When (and How) Our Christmas Came Alive

Many years ago, my mom gave me what I like to call a Book of Love. She compiled a collection of Christmas stories, songs and scriptures–one for every day in December leading up to Christmas. She sewed a beautiful Christmas cover for the binder and fastened it with an elaborate bow.

Our little family has made it a Christmas tradition to snuggle up at bedtime to read from this wonderful treasure every night.  Last night, our story was as follows:

The Gift of Love

On a cold winter’s night in 1951 there was a knock at the door of Bishop Thomas S. Monson. A German man from Ogden, Utah, said, “Are you Bishop Monson?”

“He began to weep and said, ‘My brother and his wife and family are coming here from Germany. They are going to live in your ward. Will you come with us to see the apartment we have rented for them?”‘ recalled President Monson in a 1980 general conference address. “On the way to the apartment, he told me … through the holocaust of World War II, his brother had been faithful to the Church, serving as a branch president before the war took him to the Russian front.”

Bishop Monson looked at the apartment. It was cold and dreary. The paint was peeling, the wallpaper soiled, the lighting and floor covering inadequate, the cupboards empty.

The man replied, “It isn’t much, but it’s better than they have in Germany.” With that, he gave the key to Bishop Monson and told him the family would arrive in three weeks, just two days before Christmas.

The next morning at a ward welfare committee meeting, Bishop Monson spoke of the details of the uninviting apartment. After a moment of silence members of the ward welfare committee spoke up. A man in the electrical business pledged to fix the lighting. Another offered to paint. A third determined to have donated carpet installed in the apartment, and yet another to get donated appliances. The women in the ward would see that the cupboards were filled with food.

“The next three weeks are ever to be remembered. It seemed that the entire ward joined in the project.”

When the family arrived, they were welcomed by a beautiful apartment with fresh paint, new carpet, adequate lighting, donated furniture and appliances and kitchen cupboards filled with food. A Christmas tree stood in the dining room with gifts beneath it. We spontaneously began singing, “Silent night! Holy night! All is calm: all is bright.” We sang in English; they sang in German. At the conclusion of the hymn, Hans Guertler threw his arms around my neck,  buried his head in my shoulder and repeated the words, ‘Mein Bruder, mein Bruder, mein Bruder.”‘

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I was almost finished reading our story when the doorbell rang. It was dark and late and I joked, “That had better be food at door.”

It was that and so much more. When we swung open the door, a beloved, talented family from our ward broke into the most beautiful rendition of “Silent Night.” Hadley watched the carolers, awestruck at the timing. “Mommy, do you hear what they are singing? We just read about that!”

The spirit of the season resonated so strongly as we listened to their pitch-perfect, beautiful melodies. After saying our good-byes, we ran back upstairs to finish our story:

“As we walked down the stairs that night, all of us who had participated in making Christmas come alive in the lives of this German family, we reflected upon the words of the Master:

Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” Matthew 25:40.

How thankful I am for dear friends who served as a reminder of this that night.

Merry Christmas!

The Christmas Mystery of the Missing Dinosaur Egg

My family has had quite a year of multiple hospital visits (heart surgery, anyone?) and ongoing misfortunes that would render even Murphy (as in the “Law”) speechless.

I resolved to kick 2011 to the curb by doing my holiday shopping and preparations early so I could feel like I had at least something under control.

Oh, how wrong I was.

To support our elementary school, I decided to have my kids purchase gifts for each other at the two-day traveling holiday toy store. The idea was to send them to school with money and let them pick out a gift for each other.

Sound easy? Apparently The Easy Button does not exist for Murphy’s Law.

My son Bode goes to morning kindergarten. The toy shop was in the afternoon. No problem, I just brought him back to school and had him pick out his sister Hadley’s gift. He ignored my suggestions of jewelery and went straight for a dinosaur egg that hatches in water

Gotta give the boy credit: he’s looking for a win-win gift.

However the other problem was that Hadley had the money for both presents and she had not yet done her shopping. The nice volunteer assured us they would set Bode’s gift to the side, ring it up with her purchases and then discreetly put Bode’s gift to his sister in his teacher Mrs. C’s** box for him to later bring home.

I forgot about it until last week when I was putting the finishing touches on all our presents and realized Bode had never received the gift.

I called the school secretary Mrs. M.** and explained the case of the missing dinosaur egg. She promised she would call Mrs. C. and also gave me the name of the volunteer who ran the toy store.

Not even 15 minutes later, Secretary M. called back.

“We found out what happened,” she said in her best sleuth voice. Turns out instead of delivering the dinosaur egg to Mrs. C.’s box, the volunteer had put it in the same bag as Hadley’s gift to her brother.

As Hadley was riding on the bus home from school, she found it. Knowing it wasn’t hers, she gave it to the eager boy sitting next to her.

Now this is where the story gets really suspicious. The boy to whom she gave the dinosaur egg just happened to be Mrs. C.’s son.

Coincidence or conspiracy?

Mrs. C. came home that day to find the dinosaur hatched in a glass of water. Her son divulged Hadley gave it to him and she thought nothing of it. Until she received the phone call from me.

I was relaying the escapade to my husband Jamie later that day and he queried, “How many of JeffCo’s tax dollars were wasted from all the time it took to chase that dinosaur egg down?”

I’m part of the blame for the $20 million deficit.

In the end, Secretary M. was extremely remorseful. “I’m really sorry. There’s not much we can do about it at this point. The Egg has been opened.”

That’s school code for “The Mission Has Been Compromised.”

But let it be known that I’m onto them.

**Note: Names have been changed to protect the innocent. Or guilty.