Teach the Children

Just a week before Christmas, I had a visitor. This is how it happened. I had just finished the household chores and was preparing to go to bed, when I heard a noise in the front of the house. I opened the door of the front room, and to my surprise, Santa Claus himself stepped out from behind the Christmas tree. He placed his fingers over his mouth so I would not cry out.

"What are you doing....?" I started to ask, but the words choked up in my throat as I saw he had tears in his eyes. His usual jolly manner was gone--gone was the eager, boisterous soul we all know.

He then answered me with a simple statement of "Teach the children." I was puzzled. What did he mean? He anticipated my question and with one quick movement brought forth a miniature toy bag from behind the tree. As I stood there bewildered, Santa said again, "Teach the children, Teach them the old meaning of Christmas--the meanings that Christmas nowadays has forgotten."

I started to say, "How can I...." when Santa reached into the toy bag and pulled out a brilliant shiny STAR.
"Teach the children that the STAR was the heavenly sign of promise long ages ago. God promised a Savior for the world and the star was a sign of fulfillment of that promise. The countless shining stars at night--one for each man--now show the burning hope of all mankind." Santa gently laid the star upon the fireplace mantle and drew forth from the bag a glittering RED Christmas tree ornament.

"Teach the children RED is the first color of Christmas. It was first used by the faithful people to remind them of the blood which was shed for all the people by the Savior. Christ gave His life and shed His blood that every man might have God's gift of Eternal Life. Red is deep, intense, vivid--it is the greatest color of all. It is the symbol of the gift of God."

"Teach the children," he said as he dislodged a small Christmas TREE from the depths of the toy bag. He placed it before the mantle and gently hung the red ornament on it. The deep green of the fir tree was a perfect background for the ornament. Here was the second color of Christmas.

"The pure GREEN color of the stately fir tree remains green all year round," he said. "This depicts the everlasting hope of mankind. Green is the youthful, hopeful, abundant color of nature. All the needles point heavenward--symbols of Man's returning thoughts toward heaven. The great green tree has been man's best friend. It has sheltered him, warmed him, made beauty for him." Suddenly, I heard a soft tinkling sound.

"Teach the children that as the lost sheep are found by the sound of the BELL, it should ring for man to return to the fold--it means guidance and return. It further signifies that all are precious in the eyes of the Lord. As the soft sound of the bell faded into the night, Santa drew forth a CANDLE. He placed it on the mantle and the soft glow from its tiny flame cast a glow about the darkened room. Odd shapes in shadows slowly danced and weaved upon the walls.

"Teach the children," whispered Santa, "that the CANDLE shows man's thanks for the star of long ago. Its small light is the mirror of starlight. At first, candles were placed on the trees--they were like many glowing stars shining against the dark green. The colored LIGHTS have now taken over in remembrance."

Santa turned the small Christmas tree LIGHTS on and picked up a gift from under the tree. He pointed to the large BOW and said, "A bow is placed on a present to remind us of the spirit of the brotherhood of man. We should remember that the bow is tied as men should be tied, all of us together, with the bonds of good will toward each other. Good will forever is the message of the bow."

Santa slung his bag over his shoulder and began to reach for the CANDY CANE placed high on the tree. He unfastened it and reached out toward me with it.

"Teach the children that the CANDY CANE represents the shepherd's crook. The crook on the staff helps bring back the strayed sheep to the flock. The candy cane is the symbol that we are our brothers' keepers."
As Santa looked about the room, a feeling of satisfaction shone in his face. He read wonderment in my eyes, and I am sure he sensed admiration for this night.

He reached into his bag and brought forth a large holly WREATH. He placed it on the door and said, "Please teach the children that the wreath symbolizes the Eternal Nature of Love; it never ceases, stops or ends. It is one continuous round of affection. The wreath does double duty. It is made of many things and in many colors. It should remind us of all the things of Christmas. Please teach the children."

Christmas Day in the Morning

Pearl S. Buck

He woke suddenly, and completely. It was four o'clock, the hour at which his father had always called him to get up and help with the milking. Strange how the habits of his youth clung to him still! Fifty years ago, and his father had been dead for thirty years, and yet he waked at four o'clock in the morning. He had trained himself to turn over and go to sleep, but this morning it was Christmas, he did not try to sleep.

Why did he feel so awake tonight? He slipped back in time, as he did so easily nowadays. He was fifteen years old and still on his father's farm. He loved his father. He had not known it until one day a few days before Christmas when he had overheard what his father was saying to his mother.

"Mary, I hate to call Rob in the mornings. He's growing so fast and he needs his sleep. If you could see how he sleeps when I go in to wake him up! I wish I could manage alone."

"Well, you can't, Adam." His mother's voice was brisk, "Besides, he isn't a child anymore. It's time he took his turn."

"Yes," his father said slowly. "But I sure do hate to wake him."

When he heard these words, something in him woke; his father loved him! He had never thought of it before, taking for granted the tie of their blood. Neither his father nor his mother talked about loving their children--they had no time for such things. There was always so much to do on the farm.

Now that he knew his father loved him, there would be no more loitering in the mornings and having to be called again. He got up after that, stumbling blind with sleep, and pulled on his clothes, his eyes tight shut, but he got up.
And then on the night before Christmas, that year when he was fifteen, he lay for a few minutes thinking about the next day. They were poor and most of the excitement was in the turkey they had raised themselves and the mince pies his mother made. His sisters sewed presents and his mother and father always bought something he needed, not only a warm jacket, maybe but something more, such as a book, and he saved and bought them each something, too.

He wished, that Christmas he was fifteen, he had a better present for his father. As usual he had gone to the ten-cent store and bought a tie. It had seemed nice enough until he lay thinking the night before Christmas. He looked out of his attic window, the stars were bright.

"Dad," he had once asked when he was a little boy, "What is a stable?"

"It's a barn," his father had replied, "like ours."

"Then Jesus had been born in a barn, and to a barn the shepherds had come..."

The thought struck him like a silver dagger. Why should he not give his father a special gift too, out there in the barn? He could get up early, earlier than four, and he could creep into the barn and get all the milking done. He'd do it alone, milk and clean up, and then when his father went to start the milking, he'd see it all done. And he would know who had done it. He laughed to himself as he gazed at the stars. It was what he would do, and he mustn't sleep too sound.

He must have waked twenty times, scratching a match each time to look at his old watch--midnight, and half past one, and then two o'clock.

At a quarter to three he got up and put on his clothes. He crept downstairs, careful of the creaky boards, and let himself out. The cows looked at him, sleepy and surprised. It was too early for them too.

He had never milked all alone before, but it seemed almost easy. He kept thinking about his father's surprise. His father would come in and get him, saying he would get things started while Rob was getting dressed. He'd go to the barn, open the door, and then he'd go to get the two empty milk cans, but they wouldn't be waiting or empty; they'd be standing in the milk house, filled.

"What the...," he could hear his father exclaiming.

He smiled and milked steadily, two strong streams rushing into the pail, frothing and fragrant.

The task went more easily than he had ever known it to go before. Milking for once was not a chore. It was something else, a gift to his father, who loved him. He finished, the two milk cans were full, and he covered them and closed the milk house door carefully. Back in his room he had only a minute to pull off his clothes in the darkness and jump into bed, for he heard his father up. He put the covers over his head to silence his quick breathing. The door opened.

"Rob!" his father called. "We have to get up, son, even if it is Christmas."

"Aw-right," he said sleepily.

The door closed and he lay still, laughing to himself. In just a few minutes his father would know. His dancing heart was ready to jump from his body.

The minutes were endless--ten, fifteen, he did not know how many--and he heard his father's footsteps again. The door opened and he lay still.

"Rob!"

"Yes, Dad--"

His father was laughing, a queer, sobbing sort of laugh.

"Thought you'd fool me, did you?" His father was standing beside his bed, feeling for him, pulling away the cover.

"It's for Christmas, Dad!"

He found his father and clutched him in a great hug. He felt his father's arms go around him. It was dark and they could not see each other's faces.

"Rob, I thank you. Nobody ever did a nicer thing!"

"Oh, Dad, I want you to know, I do want to be good!" The words broke from him of their own will. He did not know what to say. His heart was bursting with love.

He got up and pulled on his clothes again and they went down to the Christmas tree. Oh, what a Christmas, and how his heart had nearly burst again with shyness and pride as his father told his mother and made the three younger children listen about how, he, Rob, had got up all by himself.

"The best Christmas gift I ever had, and I’ll remember it, son, every year on Christmas morning, so long as I live."

They had both remembered it, and now that his father was dead, he remembered it alone; that blessed Christmas dawn when, alone with the cows in the barn, he had made his first gift of true love.

For Christ Is Born

Phillips Brooks was troubled, Christmas was only two weeks away, and as pastor and Sunday School supervisor at the Church of the Holy Trinity in Philadelphia, he was in charge of the Christmas Day services.

One afternoon Pastor Brooks shared his troubled feelings with Mr. Redner, the church organist and a Sunday School teacher. “I wish I could find a way to help our people truly appreciate the wonderful meaning of the birth of Christ,” the pastor said. “Many people seem to think that the story of Bethlehem and Christ’s birth is only an ancient fairy tale.”

Mr. Redner nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid you’re right. It is difficult to make people, especially children, realize that the events at Bethlehem really happened—that the story is true.”

“If our people just could have been with me when I visited the Holy Land three years ago,” Pastor Brooks said softly. “I can remember standing on a hillside and watching the shepherds tending their flocks. It was Christmas Eve, and in the distance I could see the tiny lights shining from Bethlehem. How I wish all our people might have been with me that night!”

“Ah, yes. I believe all of us might better appreciate Christmas with such memories as you have,” Mr. Redner agreed.

Pastor Brooks gazed out of his front window. A few snowflakes twirled in the wind like tiny ballerinas. Suddenly he turned around.

“Mr. Redner, do you suppose if I wrote about how I felt that night that you might compose a melody for my words? Perhaps with a special Christmas song, our people would better understand the meaning of that first Christmas long ago.”

“But—but I only play music written by others.”

“And you play beautifully. Now it is time you tried writing some music of your own. Please—will you try?”

Mr. Redner nodded.

In the days that followed, Pastor Brooks spent many hours at his desk. Again and again he struggled to find just the right words to say what he wanted. Finally, the day before the Christmas program, he hurried to Mr. Redner’s home with a single sheet of paper.

“This is fine work,” Mr. Redner said as he read the poem the pastor had written. “I only hope my melody will be worthy of your words.”

Now it was Mr. Redner who struggled. He sat at the church organ for hours that day and through the night. It was late Christmas Eve before he finished composing. The Church of the Holy Trinity was crowded Christmas Day, and Pastor Brooks was somewhat nervous as he gave his Christmas sermon. He hoped the people would enjoy the surprise song soon to be sung.

As Mr. Redner seated himself at the church organ, the Sunday School children filed quietly to their places nearby. In their hands they carried the words and music to a new song. “I will play the entire melody once,” Mr. Redner whispered. “It is simple enough so that all of you will be able to sing it.”

Pastor Brooks listened closely to the lovely organ music Mr. Redner had composed. Each chord blended perfectly: Then, with clear and gentle voices, the children sang the new Christmas song:

O little town of Bethlehem

How still we see thee lie.

Above thy deep and dreamless sleep

The silent stars go by;

Yet in thy dark streets shineth

The everlasting Light.

The hopes and fears of all the years

Are met in thee tonight.

For Christ is born of Mary;

And gathered all above,

While morals sleep, the angels keep

Their watch of wondering love.

O morning stars, together

Proclaim the holy birth;

And praises sing to God the King

And peace to men on earth…

Today “O Little Town of Bethlehem” is over one hundred years old. Pastor Brooks’ Christmas surprise has brought joy and beauty to millions of people—and continues to do so every Christmas season.

-- Dave Collins

A Different Kind of Christmas

Martha had tried to ignore the approach of Christmas. She would have kept it almost entirely out of her thoughts if Jed had not come eagerly into the cabin one day, stomping the snow from his cold feet as he said in an excited voice, "Martha, we're going to have a Christmas tree this year. I spotted a cedar on that rise out south of the wheat field, over near the Norton's place. It's scrubby thing, but it will do since we can't get a pine. Maybe Christmas will be a little different here, but it will still be the kind of Christmas we used to have."

As she shook her head, Martha noticed that Daniel glanced quickly up from the corner where he was playing, patiently tying together some sticks with bits of string left over from the quilt she had tied a few days earlier. She drew Jed as far away from the boy as possible.

"I don't want a tree," she said. "We won't be celebrating Christmas. Even a tree couldn't make it the kind of Christmas we used to have."

"Martha, we've got to do something for the boy at least. Children set such store by Christmas."

"Don't you think I know? All those years of fixing things for Maybelle and Stellie. I know all about the kids and Christmas." She stopped and drew a deep breath, glancing over to see that Daniel was occupied and not listening. "But I can't do those things for him. It would be like a knife in the heart, fixing a tree and baking cookies and making things for another woman's child when my own girls are back there on that prairie."

"Martha, Martha," Jed said softly. "It's been almost a year and a half. That's over, and Danny needs you. He needs a Christmas like he remembers."

She turned her back on his pleading face. "I can't," she said.

Jed touched her shoulder gently, "I know how hard it is for you, Martha. But think of the boy." He turned and went back out into the snowy weather.

Think of the boy. Why should she think of him, when her own children, her two blue-eyed, golden-curled daughters, had been left beside the trail back there on that endless, empty prairie? The boy came to her not because she wanted him, but, because she couldn't say "no" to the bishop back in Salt Lake City last April before they came to settle in this valley.

Bishop Clay had brought Daniel to her and Jed one day and said, "I want you to care for this lad. His mother died on the trek last summer and his pa passed away last week. He needs a good home."

Jed had gripped the bishop's hand and with tears in his eyes, thanked him, but Martha had turned away from the sight of the thin, ragged, six-year old boy who stood before them, not fast enough, however to miss the sudden brief smile he flashed at her. A smile that should have caught her heart and opened it wide. Her heart was closed, though, locked tightly around the memory of her two gentle little girls. She didn't want a noisy, rowdy boy hanging around, disturbing those memories, filling the cabin with a boy's loud games.

Yet she had taken him, because she felt she had no choice. Faced with the bishop's request--more of an order, really--and Jed's obvious joy, she couldn't refuse.

He came with them out to this new valley west of the Salt Lake settlement and had proved himself a great help to Jed, despite his young age. Sometimes Martha felt pity for him, but she didn't love him. With Jed it was different. He had accepted Daniel immediately as his own son and enjoyed having a boy with him. They had a special relationship.

Daniel mentioned Christmas only once. One day it was too cold and snowy to play outside and he had been humming softly to himself as he played in his corner. Suddenly, he looked up at Martha and asked, "Can you sing, aunt Martha?"

Martha paused and straightened up from the table where she was kneading bread. She used to sing for her girls all the time. "No, I can't, Daniel," she said, "Not any more."

"My mother used to sing a pretty song at Christmas," he said. "I wish I could remember it."

On the day before Christmas, Jed went through the deep snow to do some chores for Brother Norton, who was ill. Daniel was alone outside most of the day, although he made several rather furtive trips in and out of the cabin. On one trip, he took the sticks he had been tying together.

Toward evening, Martha went out to the stable to milk Rosie, since Jed had not yet returned. As she approached, she saw there was light inside.

Opening the door softly, she peered within. Daniel had lit the barn lantern, and with its glow, he knelt in the straw by Rosie's stall. In front of him were the sticks he had tied together, which Martha recognized now as a crude cradle. It held Stellie's rag doll, all wrapped up in the white shawl Martha kept in her trunk. Her first impulse was to rush in and snatch it, but she stopped because the scene was strangely beautiful in the soft light from the lantern. Rosie and the two sheep stood close by, watching Daniel. He seemed to be addressing them when he spoke.

"The shepherds came following the star," he was saying, "And they found the baby Jesus who had been born in a stable." He paused for a moment, then went on. "And his mother loved him."

Martha felt suddenly that she couldn't breathe. Another mother another day, had loved her boy, and had told him the beautiful story of the Christ-child with such love that he hadn't forgot it, young as he was. And she, Martha, had failed that mother.

In the silence she began to sing. "Silent night," she sang. "Holy night."

Daniel didn't move until the song was finished. Then he turned with that quick heart-melting smile.

"That's the one," he whispered. "That's the song that my mother used to sing to me."

Martha ran forward and gathered the boy into her arms. He responded immediately, clasping his arms tightly around her.

"Danny," she said, sitting on the edge of Rosie's manger, "Let's go in and get the cabin ready for Christmas. Maybe it isn't too late for Jed--for Pa to get that tree. It might be a little different kind of Christmas, but it will still be a little like the Christmases we used to know.

"Do you mind it being different?" Danny asked. "I mean with a boy instead of your girls?"

Martha wondered how long it would take her to make up to him for the hurt she had inflicted these many months.

"No," she said. "After all, the Baby Jesus was a boy."

"That's right," he said wonderingly.

She set him down on the floor and put her arm around his shoulders. "Merry Christmas," she said. "Merry Christmas, Danny."

He looked up at her with a smile that did not fade quickly away this time, a sweet smile full of love he had been waiting to give her.

"Merry Christmas," he said, and then added softly, "Mother."

The Christmas Orange

Oranges always remind me of Christmas.

Jake lived in an orphanage with nine other young boys. In the winter time it seemed any extra money went for coal to heat the old building. At Christmas, the building always seemed a little warmer and the food a little more plentiful, but more than this—Christmas meant an orange. At Christmas each child received an orange. It was the only time of the year such a rare treat was provided, and it was coveted by each boy like no other thing that they ever possessed.

Each boy would save his orange for several days, admiring it, feeling it, loving it, and contemplating the moment he would eat it. Some would even save it until New Year’s Day or later, much like many of us relish saving our Christmas trees and decorations until New Year’s, just to remind us of the joy of Christmas.

This particular Christmas Day, Jake had broken an orphanage rule. The orphanage mother took Jake’s orange away as punishment for breaking the rules. Jake spent Christmas day empty and alone. Nighttime came and Jake could not sleep; silently, he sobbed because this year he would not have his orange to savor with the other boys.

A soft hand placed on Jake’s shoulder startled him, and an object was quickly shoved into his hands. The child then disappeared into the dark to leave Jake alone to discover a strange looking orange—an orange made from segments of nine other oranges—nine highly prized oranges that had to be eaten that Christmas night, instead of saved, admired, and cherished until a later date.

This year, may the orange remind us all of the unselfish love taught to us by our Savior that we share for each other.

Mother’s Christmas Mouse

When I was a child in the 1950s and 1960s, our Christmas traditions were not elaborate—except for the stockings. Because we children enjoyed our Christmas stockings so much, we continued the tradition when we married and had children of our own. Buying surprises and assembling dozens of Christmas stockings, however, soon became too much for my aging parents, especially my mother, who had a serious case of rheumatoid arthritis that limited her mobility and energy.

Eventually, I volunteered to take over the project. Our annual extended family home evening, in which we acted out the Christmas story and opened our stockings, found me exhausted from the demands of being the mother of several small children and juggling the events of an active life. As I watched everyone dump treasures out of the gingham Christmas stockings I had carefully prepared, I was feeling a little sorry for myself.

As expected, my stocking was empty except for the standard candy cane and Japanese orange that I had placed there earlier. But as I shook them out, I noticed a little bedraggled mouse made of a walnut and hazelnuts. One ear was much bigger than the other, and the whiskers were crooked. The tail had been cut too short, and the loop to hang it on the tree was off center. I was confused. Had someone’s kindergarten project ended up in my stocking?

I looked up and saw my mother watching me from her wheelchair across the room. With a gnarled, bent finger, she beckoned to me.

“I wanted to do something for the Christmas stockings,” she said. “They made these little mice in Relief Society, and they were so cute.”

Her tears were close to the surface, and her gentle voice shook as she continued.

“I couldn’t get my fingers to work, so I made only one. It didn’t turn out, but I knew you wouldn’t mind.”

I looked again at the little mouse in my hand. She was right. I didn’t mind. In fact, her little bedraggled mouse became the most precious treasure of all that Christmas.

For more than 20 years, I have tenderly removed the tissue paper from the misshapen mouse crafted by misshapen fingers and carefully placed it on a branch. My angel mother has been free of her crippled body for several years, but her Christmas mouse reminds me of two profound truths.

The first is that my mother honored me by believing that I could look past the mouse’s crooked ears and feel the love and sacrifice that went into its creation. The second is that if I, as an imperfect mortal, am capable of finding beauty in a humble little mouse, how much more is our Father in Heaven capable of seeing past our imperfect efforts and understanding our pure intentions.

I know that when we do our best to give to others and to Him, our gift is not just good enough—it is of incalculable worth.

--Betty LeBaron Mostert (Ensign December 2007)

Greatest Gift

It was but a few short days until Christmas in 1966. Two young elders of the Mormon Church walked the streets of Laredo, Texas, knocking on doors in search of someone who would listen to their gospel message. No one, it seemed, in the entire city had time to hear the teachings of the Savior, so intent were they that the celebration of His birth should suit their own social purposes.

Filled with discouragement, the two young men turned their backs to the approaching twilight and began the long walk home. Retracing their steps of the afternoon, they came upon a low, windswept riverbank. Jutting from its brow stood the barest means of a shelter, constructed of weathered wooden slats and large pieces of cardboard. Strangely, they felt moved to go to the door and knock. A small, olive-skinned child with tangled black hair and large dark eyes answered. Her mother appeared behind her, a short, thin woman with a tired but warm smile. In her rich Spanish alto she invited the young men to come in and rest awhile. They were made welcome and seated on the clean-swept floor. The little one-room shanty seemed to be filled with shy, smiling, dark-eyed children. The mother proudly introduced each of them - eight in all - and each in turn quickly bobbed his or her head.

The young men were deeply moved at the extreme poverty they saw. Not one in the family had shoes, and their clothes were ill-fitting and in a condition beyond mending. The walls of the little home showed daylight between the wooden slats, and eight little rolls for bedding were pressed tightly into the cracks to help keep out the draft until they were needed for sleeping. A small round fire pit dug into one corner marked the kitchen. An odd assortment of chipped dishes and pots were stacked beside an old ice chest, and a curtained-off section with a cracked porcelain tub served as the bathing area. Except for these the room was barren.

The mother told how her husband had gone north to find employment. He had written that he had found a job of manual labor and that it took most of his small wage to pay his board and room. But, she told the young men, he had managed to save fifty cents to send them for Christmas, with which she had managed to purchase two boxes of fruit gelatin. It was one of the children's favorites and would make a special treat on Christmas Day.

Later, long after the young men had left the family, they still asked each other incredulously, "Fifty cents for eight children for Christmas?" Surely there must be something they could do to brighten Christmas for such children.

The next morning, as soon as the local shops opened, the young men hurried to the dime store and purchased as many crayons, cars, trucks, and little inexpensive toys as they could afford. Each was carefully wrapped in brightly colored paper and all were put in a large grocery bag. That evening the two young men took their gifts to the shanty on the riverbank. When they knocked, the mother swung the door open wide and invited them in. They stepped inside and in halting Spanish explained to the children that they had seen Santa and he had been in such a hurry he'd asked if they would deliver his gifts to the children for him.

With cries of delight the children scrambled for the bag, spilling its contents upon the floor and quickly dividing the treasured packages. Silently the mother's eyes filled with tears of gratitude. She stepped forward to clasp tightly one of each of the young men's hands in hers. For long moments she was unable to speak. Then, with tears welling from her eyes, she smiled and said, "No one ever has been so kind. You have given us a special gift, the kind of love that lights Christmas in the heart. May we also give you a special gift?" From the corner of the room she drew out the small boxes of fruit gelatin and handed them to the young men. Then all eyes were moist. All knew the true meaning of giving, and none would ever forget that at Christmas the greatest gift of all was given.

-- Sandra Bateman