his second dash to the door. This time, results. Brother Henry opened the door, saw the red package, and shouted, “There’s more!”

Suddenly the doorway was filled with little faces, all wearing expressions of disbelief at finding yet another gift on the doorstep. We watched them pick up the package, shake it, and pass it around. They even came down the steps and looked around the yard and down the street. Then they went in and turned off the porch light, and we started home.

Nickie wasn’t running this time; he was quiet. After walking half a block I asked him what had changed his mind.

“Well, after you left for home,” he began, “I sneaked up to the hedge and watched while the Henrys started into their house. They stopped dead when they saw the stuff on their step. Then the kids ran up the steps. They shook every present, walked around the tree, and looked up and down the street. Finally, they gathered up everything and went inside.”

Nickie stopped talking, and we walked a while without saying anything. It was getting colder.

“Then what?” I finally asked. What I really wanted to say was, “What changed you? What made you give away your baseball mitt that you’ve wanted for so long?” but I refrained.

“They’d all gone in except the oldest boy and his dad,” Nickie continued. “They were starting to bring in the tree when I heard the boy say, ‘Dad, do you think the Lord blessed us with these things?’ His dad said, ‘I’m sure he did, son, but what do you mean?’ Then the boy—his name’s David—said the funniest thing. He said, ‘Well, it’s just that these things were brought to our house while we were taking Christmas to some poor people.’ ”

My feet stopped. I looked at Nickie.

“They were what?” I gasped. “Taking Christmas presents to other people? Why … why, they don’t even have a job! I mean, they’re supposed to be the poor people!”

“That’s what he said,” Nickie went on. “Then his dad said that even though they didn’t have much money right now, they wanted to share what they had, and that these presents must have come from people who felt that same way.”

“Right then I decided,” Nickie continued,” and I’m glad I did. I’ll bet David Henry never had a you-know-what before.”

He grinned at me, and I knew the secret was out. It was all right to talk about it.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s run.”

I could have beat him home, but instead I kept an even pace. As we turned in our driveway and leaped up the front steps together, I noticed that it was just beginning to snow.