A Christmas Story from the Past
The spirit of Christmas can be shared in simple ways and yet be a meaningful experience for all.
By Colleen K Pulley
I have always found it interesting to observe people during the holiday season. They seem to get revitalized with a new sense of energy. Some of this is because of the ringing bells, decorations, smiling faces they pass, and the sense that maybe this will be the year that things will turn around for them.
So, they get caught up in finding gifts for Uncle Louie, who will be a guest for dinner for the first time in ten years. Stick with a pen set for him. Aunt Patty needs a gastric bypass which she cannot afford, so large and stretchy green gloves will have to do. And so, the list goes on and on. The days go on too, and before we know it, we are in the last few days of the holiday season.
For some people it is no longer fun and exciting. They begin to feel, if I can just get through this, then everything will be normal again. Now there’s a thought. The season comes in with excitement and anticipation. It brings a new opportunity to mend differences, renew the blessings of the Savior’s birth, yet ends with a feeling of relief and partial satisfaction. Maybe the Savior needs to rethink whether he should let us celebrate his birthday with humanity.
Let us not forget this is still a special time of year. The lights, and the laughter, and the Christmas stories, are tools for all of us. We have so much to be thankful for. Let me illustrate this with an experience my father had.
My Father was a wise man. I remember a story he used to tell us before he died. 1930 was a terrible year for the country. Many people lost their homes and were forced to travel across the country trying to find work and feed their families. My Father was twelve years old. His adoptive parents had lost their farm, and he was forced to go out on his own to survive.
It was Christmas Eve. The big train pulled into Lincoln, Nebraska. The rail yard worker would throw open the doors of the box cars, and that was when the flood of humanity would stumble and fall from the trains and run away into the shadows. My Dad had never done this before and so as he fell to the ground, a big black hand reached down, lifted him by his overall straps, and ran away from the railroad men into the shadows.
My Dad was deposited among a group of men, women, and children, huddled together for warmth, as several of the men worked with frostbitten hands to get a fire started. His blue eyes would twinkle as he recalled the moments when the small flame caught the leaves and twigs and burst into a merry fire. All the hands reached out to feel the heat and warmth.
Families traveled with what they could fit into a cloth knapsack, or an old gunny sack. My Dad had one old quilt, a pair of dry socks, and a pair of wool gloves that were almost too small for him. He also had a small piece of cheese, and a slice of leftover day-old bread. Not much of a Christmas feast.
The fire drew everyone together. It was then that a small child, no more than six, with an angelic smile on his face looked longingly into the flames and began singing "Silent Night, Holy Night, All is Well, All is Right". My Dad said instantly the group fell silent, and the looks of Christmas long past were so strong on the faces present, that you could reach out and touch it. It was out of the mouths of the women that whatever food was available would be pooled together to create some kind of special dinner for the group caught this cold Christmas Eve by the train yards. My Dad’s piece of donated bread became part of a large bread pudding, and the few nuts and raisins added to it made the small serving each person had seem like heaven. This feast among strangers was instigated by a small boy singing a song about a Holy Night long ago.
In the morning my Dad gave his small woolen mittens to the little boy with the angelic voice. Next to his tattered quilt was a durable woolen scarf, with a note scratched by a piece of wood cold from the fire, "Merry Christmas". That day the group disbanded, each going their separate ways. For my Dad, around his neck he wore a multicolored, poorly knitted scarf, and in his pocket a Christmas note.
Years later our family would sit around the fireplace, open presents, and sing carols. The tale of the Christmas of 1930 would end the evening, and out would come a beautiful wooden box, made by my Father, years ago to hold the scarf and the note. A reminder of the true meaning of Christmas.
May this year bring you great joy, and peace.
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