December 13
"And I looked and beheld the virgin again, bearing a child in her arms. And the angel said unto me: Behold the Lamb of God, yea, even the Son of the Eternal Father! And I looked, and I beheld the Son of God going forth among the children of men, and I saw many fall down at his feet and worship him." 1 Nephi 11:20-21,24
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| Image from LDS.org |
Carol: Hark! The Herald Angels Sing
Hark! the herald angels sing,
"Glory to the newborn King!"
Peace on earth, and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled
Joyful, all ye nations, rise,
Join the triumph of the skies;
With th' angelic host proclaim,
"Christ is born in Bethlehem."
Hark! the herald angels sing,
"Glory to the newborn King!"
Hail! the heav'n born Prince of peace!
Hail! the Son of Righteousness!
Light and life to all he brings,
Risen with healing in his wings
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.
Hark! the herald angels sing,
"Glory to the newborn King!"
Christmas is for Sharing
I knew that Homer had wanted canyon boots for as long as I could remember. He was eleven and I ten, and we had spent many nights under the blue quilts at the cabin talking about how great it would be to have some real boots--boots that would climb through thorny bushes, that would ward off rattlesnakes, that would nudge the ribs of the pony; we had planned the kind of leather they should be and what kind of decoration they should have. But we both knew it was just talk. The depression had been hard on Father's business, and even shoes for school were usually half-soled hand-me-downs.
Christmas that year had promised as always to be exciting, though mainly because of the handmade things we'd worked on in school for our parents. We never had money to spend on each other, but we had caught early in our lives a sort of contagion from our mother. She loved to give, and her anticipation of the joy that a just right gift would bring to someone infected our whole household. We were swept up in breathless waiting to see how others would like what we had to give. Secrecy ruled--open exaggerated secrecy, as we made and hid our gifts. The only one whose hiding place we never discovered was my grandmother's. Her gifts seemed to materialize by magic on Christmas morning and were always more expensive than they should have been.
That Christmas I was glowing because Mother had been so happy with the parchment lampshade I'd made in the fourth grade, and Father raved about the clay jewelry case I had molded and baked for him. Gill and Emma Lou had been pleased with figures I'd whittled out of clothespins, and Home had liked the Scout pin I'd bargained for with my flint. Then Grandma started to pass out her presents.
Mine was heavy and square. I'd been in the hospital that year and then on crutches, and I'd wondered how it would be to have an erector set to build with. Grandma had a knack for reading boys' minds, and I was sure that's what it was. But it wasn't. It was a pair of boots, brown tangy-smelling leather boots.
I looked quickly at Homer's package. His was a sweater. He'd needed one all fall. I wanted to cover my box before he saw what it was. I didn't want the boots; they should have been his. He came toward me, asking to see, and I started to say, "I'm sorry bruv." But he was grinning, and he shouted, "Hey everybody--look what Richard's got." He swooped the boots out of the box, fondled them like a treasure, and then sat on the floor at my feet to take off my half-soled shoes and put on the brand new boots.
I don't remember how the boots felt, nor even how they looked. But Christmas rang in my soul because my brother was glad for me.
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