The Month After Christmas

Twas the month after Christmas, and all through the house
Nothing would fit me, not even a blouse.
The cookies I d nibbled, the eggnog I'd taste
At the holiday parties had gone to my waist.
When I got on the scales there arose such a number!
When I walked to the store (less a walk than a lumber).
I d remember the marvelous meals I d prepared;
The gravies and sauces and beef nicely rared,
The wine and the rum balls, the bread and the cheese
And the way I d never said, No thank you, please.
As I dressed myself in my husband s old shirt
And prepared once again to do battle with dirt---
I said to myself, as I only can
You can t spend a winter disguised as a man!
So--away with the last of the sour cream dip,
Get rid of the fruit cake, every cracker and chip
Every last bit of food that I like must be banished
Till all the additional ounces have vanished.
I won t have a cookie--not even a lick.
I ll want only to chew on a long celery stick.
I won t have hot biscuits, or corn bread, or pie,
I ll munch on a carrot and quietly cry.
I m hungry, I m lonesome, and life is a bore---
But isn t that what January is for?
Unable to giggle, no longer a riot.
Happy New Year to all and to all a good diet!

Maybe Christmas Doesn't Come From a Store by Jeffrey Holland

You will recall from Dr. Suess's holiday "horror" story, How the Grinch Stole Christmas, that the devilish Grinch determined to rob Who-ville of every holiday treat. In a nefarious scheme in which the Grinch dressed as Santa himself, he moved through Who-ville taking every package, tree, ornament, and stocking.

We now come upon him as he leaves the city, chuckling to himself in delight over the pain he will have caused children like little Cindy-Lou Who.

Three thousand feet up! Up the side of Mt. Crumpit,
He rode with his load to the tiptop to dump it!
"Pooh-Pooh to the Whos!" he was grinch-ish-ly humming.
"They're finding out now that no Christmas is coming!
"They're just waking up! I know just what they'll do!
"Their mouths will hang open a minute or two
"Then the Whos down in Who-ville will all cry Boo-Hoo!
"That's a noise, "grinned the Grinch,
"That I simply MUST hear!"
So he paused. And the Grinch put his hand to his ear.
And he did hear a sound rising over the snow.
It started in low. Then it started to grow ...
But the sound wasn't sad!
Why, this sound sounded merry!
It couldn't be so!
But it WAS merry! VERY!
He stared down at Who-ville!
The Grinch popped his eyes!
Then he shook!
What he saw was a shocking surprise!
Every Who down in Who-ville, the tall and the small,
Was singing! Without any presents at all!
He HADN'T stopped Christmas from coming!
IT CAME!
Somehow or other, it came just the same!
And the Grinch, with his grinch-feet ice-cold in the snow,
Stood puzzling and puzzling: "How could it be so?"
"It came without ribbons! It came without tags!
"It came without packages, boxes or bags!"
And he puzzled three hours, till his puzzler was sore.
Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before!
"Maybe Christmas," he thought, "doesn't come from a store.
Maybe Christmas ... perhaps ... means a little bit more!"
(Dr. Suess, How the Grinch Stole Christmas, New York: Random House, 1957.)

Part of the purpose for telling the story of Christmas is to remind us that Christmas doesn't come from a store. Indeed, however delightful we feel about it, even as children, each year it "means a little bit more." And no matter how many times we read the biblical account of that evening in Bethlehem, we always come away with a thought-or two-we haven't had before.

There are so many lessons to be learned from the sacred account of Christ's birth that we always hesitate to emphasize one at the expense of all the others. Forgive me while I do just that in the time we have together here.

One impression which has persisted with me recently is that this is a story-in profound paradox with our own times-that this is a story of intense poverty. I wonder if Luke did not have some special meaning when he wrote not "there was no room in the inn" but specifically that "there was no room for them in the inn." (Luke 2:7; italics added.) We cannot be certain, but it is my guess that money could talk in those days as well as in our own. I think if Joseph and Mary had been people of influence or means, they would have found lodging even at that busy time of year.

I have wondered if the Inspired Version also was suggesting they did not know the "right people" in saying, "There was none to give room for them in the inns." (Luke 2:7, JST.)

We cannot be certain what the historian intended, but we do know these two were desperately poor. At the purification offering which the parents made after the child's birth, a turtledove was substituted for the required lamb, a substitution the Lord had allowed in the Law of Moses to ease the burden of the truly impoverished. (See Lev. 12:8.)

The wise men did come later bearing gifts, adding some splendor and wealth to this occasion, but it is important to note that they came from a distance, probably Persia, a trip of several hundred miles at the very least. Unless they started long before the star appeared, it is highly unlikely that they arrived on the night of the babe's birth. Indeed, Matthew records that when they came Jesus was "a young child," and the family was living in "a house." (Matt. 2:11.)

Perhaps this provides an important distinction we should remember in our own holiday season. Maybe the purchasing and the making and the wrapping and the decorating-those delightfully generous and important expressions of our love at Christmas-should be separated, if only slightly, from the more quiet, personal moments when we consider the meaning of the Baby (and his birth) who prompts the giving of such gifts.

As happens so often if we are not careful, the symbols can cover that which is symbolized. In some of our lives the manger has already been torn down to allow for a discount store running three-for-a-dollar specials on gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

I do not feel-or mean this to sound-like a modern-day Scrooge. The gold, frankincense, and myrrh were humbly given and appreciatively received, and so they should be, every year and always. As my wife and children can testify, no one gets more giddy about the giving and receiving of presents than I do.

But for that very reason, I, like you, need to remember the very plain scene, even the poverty, of a night devoid of tinsel or wrapping or goods of this world. Only when we see that single, sacred, unadorned object of our devotion-the Babe of Bethlehem-will we know why "tis the season to be jolly" and why the giving of gifts is so appropriate.

As a father I have recently begun to think more often of Joseph, that strong, silent, almost unknown man who must have been more worthy than any other mortal man to be the guiding foster father of the living Son of God. It was Joseph selected from among all men who would teach Jesus to work. It was Joseph who taught him the books of the law. It was Joseph who, in the seclusion of the shop, helped him begin to understand who he was and ultimately what he was to become.

I was a student at BYU just finishing my first year of graduate work when our first child, a son, was born. We were very poor, though not so poor as Joseph and Mary. My wife and I were both going to school, both holding jobs, and in addition worked as head residents in an off-campus apartment complex to help defray our rent. We drove a little Volkswagen which had a half-dead battery because we couldn't afford a new one (Volkswagen or battery).

Nevertheless, when I realized that our own night of nights was coming, I believe I would have done any honorable thing in this world, and mortgaged any future I had, to make sure my wife had the clean sheets, the sterile utensils, the attentive nurses, and the skilled doctors who brought forth our firstborn son. If she or that child had needed special care at the Mayo Clinic, I believe I would have ransomed my very life to get it.

I compare those feelings (which I have had with each succeeding child) with what Joseph must have felt as he moved through the streets of a city not his own, with not a friend or kinsman in sight, nor anyone willing to extend a helping hand. In these very last and most painful hours of her "confinement," Mary had ridden or walked approximately 100 miles from Nazareth in Galilee to Bethlehem in Judea. Surely Joseph must have wept at her silent courage. Now, alone and unnoticed, they had to descend from human company to a stable, a grotto full of animals, there to bring forth the Son of God.

I wonder what emotions Joseph might have had as he cleared away the dung and debris. I wonder if he felt the sting of tears as he hurriedly tried to find the cleanest straw and hold the animals back. I wonder if he wondered: "Could there be a more unhealthy, a more disease-ridden, a more despicable circumstance in which a child could be born? Is this a place fit for a king? Should the mother of the Son of God be asked to enter the valley of the shadow of death in such a foul and unfamiliar place as this? Is it wrong to wish her some comfort? Is it right He should be born here?"

But I am certain Joseph did not mutter and Mary did not wail. They knew a great deal and did the best they could.

Perhaps these parents knew even then that in the beginning of his mortal life, as well as in the end, this baby son born to them would have to descend beneath every human pain and disappointment. He would do so to help those who also felt they had been born without advantage.

I've thought of Mary, too, this most favored mortal woman in the history of the world, who as a mere child received an angel who uttered to her those words that would change the course not only of her own life but also that of all human history: "Hail, thou virgin, who art highly favoured of the Lord. The Lord is with thee; for thou art chosen and blessed among women." (Luke 1:28, JST.) The nature of her spirit and the depth of her preparation were revealed in a response that shows both innocence and maturity: "Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it unto me according to thy word." (Luke 1:38.)

It is here I stumble, here that I grasp for the feelings a mother has when she knows she has conceived a living soul, feels life quicken and grow within her womb, and carries a child to delivery. At such times fathers stand aside and watch, but mothers feel and never forget. Again, I've thought of Luke's careful phrasing about that holy night in Bethlehem:

"The days were accomplished that she should be delivered.

"And she brought forth her firstborn son, and [she] wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and [she] laid him in a manger." (Luke 2:6-7; italics added.) Those brief pronouns trumpet in our ears that, second only to the child himself, Mary is the chiefest figure, the regal queen, mother of mothers-holding center stage in this grandest of all dramatic moments. And those same pronouns also trumpet that, save for her beloved husband, she was very much alone.

I have wondered if this young woman, something of a child herself, here bearing her first baby, might have wished her mother, or an aunt, or her sister, or a friend, to be near her through the labor. Surely the birth of such a son as this should command the aid and attention of every midwife in Judea! We all might wish that someone could have held her hand, cooled her brow, and when the ordeal was over, given her rest in crisp, cool linen.

But it was not to be so. With only Joseph's inexperienced assistance, she herself brought forth her firstborn son, wrapped him in the little clothes she had knowingly brought on her journey, and perhaps laid him on a pillow of hay.

Then on both sides of the veil a heavenly host broke into song. "Glory to God in the highest," they sang, "and on earth, peace among men of good will." (Luke 2:14, Phillips Translation.) But except for heavenly witnesses, these three were alone: Joseph, Mary, the baby to be named Jesus.

At this focal point of all human history, a point illuminated by a new star in the heavens revealed for just such a purpose, probably no other mortal watched-none but a poor young carpenter, a beautiful virgin mother, and silent stabled animals who had not the power to utter the sacredness they had seen.

Shepherds would soon arrive and later, wise men from the East. Later yet the memory of that night would bring Santa Claus and Frosty and Rudolph-and all would be welcome. But first and forever there was just a little family, without toys or trees or tinsel. With a baby-that's how Christmas began.

It is for this baby that we shout in chorus: "Hark! the herald angels sing Glory to the newborn king! ... Mild he lays his glory by, Born that man no more may die: Born to raise the sons of earth, Born to give them second birth." (Hymns, no. 60.)

Perhaps recalling the circumstances of that gift, of his birth, of his own childhood, perhaps remembering that purity and faith and genuine humility will be required of every celestial soul, Jesus must have said many times as he looked into the little eyes that loved him (eyes that always best saw what and who he really was), "Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven." (Matt. 18:3.)

Christmas, then, is for children-of all ages. I suppose that is why my favorite Christmas carol is a child's song. I sing it with more emotion than any other:

Away in a manger, no crib for his bed,
The little Lord Jesus laid down his wee head. ...
I love thee, Lord Jesus, look down from the sky
And stay by my side until morning is nigh. ...
Be near me, Lord Jesus, I ask thee to stay
Close by me forever and love me, I pray.
Bless all the dear children in thy tender care,
And take us to heaven to live with thee there.
(Sing with Me, p. F-2.)

"Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before! 'Maybe Christmas,' he thought, 'doesn't come from a store.' "

From an address given to the Religious Instruction faculty at Brigham Young University, December 12, 1976

No Room in the Inn by Howard W. Hunter

On that night in Bethlehem there was no room for him in the inn and this was not the only time during the thirty-three years of his sojourn in morality that there was no room for him. Herod sent soldiers to Bethlehem to slay the children. There was no room for Jesus in the domain of Herod so his parents took him to Egypt. During his ministry there were many who made no room for his teachings -- no room for the gospel he taught. There was no room for his miracles, for his blessings, no room for the divine truths he spoke, no room for his love or faith. He said to them, "The foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests; but the Son of man hath not where to lay his head" (Matthew 8:20).

Even in our day, although two thousand years have passed, there are many who say the same thing that was said on that night in Bethlehem. "There is no room, no room" (see Luke 2:7). We make room for gifts, but sometimes no room is made for the giver. We have room for the commercialism of Christmas and even pleasure-seeking on the Sabbath day, but there are times when there is not room for worship. Our thoughts are filled with other things -- there is no room.

(From a talk given at Beneficial Life Insurance Company, 15 December 1981; quoted in The Teachings of Howard W. Hunter, pp. 41-42)

Progressive Christmas Story by Stefenee Hymas

When I was homemaking leader in my last ward I was in charge of putting together a Christmas program. I really felt that the ward needed to get away from all the commercialism of Christmas, so I put together this program.

It was done on a *Progressive Dinner* type idea. Each part of the program was done at different houses (the beauty of living in small town Utah where the entire ward covers 3 blocks). I'm sure this could also be done in the church using different rooms for the different locations. Food was only served at the last location.

The program turned out fabulously and I got several compliments. Here it is:

Begin in Relief Society Room

Opening Song: Samuel Tells of the Baby Jesus, page 36 in Children’s Song Book (sang by a handful of Primary age children)

Move to parking lot. Samuel, the Lamanite stands on church’s wall fence in costume. He is flooded with lights. (We used a YM drama student. He memorized the whole thing and recited while freezing up on the wall.)

Narrator: And it came to pass that in this year there was one Samuel, a Lamanite, came into the land of Zarahemla, and began to preach unto the people. And it came to pass that he did preach, many days, repentance unto the people, and they did cast him out, and he was about to return to his own land.

But behold, the voice of the Lord came unto him, that he should return again, and prophesy unto the people whatsoever things should come into his heart.

And it came to pass that they would not suffer that he should enter into the city; therefore we went and got upon the wall thereof, and stretched forth his hand and cried with a loud voice, and prophesied unto the people whatsoever things the Lord put into his heart.

And behold he said unto them:

Samuel: Behold, I give unto you a sign; for five years more cometh, and behold, then cometh the Son of God to redeem all those who shall believe on his name.

And behold, this will I give unto for a sign at the time of his coming; for behold, there shall be great lights in heaven, insomuch that in the night before he cometh there shall be no darkness, insomuch that it shall appear unto man as if it was day.

Therefore, there shall be one day and a night and a day, as if it were one day and there were not night; and this shall be unto you for a sign; for ye shall know of the rising of the sun and also of its setting; therefore they shall know of a surety that there shall be two days and a night; nevertheless the night shall not be darkened; and it shall be the night before he is born.

And behold, there shall a new star arise, such an one as ye never heave beheld; and this also shall be a sign unto you.

(Helaman 13:2-4, 14:2-5)

Location #2

Primary boys dressed as shepherds are in front.

Narrator: And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over the flock by night. And lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and they glory of the Lord shone round about them; and they were sore afraid.

And the angel said unto 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 Good, and saying,

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

(Luke 2:8-14)

Another Selected Sister Reads The Faded Blue Blanket

The Faded Blue Blanket

The most frightened shepherd that night was Ladius, just 10. He cowered behind his three older brothers when the blinding star lit the hillside. When the angel appeared, he hid behind a huge rock.

Yet after Ladius heard the glad news, fear left him, and he limped back to his brothers who were planning to set out for Bethlehem. “Who will tend the sheep?” asked Samuel, the oldest at 16.

Ladius, leaning against his shepherd’s crook to support a crippled foot, volunteered; “I’d only slow you down. Let me stay with the sheep.” He bit his lower lip as he talked. The brothers weakly protested, then made plans to go.

“We must each take a gift,” said Samuel. One brother chose his flint to start a fire for the Christ Child. Another picked meadow lilies to make a garland for the King. Samuel decided on his most prized possession, his golden ring.

“Here, take my blanket to him,” said Ladius. It was badly worn — faded with patches.

“No, Ladius,” said Samuel tenderly. “The blanket is too tattered to give even to a beggar — let alone a King. Besides, you will need it tonight.”

The brothers departed, leaving Ladius alone by the fire. He laid his head upon the blanket and buried his face in his hands. Tears forced their way between his fingers, but soon the hush of the night soothed the boy’s heartbreak. The world in silent stillness lay....

“Are you coming, Ladius?” called a voice. Standing nearby was the same angel who had brought the news. “You wanted to see the child, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” nodded Ladius, “but I must stay here.”

“My name is Gabriel,” said the angel. “Your sheep will be watched. Take my hand — and bring your blanket. The child may need it.” Suddenly, Ladius was outside a stable. Kneeling by a manger were his brothers. Ladius started to call out, but the angel lifted a finger to his lips. “Give me the blanket,” Gabriel whispered. The angel took the blanket and quietly covered the baby. But the blanket was no longer faded. Now it glistened like the dew in the brilliance of a new day. Returning, Gabriel squeezed Ladius’ hand. “Your gift was best because you gave all you had.”

“Wake up Ladius, wake up.” The boy rubbed his eyes and tried to shield them from the glaring sun. Hovering over his head was Samuel.

“Did you see the Christ child?” asked Ladius. “Please tell me about it.”

“Yes,” smiled Samuel, “but first tell me why you were sleeping without your blanket.”

Ladius looked about wonderingly. The faded, blue blanket was nowhere to be found -- not then, or thereafter.

Location #3

Primary boys dressed as wisemen are in front.

Narrator: Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea in the days of Herod the King, behold, there came wise men from the east to Jerusalem,

And, lo, the star, which they saw in the east, went before them, til it came and stood over where the young child was. When they saw the star, they rejoiced with exceeding great joy.

And when they were come into the house, they saw the young child with Mary his mother, and fell down and worshiped him; and when they had opened their treasures, they presented unto him gifts; gold, and frankincense, and myrrh.

(Matthew 2:1, 9-11)

Another Selected Sister Reads The Other Wiseman

The Other Wise Man (From the story by Henry Van Dyke)

The other wise man's name was Artaban. He was one of the Magi and he lived in Persia. He was a man of great wealth, great learning, and great faith. With his learned companions he had searched the scriptures as to the time that the Savior should be born. They knew that a new star would appear and it was agreed between them that Artaban would watch from Persia and the others would observe the sky from Babylon.

On the night he believed the sign was to be given, Artaban went out on his roof to watch the night sky. "If the star appears, they will wait for me ten days, then we will all set out together for Jerusalem. I have made ready for the journey by selling all of my possessions and have bought three jewels---a sapphire, a ruby, and a pearl. I intend to present them as my tribute to the King."

As he watched, an azure spark was born out of the darkness, rounding itself with splendor into a crimson sphere. Artaban bowed his head. "It is the sign," he said. "The King is coming and I will go to meet him."

The swiftest of Artaban's horses had been waiting, saddled and bridled in her stall, pawing the ground impatiently. She shared the eagerness of her master's purpose. As Artaban placed himself upon her back, he said, "God bless us both from failing and our souls from death."

They began their journey. Each day his faithful horse measured off the allotted proportion of the distance, and at nightfall on the tenth day, they approached the outskirts of Babylon. In a little island of desert palm tree, Artaban's horse scented difficulty and slackened her pace. Then she stood still, quivering in every muscle.

Artaban dismounted. The dim starlight revealed the form of a man lying in the roadway. His skin bore the mark of a deadly fever. The chill of death was in his lean hand. As Artaban turned to go, a sigh came from the sick man's lips.

Artaban felt sorry that he could not stay to minister to this dying stranger, but this was the hour toward which his entire life had been directed. He could not forfeit the reward of his years of study and faith to do a single deed of human mercy. But then, how could he leave his fellow man alone to die?

"God of truth and mercy," prayed Artaban, "direct me in the path of wisdom which only thou knowest." Then he knew that he could not go on. The Magi were physicians as well as astronomers. He took off his robe and began his work of healing. Several hours later the patient regained consciousness. Artaban gave him all that was left of his bread and wine. He left a potion of healing herbs and instructions for his care.

Though Artaban rode with the greatest of haste the rest of the way, it was after dawn that he arrived at the designated meeting place. His friends were nowhere to be seen. Finally, his eyes caught a piece of parchment arranged to attract his attention. It said, "We have waited till past midnight, and can delay no longer. We go to find the King. Follow us across the desert."

Artaban sat down in despair and covered his face with his hands. "How can I cross the desert with no food and with a spent horse? I must return to Babylon, sell my sapphire and buy camels and provisions for the journey. I may never overtake my friends. Only the merciful God knows whether or not I shall lose my purpose because I tarried to show mercy."

Several days later when Artaban arrived at Bethlehem, the streets were deserted. It was rumored that Herod was sending soldiers, presumable to enforce some new tax, and the men of the city had taken their flocks into the hills beyond his reach.

The door of one dwelling was open, and Artaban could hear a mother singing a lullaby to her child. He entered and introduced himself. The woman told him that it was now the third day since the wise men had appeared in Bethlehem. They found Joseph and Mary and the young child, and had laid their gifts at His feet. Then they had gone as mysteriously as they had come. Joseph had taken his wife and babe that same night and had secretly fled. It was whispered that they were going far away into Egypt.

As Artaban listened, the baby reached up its dimpled hand and touched his cheek and smiled. His heart warmed at the touch. Then suddenly outside, there arose a wild confusion of sounds. Women were shrieking. Then a desperate cry was heard, "The soldiers of Herod are killing the children."

Artaban went to the doorway. A band of soldiers came hurrying down the street. The captain approached the door to thrust Artaban aside, but Artaban did not stir. His face was calm as though he were still watching the stars. Finally his out-stretched hand revealed the giant ruby. He said, "I am waiting to give this jewel to the prudent captain who will go on his way and leave this house alone."

The captain, amazed at the splendor of the gem, took it and said to his men, "March on, there are no children here."

Then Artaban prayed. "Oh God, forgive me my sin, I have spent for men that which was meant for God. Shall I ever be worthy to see the face of the King?"

But the voice of the woman, weeping of joy in the shadows behind him, said softly, "Thou hast saved the life of my little one. May the Lord bless thee and keep thee and give thee peace."

Artaban, still following the King, went into Egypt seeking everywhere for traces of the little family that had fled before him. For many years we follow Artaban in his search. We see him at the pyramids. We see him in Alexandria taking counsel with a Hebrew rabbi who told him to seek the King not among the rich but among the poor.

He passed through countries where famine lay heavy upon the land, and the poor were crying for bread. He made his dwelling in plague-stricken cities. He visited the oppressed and afflicted in prisons. He searched the crowded slave-markets. Though he found no one to worship, he found many to serve. As the years passed, he fed the hungry, clothed the naked, healed the sick, and comforted the captive.

Thirty-three years had now passed away since Artaban began his search. His hair was white as snow. He knew his life's end was near, but he still was desperate with hope that he would find the King. He had come for the last time to Jerusalem.

It was the season of the Passover and the city was thronged with strangers. Artaban inquired where they were going. One answered, "We are going to the execution on Golgotha outside the city walls. Two robbers are to be crucified, and with them another called Jesus of Nazareth, a man who has done many wonderful works among the people. He claims to be the Son of God and the priests and elders have said that he must die. Pilate sent him to the cross."

How strangely these familiar words fell upon the tired heart of Artaban. They had led him for a lifetime over land and sea. And now they came to him like a message of despair. The King had been denied and cast out. Perhaps He was already dying. Could He be the same one for whom the star had appeared thirty-three long years ago?

Artaban's heart beat loudly within him. He thought, "It may be that I shall yet find the King and be able to ransom Him from death by giving my treasure to His enemies."

But as Artaban started toward Calvary, he saw a troop of soldiers coming down the street, dragging a sobbing young woman. As Artaban paused, she broke away from her tormentors and threw herself at his feet, her arms clasped around his knees.

"Have pity on me," she cried, "and save me. My father was also a Magi, but he is dead, I am to be sold as a slave to pay his debts."

Artaban trembled as he again felt the conflict arising in his soul. It was the same that he had experienced in the palm grove of Babylon and in the cottage at Bethlehem. Twice the gift which he had consecrated to the King had been drawn from his hand to the service of humanity. Would he now fail again? One thing was clear, he must rescue this helpless child from evil.

He took the pearl and laid it in the hand of the girl and said, "Daughter, this is the ransom. It is the last of my treasures which I had hoped to keep for the King."

While he spoke, the darkness of the sky thickened and the shuddering tremors of an earthquake ran through the ground. The houses rocked. The soldiers fled in terror. Artaban sank beside a protecting wall. What had he to fear? What had he to hope for? He had given away the last of his tribute to the King. The quest was over and he had failed. What else mattered?

The earthquake quivered beneath him. A heavy tile, shaken from the roof, fell and struck him. He lay breathless and pale. Then there came a still small voice through the twilight. It was like distant music. The rescued girl leaned over him and heard him say, "Not so, my Lord; for when saw I thee hungered and fed thee? Or thirsty and gave thee drink? When saw I thee a stranger and took thee in? Or naked and clothed thee? When saw I thee sick or in prison and came unto thee? Thirty-three years have I looked for thee; but I have never seen thy face, nor ministered unto thee, my King."

The sweet voice came again, "Verily I say unto thee, that inasmuch as thou hast done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, thou hast done it unto me."

A calm radiance of wonder and joy lighted the face of Artaban as one long, last breath exhaled gently from his lips. His journey was ended. His treasure accepted. The Other Wise Man had found the King.

Location #4

Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus in front. (We used a mother and her newborn son.)

Narrator: 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 all went to be taxed, every one into 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; to be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child, and so it was, that while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered.

And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was not room for them in the inn.

(Luke 2:1, 3-7)

Congregation sings Joy to the World

Location #5

Sister plays Silent Night on violin

Refreshments served

Santa's Prayer on Christmas By Warren D. Jennings

The sleigh was all packed, the reindeer were fed,
But Santa still knelt by the side of the bed.

"Dear Father," he prayed "Be with me tonight.
There's much work to do and my schedule is tight.

I must jump in my sleigh and streak through the sky,
Knowing full well that a reindeer can't fly.

I will visit each household before the first light,
I'll cover the world and all in one night.

With sleighbells a-ringing, I'll land on each roof,
Amid the soft clatter of each little hoof.

To get in the house is the difficult part,
So I'll slide down the chimney of each child's heart.

My sack will hold toys to grant all their wishes.
The supply will be endless like the loaves and the fishes.

I will fill all the stockings and not leave a track.
I'll eat every cookie that is left for my snack.

I can do all these things Lord, only through You,
I just need your blessing, then it's easy to do.

All this is to honor the birth of the One,
That was sent to redeem us, Your most Holy Son.

So to all of my friends, least Your glory I rob,
Please Lord, remind them who gave me this job."

Santa's Secret Prayer by Lee Carroll

On Christmas Eve, a young boy with light in his eyes
Looked deep into Santa's, to Santa's surprise
And said as he sat on Santa's broad knee,
"I want your secret. Tell it to me."

He leaned up and whispered in Santa's good ear
"How do you do it, year after year?"
"I want to know how, as you travel about,
Giving gifts here and there, you never run out.

How is it, Dear Santa, that in your pack of toys
You have plenty for all of the world's girls and boys?
Stay so full, never empties, as you make your way
From rooftop to rooftop, to homes large and small,
From nation to nation, reaching them all?"

And Santa smiled kindly and said to the boy,
"That's a hard question. Don't you want a toy?"
But the child shook his head, and Santa could see
That he needed the answer. "Now listen to me,"
He told that small boy with the light in his eyes,
"My secret will make you sadder and wise.

"The truth is that my sack is magic. Inside
It holds millions of toys for my Christmas Eve ride.
But although I do visit each girl and each boy
I don't always leave them a gaily-wrapped toy.

Some homes are hungry, some homes are sad,
Some homes are desperate, some homes are bad.
Some homes are broken, and the children there grieve.
Those homes I visit, but what should I leave?

"My sleigh is filled with the happiest stuff,
But for homes where despair lives toys aren't enough.
So I tiptoe in, kiss each girl and boy,
And I pray with them that they'll be given the joy
Of the spirit of Christmas, the spirit that lives
In the heart of the dear child who gets not, but gives.

"If God hears me and answers my prayer,
When I visit next year, I will find there,
Homes filled with peace, with giving, and love,
Boys and girls gifted with light from above.

It's a very hard task, my smart little brother,
To give toys to some, and to give prayers to others.
But prayers are the best gifts, the best gifts indeed,
For God has a way of meeting each need.

"That's part of the answer. The rest, my dear youth,
Is that my sack is magic. And that is the truth.
In my sack I carry on Christmas Eve day
More love than a Santa could ever give away.

The sack never empties of love, or of joys
`Cause inside it are prayers, and hope. Not just toys.
The more that I give, the fuller it seems,
Because giving is my way of fulfilling dreams.

"And do you know something? You've got a sack, too.
It's as magic as mine, and it's inside of you.
It never gets empty; it's full from the start.
It's the center of light and love. It's your heart.

And if on this Christmas you want to help me,
Don't be so concerned with the gifts `near your tree.
Open that sack called your heart, and share
Your joy, your friendship, your wealth, your care."

The light in the small boy's eyes was glowing.
"Thanks for your secret. I've got to be going."
"Wait, little boy," Said Santa, "don't go.
Will you share? Will you help? Will you use what you know?"

And just for a moment the small boy stood still,
Touched his heart with his small hand and whispered,
"I will."

Season of Giving

Sister, the season of giving
Is all year round for you.
It doesn't start in December
And end when Christmas is through.

You constantly give others service
You daily give presents of love.
Compassion and sweet spirits joining
And pleasing to God above.

Merry Christmas to you and your loved ones.
May your dreams and desires come true
For, sister the spirit of Christmas
Is found all year in you.

Sharing the Wonder by Elizabeth Shaw Smith

I was living in San Francisco, and I was poor. Airfare home to Wyoming for Christmas was out of the question, and I didn't have the vacation days to make the 1,200-mile drive. Then, too, I "sort of" had a boyfriend with whom I "sort of" wanted to spend Christmas.

My two solicitous roommates had left mounds of goodies and a comforting tree before they went off to Idaho and Nevada to their families. I figured that Christmas without my family couldn't be so bad; I managed without seeing my family for most of the other days of the year. And I was, after all, mature and independent.

Two days before Christmas, the bishop called with an offer from an anonymous ward member of round-trip airfare home for Christmas. Embarrassed and overly proud, I turned him down. In doing so, I believe, I denied and repressed something about Christmas that I am trying even now to recover-something that has to do with childhood and dependence and joy.

As one who remained single into my mid-thirties, with out-of-state nephews and nieces, I did not experience any child's Christmas except my own. When the childhood fantasy faded, so too did a good part of the delight. True, adults are supposed to supplant the glee of getting with the glow of giving, but I'd been taught that giving should be more constant. I always felt a tinge of hypocrisy doing it mainly at Christmas. I have enjoyed and benefited from the high-intensity Christmas spotlight on the Savior, but it has been a long time since Christmas has conjured magic or mystery for me. The absence of those feelings-when others seemed to be feeling them-has made me a little wistful at Christmas.

I have now and then suspected a relationship between my Christmas blahs and my single state. Marriage does not automatically ban the blahs, of course, but children or a spouse require a concentration on others and can create a group dynamic that feeds the fun. In marriage, sometimes, Christmas builds naturally; when you're single, it takes more work. I have concluded that Christmas has not always "worked" for me because I have not worked for Christmas.

After considerable discussion with and observation of single people whose Christmases seem especially rich, I would like to suggest three things that can turn the season from a frenzied anticlimax into a celebration of wonder and faith. These three things are laughter, connection, and grace.

Laughter is therapy. It is diversion, if only momentary, from pain and problems. But it is more, too. If you're laughing with others, it's a joining that defeats isolation, even if briefly. Christmas allows laughter as few other holidays do. Fanciful Christmas stories, Christmas traditions, and Christmas music are designed to delight and cheer. Something in us all, child or adult, needs an occasional celebration-even mild abandonment. At Christmas, let yourself laugh.

How? It's rarely accomplished alone, but it can start with simply remembering your own childhood giddiness. Then ask for a hand in planning the family get-together, or throw a party for friends. Build a crazy figure out of snow together. Make a game out of opening presents. One single woman, now forty, reports that since childhood she, her two older brothers, and her parents have danced through the house in their nightclothes to the tune of the Chipmunks' Christmas song, before opening their presents on Christmas morning. They still do it. "It was crazy then, but it's hilarious now," she grins. "My parents are almost eighty."

You could take the initiative in launching a gag gift tradition. There are many possible variations. One family, for example, recycles a purple dime-store vase yearly. Each successive giver comes up with a creative delivery or packaging idea. One year it was baked inside a cake, the next year delivered by a pizza man, the next year sent C.O.D.

The gag gift might be tailored to one family member's particular tastes or habits. "We've teased my uncle for years about his dog, whom he treats like a son," one single woman reports. "So one year at the family Christmas party, we presented him with a Dog Baby Book, one year with a high chair for the dog. He now looks forward to a new dog accoutrement each year, and we've all had great fun." Another single woman presented her artist-brother with a large painting which, she explained to him, the whole family had purchased at a famous artists' colony. In reality, the family had created the "masterpiece," with each person taking a turn daubing paint on a blank canvas. "My brother's reaction was priceless as he struggled to thank us both honestly and tactfully," she recalls.

Laughter fills loneliness, builds bonds, and pares down pain.

Fully enjoying the Christmas wonder is impossible without a meaningful connection with someone else. This is because the wonder comes from God; we feel it as we feel his spirit. And we give to and accept from God as we give to and accept from others. Paradoxically, in giving to others we acknowledge a need for them-a need to express our religious feelings in service, a need to touch and be touched. Giving, then, can actually be an act of gratitude and celebration.

Like laughter, the meaningful giver-receiver connection can come more easily and naturally in a family setting. For singles, especially those without easy access to parents, siblings, or children, creating the connection may mean reaching beyond the family unit. Establishing this connection requires focusing thoughtfully on the people around you, becoming more sensitive to them. It almost always involves some time; it rarely involves much money.

One single man who is particularly disenchanted with the commercialism of Christmas sits down with his calendar at the beginning of December and comes up with a "Dream List of Good Things to Do for People." He then picks a person for each week in December and acts out the dream-taking the elderly mother of an out-of-state friend to a concert, leaving a Christmas tree on the doorstep of struggling young marrieds, inviting an acquaintance who is new in town home for Christmas dinner.

One Christmas when I was living in Salt Lake City I participated in a memorable "connection" exercise with three or four other single friends. The day before Christmas, we selected strategic spots in one of the visitors' centers on Temple Square and mingled with the tourists. Our plan was to find people to invite to the next day's Christmas dinner. It worked. We found a family from Michigan on a skiing holiday in Utah. They were not needy or lonely, but they were pleased at the prospect of a home-cooked meal, carols around the piano, and a cozy fireplace. They looked us over, decided we were trustworthy, and agreed to come home with us. The next day's dinner was a great success, leaving us all with memories of having given and received in a new way.

Involvement in the lives of nephews, nieces, or other children colors the giving with a child's holiday excitement. One single woman tries to spend each Christmas with a brother's or sister's family and always has a hand in planning the family party and program. One year she conducted an audio scavenger hunt. She divided family members into two groups, armed each with a small tape recorder, and required each group to get certain things on tape: Grandma reciting her favorite nursery rhyme, someone reading the scripture giving Mary's genealogy, someone singing the third verse of "Silent Night" or the second verse of "Book of Mormon Stories." The whole family participated, and it meant that the children were sometimes teaching the adults.

Another single woman has for several years anonymously given small gifts during the twelve days preceding Christmas to someone who seems particularly discouraged. One year it was a nonmember friend going through a divorce. Another year it was a reclusive older man in her singles ward. Another year it was the widow next door. The next year it was the widower who lived on the other side of the widow. (The widower suspected the widow, and thanked her with an effusive sign in his window! The entire apartment complex was interested.) The woman has quietly watched her recipients add a little hope, a little confidence, a little joy to their lives because of her actions.

I have called the third element of Christmas wonder, grace. It seems the best word to describe the virtually inexpressible phenomenon of personal awareness of the love of God. On occasion, Christmas has functioned for me a little like the temple-I feel myself in a holy time, a holy space. Even though the Savior was not actually born at this calendar spot, there seems to be a surge in the heaven-to-earth power line now, and the whole world strains fractionally upward. It is a fragile feeling, easily missed if we are occupied elsewhere. To tap this ethereal electricity, I suggest, first, an effort toward belief at Christmas. This involves a simple giving up to God, a relinquishing of our own expectations and fiercely held wants, whether for Christmas or beyond. It means acknowledgment of love and joy and peace as more than concepts or card captions. It means accepting the divine gift that is offered.

I suggest, also, preparing a place for the wonder to come. Simplify your Christmas. Resist giving showy, expensive gifts or elaborate dinners. Don't program yourself into too many office parties or church programs or time-consuming projects. A single friend of mine spent last Christmas in Germany with her sister's family. Stores and commercial entertainments were closed for two and one-half days for the holiday. "The world contracted," she remembers, "to just the size of the family and close friends. The result was more simplicity, more peace."

I suggest, too, as both a conduit and a creator of the wonder, Christmas music. Whether or not you are a musician, you can feel more intensely through music. At Christmas, the impulse can be either cantata or calypso, from choirs or carolers. It can be golden rivulets of quartet voices filtering through department stores, or cascades of organs and church bells sifting down the sky. Music is as irrepressible and essential for Christmas now as it was for the angels on both sides of the veil who sang their joy in Bethlehem. If you can sing, if you can hear, you can enjoy Christmas.

The grace of Christmas, then, is a legacy of love from God. The wonder is that it is a legacy celebrated; it is not just private joy-though it can be that-but it is also passed around, shouted out, shared. It is this grace that transforms passing laughter into solid joy, and annual giving into healing connections. There is no greater mystery, no greater magic, than this love.

Elizabeth Shaw Smith, "Sharing the Wonder," Ensign, Dec. 1987, 23

Sparkly Ornaments

Materials: Round clear plastic ornament (the kind that comes apart), Delta glittery paint (it comes in a little jar, looks like glue with sparkly things in it, and the glue dries clear), and acrylic paint, color of your choice.

• Open up the ornament and paint the inside with the sparkly paint. Go away for an hour or so, until all the white stuff has dried clear.
• Now paint the acrylic paint over the sparkles. Let that dry thoroughly.
• Close up ornament. Attach a ribbon through the hole for a hanger. Decorate around hanger area with bows, little bits of green, or other holiday decorations.

Taking the Frenzy Out of Christmas

For many years, we tried to do too much at Christmastime. We gave too many gifts, attended too many parties, stayed up too late, and generally overcommitted ourselves in too many directions. But now we've simplified our routine-Christmas is much more casual and enjoyable for all.

For one thing, we follow the principle of selective neglect-we don't plan to do everything every year. Some years we send cards; some years we don't. Some years we have sent gifts to out-of-town relatives in February. (That's two months late, not ten months early.)

Christmas is best when we try to show our love for each other. We make small gifts or goodies for teachers and neighbors-nothing spectacular. We consider such items indications of our love, not entries in a competition. And drawing names for special good deeds and gifts for family members has been more successful than giving myriads of unneeded (and often unappreciated) gifts as in the past.

One year we wanted to make a gingerbread house as we had done in other years. But when all the pieces were baked and the candy was ready for decorating, we decided to eat it right then-before it was assembled. My old self would have been outraged. My simplified self said, Why not? Surely the Savior would be more pleased with our family laughing and working together and eating its lopsided cookie pieces than he ever would be by a prize-winning gingerbread house, probably done entirely by mother so nothing would be askew. One of my Christmas goals is to never say or even feel that I will be relieved to have Christmas over with. If I feel that way, I have failed. Christmas must not be a dreaded obligation to be waded through somehow; it is an opportunity to remember and celebrate the birth of our Savior by following his example of love.
Bonnie L. Goodliffe, "Taking the Frenzy Out of Christmas," Ensign, Dec. 1980, 49

The "X" in Christmas by Jean W. Palmerd

Merry †mas

Look very close at this greeting this year -
A cross (cross symbol) not an X will appear.
Because JESUS is The CHRIST of this special day
And to cross (X) HIM out is not my way.

Because HE is my Saviour, LORD, and KING,
Is HE yours also? Let praises ring!
HE wants everyone to know HIM as I do,
Ask JESUS into your heart -
HE will make your life new!

The Boy Who Laughed at Santa Claus

In Baltimore there lived a boy.
He wasn't anybody's joy.
Although his name was Jabez Dawes,
His character was full of flaws.
In school he never led the classes,
He hid old ladies' reading glasses.
His mouth was open while he chewed,
And elbows to the table glued.
He stole the milk of hungry kittens,
And walked through doors marked No Admittance.
He said he acted thus because
There wasn't any Santa Claus.
Another trick that tickled Jabez
Was crying "Boo!" at little babies.
He brushed his teeth, they said in town,
Sideways instead of up and down.
Yet people pardoned every sin
And viewed his antics with a grin
Till they were told by Jabez Dawes,
"There isn't any Santa Claus!"
Deploring how he did behave,
His parents quickly sought their grave.
They hurried through the portals pearly,
And Jabez left the funeral early.
Like whooping cough, from child to child,
He sped to spread the rumor wild:
"Sure as my name is Jabez Dawes
There isn't any Santa Claus!"
Slunk like a weasel or a marten
Through nursery and kindergarten,
Whispering low to every tot,
"There isn't any, no, there's not!
No beard, no pipe, no scarlet clothes,
No twinkling eyes, no cherry nose,
No sleigh, and furthermore, by Jiminy,
Nobody's coming down the chimney!"
The children wept all Christmas Eve
And Jabez chortled up his sleeve.
No infant dared hang up his stocking
For fear of Jabez' ribald mocking.
He sprawled on his untidy bed,
Fresh malice dancing in his head,
When presently with scalp a-tingling,
Jabez heard a distant jingling;
He heard the crunch of sleigh and hoof
Crisply alighting on the roof.
What good to rise and bar the door?
A shower of soot was on the floor.
Jabez beheld, oh, awe of awes,
The fireplace full of Santa Claus!
Then Jabez fell upon his knees
With cries of "Don't," and "Pretty please."
He howled, "I don't know where you read it.
I swear some other fellow said it!"
"Jabez," replied the angry saint,
"It isn't I, it's you that ain't.
Although there _is_ a Santa Claus,
There isn't any Jabez Dawes!"
Said Jabez then with impudent vim,
"Oh, yes there is; and I am him!
Your language don't scare me, it doesn't--"
And suddenly he found he wasn't!
From grinning feet to unkempt locks
Jabez became a jack-in-the-box,
An ugly toy in Santa's sack,
Mounting the flue on Santa's back.
The neighbors heard his mournful squeal;
They searched for him, but not with zeal.
No trace was found of Jabez Dawes,
Which led to thunderous applause,
And people drank a loving cup
And went and hung their stockings up.
All you who sneer at Santa Claus,
Beware the fate of Jabez Dawes,
The saucy boy who told the saint off;
The child who got him, licked his paint off.

The Christmas Orange by Kathy Fowkes

Sometime around 1850 or so, in one of the larger cities of Massachusetts or New York there lived a boy named Jack. He didn't have a last name, or a middle name. Just the one single name, "Jack" scrawled on a wrinkled scrap of newspaper pinned to his clean but worn baby dress. No one knew who his parents were, where they came from or where they went to. Jack just showed up one day, a tiny baby wrapped in an old torn blanket and lying in a cheap wicker laundry basket on the steps of the orphanage.

Jack was a quiet baby, not given to much crying. He tried hard to listen to the grown ups who told him what to do, and he always followed the rules as much as he could. When he was nine he had chocolate brown wavy hair and eyes to match. He didn't grow very big because there wasn't much food to be had in the orphanage. All the bills were paid and food bought with donations from kind and generous townspeople, who weren't as kind and generous as they could have been. It didn't help much that the orphanage was surrounded by six foot gray stone walls and none of the townspeople's consciences could be pricked by the sight of the boys' ragged clothes and shoes tied together with twine. So the boys in the orphanage went without more often than not, and grew resigned to the constant gnawing in their empty bellies.

In the winter, when the snow was thick upon the ground, the stone walls of the orphanage felt like ice to the touch. The boys shivered throughout the day as they did their chores, sat in their classes, played in the dirt in the walled-in yard, or waited in line for their meager portions of porridge at breakfast and thin soup and black bread at dinner, and each one shivered through the night under his single scratchy wool blanket in the unheated dorm room. There just wasn't enough money to pay for extra fuel.

When December rolled around their stomach growls and shivering grew less as the townspeople began to feel the Christmas spirit and remember the poor, parentless boys behind those tall gray walls. And on Christmas morning, a very special, very exciting treat appeared at breakfast. An orange! Jack and the other boys waited eagerly all year for this day, for this most rare of all gifts. In fact, it was the only gift any of them had ever received. It was prized above all things, cherished, caressed and gazed upon with wide and sparkling eyes. Each boy saved his single orange as long as possible, lovingly running a hand over the smooth outer skin, feasting on its beautiful glowing color, the one sun-bright spot in their gray lives. They each anticipated its sweet, tangy, juicy taste for days, until the skin began to wrinkle and dry out. Then, and only then, was the orange peeled and each delicious bite savored to its fullest.

Jack's quiet and gentle personality had won him many friends in the orphanage by the time he was nine years old. They played their own form of baseball every chance they could using a fallen tree limb and a rock with a rag tied around it. They drew bases in the dirt with a stick, and Jack and his buddies played even after the snow fell. They just pushed as much of it as they could against the walls and played anyway. The teams, the Pirates and the Cowboys, each had ten boys, and Jack was captain of the Cowboys. He had picked the name because he planned when he got old enough to travel out west and become a cowboy, with his own horse and saddle, and no one else had any better ideas for a team name.

It was Christmas Eve on this fateful day, and the championship game was at the bottom of its last inning. Jack and his Cowboys were down one run. The Pirates had already made two outs on them. It was Jack's turn up at bat. He grabbed the tree limb where it was leaning against the wall and sauntered up to the plate. He tested the swing of the "bat" a few times as he let his eyes scan the bases, trying his best to ignore the Pirate's catcalls and derisive comments. Every boy in the orphanage was standing on the sidelines, their eyes riveted to Jack. The orphanage windows winked in the sunlight above their heads. He swallowed one last time and stepped into the batter's box, and nodded to the pitcher. The boy on the pitcher's mound looked to one side, then the other, and started his wind up. Jack kept his eye on the pitcher's right hand as it came around, and felt a shiver rush through his body that had nothing whatsoever to do with the icy wind slipping through the holes of his sweater. His eye followed the rock-ball as it came hurtling toward him, and he swung that bat as hard and as evenly as he could, his face grimacing with effort. Crack! The ball soared high above the third baseman's head, up and up until it flew past the left fielder. Jack pumped his legs as fast as he could. He rounded first and headed for second at top speed, his eye trying to follow the course of the ball. His steps slowed as he projected the ball's trajectory, and his heart stopped beating as he realized what was about to happen.

The ball sailed right through a second story window. The precious, expensive glass shattered, and shards cascaded to the snow on the ground, like drops of fire from the sun overhead. Not a sound was heard except the tiny tinkle of glass. Every boy stood like a statue, immobile and incredulous. Jack stood stock still between second and third, and beads of sweat and fear popped out on his forehead. One by one the boys turned and looked at him, their mouths hanging open. Jack looked from one to the other, hardly believing what had just happened. He was afraid to think. Every head turned as the orphanage's front door opened and the austere headmaster charged through and came barreling toward them. It didn't take him long to figure out who was responsible for the broken window, and he hauled Jack off by the ear, dragging him up the steps and inside. Just then the bell was rung and all the boys silently filed into the gray stone building.

The next day was Christmas morning. All the boys woke even before the bell summoned them, thrilled to their toes to find the coveted orange at the foot of their beds. All the boys, except Jack. There was no bright shiny orange on Jack's bed. Just an empty gray hollow. He looked around the cavernous room and saw the sunny round fruit cradled in each boy's hands. The other boys, even his best friends, his fellow Cowboys, avoided his gaze, and talked only amongst themselves. Jack tried to ignore their silence, tried to keep his eyes off their oranges, but it was very hard. It seemed so unfair that this was to be his punishment for yesterday's broken window. It had been an accident after all. But nothing he could say yesterday had softened the headmaster's heart. And so, orangeless, he dragged through the day. He did his chores in silence, for no one would speak to him. He walked to chapel alone, for no one would walk by his side. He stood by himself in the yard, for no one would play with him. Jack had never felt so miserable in his entire life. He could endure the scant food, the thin clothing, the snow that got in through the holes in his shoes. But he could not bear to be without his friends. It was the greatest punishment of all. And oh! How he wanted his orange! He could just imagine the sweet, cold nectar slipping down his throat. But it was not to be. Not this year.

Finally the endless, empty Christmas was over, and Jack went alone to his bed. He hoped in his heart that he could die before morning, so he would never have to endure such a day as this had been. He just couldn't face seeing all the other boys with their precious oranges, laughing among themselves and ignoring him even one more day. With his head buried beneath his pillow, Jacks' little body shook with sobs.

A soft hand on his shoulder startled Jack and he sat up. A strange, moist object was shoved into his hands, the giver quickly running down the aisle between the beds into the dark. Jack felt the odd roundness of the object. It took him a moment to figure out what it was. Not a regular, run-of-the-mill orange was now cradled in his palms. Rather, a very special one, pieced together from segments of nine other oranges, highly prized by his Cowboys teammates that would now, of necessity, be eaten this night instead of several days hence.

The Christmas Guest

It happened one day at December's end
Some 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 old Conrad was sitting with face shine.
When he suddenly stopped as he stitched the twine.
And he said "My friends at dawn today,
When the cock was crowing the night away.
The Lord appeared in a dream to me.
And He said, 'I'm 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'll wait for my Lord to appear;
And listen closely so I will hear.
His steps as he nears my humble place.
And I'll open the door and I'll look on his face."
Then 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 had spent many a sad Christmas Day.
But he knew with the Lord as his Christmas guest,
This Christmas would be the dearest and best.
So he listened with only joy in his heart,
And with every sound he would rise with a start,
And looked for the Lord to be at his door.
Like the vision that he had had a few hours before.
So he ran to the window after hearing a sound,
But all he could see on the snow covered ground
Was a shabby beggar whose shoes were torn.
And all his clothes were ragged and worn.
But old Conrad was touched and he went to the door
And he said, "Your feet must be cold and sore.
I have some shoes in my shop for you.
And I have a coat to keep you warmer, too."
So with grateful heart the man went away.
But Conrad notice the time of day
And he wondered what made the dear Lord so late,
And how much longer he'd have to wait.
Then he heard another knock and he ran to the door,
But it was only a stranger once more.
A bent old lady with a shawl of black,
And a bundle of kindling piled on her back.
But she asked only for a place to rest,
A place that was reserved for Conrad's great guest.
But her voice seemed to plead "Don't send me away,
Let me rest for awhile this Christmas Day."
So Conrad brewed her a steaming cup
And told her to sit at the table and sup.
After she had left, he was filled with dismay
For he saw that the hours were slipping away
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 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 could make this little girl glad.
So he called her in and he wiped her tears,
And he quieted all her childish fears.
Then he led her back to her home once more.
Then as he entered his own darkened door,
He knew that the Lord was not coming today,
For the hours of Christmas had all passed away.
So he went to his room and he knelt down to pray.
He said, "Lord, why did you delay?
What kept You from coming to call on me?
I wanted so much Your face to see."
Then softly, in the silence, a voice he heard.
"Lift up your head - I have kept My word.
Three times my shadow crossed your floor.
Three times I came to your lowly door.
I was the beggar with bruised cold feet;
I was the woman you gave something to eat;
I was the child on the homeless street.
Three times I knocked, three times I came in,
And each time I found the warmth of a friend.
Of all the gifts, love is the best.
I was honored to be your Christmas guest.
(Based on Matthew 25:31-46)

The Christmas Season by President David O. McKay

In northern climes particularly, Christmas is the happiest season of the year. At first thought, it is strange that it is so. The days are short and gloomy; the nights, cold and long; trees are leafless, and the landscape barren or covered with snow. Excepting the fur-clad and a few other hardy animals, all nature lies asleep. No warbling songsters fill the air with music; no flowers nor brilliant foliage gladdens the eye. The rippling streams that lured the heart in summer are frozen and still. The pine-covered hills are uninviting, if not quite inaccessible. Everything is gone which made springtime joyous, the summer delightful, and the autumn glorious! Notwithstanding all this, Christmas, in the depth of winter, is full of happiness and cheer.

This is because in Christian lands the yuletide festivity is impregnated with the Spirit of the Christ. At that time more than at any other, we think of others and try to express either in word or deed our desire to make others happy. Herein lies the secret of true happiness. "He that will lose his life for my sake and the gospel's shall find it," is sound philosophy, which the true Christmas spirit helps us to understand.

Love for God and for one another should be the Christmas theme. Such was the divine announcement by the heavenly host that first heralded the "glad tidings of great joy!"

"Glory to God in the highest, peace on earth, good will toward men!"

How simple the words! How deep, how comprehensive their significance! At Christmas we celebrate his birth in whose mission on earth (1) God is glorified; (2) earth is promised peace; (3) all men given the assurance of God's good will toward them!

If every man born into the world would have as the beacon of his life these three glorious ideals -- how much sweeter and happier life would be! With such an aim, everyone would seek all that is pure, just, honorable, virtuous, and true -- all that leads to perfection; for these virtues he would glorify who seeks to glorify God. He would eschew that which is impure, dishonorable, or vile. If every man desired to show good will toward his fellow men and strove to express that desire in a thousand kind sayings and little deeds that would reflect unselfishness and self-sacrifice, what a contribution each would make toward universal peace on earth and the happiness of mankind!

(David O. McKay, MS 85:801-802 (1923); quoted in Gospel Ideals, pp. 36-37)

The Dime Store Angel by PoppyK1@aol.com

It was just a Christmas angel,
That my Mom put on our tree.
She bought it at a five and dime,
When I was only three.
Each year we'd trim our Christmas tree,
With lights and ornaments.
Then Mom would always tell me,
What the angel represents.
The angels came to tell the shepherds,
Of the Christ Child's birth.
And, angels are still here with us,
To guide us here on earth.
The angel on our Christmas tree,
Was made in such a way.
That if the light inside burned out,
You just threw it away.
The light burned out when I was twelve,
The angel would not shine.
But, Mom would not throw it away,
She said it looked just fine.
She loved that little angel,
That she put upon our tree.
She said it didn't need a light,
For anyone to see.
Then I grew up, and I moved out,
To start my family.
And, I'd go home at Christmas time,
To help her trim her tree.
My wife and children went with me,
To mom's house every year.
The house was filled with love and joy,
As we shared Christmas cheer.
The kids would always say to her,
The angel is burned out.
Then, she would smile and tell them,
What the angel's all about.
She told another reason,
For it's specialty.
Your daddy picked that angel out,
When he was only three.

My mother passed away this year,
Early in the spring.
And then I had the painful task,
Of going through her things.
The beautiful old house she owned,
Was left me in her will.
We moved back in the summertime,
We feel her in it still.
Early in December,
We brought out our Christmas tree.
I went up to the attic,
Just to see what I could see.
I saw a cardboard box, with markings,
"Ornaments and stuff."
And in it was the little angel,
That she loved so much.
I brought the cardboard box downstairs,
And showed the family.
Then they persuaded me to put,
The angel on our tree.
We trimmed the tree that weekend,
And we talked of Christmas past.
Then when the tree was finally done,
The angel went on last.
Every night till Christmas,
All the lights were burning bright.
Except the little angel,
That had longed burned out her light.
Then on Christmas morning,
I arose before the rest.
I had to have my coffee,
To be at my very best.
I walked into the living room,
My coffee cup in hand.
Then what I saw, so puzzled me,
I could not understand.
I just stood in silence,
As, my eyes filled up with tears.
The little angel all aglow,
That had been dark for years.

The Empty Manger - A Christmas Story Gift For All

A long, long, time ago, there was a manger in which a little babe was lain. The babe was a gift from a loving Father to a world that was lost and alone, without hope. But, by the giving of this gift, the Father was assuring the world that He loved them and that one day they could all be together again.

For awhile, the people were grateful for the gift they had been given, but they began to get lazy. No longer did they put gifts into the manger to thank the Father for what He had given them, instead, they began to concentrate on the kinds of gifts that they could give to themselves.

For years this went on, the world getting worse as the people got busier, and more selfish and greedy. Then suddenly, one day there was nothing to look forward to, the world just seemed to stop. No one knew what was going on, and the world and its people just existed except for one small child who felt there had to be something more to the world than what he was living in.

The child looked everywhere and everyplace that he could get to. He read every book available to him, and he learned. And what he learned was what the world used to be like, long, long, ago. One day, when no one was looking, (but then no one ever really paid attention to a small child), he went into all the old forgotten places and found the things that might help the world and help the people to really begin to live again. The child laid these things out where everyone could gather around and look and touch; to maybe start to feel again.

It took awhile. Many of the people were resistant, but slowly more and more of the people came around. And as they came around the things the child had laid out, they started to remember the tales of yesterday. Slowly, as they started to remember, they started to rejoice. YES! Just like before, a small child had led them; once again there were things to look forward to like peace, hope, a Father's love, and a place called Home.

What was it the child had placed back into the world's view? Why, it was nothing more than a simple, wooden manger that used to be found in a stable. What made the difference? It was what the child placed in the manger; a blanket for warmth, an olive branch for peace, a dove for comfort, an apple for knowledge, a cross for life eternal, but the most important thing of all was the book. A book with a wealth of knowledge, a wealth of love. A book that told the story of the first manger. The manger that held the babe who was a gift from the Father.

Never again was the child seen, he who had returned to the world the gift. They thank him though.

Is this a Christmas story? Some would think so, but I prefer to call it a story of time, for the message is one that we can heed all year through. And this Christmas season, no matter what faith we profess, may we search out our mangers and give to those in need blankets, olive branches, apples, crosses, and even books of love and hope. And as we look into their eyes, add a prayer of thanksgiving for the One who made it all possible. And may the manger never again be left empty.

The First Christmas by Rebecca M. Taylor

Just what was the first Christmas like
For Joseph, Mary, Christ?
Did people then trim trees, partake
Of cookies shaped and iced?

No-

There were no festive parties held
To celebrate the day;
Christ's parents trekked to Bethlehem,
A tax law to obey.

There was no jolly Santa Claus
Directing deer in flight;
But in the skies, the angels sang
That holy Christmas night.

There were no coloured Christmas lights,
Each sparkling like a gem;
Instead, a star from heaven lit
The way to Bethlehem.

No shoppers sought the perfect gift
Before the day was done,
But humble shepherds left their fields
to seek the Perfect Son.

The Kidnapped Doll by Myrtle "Cookie" Potter

It was Christmas Eve and the family was gathered at my grandparents' house in San Francisco. I was six that year and my cousin, Tom, eight. We'd waited for months, and now that the time for gift-giving was almost near, every moment seemed a lifetime. Would I get the baby doll I longed for - the one in the window of Mrs. O'Connor's variety store? For months I'd spent part of every day staring at her with my nose pressed against the pane. I was certain that baby doll looked sad every time I left.

"Why don't they give out the presents right now?" I asked. "Why do we have to wait until after dinner?"

"I can't wait," said Tom. "Let's sneak into the living room. Maybe we can find out what we're getting."

"Grandpa and the uncles are out in the garden," I said. And our cousins Dorothy, Mildred and Mabel were in the attic playing dress-up. We peeked in the kitchen. The aroma of fresh-baked bread and roasting turkey with sage dressing filled the air. Grandma smiled as she chopped onions. Aunt Agnes and Aunt Susan bumped happily against each other as they stirred the gravy. But Aunt Margaret scowled as she basted the turkey. "You can't come in here," she said, shaking her spoon at us. So far, so good. Every one was accounted for. We hurried down the hall to the front of the house and cautiously turned the knob on the living-room door. My heart beat fast. This was forbidden territory until after dinner. We both took a deep breath and Tom pushed the door open.

What a sight! The magnificent pine tree, aglow with lights of every color, was covered with tinsel and bright ornaments. On the top an angel rested serenely, his sparkling wings brushing the ceiling. "Wow," whispered Tom. "Look at the presents." The rug was covered with gifts. He fell to the floor and started to shake the boxes that bore his name. "This one's just clothes, I think, but doesn't this one sound like an Erector set?"

I was too busy to answer. One of my packages smelled like perfume, another like chocolate. But where was a box that might hold a baby doll? I glanced around the room and spied something covered with a quilt behind a couch. I rushed to it and lifted the cover. Underneath was a buggy - with a doll inside. "My baby!" I cried, picking her up and hugging her.

"Put her back," hissed Tom, yanking my arm. "That doll's not yours. See, the tag says 'To Dorothy.'"

I refused to look. "She's mine," I insisted, jerking away. "I've wanted her forever. Santa just made a mistake putting Dorothy's name on her." Clutching the doll, I ran down the hall and out the back door to Grandpa's workshop. Quickly I thrust the baby onto a pile of shavings behind a stack of lumber. Tom came storming in after me. "You're a kidnapper and a thief," he cried. Then, losing interest, he announced he was going inside. I ran behind him. Tom's last remark worried me: "Do you think you're the only one who wanted a doll? Dorothy asked for a baby too."

I hadn't thought of that. What if it really was hers? Her parents would be upset that the doll was missing. Tom would tell on me. Mama would be ashamed. Aunt Margaret would stare down her nose at me, just like her stuck-up daughter Dorothy. If that doll was Dorothy's I'd never hear the end of it. Why had I taken her? I had to put her back. My heart beating wildly, I ran as fast as I could to Grandpa's workshop and was about to open the door when I heard voices. Grandpa was in there showing Uncle Edward the cabinet he was building. I couldn't go in now Just then Grandma called us to dinner. Shakily I climbed the steps to the house.

In the dining room we bowed our heads as Grandpa said grace. "We thank you, Lord," he began, "for letting us all be together on the day of Jesus' birth." I almost choked. It was bad enough to be a thief and a kidnapper, but to think I'd done it all on baby Jesus' birthday! After that I had no appetite. When our mothers finally cleared the table and started to do the dishes, I hurried back to the workshop, hoping I could get the doll. But Grandpa was in there again, this time with Uncle Archie. When we finally gathered in the living room, my face felt hot. The party dress that Mama had made me seemed too tight around my neck. Grandpa began calling names and giving out presents. He waited for each person to open the gift before he called another name. I stole a look at Tom; he was totally involved in unwrapping his own packages. After an hour, Dorothy's buggy was still behind he couch. Though I'd received several presents, Mama could see I wasn't happy. She left the room and came back wheeling a doll buggy. "Santa left this for Myrtle," she said. I gasped. Inside was a doll better than the one I'd taken. She had a different dress, a pretty bonnet and a coverlet of pink and blue satin. She wore a ruffled petticoat, lace panties and bootees. I knew Mama had made them; the blanket was of the same satin she'd used to make Grandma a robe. My baby was so special that I hugged her tight and vowed never to let her go.

Suddenly I felt sick to my stomach. For a moment I'd forgotten Dorothy's doll. It was still missing. "What's the matter, Myrtle," said Mama. "Don't you like her?"

"Oh, Mama, I love her." But of course I couldn't enjoy my present until I put Dorothy's doll back. How could I possibly do it? Jesus! It was his birthday. Maybe he could help me. Jesus, I prayed silently, I'm sorry I was so bad. Please help me make things right. Grandpa called for attention. "We've got a lot more presents to give out. But we're going to take a recess. Pumpkin pie with whipped cream is waiting in the dining room."

This was my chance! As everyone headed for dessert, I stole out the back door and down the steps. This time no one was in the workshop. Behind the lumber, with her dress askew and wood shavings in her hair, lay Dorothy's doll. I grabbed her and got her back to the living room without being seen. I picked the shavings out of her hair, smoothed her clothes, and started to put her in the buggy behind the couch. But my heart sank when I saw a pink smear on her cheek. Grandpa painted landscapes and there must have been a drop of paint on the wood shavings. Rub as I might, I couldn't get it off. Dorothy and Aunt Margaret would be sure to notice it. I knew what I had to do. With trembling fingers I undressed both dolls. I put Dorothy's doll clothes on my perfect doll, and the clothes Mama had made on the doll with the smudged cheek. I put the perfect doll in Dorothy's buggy and the one I'd kidnapped in my buggy with her smeared cheek against the pillow. When everyone returned to the living room, Grandpa finished giving out the presents. Dorothy received her doll and was just as happy with her as I had been.

"Our dolls look like twins," I said. "Let's have a tea party for them."

"That'll be fun," said Dorothy. "I'll bring cookies." She's not stuck-up, I told myself. I'm sure we can be friends. "Mama," I said that night as I was getting into bed, "I'm naming my doll Mary, after Jesus' mother."

"That's lovely," said Mama. "You know, your doll has a little pink mark on her cheek. Mrs. O'Connor has a lot of other dolls in her store. I'm sure we can exchange her."

"No," I cried. "I like her just the way she is." I snuggled in my blanket, holding Mary close, filled with an overwhelming joy that had nothing to do with dolls or buggies. I was only six years old but I'd already sensed it: When you do something bad, it's possible, with God's help, to make things right.

The Littlest Angel by Charles Tazwell

Once upon a time...

Oh, many, many years ago as time is calculated by men--but which was only Yesterday in the Celestial Calendar of Heaven--there was, in Paradise, a most miserable, thoroughly unhappy, and utterly dejected cherub who was known throughout Heaven as The Littlest Angel. He was exactly four years, six months, five days, seven hours and forty-two minutes of age when he presented himself to the venerable Gate-Keeper and waited for admittance to the Glorious Kingdom of God.

Standing defiantly, with his short brown legs wide apart, the Littlest Angel tried to pretend that he wasn't at all impressed by such Unearthly Splendour,and that he wasn't at all afraid. But his lower lip trembled, and a tear disgraced him by making a new furrow down his already tear-streaked face--coming to a precipitous halt at the very tip end of his small freckled nose.

But that wasn't all. While the kind Gate-Keeper was entering the name in his great Book, the Littlest Angel, having left home as usual without a handkerchief, endeavoured to hide the tell-tale evidence by sniffing.' A most unangelic sound which so unnerved the good Gate-Keeper that he did something he had never done before in all Eternity. He blotted the page.

From that moment on, the Heavenly Peace was never quite the same, and the Littlest Angel soon became the despair of all the Heavenly Host. His shrill, ear-splitting whistle resounded at all hours through the Golden Streets. It startled the Patriarch Prophets and disturbed their meditations. Yes, and on top of that, he inevitably and vociferously sang off-key at the singing practice of the Heavenly Choir, spoiling its ethereal effect. And, being so small that it seemed to take him just twice as long as anyone else to get to nightly prayers, the Littlest Angel always arrived late, and always knocked everyone's wings askew as he darted into his place.

Although these flaws in behavior might have been overlooked, the general appearance of the Littlest Angel was even more disreputable than his deportment. It was first whispered among the Seraphim and Cherubim, and then said aloud among the Angels and Archangels, that he didn't even look like an angel! And they were all quite correct. He didn't. His halo was permanently tarnished where he held onto it with one hot little chubby hand when he ran, and he was always running. Furthermore, even when he stood very still, it never behaved like halo should. It was always slipping down over his right eye.

Yes, and it must be here recorded that his wings were neither useful nor ornamental. All Paradise held its breath when the Littlest Angel perched himself like an unhappy fledgling sparrow on the very edge of a gilded cloud and prepared to take off. He would teeter this way--and that way--but, after much coaxing and a few false starts, he would shut both of his eyes, hold his freckled nose, count up to three hundred and three, and then hurl himself s 1 o w 1 y into space! However, owing to the regrettable fact that he always forgot to move his wings, the Littlest Angel always fell head over halo! It wa also reported and never denied, that whenever he was nervous, which was most of the time, he bit his wing-tips!

Now, anyone can easily understand why the Littlest Angel would, soon or late, have to be disciplined. And so, on an Eternal Day of an Eternal Month in the Year Eternal, he was directed to present his small self before an Angel of the Peace. The Littlest Angel combed his hair, dusted his wings and scrambled into an almost clean robe, and then, with a heavy heart, trudged his way to the place of judgment. He tried to postpone the dreaded ordeal by loitering along the Street of The Guardian Angels, pausing a few timeless moments to minutely pursue the long list of new arrivals, although all Heaven knew he couldn't read a word. And he idled more than several immortal moments to carefully examine a display of laureate harps, although everyone in the Celestial City knew he couldn't tell a crotchet from a semiquaver. But at length and at last he slowly approached a doorway which was surmounted by a pair of golden scales, signifying that Heavenly Justice was dispensed within. To the Littlest Angel's great surprise, he heard merry voice, singing! The Littlest Angel removed his halo and breathed upon it heavily, then polished it upon his robe, a procedure which added nothing to that garment's already untidy appearance, and then t i p -toed in!

The Singer, who was known as the Understanding Angel, looked down at the small culprit, and the Littlest Angel instantly tried to make himself invisible by the ingenious process of withdrawing his head into the collar of his robe, very much like a snapping turtle. At that, the Singer laughed, a jolly, heartwarming sound, and said, "Oh! So you're the one who's been making Heaven so un' heavenly! Come here, Cherub, and tell me all about it!" The Littlest Angel ventured a furtive look from beneath his robe. First one eye. And then the other eye. Suddenly, almost before he knew it, he was perched on the lap of the Understanding Angel, and was explaining how very difficult it was for a boy who suddenly finds himself transformed into an angel. Yes, and no matter what the Archangels said, he'd only swung once. Well, twice. Oh, all right, then, he'd swung three times on the Golden Gates. But that was just for something to do!

That was the whole trouble. There wasn't anything for a small angel to do. And he was very homesick. Oh, not that Paradise wasn't beautiful! But the Earth was beautiful, too! Wasn't it created by God, Himself? Why, there were trees to climb, and brooks to fish, and caves to play at pirate chief, the swimming hole, and sun, and rain, and dark, and dawn and thick brown dust, so soft and warm beneath your feet! The Understanding Angel smiled, and in his eyes was a long forgotten memory of another small boy in a long ago. Then he asked the Littlest Angel what would make him most happy in Paradise. The Cherub thought for a moment, and whispered in his ear.

And then, in all those timeless days that followed, everyone wondered at the great change in the Littlest Angel, for, among all the cherubs in God's Kingdom, he was the most happy. His conduct was above the slightest reproach. His appearance was all that the most fastidious could wish for. And on excursions to Elysian Fields, it could be said, and truly said, that he flew like an angel!

Then it came to pass that Jesus, the Son of God, was to be born of Mary, of Bethlehem, of Judea. And as the glorious tidings spread through Paradise, all the angels rejoiced and their voices were lifted to herald the Miracle of Miracles, the coming of the Christ Child. The Angels and Archangels, the Seraphim and Cherubim, the Gate-Keeper, the Wingmaker, yes, and even the Halosmith put aside their usual tasks to prepare their gifts for the Blessed Infant. All but the Littlest Angel. He sat himself down on the top-most step of the Golden Stairs and anxiously waited for inspiration.

What could he give that would be most acceptable to the Son of God? At one time', he dreamed of composing a lyric hymn of adoration. But the Littlest Angel was woefully wanting in musical talent.hen he grew tremendously excited over writing a prayer! A prayer that would live forever in the hearts of men, because it would be the first prayer ever to be heard by the Christ Child. But the Littlest Angel was lamentably lacking in literary skill. "What, oh what, could a small angel give that would please the Holy Infant?"

The time of the Miracle was very close at hand when the Littlest Angel at last decided on his gift. Then, on that Day of Days, he proudly brought it from its hiding place behind a cloud, and humbly, with downcast eyes, placed it before the Throne of God. It was only a small, rough, unsightly box, but inside were all those wonderful things that even a Child of God would treasure! A small, rough, unsightly box, lying among all those other glorious gifts from all the Angels of Paradise! Gifts of such rare and radiant splendour and breathless beauty that Heaven and all the Universe were lighted by the mere reflection of their glory! And when the Littlest Angel saw this, he suddenly knew that his gift to God's Child was irreverent, and he devoutly wished he might reclaim his shabby gift. It was ugly. It was worthless. If only he could hide it away from the sight of God before it was even noticed! But it was too late! The Hand of God moved slowly over all that bright array of shining gifts, then paused, then dropped, then came to rest on the lowly gift of the Littlest Angel! The Littlest Angel trembled as the box was opened, and there, before the Eyes of God and all His Heavenly Host, was what he offered to the Christ Child. And what was his gift to the Blessed Infant? Well, there was a butterfly with golden wings, captured one bright summer day on the high hills above Jerusalem, and a sky-blue egg from a bird's nest in the olive tree that stood to shade his mother's kitchen door. Yes, and two white stones, found on a muddy river bank, where he and his friends had played like small brown beavers, and, at the bottom of the box, a limp, tooth-marked leather strap, once worn as a collar by his mongrel dog, who had died as he had lived, in absolute love and infinite devotion.

The Littlest Angel wept hot, bitter tears, for now he knew that instead of honouring the Son of God, he had been most blasphemous. Why had he ever thought the box was so wonderful? Why had he dreamed that such utterly useless things would be loved by the Blessed Infant? In frantic terror, he turned to run and hide from the Divine Wrath of the Heavenly Father, but he stumbled and fell, and with a horrified wail and clatter of halo, rolled in a ball of consummate misery to the very foot of the Heavenly Throne! There was an ominous and dreadful silence in the Celestial City, a silence complete and undisturbed save for the heart-broken sobbing of the Littlest Angel.

Then, suddenly, The Voice of God, like Divine Music, rose and swelled through Paradise! And the Voice of God spoke, saying, "Of all the gifts of all the angels, I find that this small box pleases Me most. Its contents are of the Earth and of men and My Son is born to be King of both. These are the things My Son, too, will know and love and cherish and then, regretful, will leave behind Him when His task is done. I accept this gift in the Name of the Child, Jesus, born of Mary this night in Bethlehem."

There was a breathless pause, and then the rough, unsightly box of the Littlest Angel began to glow with a bright unearthly light, then the light became a lustrous flame, and the flame became a radiant brilliance that blinded the eyes of all the angels! None but the Littlest Angel saw it rise from its place before the Throne of God And he, and only he, watched it arch the firmament to stand and shed its clear, white, beckoning light over a Stable where a Child was Born.

There it shone on that Night of Miracles, and its light was reflected down the centuries deep in the heart of all mankind. Yet, earthly eyes, blinded, too, by its splendour, could never know that the lowly gift of the littlest Angel was what all men would call forever "THE SHINING STAR OF BETHLEHEM!"