Patterns of Love

I didn’t question Timmy, age nine, or his seven-year-old brother, Billy, about the brown wrapping paper they passed back and worth between them as we visited each store.

Every year at Christmas time, our Service Club takes the children from poor families in our town on a personally conducted shopping tour. I was assigned Timmy and Billy, whose father was out of work. After giving them the allotted $4.00 each, we began our trip. At different stores I made suggestions, but always their answer was a solemn shake of the head, no. Finally, I asked, “Where would you suggest we look?”

“Could we go to a shoe store, Sir?” answered Timmy. “We’d like a pair of shoes for our Daddy so he can go to work.”

In the shoe store the clerk asked what the boys wanted. Out came the brown paper. “We want a pair of work shoes to fit this foot,” they said. Billy explained that it was a pattern for their Daddy’s foot. They had drawn it while he was asleep in a chair.

The clerk held the paper against a measuring stick, then walked away. Soon, he came with an open box, “Will these do?” he asked. Tim and Billy handled the shoes with great eagerness. “How much do they cost” asked Billy. Then Timmy saw the price on the box. “They’re $16.95” he said in dismay. “We only have $8.00.”

I looked at the clerk and he cleared his throat. “That’s the regular price,” he said, “but they’re on sale; $3.98, today only.” Then, with shoes happily in hand the boys bought gifts for their mother and two little sisters. Not once did they think of themselves.

The day after Christmas the boy’s father stopped me on the street. The new shoes were on his feet, gratitude was in his eyes. “I just thank Jesus for people who care,” he said. “And I thank Jesus for your two sons,” I replied. “They really taught me more about Christmas one evening than I had learned in a lifetime.”

-- Jack Smith (Especially for Mormons)

Trouble at the Inn

For years now whenever Christmas pageants are talked about in a certain little town in the Midwest, someone is sure to mention the name of Wallace Purling. Wally’s performance in one annual production of the Nativity play has slipped into the realm of legend. But the old-timers who were in the audience that night never tire of recalling exactly what happened.

Wally was nine that year and in the second grade, though he should have been in the fourth. Most people in town knew that he had difficulty in keeping up. He was big and clumsy, slow in movement and mind. Still, Wally was well liked by the other children in his class, all of whom were smaller than he, though the boys had trouble hiding their irritation when Wally would ask to play ball with them or any game, for that matter, in which winning was important.

Most often they’d find a way to keep him out but Wally would hang around anyway – not sulking, just hoping. He was always a helpful boy, a willing and smiling one, and the natural protector, paradoxically of the underdog. Sometime if the older boys chased the younger ones away, it would always be Wally who’d say, “Can’t they stay? They’re no bother.”

Wally fancied the idea of being the shepherd with a flute in the Christmas pageant that year, but the play’s director, Miss Lambard, assigned him to a more important role. After all, she reasoned, the innkeeper did not have too many lines, and Wally’s size would make his refusal of lodging to Joseph more forceful.

And so it happened that the usual large, partisan audience gathered for the town’s yearly extravaganza of crooks and crèches, of beards, crowns, halos and a whole stage full of squeaky voices. No one on stage or off was more caught up in the magic of the night than Wallace Purling. They said later that he stood in the wings and watched the performance with such fascination that from time to time Miss Lambard had to make sure he did not wander onstage before his cue.

Then came the time when Joseph appeared, slowly, tenderly guiding Mary to the door of the inn. Joseph knocked hard on the wooden door set into the painted backdrop. Wally the innkeeper was there, waiting.

“What do you want?” Wally said, swinging the door open with a brusque gesture. “We seek lodging.” “Seek it elsewhere.” Wally looked straight ahead but spoke vigorously. “The inn is filled.” “Sir, we have asked everywhere in vain. We have traveled far and are very weary.” “There is no room in this inn for you.” Wally looked properly stern. “Please, good innkeeper, this is my wife, Mary. She is heavy with child and needs a place to rest. Surely you must have some corner for her. She is so tired.”

Now for the first time, the innkeeper relaxed his stiff stance and looked down at Mary. With that, there was a long pause, long enough to make an audience a bit tense with embarrassment.

“No! Be gone!” the prompter whispered from the wings.

“No!” Wally repeated automatically. “Be gone!”

Joseph sadly placed his arm around Mary and Mary laid her head upon her husband’s shoulder and the two of them started to move away. The innkeeper did not return inside the inn, however. Wally stood there in the doorway watching the forlorn couple. His mouth was open, his brow creased with concern, his eyes filling unmistakably with tears.

“Don’t go, Joseph,” Wally cried out. “Bring Mary back.” And Wallace Purling’s face grew into a bright smile. “You can have MY room.”

Some people in town thought that the Christmas pageant had been ruined. Yet there were others – many, many others -- who considered it the most Christmas of all Christmas pageants they had ever seen.

-- Dina Donahue (Especially for Mormons)

Gold, Circumstance and Mud

I was babysitting my four children while my wife had gone shopping. Babysitting to me is reading the paper while the kids mess up the house. Only that day I wasn’t reading. I was fuming. On every other page of the paper there were glittering gifts and prancing reindeer. The only thing I was told was that there were only six more days to buy presents. What, I asked myself indignantly did this have to do with the birth of Christ?

There was a knock on the door. Then Nancy’s voice, “Daddy, we have a play to put on. Would you like to see it?” I didn’t. But I have fatherly responsibilities so I followed her into the living room. Right away I knew it was a Christmas play for at the foot of the piano stool was a lighted flashlight wrapped in swaddling clothes lying in a shoebox.

Rex, age six, came in wearing my bathrobe and carrying a mop handle. He sat on the stool and looked at the flashlight. Nancy, age ten, draped a sheet over her head, stood behind Rex and began, “I’m Mary and this boy is Joseph. Usually in this play Joseph stands up and Mary sits down, but Mary sitting is taller than Joseph standing up so we thought it looked better this way.”

Enters Trudy, age four, at a full run. There were pillowcases over her arms. She spread them wide and said only, “I’m am angel.”

Then came Ann, age eight. I knew she was the wise man because she had on her mother’s high heels and walked like she was a wise man riding a camel. On a pillow she carried three items, undoubtedly gold, frankincense, and myrrh. She walked across the room and announced, “I’m all three wise men. I bring precious gifts: gold, circumstance and mud.”

That was all. The play was over. I didn’t laugh. I prayed. How near the truth Ann was. We come at Christmas burdened down with gold, with the showy gifts and the tinselly tree. Under the circumstances we can do no other. And it really does seem a bit like mud when you think about it. But my children saw through the earthly and found the real reason for Christmas—to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ.

Especially for Mormons, 1972

Gifts of God

Perhaps for us it would be wise for us to remember to be fully immersed and invested in the gospel of Jesus Christ. An old Christmas story best describes what is meant by invested and immersed. The story is told in first person by a tired shopper who after a long, cold day of Christmas shopping finds herself exhausted on a crowded bus with her arms full of carefully selected gifts. The last available seat on the bus is near the back next to a very handsome gentleman who politely helps her situate her packages.

“My goodness,” he said, “did you leave any merchandise still in the stores for the rest of us?” . . .

The woman in the seat behind us joined in . . . , “The worst thing is that the day after Christmas we will be carrying this same armload back to the store to exchange it.”

Her comment brought a general chuckle from all those within earshot, including my seat mate. As the laughter subsided, he began in a quiet, melodious voice, deepened with experience, to teach me a lesson that I have never forgotten.

“Hear now the parable of the shopper,” he said, speaking gently and indicating my packages. “A woman went forth to shop, and as she shopped, she carefully planned. . . . The many purchases were made with the pure joy and delight that is known only to the giver. Then the gifts were wrapped and placed lovingly under the tree.

“In eager anticipation she [watched] each face as the gifts were opened.

“‘What a lovely sweater,’ said the eldest daughter, ‘but I think I would prefer blue. I suppose I can exchange it?’”

[The man went on to tell how each recipient made similar remarks about his or her gift.] “How sad it is,” continued his soft, beautiful voice, “when gifts are not received in the same spirit they are given. To reject a thoughtful gift is to reject the loving sentiment of the giver himself. And yet, are we not all sometimes guilty of rejecting?”

[By now the bus had stopped, and the passengers were all gathered around. The gentleman] took a present from my stack.

“This one,” he said, holding it up and pretending to open the card, “could be to you.”

He pointed to a rough-looking, teenage boy in a worn denim jacket and pretended to read the gift card.

“‘To you I give My life, lived perfectly, as an example so that you might see the pattern and live worthy to return and live with Me again. . . .’”

. . . He set the present down and took another one from my pile.

“This one,” he said, holding up a pure, white present, “is for you.” He held out the gift to a worn-looking woman, who in earlier years must have been a real beauty and was still attractive. . . . She read the card out loud and allowed her tears to slip without shame down her painted face.

“‘My gift to you is repentance. This Christmas I wish you to know for certain that though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow, and I the Lord will remember them no more. . . . Signed, your Advocate with the Father.’” . . .

[Next the man] looked around the group and brought a ragged, unkempt, little child forward. “This big, red package would be for you if He were here. The card would say, ‘On this Christmas and always, My gift to you is love. My love is pure! It is not dependent on what you do or what you look like. I love you as you have been, as you are now, and as you will be in the future. From your brother, Jesus.’ . . .

“And this silver package to you, madam,” he said with a bow and handed the gift over to an aging grandmother two rows behind.

“. . . His precious gift to you would be the gift of salvation. The surety that you will rise from the grave and live again with a perfect, resurrected body. The card would [be signed], ‘your Saviour.’

“One final gift,” said [the man]. “The greatest of all the gifts of God. Eternal life! . . . Though this gift is to all men, it must be assembled. He has given us the instructions. They are here in the scriptures.” He tore off the paper to reveal a worn, well-used book. . . .

[Finally the man] stood up. He was leaving, making his way slowly down the aisle. He paused just as he reached the front and said, “One last gift. Peace! Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you; not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.”

With those words, he was gone. [From Costley, “The Parable of the Shopper,” Ideals—Christmas 55, no. 6 (November 1998): 50–51]

H. David Burton "These are the Times" BYU Devotional December 1 2009

Playing Football for Dad

I close with this last true story, as it was given by Bob Richards in his book Life's Higher Goals. It always touches my heart and it may touch yours. Lou Little tells this story about his greatest football team. They were on their way to the conference championship--one last game. He had a boy on his squad who had not quite been able to make the team for four straight years. Just before the game--three days before--Lou was given a telegram to give to this boy that informed him his only living relative had just died. The boy looked at the telegram and said, "Coach, I'll be back for Saturday's game." The morning of the game he came up to his coach and said, "Lou, I want you to put me in this game. I know I haven't made the first team yet, but let me in for this kickoff. I'll prove to you that I'm worthy of it." Well, Lou could see that the boy was emotionally upset, and he made all kinds of excuses, but finally he thought, "Well, he can't do much harm on the kickoff, so I'll put the boy in."

The roar of the crowd followed the kickoff. The opposing quarterback took the ball on the goal line, moved up, and on the seven-yard line there was a tremendous tackle. The boy had dropped him in his tracks. On the next play Lou left him in. He made the next tackle; he was in on the next tackle; you couldn't move him out of there. He made practically every tackle that day--terrific downfield blocking. He was the reason why Columbia won the championship. Afterwards, all the guys were pounding him on the back. When they were all done, Lou Little went up to the boy and said, "Son, I don't understand it. Today you were an all-American. I've never seen you play like this in four straight years. What happened?"

And the boy looked up at his coach and said, "Coach, you knew my dad died, didn't you?"

"Yes, I handed you the telegram."

He said, "You knew he was blind, didn't you?"

"Yes, I've seen you walk him around the campus many times."

He said, "Coach, today is the first football game my dad ever saw me play." It makes a difference, friends, when those unseen eyes are watching.

Ezra Taft Benson "Jesus Christ-Gifts and Expectations" BYU Devotional December 10 1974

Sacrifice

Joseph Smith said this about sacrifice:

For a man to lay down his all, his character and reputation, his honor and applause, his good name among men, his houses, his lands, his brothers and sisters, his wife and children, and even his life--counting all things but filth and dross for the excellency of the knowledge of Jesus Christ--requires more than mere belief or supposition that he is doing the will of God; but actual knowledge, realizing that, when these sufferings are ended he will enter into eternal rest; and be a partaker of the glory of God. . . . A religion that does not require the sacrifice of all things never has power sufficient to produce the faith necessary unto life and salvation; for, from the first existence of man, the faith necessary unto the enjoyment of life and salvation never could be obtained without the sacrifice of all earthly things. It was through this sacrifice, and this only that God has ordained that men should enjoy eternal life. [Lectures on Faith, pp. 58–60]

Elder Bruce McConkie said, "Sacrifice pertains to mortality; in the eternal sense there is none. Sacrifice involves giving up the things of this world because of the promises of blessings to be gained in a better world. In the eternal perspective there is no sacrifice in giving up all things--even including the laying down of one's life--if eternal life is gained through such a course" (Mormon Doctrine [Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1966], p. 664; see also D&C 98:13–15).

But just as when one loses his life to God he really finds the abundant life; so also, when one sacrifices all to God, then God in return shares all that he has with him. Try as you may, you cannot put the Lord in your debt--for every time you try to do his will he simply pours out more blessings upon you. Sometimes the blessings may seem to you to be a little slow in coming; perhaps this tests your faith, but come they will and abundantly. And it has been said, "Cast your bread upon the waters and after a while it comes back toasted and buttered."

Ezra Taft Benson "Jesus Christ-Gifts and Expectations" BYU Devotional December 10 1974

The Cobbler and His Guest

There once lived in the city of Marseilles an old shoemaker, loved and honored by his neighbors, who affectionately called him Father Martin. One Christmas Eve as he sat alone in his little shop reading of the visit of the Wise Men to the infant Jesus, and of the gifts they brought, he said to himself, "If tomorrow were the first Christmas, and if this Jesus were to be born in Marseilles this night, I know what I would give him!" He rose from his stool and took from a shelf overhead two tiny shoes of the softest snow white leather with bright silver buckles. "I would give him these my finest work." Then he paused and reflected. "But I am a foolish old man," he continued... "The Master has no need of my poor gifts."

Replacing the shoes, he blew out the candle and retired to rest. Hardly had he closed his eyes it seemed, when he heard a voice call his name..."Martin! Martin!" Intuitively he felt a presence. Then the voice spoke again....

"Martin, you have wished to see me. Tomorrow I shall pass by your window. If you see me, and bid me enter, I shall be your guest at your table."’

Father Martin did not sleep that night for joy. And before it was yet dawn he rose and swept and tidied up his little shop. He spread fresh sand upon the floor, and wreathed green boughs of fir along the rafters. On the spotless linen-covered table he placed a loaf of white bread, a jar of honey, and a pitcher of milk.

When all was in readiness, he took up his patient vigil at the window.

Presently he saw an old street-sweeper pass by, blowing upon his thin, gnarled hands to warm them. "Poor fellow, he must be half frozen," thought Martin. Opening the door he called out to him, "Come in, my friend and warm yourself, and drink something hot." And the man gratefully accepted the invitation.

An hour passed, and Martin saw a young, miserably clothed woman, carrying a baby. She paused wearily to rest in the shelter of his doorway. The heart of the old cobbler was touched. Quickly he flung open the door. "Come in and warm while you rest," he said to her. "You do not look well," he remarked.

"I am going to the hospital. I hope they will take me in, and my baby boy," she explained. "My husband is at sea, and I am ill, without a soup."

"Poor child," cried Father Martin. "You must eat something while you are getting warm. No? Then let me give a cup of milk to the little one. Ah! What a bright, pretty little fellow he is!...Why you have put no shoes on him!"

"I have no shoes for him," sighed the mother.

"Then he shall have this lovely pair I finished yesterday."

And Father Martin took down from the shelf the soft little snow-white shoes he had admired the evening before. He slipped them on the child's feet...they fit perfectly. And shortly the poor young mother went on her way, two shoes in her hand and tearful with gratitude.

And Father Martin resumed his post at the window. Hour after hour went by, and although many people passed his window, and although many people shared the hospitality of the old cobbler, the expected guest did not appear.

"It was only a dream," he sighed, with a heavy heart. "I did hope and believe, but He has not come."

Suddenly, so it seemed to his weary eyes, the room was flooded with a strange light, and to the cobbler's astonished vision, there appeared before him, one by one, the poor street sweeper, the sick mother and her child, and all the people whom he had aided during the day. And each smiled at him and said: "Have you not seen me? Did I not sit at your table?" Then they vanished from his view.

At last, out of the silence, Father Martin heard again the gentle voice repeating the old familiar words: "Whosoever shall receive one such in my name, receiveth me...for I was hungered, and ye gave me meat; I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink; I was a stranger, and ye took me in...Verily I say unto you, inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me."

-- Anne MuCollum Boyles