Sharing Christmas, page 13
“But if I take your ball, that will mean I didn't give you anything good.”
“Oh, but you did, Randy. You gave me the best gift of all, just by coming.” Bryan smiled. “I waited all day. I didn't even sleep. I just lay here and looked out the window. I knew you'd come because you're my friend, the best friend in the world, and having a friend like you is the very best Christmas present of all.”
I could feel a tear trickle down my cheek. I reached out, took the ball from Bryan, and tucked it under my arm. “I'll come and see you tomorrow too.”
Bryan nodded.
As I trudged back home through the snow, I knew that now I could enjoy Christmas.
ANGELA ANN
Richard M. Siddoway
Charlie and I had not seen each other since we graduated from college. He took a job that required a move to Phoenix, Arizona. I became a teacher in Bountiful, Utah. We were fast friends in school, and when we discovered Charlie was moving, we went to dinner and vowed to keep in touch. Ten years passed without a letter or a phone call from either of us. Then the phone rang. Charlie had moved back to Salt Lake.
The following Saturday I met him at his office for lunch. We blamed each other for not calling or writing, smiled, and sat down in his office to catch up on the past decade. Charlie's office was tastefully decorated in dark wood and turquoise. On his desk was a framed picture of his wife, Nell, and their twin sons. The only item that seemed out of place was a small stuffed teddy bear sitting on his bookshelf. “Your security blanket?” I joked.
Charlie was silent for a moment, then said, “This is Telly.” He removed the bear from the shelf. I could see it had only one eye. One ear had been chewed into oblivion. “Let's go to lunch and I'll tell you about him.” There was a hushed reverence in his voice, and I thought his eyes were going to overflow. We went to a restaurant close by, and while we ate Charlie told me this story.
About a week before Christmas, Charlie's next-door neighbors Paul and Kathy Walker received a phone call informing them of Paul's brother's untimely death. They quickly made arrangements, packed their three children into the car, and headed for Los Angeles to attend the funeral. While they were gone their water heater sprang a leak. They had a sunken family room, which turned into a shallow swimming pool. As the water reached the electrical outlets, circuit breakers blew and the house was plunged into darkness. The refrigerator quit working. The whole house was flooded.
The funeral was on December 23. Following the funeral the Walkers drove all night back to Arizona. They arrived early on the morning of Christmas Eve. Paul drove into the driveway, grabbed a suitcase, and approached the back door. He saw water on the porch as he tried to open the door. It resisted his efforts. Finally putting his shoulder against the door, he pushed it open and a torrent of water rushed out.
Charlie became aware of the problem when he heard his doorbell ring. Sleepily he climbed out of bed and made his way to the door. Kathy Walker stood there sobbing. “We've been flooded,” she moaned. “Everything's ruined.”
Charlie and Nell dressed quickly and waded in to help assess the damage. Couches and over-stuffed chairs were water -logged. The food in the refrigerator was spoiled. Soaked sheetrock was disintegrating. Swimming in the family room was the Christmas tree and the family's Christmas gifts.
Charlie began waking up the neighborhood. The main valve to the water line was located and shut off. Equipment was brought and water pumped out of the house. By noon all of the furniture had been carried out of the house and spread around the yard to see which might be salvaged and which would be carried off to the dump. It was clear that little could be saved.
Among those who showed up to help was the Blair family, who lived in the only basement apartment in the neighborhood. Ralph had been born in 1914 and dropped out of school at age sixteen during the depression. Ruth was two years younger. When they met in 1956 neither had married nor had any thoughts of marriage. However, they found companionship with each other, fell in love, and married six months later. Two years later Angela Ann was born. She was to be their only child.
Angela Ann was a Down's syndrome child. The doctors gave her five years to live. Now at fourteen she was a miracle child. At first she had been Angela, which she shortened to Gela, and finally she called herself Jelly. “I, Jelly Blair,” she proudly announced. Jelly's constant companion was a one-eyed teddy bear. “Telly Blair,” she called him. He often hung by his ear from her mouth. She had come with her parents to help the Walkers.
The Walkers' insurance agent arrived and began assessing the damage. While he had Paul and Kathy occupied, Charlie invited the neighbors into his house. “It seems to me,” he began, “we ought to do something to make the Walkers' Christmas a little happier. I don't know what they'd planned, but I'm pretty sure all of their presents are ruined.” Heads nodded in agreement. “I do know we've gotten more for our twins than they really need, and I think we'd be willing to share with our neighbors.”
Charlie paused in his narrative. “I wasn't sure Nell and our boys would agree, but they were really more enthusiastic than I was. They rushed into our front room and brought back wrapped presents to donate to the Walkers.”
He continued with his story. “It really ought to be anonymous,” said Ruth Blair quietly from the corner. “I mean, some of us may have more to share than others. I think no one ought to know what anyone else has given.” Again heads nodded in agreement.
“I'll pull the car out of the garage,” said Charlie, “and anything anyone wants to donate can be put in there. I'll make sure everything gets delivered tonight.” The crowd began to disperse.
Charlie walked over to the Walkers' house. Their insurance agent was just leaving. “They're going to put us up in a rented house while the repairs go on,” said Kathy. “It's surely going to be a mess to straighten out.” Her eyes filled with tears as she surveyed the ruined furniture in their yard.
Within an hour, the Walkers began moving clothing and food to the rental house a half dozen blocks away. Charlie and other neighbors pitched in to help. Kathy stayed at their home and handed out salvaged items to helpers who filled their cars and drove to the rental house where Paul directed the unloading efforts. By sunset the Walkers at least had a place to stay.
After depositing the last load, Charlie drove into his driveway. The lights from his car lit up the pile of presents in his garage. Dozens of brightly wrapped gifts were stacked on the floor. To one side he could see a fully decorated Christmas tree. Nell met him at the door. “It's been coming all after noon. It seems everybody just watches to make sure there's no one else in the garage and then here they come with an armful of packages. Dan Grange brought the Christmas tree. They had two, one in the living room and one in their family room, and thought Paul and Kathy ought to have one.”
“How do we get it all delivered?” asked Charlie.
“Well, I've been busy, too. The Granges invited the Walkers to dinner tonight. They ought to be arriving any minute. I've got two pickup trucks coming to move everything while they're eating.” As Nell spoke, the Walkers' familiar station wagon arrived at the Granges' home. Within minutes the two trucks arrived at Charlie's. Quickly the Christmas tree was loaded, followed by the colorful gifts.
As Charlie was loading the last few presents into his car, his hand touched a small, furry creature. He lifted it from the pile of gifts and stared at a one-eyed, ragged bear.
Charlie paused again in his narrative. “That's the story. That's where I got Telly.”
“But what about the gifts?” I queried. “What happened?”
“The other gifts were delivered. We drove the trucks slowly, very slowly, to their rental house. The Christmas tree looked a little wind-blown, but was still presentable. We unloaded everything and slipped away before the Walkers returned. Everything went as planned. All of us felt the Christmas spirit. I'm sure the Walkers had a nice Christmas. Within a month everything was repaired and they were back in their own home.”
Charlie's eyes grew misty. “But I just couldn't leave Telly. The rest of us gave of our surplus. Jelly gave the widow's mite. I knew how Jelly loved that bear. I thought about returning it to her. But I couldn't ruin it for Jelly. Instead I keep it on my shelf to remind me ...” Charlie's voice trailed off.
“Remind you of what?” I asked softly.
“Of giving of yourself. That's what Christmas is all about, isn't it?”
We returned to Charlie's office.
The one-eyed, ear-chewed bear smiled silently at us from its place of honor.
A FAR GREATER GIFT
Elder James M. Paramore
A number of years ago our family had the privilege of serving a mission in Belgium and France. We had six small children, including a new baby born in that country. Before Christmas we had written home for some clothing and Christmas gifts for our children. They did not arrive in time for Christmas as we had hoped.
As we sat together Christmas Eve reading the New Testament and the account of the birth of the Savior, there was a little melancholy because there would not be many gifts. But as we read the words about the gift our Father in Heaven had given, his beloved Son, Jesus, we realized that there were many in our city who needed help. So we quickly gathered together some of our possessions and a Christmas box of groceries and sought out one of those families.
As we all visited that tiny apartment and began to sing Christmas carols, our hearts were full as perhaps never before. We felt the spirit of giving, we felt the spirit of those who were receiving, and we felt the spirit of our Father in Heaven.
We returned to our home that Christmas Eve with a far greater gift than those gifts we had anticipated from home. Truly, the only real gift is the gift of oneself.
MY FIRST CHRISTMAS AS BISHOP
Marvin K. Gardner
We sat in her living room—she in her nineties, I in my thirties. Her health and the snowy weather wouldn't allow her to come to the bishop's office for tithing settlement, so I had stopped by her home instead.
She handed me two pieces of paper. One was her own handwritten record of the contributions she had made to the Church during the year; the other was a computer printout listing the same information.
“As you can see,” she said, “my records perfectly match the ward clerk's.” I couldn't help thinking that if there had been a discrepancy, the error wouldn't have been hers.
Then I asked the question bishops are supposed to ask in these situations: “Sister, is this a full tithing for the year?”
She looked at me with incredulity in her eyes. There was a brief pause. And then, with mock indignation, she chastised: “Bishop, that's the most ridiculous question I have ever heard!”
In her case, I couldn't help but agree. We laughed together as I gave her a hug. I had known the answer before asking the question. But I also knew she was glad for the opportunity to give a verbal accounting of her faithfulness.
Last December was my first Christmas as bishop and the first time I had conducted tithing settlement. Never before had I seen so clearly the beautiful correlation between those two events: tithing settlement and Christmas. I discovered how appropriate it is that Christmas is the season when members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints are asked to meet with their bishops and give an accounting of their year's worth of offerings to the Lord.
I was overwhelmed by the spirit of giving as faithful ward members came into my office— as individuals, as couples, and as families—and declared privately that they had paid a full 10 percent of their income to the Lord that year. I was filled with a spirit of gratitude as most of them also reviewed with me the additional contributions they had made to the missionary and fast-offering funds—funds set up to help others in need.
Some of these offerings were large, some small. But all had been generously and willingly given.
I thanked the members for their generosity. I thanked the widow for her mite, the child for his pennies. I thanked teenagers for paying a full tithe on money they had earned bagging groceries, mowing lawns, or harvesting pumpkins. I thanked college students, single adults, young parents with small children and small incomes, and middle-aged couples with larger children and larger incomes. I thanked the unemployed and retired members who had given much less than in earlier years, but still a full 10 percent.
Never before had the Christmas spirit of giving been so present for me.
Then an older, graying couple came in. They had paid a full tithe and had given generously to the fast-offering and missionary funds. As we visited, the husband said, “We would also like to contribute another check to the ward missionary fund. We'll leave it up to you to credit this money to whichever missionary needs it most.” (At that time, fifteen missionaries were serving from our ward.)
When he handed me the check, I was astonished at how much additional money they were contributing. “But you gave that same amount a couple of weeks ago, with the same instructions,” I said. “Are you sure you can give that much again—and so soon?”
He and his wife assured me they could. And they reminded me that their gifts were to remain anonymous.
Then a young couple with several young children came into my office. Earlier that day in sacrament meeting, we had read a letter from the First Presidency, announcing that an additional category of voluntary contributions was now available to church members: a “humanitarian fund.” Money donated to this category would be sent to church headquarters and used for projects benefiting people worldwide, regardless of religious affiliation. This couple had lived in a developing nation and had witnessed the great needs there. Now they were donating a substantial sum to that fund, trusting that it would be put to the best possible use. I looked at their little children and then back at the parents. And I thought, “How can you do without this money at Christmastime?” But I had an idea that perhaps their Christmas would be even more fulfilling as a result.
Then there were the people who had contributed freely to the ward missionary fund, even though they had no missionary sons or daughters. There were those who had given to the general missionary fund and to the general Book of Mormon fund. And there were those who had contributed toward the yet-to-be-built Bountiful Utah Temple—even though they knew that the Church now pays for building projects through tithing, rather than through a separate building fund.
Later, another couple came in.
They, too, had contributed liberally throughout the year. As we were about to conclude our visit, the husband said, “Bishop, is there anyone in the ward who has special needs this Christmas? We don't have a lot of extra money, but we would like to give what we do have to someone who needs it.”
Immediately I thought of a single mother in our ward. She was doing her best to be self-reliant and certainly wasn't looking for a handout. But money was tight. She was going back to school, and there were medical bills to pay. Surely she would be a worthy recipient of this couple's generosity.
I accepted their offer in her behalf. They told me they weren't interested in knowing the name of the receiver. And they, too, wanted to remain anonymous.
The husband pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and stacked several twenty-dollar bills on my desk. As he was doing so, his wife said, somewhat apologetically, “It's not much. But now that our children are grown, we don't feel that we're doing as much in the ward as we used to. This is the least we can do.”
I protested at her apology, knowing they were doing much in their church callings and in their quiet service to neighbors and to an elderly parent. And I thanked them for being so generous.
The next day, while taking the money to the recipient, I became a little uneasy. How would she receive this gift? Would she be offended? Would she hesitate to accept it?
When I handed the money to her, I described the spirit in which the gift had been given and encouraged her to receive it in that same spirit.
She accepted the money gratefully. “I can accept this,” she said, “because when times were better for me, I often gave anonymously, just like this.” Then she told me about the secret projects her family had done over the years. She told me about times when she had purchased a frozen turkey and left it, with all the trimmings, on someone's doorstep. She told me about anonymously mailing money to people who needed it, and about purchasing a coat and boots for the child of a needy friend. Now, in her time of need, she was a gracious receiver.
As I reviewed the monetary contributions so many ward members had made during the year, I couldn't help remembering, too, their year's worth of donated labor: The people who, week after week, had provided lessons and leader-ship—wherever they had been called to serve. The young men and young women who had cleaned the yards of elderly members, both in spring and autumn. The sisters who had helped a member with wallpapering and painting. The elders and high priests who had done heavy yard work and repairs for those who were unable to do it alone. The young women and Relief Society sisters who had visited a homeless shelter several times, taking food, supplies, and encouragement. The young men who, without needing to be reminded, had gone out in teams and shoveled elderly members' walks and driveways each time it snowed. The Scouts who had collected toys and books for the Primary Children's Medical Center. The sisters who had taken meals and reassurance to the sick, the grieving, and the homebound. The priesthood brethren who had given countless blessings of health and comfort. The members who had donated time at the Church welfare cannery to fill the shelves at the bishop's storehouse. The many people who had quietly listened—and cared—and lifted. And the ones who had served in many ways without anyone else knowing anything about it.
And I thought of the many thank-yous from gracious receivers.
One was from a nine-year-old boy. Following is the letter he sent our Relief Society president and me after his family had received a load of food from the bishop's storehouse (I have changed the brother's name in order to preserve anonymity):
