A STORM.... A KNOTHOLE... AND A SONG.... A CHRISTMAS TALE

IT IS A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT WHEN JOE AND MAM LOSE THEIR WAY. THEY ARE TRYING TO FLY SOUTH FOR THE WINTER.
A BRIGHT LIGHT IN THE SKY GUIDES THEM TO A LITTLE FARM BUILDING.
HERE, THEY CAN GET DRY.  THEY PLAN TO FLY AGAIN WHEN THE STORM IS OVER....
BUT MAM CANNOT. SHE IS TIRED AND WEAK, AS SHE IS ABOUT TO LAY HER EGGS.  SO, THEY STAY IN THE KNOTHOLE IN THE RAFTERS.
JOE WILL BUILD A NEST FOR MAM.  THE DAYS ARE TOO HOT, SO JOE MUST GATHER HIS BITS OF NEST AT NIGHT.
THAT SAME BRIGHT LIGHT IN THE SKY GUIDES HIS WAY.
THERE IS GOOD FRESH HAY FROM DOWN BELOW.  AND ONE NIGHT, HE FINDS WONDERFUL SOFT FLUFF FROM A FLOCK OF SHEEP IN THE NEARBY FIELD.
ANOTHER NIGHT, HE ADDS A SHINY BIT OF SILK TO THE NEST.  IT WAS DANGLING FROM A BLANKET ON THE BACK OF A FUNNY LUMPY CREATURE.

A WHOLE CARAVAN SPORTING REGAL AND SHINING PEOPLE...KINGS ON CAMELS.
MAM LAYS HERE EGGS AND THEY ARE ALL SNUG IN THE WARM NEST THAT JOE HAS FEATHERED
THERE HAS BEEN MUCH NOISE OUTSIDE, AS MANY PEOPLE HAVE COME TO THIS TOWN CALLED BETHELEHEM.  DOWN BELOW, A HUSBAND AND WIFE SETTLE IN FOR THE NIGHT.
THE WOMAN IS TIRED AND WEAK FOR SHE IS HAVING A BABY! THERE ARE NO BEDS, SO THEY PLACE THE BABY IN A MANGER OF HAY.
SHEPHERDS FROM THE NEARBY FIELD COME TO SEE AND WORSHIP THIS BABE WHO IS WRAPPED IN SWADDLING CLOTHES ON HIS BED OF HAY.
SOON, THE GREAT MEN ON THE LUMPY BEASTS ARE THERE WITH SPARKLING AND FRAGRANT GIFTS.
AND EVEN ALL THE ANIMALS BOW DOWN....
FOR THE BABY IS THE NEWBORN KING...JESUS!
LATER THAT NIGHT, AS ALL IS QUIET, THE BABY CRIES.....
MAM BEGINS TO SING A SONG OF LOVE AND REST
AND FINALLY...
THE BABY SLEEPS.


(NOT)
THE END

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Unwrapping Christmas

The following is a favorite reminder of the perfect Christmas present:

The Precious Present by: Spencer Johnson

Once there was a boy. . . . Who listened to an old man.  And, thus, he began to learn about The Precious Present.  "It is a present because it is a gift," the contented man explained.  "And it is precious because anyone who receives such a present is happy forever."

"Wow!" the little boy exclaimed.  "I hope someone gives me The Precious Present.  Maybe I'll get it for Christmas."  The boy ran off to play.  And the old man smiled.  He liked to watch the little boy play.  He saw the smile on the youngster's face and heard him laughing as he swung from a nearby tree.  The boy was happy.  And it was a joy to see.

The old man also liked to watch the boy work.  He even rose early on Saturday mornings to watch the little laborer mow the lawn across the street.  The boy actually whistled while he worked.  The little child was happy no matter what he was doing.  It was, indeed, a joy to behold.

When he thought about what the old man had said, the boy thought he understood.  He knew about presents.  Like the bicycle he got for his birthday and the gifts he found under the tree on Christmas morning.  But as the boy thought more about it, he knew.  The joy of toys never lasts forever.

The boy began to feel uneasy.  "What then," he wondered, "is The Precious Present?  What could possibly make me happy forever?"  He found it difficult to even imagine the answer.  And so he returned to ask the old man.

"Is the Present a magical ring?  One that I might put on my finger and make all my wishes come true?" 

"No," the old man said.   "The precious present has nothing to do with wishing."

As the boy grew older he continued to wonder.  He went to the old man.  "Is the Precious Present a flying carpet?" he inquired.  "One that I could get on and go any place that I like?"

"No," the man quietly replied.   "When you have the precious present, you will be perfectly content to be where you are."

The boy was becoming a young man now, and felt a bit foolish for asking. But he was uncomfortable. He began to see that he was not achieving what he wanted. "Is the Precious Present," he slowly ventured, "a sunken treasure? Perhaps rare gold coins buried by pirates long ago?"

"No, young man," the old man told him. "It is not.  The richness is rare, indeed, but the wealth of the Present comes only from itself."

The young man thought for a moment. Then he became annoyed. "You told me," the young man said, "that anyone who receives such a present would be happy forever. I never got such a gift as a child."

"I'm afraid you don't understand," the old man responded.  "You already know what the Precious Present is.  You already know where to find it.  And you already know how it can make you happy.  You knew it best when you were a small child.  You simply have forgotten."

The young man went away to think. But as time passed, he became frustrated, and finally angry. He eventually confronted the old man. "If you want me to be happy," the young man shouted, "why don't you just tell me what the Precious Present is?"

"And where to find it?" the old man volleyed.

"Yes, exactly," the young man demanded.

"I would like to," the old man began. "But I do not have such power.  No one does.  Only you have the power to make yourself happy.  Only you.  The Precious Present isn't something that someone gives you.  It's a gift that you give yourself."

The young man was confused, but determined.  He resolved to find the Precious Present himself.  And so he packed his bags.  He left where he was.  And went elsewhere.  To look for the Precious Present.

After many frustrating years, the man grew tired of looking for the Precious Present. He had read all the latest books.  And he had looked in The Wall Street Journal.  He had looked into the mirror.  And into the faces of other people.  He had wanted so much to find the Precious Present.  He had gone to extraordinary lengths.  He had looked for it at the tops of mountains and in cold dark caves.  He had searched for it in dense, humid jungles.  And underneath the seas.  But it was all to no avail.  His stressful search had exhausted him.  He even became ill occasionally.  But he did not know why.

The man returned wearily to the old man's side.  The old man was happy to see him.  They often laughed out loud together.  The young man liked to be with the old man.  He felt happy in his presence.  He guessed that this was because the old man felt happy with himself.  It wasn't that the old man's life was so trouble-free.  He didn't appear to have a lot of money.  He seemed to be alone most of the time.  In fact, there was no apparent reason why he was so much happier and healthier than most people were.  But happy he was.  And so were those who spent time with him.  "Why does it feel so good to be with him?" the young man wondered.  "Why?" He left wondering.

After many years, the once-young man returned to inquire further.  He was now very unhappy and often ill.  He needed to talk with the old man.  But the old man had grown very, very old.  And, all too soon, he spoke no more.  The wise voice could no longer be heard.

The man was alone.  At first, he was saddened by the loss of his old friend.  And then he became frightened.  Very frightened.  He was afraid that he would never learn how to be happy.  Until  finally he accepted what had always been true.  He was the only one who could find his own happiness.  The unhappy man recalled what the happy old man had told him so many years ago.  But as hard as he tried he could not figure it out; he tried to understand what he had heard:

THE PRESENT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH WISHING. . . WHEN YOU HAVE THE PRESENT YOU WILL BE PERFECTLY CONTENT TO BE WHERE YOU ARE. . . THE RICHNESS OF THE PRESENT COMES FROM ITS OWN SOURCE. . . THE PRESENT IS NOT SOMETHING THAT SOMEONE GIVES YOU. . . IT IS SOMETHING THAT YOU GIVE TO YOURSELF. . . .

The unhappy man was now tired of looking for the Precious Present.  He had grown so tired of trying that he simply stopped trying.  And then, it happened!  He didn't know why it happened when it happened.  It just. . . happened!  He realized that the Precious Present was just that:  THE PRESENT.  Not the past, and not the future, but THE PRECIOUS PRESENT.

In an instant the man was happy.  He realized that he was in the Precious Present.  He raised both hands triumphantly into the cool, fresh air.  He was joyous--for one moment.  But then, just as quickly as he had discovered it, he let the joy of the present moment evaporate.  He slowly lowered his hands, touched his forehead, and frowned.  The man was unhappy--again.

"Why," he asked himself, "didn't I see the obvious long ago?  Why have I missed so many precious moments?"  "Why has it taken me so long to live in the present?"  As the man remembered his fruitless travels around the world in his search for the Precious Present, he knew how much happiness he had lost.

He had not experienced what each special time and place had to offer.  He had missed a great deal.  And he felt sad.  The man continued to berate himself.  And then he saw what he was doing.  He observed that he was trapped by his guilt about his past.

When he became aware of his unhappiness and of his being in the past, he returned to the present moment.  And he was happy.  But then the man began to worry about the future.  "Will I," he asked, "be able to know the joy of living in the Precious Present tomorrow?"  Then he saw he was living in the future and laughed--at himself.

He listened to what he now knew.  And he heard the wisdom of his own voice.  "It is wise for me to think about the past and to learn from it, but it is not wise for me to be in the past, for that is how I lose myself.

"It is also wise for me to think about the future, and to prepare for my future, but it is not wise for me to be in the future, for that, too, is how I lose myself.  I lose what is precious to me."

It was so simple.  And now he saw it.  The present nourished him.  But the man knew it was not going to be easy.  Learning to be in the present was a process he was going to have to do over and over, again and again, until it became a part of him.  Now he knew why he had enjoyed being with the old man.

The old man was totally present when he was with the younger man.  The old man was not thinking about something else or wishing that he was somewhere else.  He was fully present.  And it felt good to be with such a person.  The younger man smiled at himself, the way the old man used to smile.  He knew.  "I can choose to be happy now, or I can try to be happy when. . . or if. . . ."

The man chose NOW!  And now the man was happy.  He felt at peace with himself.  He agreed to savor each moment in his life. . .  The apparently good and the apparently bad. . . Even if he didn't understand.  For the first time in his life, it didn't matter.  He accepted each of his precious moments on this planet as a gift.

"I know that some people choose to receive the Precious Present when they are young, others in middle age, and some when they are old.  Some people, sadly, never do.  I can choose to receive the Precious Present whenever I want."

As the man sat thinking, he felt fortunate.  He was who he was, where he was.  And now he knew!  He would always be whom he was where he was.

He listened again to his thoughts.  "The present is what it is.  It is valuable.  Even I do not know why.  It is already just the way it is supposed to be.  When I see the present, accept the present, and experience the present, I am well, and I am happy.  Pain is simply the difference between what is and what I want it to be.

"When I feel guilty over my imperfect past, or I am anxious over my unknown future, I do not live in the present.  I experience pain.  I make myself ill.  And I am unhappy.

"My past was the present.  And my future will be the present.  The present moment is the only reality I ever experience.

"As long as I continue to stay in the present, I am happy forever, because forever is always the present.

"The present is simply who I am, just the way I am, right now.  And it is precious.  I am precious.  I am the Precious Present."

It was as though he could hear the old man talking.  And then he smiled.  And his smile widened.  And he laughed.  He felt great joy.  He knew he was listening, not to the old man. . . But to himself.

It felt good for him to be with himself--just the way he was.  He felt he knew enough.  He felt he had enough.  He felt he was enough.  Now.

He had finally found the Precious Present.  And he was completely happy.

Several decades later, the man had grown into a happy, prosperous, and healthy old man.  One day a little girl came by to talk to him.  She liked to listen to "the old man," as she called him.  It was fun to be with him.  There was something special about him.  But she didn't know what it was.

One day, the little girl began to really listen to the old man.  Somehow she sensed something important in his calm voice.  He seemed very happy.  The little girl couldn't understand why.  "How could someone so old," she wondered, "be so happy?"  She asked and the old man told her why.

Then all of a sudden, the little girl jumped up and squealed with delight!  As the girl ran off to play, the old man smiled.  For he heard what she had said:  "Wow!" she exclaimed.  "I hope someday someone gives me the Precious Present!"

A Handful of Chocolate

Longstanding tradition in our home is a chocolate Advent calendar.  Even our youngest grown daughter expects her annual ritual of counting the days until Christmas.  This year, I found one with two young sisters looking up at a night sky filled with stars and Santa- this reminded me of Kayla and Kylie as youngsters.  Today, I found five days of uneaten chocolate ready to be shared with my son-in-love and husband before he returned North to York, Pennsylvania. Oftentimes during Christmastide, I find myself with a handful of tradition and expectation, and falling short.

There are no perfect Christmases. There are no perfect families. And I am both disappointed and relieved to admit, I am not a perfect Mom.  However, Christmas is not about perfection and a family filled with love is perfect no matter how imperfect.  Now, I admit at this time of year, there is not always a whole lot of love being shared amongst relatives, when this aunt squabbles with that sister, or a long chewed bone just will not lie down to rest.  Alas, deep down the ties that bind hold us in thankful reverie, despite our momentary misery.

The first Christmas was not perfect.  A young woman gives birth to her babe in a manger amongst animals-surely, not the fuzzy, warm, sweet smelling perfection of a gilded Nativity.  However, this birth bore true perfection.  As Imogene Herdman exclaimed, "My God, they did not even have room for baby Jesus?!"  The Best Chrismas Pageant Ever remains one of my yearly reads during Christmas season.  It tells the story of a group of siblings, known as the hulligans about town, who bully their way into being the main characters in the annual Christmas Pageant. Imogene, who portrays Mary, smokes cigars in the Church Ladies' room during rehearsal break, and her siblings wreak similar havoc.  Of course, as they learn the story of Jesus and His birth, every one else relearns the true meaning of Christmas. Thus, a perfect mess is transformed into a perfect blessing.

Isn't that just exactly how life is sometimes?  Right in the middle of all the BIG stuff and racing around trying to be perfect and create perfect, we stop.  We look around, we listen, we probably even laugh, as it is likely such a ridiculously perfect disaster, which finally enlightens us.  No matter how we find Christmas, no matter if we must binge on it in one setting, like that handful of chocolate...no matter if we are with family, friends or on our own, it happens.  It was not bought.  It was not baked.  It was not perfect in any shape or form, but it is Christmas. You are loved. God is with you.  Merry Christmas!

Parable of the Birds

I was four years old and sitting with my Grandmother before first light and was baffled by the singing of birds in the darkness.  "Oh dear one," my Grandmother explained, "They are singing the sun awake."

On our drive through Bethlehem the other night, we were gifted a pouch of birdseed and the following parable:
Now the man to whom I’m going to introduce you was not a scrooge; he was a kind, decent, mostly good man. He was generous to his family and upright in his dealings with other men. But he just didn’t believe all that stuff about God becoming a man, which the churches proclaim at Christmas time. It just didn’t make sense, and he was too honest to pretend otherwise.

“I’m truly sorry to distress you,” he told his wife, “but I’m not going with you to church this Christmas Eve.” He said he’d feel like a hypocrite and that he would much rather just stay at home. And so he stayed, and they went to the midnight service.

Shortly after the family drove away in the car, snow began to fall. He went to the window to watch the flurries getting heavier and heavier. Then he went back to his fireside chair to read his newspaper. Minutes later he was startled by a thudding sound. Then another and another — sort of a thump or a thud. At first he thought someone must have been throwing snowballs against his living room window.

But when he went to the front door to investigate, he found a flock of birds huddled miserably in the snow. They’d been caught in the storm and, in a desperate search for shelter, had tried to fly through his large landscape window. Well, he couldn’t let the poor creatures lie there and freeze, so he remembered the barn where his children stabled their pony. That would provide a warm shelter, if he could direct the birds to it.

Quickly he put on a coat and galoshes and then he tramped through the deepening snow to the barn. He opened the doors wide and turned on a light, but the birds did not come in. He figured food would entice them. So he hurried back to the house, fetched breadcrumbs and sprinkled them on the snow. He made a trail to the brightly lit, wide-open doorway of the stable. But to his dismay, the birds ignored the breadcrumbs and continued to flap around helplessly in the snow.

He tried catching them. He tried shooing them into the barn by walking around them and waving his arms. Instead, they scattered in every direction, except into the warm, lighted barn. And then he realized that they were afraid of him. To them, he reasoned, I am a strange and terrifying creature. If only I could think of some way to let them know that they can trust me — that I am not trying to hurt them but to help them. But how?

Any move he made tended to frighten and confuse them. They just would not follow. They would not be led or shooed, because they feared him.

“If only I could be a bird,” he thought to himself, “and mingle with them and speak their language. Then I could tell them not to be afraid. Then I could show them the way to the safe warm barn. But I would have to be one of them so they could see and hear and understand.”

At that moment the church bells began to ring. The sound reached his ears above the sounds of the wind. And he stood there listening to the bells pealing the glad tidings of Christmas. And he sank to his knees in the snow.

“Now I understand,” he whispered. “Now I see why you had to do it.
By: Louis Cassels

Ladybug Kisses

Lately, ladybugs congregated on both the bedroom windows which I call home right now.  I could not help but wonder why.  Ladybugs symbolize luck.  Legend tells of a farmer whose grapvines were overrun by aphids.  In answer to his prayer for help, ladybugs swarmed his vineyards next day and ate up all the aphids.

Other than the red hue, one would wonder why ladybugs count in the symbols of Christmas.  As a child, did you ever have a ladybug land on you?  "Kiss of luck," is the proverb.  However, the simple delight of a ladybug kiss brought joy.  Joy is another of the four Advent gifts.  Even amid the hustle and bustle of the season, we may find joy in the simplest actions.

As a grown up, I still delight in lying beneath a Christmas tree and gazing up into the alighted branches.  I still savor that first whiff and sip of hot chocolate.  A cool crisp night, bright with a full moon enchants the senses.  Hearing a child sing a Christmas song or a Children's Nativity are sounds and sights to treasure. We all have something which transports us back to childhood via a scent, sound or memory.  Simple joys are all around us if we only stop and allow them to alight upon us, like a soft ticklish ladybug kiss.

You are a Precious Gift

YOU ARE A PERFECT CREATION- unique only to you, the only you ever!

     GOD has given us so many things to enjoy in nature. The snowflake is another perfect creation. Did you know that no two snowflakes are alike? Snowflakes are also very fragile and precious. We are a precious creation, too. God knows us inside and out. He made us perfect and unique.

Psalms 139:13 says- “For You created my inmost being, You knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.”
Jeremiah 1:4-5 says-The word of the Lord came to me, saying, “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I chose you; I appointed you as a prophet to the nations.
God knows us so well, that he can count the hairs on our head!
Matthew 10:30 says-And the very hairs on your head are all numbered.
Luke 12:7 says-Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered.  Don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.
Revelation 4:11 “...for you created all things, and for Thy pleasure they were created.”
YOU are truly a precious gift from God!
   This is a wonderfully easy winter or any time of the year project to do especially with our children, grandchildren or just because we are kids at heart! Great for Sunday School, too! Imagine an August window decorated with snowflakes, bringing snow indoors on a hot day!

*Paper snowflake-
FOLD A COFFEE FILTER IN HALF.
THEN FOLD INTO THIRDS AND IN HALF AGAIN SO THAT YOU HAVE A SKINNY SLICE OF PIE.
 CUT SHAPES INTO IT, BEING CAREFUL TO NOT CUT IN HALF.
OPEN AND UNFOLD.  VOILA! A SNOWFLAKE!

View a special snowflake gift 

Sweet Memories

"Cardinals are messengers sent to bring sweet memories from those we love in Heaven!"

     I am delighted to discover redbirds here in the East.  Daily, three couples bring their joyous song to my bedroom window.  I see them darting amongst the trees, perched outside kitchen window when I trek in for my coffee.  Legend says that these cardinals are visitors from Heaven.  Synonymous with Christmas for their scarlet plumage, they remind us of the Christchild who the angels heralded in Bethlehem, who later died for our sins. 

    Cardinals are one of the few birds who, the male and female both sing in response to one another.  Of course, as with all birds, the male is bold and bright, while the female, is a creamy caramel with subtle scarlet highlights.  Earlier in the season, I caught sight of their young, fluffy chicks one morning.  As the messengers from Heaven, carrying down sweet memories from those we love...I think of my Pop.  I remember the friends and other family members who have also gone Home.  Each one casting a different memory.  I hold close those who are dear to me, who have lost loved ones.  God promises to be near to the brokenhearted and I pray that He enfolds them in HIS mighty love and comfort this holiday season.

     One of my favorite traditions is making a batch of my Pop's famous fudge.  Of course, I need my hubby to help, as he stirs the thickening chocolate best.  I cherish many fond memories of my Pop, but one brings a smile everytime.  He adored chocolate covered pecans and every holiday, birthday, etc we would hear the same speech from him, "I don't need anything, I don't want anything, save your money."  Until the year I discovered how to make homemade chocolate covered pecans.  He opened the package, took one, ate it and proceeded out to the van to hide the rest!  From then, on until we lost him a handful of years later, he would give us all the same speech until just before Christmas, when he would whisper to me, "I sure hope I get those yummy pecans again this year."  We have been without him fifteen years and he would have been 88 years old today.  I miss him every day.  Happy Birthday, Pop!

Pop's Fudge

18 ounces semi-sweet chocolate chips

1 14 ounce can of Eagle brand sweetened condensed milk

1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla

pinch salt

1 cup chopped pecans

line a 8" square pan with wax paper or aluminum foil, set aside.

In heavy 2 qt saucepan, stir chocolate chips, milk and salt over low heat until melted.

Remove from heat.

stir in vanilla and nuts.

spread evenly in pan. Refrigerate two hours to cool.

Christmas Grace, Another Christmas Tale

Dedicated to Arlen and Roby Ann
In tribute to their many childhood tales!

The Texas sky was velvet blue and clear, but for the stars shining. Stars that were twinkling and uncountable…they knew, because Arlen and Robyann had tried!
“Arlen, didya’ see it? Did ya’ see that shootin’ star?” asked Robyann.
“Yep,” the little boy replied.
“Did ya’ make a wish, Arlen?” asked his older sister.
“Nope,” he said.
Lying head to head, on their backs, they gazed on.  They had felt blessed to do this, because most kids they knew only got to stargaze outside.  Since the tornado though, Robyann and Arlen could do so right from the comfort of their own bed! Gaps in the rafters, where shingles had once been, allowed them to stargaze every night these past few days.  As far as they were concerned, they had a front row seat to the heavens!
For Robyann, the only thing pretty enough to distract her attention from the stars was the twinkling from the next room.  Blue lights from the Christmas tree cast a “silent night” glow about the room.  They could just see the tree from their bed.  This was the first year they had lights upon their tree- Just a small strand, passed along from a friend up the road. The blue glow through the tree limbs cast a multi-blue stained glass shadow upon the wall.
Earlier that evening, they had decorated the little tree.  They had been saving bits of tin foil and gum wrappers they’d found along the road.  Grandma had given them a few fabric scraps to tie on the bough ends.  Momma had shown them how to cut snowflakes from the few precious sheets of wax paper she’d saved.  Daddy had strung the lights for them and agreed that the electric bill wouldn’t suffer for one evening of plugging them in.  Together, they had all trekked out to the woods earlier in the day to find and dig up their tree.
Times were hard for all during this Depression.  “But none are poor, which have each other,” Grandma would say. She was a feisty, yet God-fearing woman. She carried a small pistol in her apron pocket…had even taught Arlen to shoot it. One day, she stood him on an old milk bucket and taught him to aim.  She could “love ya fiercely”- easy to hug and quick to “tan your backside” when needed.  Once discipline was issued, the crime was quickly forgotten in her eyes, but never was the lesson easily forgot by whomever she’d had to exact it!
Arlen hard remembered the most recent lesson.  He and Johnny Bean had drawn a bulls-eye target on the backside of the barn.  They wanted to practice “their pitchin’…they started out with dirt clods, but quickly got bored.  Somehow, they figured if the mud balls went “splat” just right, eggs would probably do real good.  Well, Grandma liked to have lit a fire when she come round the side of the barn and saw them chucking her prized goose eggs!  Punishment was swift and then, she handed them each a rag and sent them for a bucket of water. As they scrubbed, she told them how “those goose eggs would have brought in good money. To say nothing of being inconsiderate of what the Good Lord has given us,” she went on.
Arlen’s heart ached now, as he recalled that day.  Surely, Santa wouldn’t even stop here tonight, let alone leave him the baseball mitt he’d asked for.  He’d written Santa weeks ago.  Though stamps were scarce, Momma assured him that “she’d make sure Santa received the letter.”  His sister Robyann, being the ancient age of three years older than he, hadn’t written Santa this year. “I’m too old for that,” she’d said.
Well, Arlen wasn’t too sure whether or not he believed Santa was real, but he wasn’t taking any chances.  All he’d heard for awhile now was: “Times is hard…” This depression is gettin’ depressin’…can’t afford that right now.” He really wanted that mitt though, so he’d taken his request to the Big Man himself.  Actually, Santa was second in command, “cuz everybody knew that God was the Head Honcho”.  So, first he prayed.
But he just knew that he’d ruined his chances for sure with that goose egg escapade.  Not only had he ticked off Grandma, but he’d hindered their “livelihood,” too. He didn’t know a whole lot yet, but he understood that word, “livelihood.”  Folks had been turning conversation around that word for awhile now, too.
So, Arlen lay there quietly contemplating his fate.  Even the stars couldn’t raise his enthusiasm nor ease his misery this night. He didn’t even think that a wish could save him when he’d seen that ol’ shootin’ star.  He’d just shut his eyes and sleep right through Christmas!
“Arlen, wake up,” Robyann nudged him the next morning.
The sun was shining and the birds were singing.  Bacon was being fried in that big cast iron frypan in the kitchen.  Even Daddy and could be heard whistling a tune, while outside feeding the animals.  It was Christmas morning!
Arlen jumped out of bed, caught up in excitement, but then he remembered.
“Come on,” exclaimed Robyann, as she scurried into the kitchen.  Arlen slowly followed and didn’t dare even peep into the living room on his way by.
“Merry Christmas, children,” kissed Grandma. And their Momma hugged them both tight.
“After breakfast, you can see what Santa left you under the tree,” said their mother.
Arlen knew though…nothin’.  Momma surely hadn’t looked yet or she’d known, too. “Santa didn’t bring me nothin’, he thought. Arlen didn’t blame him.
Breakfast was good- Grandma made the best! There wasn’t anything she couldn’t turn out in that big cast iron frypan of hers. Sometimes while she cooked, she’d sing a tune. If she caught Arlen watching, she’d sing one of his favorites about Jesus little man or the hunting preacher song.
Even Daddy kept his smile this morning and Momma said that “the dishes could wait.”  Robyann led the way into the living room, where they all gathered around the tree.  Arlen didn’t dare look, for disappointment, as they all settled down to listen to Grandma read the Christmas Story from her old bible she’d received many Christmases before. Actually, she didn’t really need to read it, as she knew it by heart. Every Christmas, Grandma enjoyed retelling the story of baby Jesus being born in the stable. Arlen’s favorite part was when the angels sang, “Glory to God in the highest!” Oh, he could just imagine the raucous they made!
Then Momma handed Robyann and Arlen each a flour sack stocking filled with nuts, new pencils for school and an orange.  Robyann found a yard of silky blue ribbon in hers, which Daddy said, “matched her eyes!” Stuffed in the bottom of Arlen’s, was something heavy. He tugged it unstuck and nearly fell backwards when it gave loose.  He thought he was dreaming, for there in his hands was a baseball mitt!
The child was speechless as he looked at the mitt, then at each knowing pair of eyes in the room.  They all smiled.  He’d often heard Grandma and Momma speak of grace. He never quite understood…until now.   And, as it had all those Christmases ago, grace had arrived.  Arlen didn’t know a whole lot yet, but he did know that.
                                          THE END

video version of story

Soldier's Christmas

Remembering those who are away from loved ones, protecting our freedom.  Thank you!

Soldier’s Christmas Eve

T'was the night before Christmas.

He lived all alone,

In a one bedroom house.

Made of plaster and stone.

I had come down the chimney

With presents to give

And to see just who

In this home did live

I looked all about

A strange sight I did see

No tinsel no presents

Not even a tree

No stocking by mantle

Just boots filled with sand

On the wall hung pictures

Of far distant lands

With medals and badges

Awards of all kinds

A sober thought

Came through my mind

For this house was different

It was dark and dreary

I found the home of a soldier

Once I could see clearly

The soldier lay sleeping

Silent alone

Curled up on the floor

In this one bedroom home

The face was so gentle

The room in such disorder

Not how I pictured

A soldier

Was this the hero

Of whom I'd just read?

Curled up on a poncho

The floor for a bed?

I realized the families

That I saw this night

Owed their lives to these soldiers

Who were willing to fight?

Soon round the world

The children would play

And grownups would celebrate

A bright Christmas day

They all enjoyed freedom

Each month of the year

Because of the soldiers

Like the one lying here

I couldn't help wonder

How many lay alone

On a cold Christmas eve

In a land far from home

The very thought brought

A tear to my eye

I dropped to my knees

And started to cry

The soldier awakened

And I heard a rough voice

"Santa don't cry,

This life is my choice;

I fight for freedom

I don't ask for more

My life is my god

My country, my corps

The soldier rolled over

And drifted to sleep

I couldn’t control it

I continued to weep

I kept watch for hours

So silent and still

And we both shivered

From the cold night's chill

I didn't want to leave

On that cold dark night

This guardian of honor

So willing to fight

Then the soldier rolled over

With a voice soft and pure

Whispered "carry on Santa

It's Christmas day all is secure."

One look at my watch

And I knew he was right

"Merry Christmas my friend

And to all a good night."

- Grant Hays

A Light in the Dark Night

Twenty-five years ago, God blessed us with Kayla.  It has been longstanding tradition to drive around on her birthday, after dinner and look at Christmas lights.  Our daughters remain the light of my heart and I thank God every day for that early Christmas present in 1991.  In honor of her birthday, I share the following true story:

The abandoned storefront from a bygone era stood long forgotten on the deserted street amid a flourishing city. Once a thriving enterprise and founder of a retired business district, the city leased it to an Outreach Ministry until such time as the “improvement’s committee” deemed it necessary to reclaim.

Clothed in drab, things were not much brighter on the inside. It served as warmth and shelter to homeless as well as kitchen and bathroom to others who merely wanted a warm meal and a place to rest awhile.

       Although I had often prayed for, read about and contributed to such charities, this was my first visit to an outreach center. I hoped the smile plastered on my face hid my fear and discomfort.  

     Initially excited, my husband, daughters and I had driven an hour to deliver necessities and “treasures.” A month long collection effort filled a large moving trailer and the Director excitedly welcomed our offer. “I had been praying where our turkeys would come from this year,” she said.

      However, my enthusiasm quickly waned when a certain gentleman failed to respond. He not only failed to return my smile but his eyes seemed to mirror the dim walls. At the time, I could not fathom the life this old soul had endured which left his whole being deflated.  Silently, I prayed that he would feel God’s loving embrace.

       Shortly after our arrival, a local youth group showed up bearing hot pizza and festivities. Someone had sent an artificial tree and they were going to entertain the children with making ornaments. Even the merriment which ensued failed to faze the old man as did the “miracle of the cinder block”. The Youth minister and my husband scouted the back lot for something to brace the tree which was missing a stand. “I prayed that the Lord please help us find something to hold this tree up,” said the youngster. Just then, they tripped over two cinderblocks which had not been there the first two times they circled the yard. Much laughter and praise erupted but still the old man sat staring at nothing in particular.

       Then a hush settled in the darkness as someone turned off the lights. Watching from my “safe” vantage point, I looked towards the front of the building. There in the quiet stillness, stood a breathtaking vision. In the bay window which was the only window, glowed that lilting castoff plastic pine in glorious splendor. I was truly overwhelmed by the sheer beauty! A little joy and love and prayer had transformed an unanchored decrepit tree into a shining steeple of hope. Gazing about the room, my tear filled eyes rested upon that stoic gentleman. He smiled and all the years which had hung heavily upon him and oppressed every part of his features now seemed softened and refreshed like a child as the tree cast a warm glow back upon him. Its lights reflected in the deep pools of his eyes.

       Now, whenever I ponder the Spirit of Christmas, I remember that night and that tree and that gentleman who finally smiled.

“Be still and know that I am God.”

    -Psalms 46:10

Peace for the Taking

Christmastime

Sitting in church,

Savoring the peace and melodious songs of the choir-

Just resting in Him…

Warmth inside while outside is chilling, candles flicker as soft melody dances about.

Calm, in the midst of the holiday storm!

From the right of me,

A loud voice breaks through

Turning, I see two women talking with one another

Annoyed, I decide to ignore them

I turn my attention back to

O Little Town of Bethlehem but,

The peace is gone.

OH, but is it?

Instantly,

I remember

That peace,

Real peace is readily available.

If we keep our eyes,

Ears and hearts on Jesus,

We will find it-

Even in the storm.

“Be still and know that I am God.”

Here in the midst of Christmastide, many stresses and strains threaten our peace.  If we will but take a moment and breathe, sometimes needing to breathe again- rekindle a childhood memory, take a walk, look at Christmas lights, and sing a carol…

Pause and let the peace seep in through all the cracks and fissures. 

This little light of mine

I share my birthday with Saint Lucia's Day. Perhaps, this is why Mrs. Grosclose chose my second grade self to wear a foiled crown of candles upon my head and recite a poem of which all I ever recall is, "...and wears a crown of candles upon her head."  Lucia means light.

Today, young girls portray the infamous character in Swedish festivals who leads a parade through town, while a crown of burning candles sits atop her regal pose.  She is remembered for her kindness and martydom.  Killed in year 304, for secretly bringing food to the persecuted Christians hiding in catacombs of Rome.  She wore a crown of candles in order to keep her hands free.

Croatia, Bosnia, Denmark also celebrate Saint Lucia Day, as does some parts of Italy.  All sorts of yummy fare accompany this celebration on December 13th, such as, Lussekatts.  These are sweet buns, seasoned with saffron and dotted with raisins.

The story is told of when I was born, my grandfather proudly ran up and down the halls of Northridge Hospital, yelling, "It's a girl, I have a granddaughter!"  Proudly and gladly, the heavenly hosts proclaimed another birth centuries ago, near a lowly stable in Bethlehem.  There, Jospeh and Mary welcomed nearby shepherds, and later Wisemen, to see their newborn son, Jesus.  Happy Birthday was sung as, "Glory to God in the highest, and on Earth, peace and goodwill towards all men!"  We continue this birthday salute today with Merry Christmas.  We cannot all walk around with a crown of burning candles upon our heads, but we most certainly can keep a light burning in our hearts and offer that as grace, love, hope and joy to our fellow man.  Perhaps, then we truly would accomplish peace and good will towards all men, here on Earth.

Angel's Tale

A Christmas story
Written October 1, 2007
For my sis-in-love, Laura
And our beloved Daddies

“He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.” Psalms 91:4

                               
It was Christmas Eve and all the other toys had been bought. There, high on the top shelf, she sat.  Glistening in the sunlight, her wings were soft and white as snow. But no one seemed to have any use for an angel doll with crooked curls.
Once, she had been the doll that every little girl wanted.  One day, in a tussle between two greedy tikes, one tugged this way and the other tugged that way.  The doll’s curls were pulled loose.
The kind ol’ shopkeeper hadn’t the heart to discard her. So, he righted her curls as best he could. Then he placed her high upon the top shelf where she’d be safe.  There she sat and watched the other toys go home with children each day. Still, she smiled sweetly, hoping for the day someone would take her home.
Now, the sun was sinking and shadows grew over the tiny shop.  Soon, the kind ol’ shopkeeper would turn out the lights and head home.  The tinkling of the bell over the shop door rang merrily into the sleepy shop. A hushed voice spoke to the kind ol’ shopkeeper and the kind ol’ shopkeeper answered:
“Perhaps,” he said, ‘I have the perfect gift.”
He made his way to the bookcase and reached up to the top shelf.  He took the angel doll down and righted her curls. Then, he nestled her into a cradle of tissue paper and tied the box closed with a big red bow.
“No charge,” said the kind ol’ shopkeeper.
Awhile later, the box was opened.  Staring down at the angel doll was a cherub face surrounded in curls. It was a little girl! “Merry Christmas Angel,” said the voice from the toy shop. The little girl reached in and lifted the doll, but the curls caught and fell softly back into the box.
“Oh,” thought the angel doll. “Surely they will return me to the shop, because no one wants an angel doll without curls.”
But she was mistaken.
“Oh Daddy,” cried the little girl.  “She’s just like me!” And with that, she pulled off her own curls and settled back against the pillows of her hospital bed cuddling the angel doll.
“Merry Christmas Daddy!”
                                                          The End



 The story behind this tale is two-fold. Our first Christmas in Bakersfield, my Mom and our daughters visited a sleepy shop on Main Street. There, my Mom bought me an angel doll, because, “No doll should be alone on a shelf on Christmas Eve.” When I penned this story two years later, prior to my sister-in-love’s Dad’s passing, I was bothered by my dedication. I dedicated it to our “Daddies,” but my heart soured when I thought of how my biological father was not included in that dedication and I offered up a prayer. Always faithful, God healed that brokenness the following month in a six hour visit a month prior to his passing.
I included this story with my Christmas cards one year, with a white feather and crystal glitter!
I also made ornaments for family and neighbors by placing a white feather and glitter in a clear glass ball and tied with a silver ribbon! Very easy to make and a wonderful way to honor a cancer survivor, victim or loved one gone Home!
*you may view a video version of this tale at:
Angel's Tale Video

Bells of Christmastide

“Though I've grown old, the bell still rings for me, as it does for all who truly believe.”      -The Polar Express

Bells are synomous at Christmastide- from Jingle Bells to church bells to ding dong-ing merrily on high.  My best friend and I used to tie jingle bells to our tennis shoes at Christmastime and jingle all the way. 

Bells symbolize the lost who find their way. "Sheep were found by the ring of long ago. Reminding us today of how we are called home to the Fold, symbolizing God’s guidance and return."

Once, for a school program, I had to memorize and recite Henry Wadsworth Longellow's poem "I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day." Written December 25, 1864, I failed to understand the words then, but tear up now when I hear it:

"I heard the bells on Christmas Day, their old familiar carols play and mild and sweet, the words repeat of Peace on Earth, good will to men.  But in despair I hung my head.  There is no peace on earth I said.  For hate is strong and mocks the song of Peace on Earth, good will to men. Then rang the bells more loud and deep.  God is not dead, nor doth HE sleep.  The wrong shall fail, the right prevail with peace on Earth, good will to men."

newest audio version

A Highland Christmas

Tartan is synonomous with Christmas decoration, but the good people of  Scotland were once virtually prohibited from celebrating the "Christian holiday."  For four hundred years, from 1700s until the 1950s, all masses, including Christ Mass were banned. Never the ones to be kept from a hearty celebration, the Highlanders upheld their Christmas traditions, but celebrated the Hogmanay, in January. Hogmanay means, " Great Day of Love."

Leading up to this January 2nd holiday, the house is cleaned, the ashes swept and all debts are settled before the "ringing of the bells" of midnight on December 31.  Not a bad goal for those of us who tend to run up our debts in the flurry of buying and indulging from Black Friday through January 1.
Furthermore, tradition holds that the "first foot" to cross the doorstep, should it be male and dark will bring good luck.  A throwback to the viking days when a blonde visitor meant trouble!

Contrarily speaking, a blonde visitor brought no trouble when he stepped across our daughter's threshold last August 2015.  Our new son-in-love hails from Scottish heritage and we are blessed to call him family.  Kayla's favorite cookie at Christmastide is scottish shortbread.  She receives at least one package of the famous Scotty dog brand, but I ususally try to make her a homemade batch as well and stamp each cookie with the "snowflake" imprint from bottom of a cutglass mug. Unable to last year, I instead sent her own glass in order to make her own.  This year, I get to make them alongside her once again.

Shortbread

2 cups butter, softened
1 cup brown sugar, packed
4-4 1/2 cups flour sifted

1. In a large bowl, cream butter and brown sugar until light and fluffy. Add 3-3/4 cups flour and mix well. Turn onto a floured surface. Knead for 5 minutes, adding enough remaining flour to form a soft dough.
2. Roll to 1/2-in. thickness. Cut into 3-in. x 1-in. strips. Or cut with favorite cookie cutter.  Place 1 in. apart on ungreased baking sheets. Prick with fork. Bake at 325° for 20-25 minutes or until cookies are lightly browned. Yield: about 4 dozen

bah humbug!

Mr. Scrooge and Grinch get a bad wrap every year.  Afterall, they got it right in the end...Scrooge found love and promised to keep Christmas all the year through! Grinch's heart grew and he, too was a changed critter from then on.  Unfortunately, their alter ego returns every year just the same, in plays and programs, and in each of us.  Despite our best intentions and efforts, that little cranky curmudgeon on our shoulder sometimes wins out.  In that moment, no sweet little babe in a manger, Who came down to Earth with love and glory is going to convince us that "Its the Most Wonderful Time of the Year!"
I imagine this temporary lapse in Spirit inspired that Holiday favorite, "Grandma got run over by a Reindeer."  'Nuff said.

Of course, other favorites such as "Deck the Halls" and "All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth," are perfect anthems for those joyous shoppers seeking the last sale item.  Over the loudspeaker plays, "Deck the halls or whoever gets in my way!" "All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth, because I got in the way!" "What child is this," is the loudspeaker looking for lost parents in the Department Store.  "Ding Dong, merrily on high," is announcing the siblings fighting...again.

We seek "Silent Night," but pause to check our notifications.  "Oh Holy Night," is interrupted by a ringing cell phone.  "Do you hear what I hear?" is just a phrase we utter before badmouthing or snickering behind someone's back, all in the spirit of Christmas. "Silver Bells" announces another gray hair appearing over the worry and stress of a peaceful, joyous season.

"I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas," rings true for the other hundred ridiculous items we think will fill our heart stockings and satisfy us.  "In Excelsius Gloria," translates to in excess gluttony. "Here we come a wassailing", in hopes that the wine and bottled spirits of the season will at least send us into visions of sugarplums and perfection.

Recalling that 80s hit, we look around at our fellow man and wonder, "Do they know its Christmastime at all?" There, we shake our heads in wonderment and then realization dawns as we see ourselves in those we berate.  We realize that we stopped listening to those harkening angels.  We realize that the Hallelujah Chorus is not an unending stream of expletives.  We realize that the guy who just cut us off cannot hear our "Have yourself a merry BLEEPING Christmas" afterall and begin to simmer down.  We realize that Christmas does live in our hearts and if there is to be peace on earth, it begins with me.

Morphing into Christmas

The legend of the Butterfly reminds me that Christmas is Christmas no matter what.  Last year, was our first Christmas separated as a family.  Kayla settled in Virginia following her Externship. I did my best to send her little reminders from home and keep traditions alive.  This year, we are scattered upon three states, I am here with Kayla in Virginia, while Chris is up in York, Pennsylvania and we all miss Kylie who is home in Bakersfield with Grandma. It was evident from the year prior to last, that Christmas would change from then on.  As it should be when our children grow and venture out into the world. "Give them roots to return to but wings to fly," as the adage says.

 Maturity gleaned from past experiences ensure me my caterpillar struggles have re-emerged as butterfly wisdom.  I am surely a bit older but also wiser.  Here in my own Butterfly Season, I delight in my wings.  Here, I appreciate my wrinkles as sourvenirs and honor the strength and functions of my muscles rather than fret over calories and opinions. Here, I understand that healthy is beautiful and beautiful is life no matter how messy or abnormal to our usual routine.  I hope I have instilled this truth in our daughters and that they continue to learn and grow.

If we are learning and growing, we are living. "While there is life, there is hope," admonishes Jules Verne, the great adventure writer.  Hope is one of the four Advent lessons which grace the Christmas season.  Just as a butterfly emerging from its coccon reflects the resurrection of Christ, it also symbolizes our own newness when we come to trust in Him. He came and the world has never been the same.  Even in this season of glitter and crowds, there are still days of melancholy.  However, even the darkest winter has a promise of Spring.  In this Christmastide, I pray that you find your own respite and emerge with wings which take you through the New Year!

In a Pickle

I have fond memories of my time in Germany, but it was not until returning stateside that I learned more of its traditions.  When the girls were little, Chris and I would take them to a nearby German Village in Orange County.  There, we would savor German fare and stroll the shops.  One shopowner in particular always remembered the girls!  Our tradition then was to purchase Brotchen, a wonderful roll- crusty on the outside, but soft on inside with Quark and Rosehip jam.  Adding each of our favorite sweets, sausages and cheeses, we would feast upon the livingroom floor-a picnic that always perked our spirits after taking down Christmas each year.  

It was this little village where I discovered the Legend of the Pickle. The beautifully decorated Christmas Shop sold Old World oraments and one year I chose the pickle. Legend shares that a gherkin hidden amongst the Christmas ornaments brought luck to the finder, as they received an extra gift.  Now, truth be told, upon further investigation, few Germans actually know of this legend. 

 In addition, another legend tells, John Lower, a Bavarian emigrant, started the tradition.  After falling ill while imprsioned in Andersonville, Ga, during the Civil War, he pleaded to have one pickle on his death bed.  A guard took pity and found one, which seemed to grant a boost to the prisoner, who actually lived.  Upon returning home, he instituted the tradition in remembrance of his good fortune.  Thus, the person who found the pickle would be blessed with good fortune just as he had.

Berrien Springs, Michigan offers another theory.  The self-proclaimed Christmas Pickle Capital of the World credits the legend to the Middle Ages.  A cruel innkeeper trapped two Spanish boys in a pickle barrel on their way home from Boarding School for Christmas Holiday, but St. Nicholas rescued them by tapping the barrel with his staff.

Our girls enjoyed hiding, finding and refinding our pickle ornament.  Albeit true or false, sweet or Kosher, the pickle legend reminds us that we need only seek to find the gift hidden in even the most dubious packaging, and the blessing disguised as most sour circumstance.

Pavuchky and Perogie or The Little Spider and Dumpling

"Dobryj vechir, Sviaty vechir. Dobrym liudiam na zdorovja.

 - Good Evening, Holy Evening to good people for good health."

     Having won its Independence from Soviet Union in 1991, Ukraine remains steeped in Christmas tradition and delicious food, and today, Christmas is a public holiday.  As the women prepare the 12 dish feast, twelve dishes symbolic of the twelve apostles, children decorate the tree and search the sky for the first star.  Its appearance signals time to begin the feasting on such delicacy as perogies, or dumplings.  Kolach is a braided Christmas bread and Holopchi, yummy stuffed cabbage.  

   

     The legend of Pavuchky, or little spider is often credited to Germany and Ukraine, as well as Poland.  Nonetheless, legend has it that

A poor but hardworking widow once lived in a small hut with her children. One summer day, a pinecone fell on the earthen floor of the hut and took root. The widow's children cared for the tree, excited at the prospect of having a Christmas tree by winter. The tree grew, but when Christmas Eve arrived, they could not afford to decorate it. The children sadly went to bed and fell asleep. Early the next morning, they woke up and saw the tree covered with cobwebs. When they opened the windows, the first rays of sunlight touched the webs and turned them into gold and silver. The widow and her children were overjoyed. From then on, they never lived in poverty again. (Wikipedia).

As a child, we were not allowed tinsel, as it would get stuck in the vacuum cleaner. However, now that I am a grown up, in the loosest sense of the term, I choose tinsel. I consider it the crowning glory of our tree. Chris's mother tells of how her father used to place tinsel, one at a time on each branch. Our youngest daughter, Kylie, when she was a youngster preferred big handfuls thrown at her little personal tree on her dresser. I am still on the lookout for silver tinsel trees like the ones which were used in our Silver Forest Christmas Play when I was a child. Preference is irrelevant. Tinsel is like joy, even a little catches the light and shines.

T.N.T...TINY N TOUGH

"And God bless us everyone!"- Tiny Tim from A Christmas Carol

     Recently, I witnessed a tiny moth braving the elements and flying against the wind with all its might.  It fluttered and dipped and rose and dipped again, but it never stopped until it reached a nearby shrub.  Life sometimes feels like that tiny moth against the elements!  Nonetheless, it survived and so shall we if we persevere.  Of course, the good Lord's Hand helping us along is a blessing.  I am reminded of Tiny Tim, the wee lad in Dicken's Christmas Carol.  Despite his frailty, he was a mighty example of Christmas Spirit and strength. Inasmuch, his example remained a turning force for Ol' Mr. Scrooge, who had allowed his own heart to grow cold and his own spirit to dim. 

     1 Timothy 4:12 puts it another way: "Do not let anyone look down on you because you are young, but set an example for believers in speech, in conduct, in love, in faith and in purity."  We tend to forget the virtues of joy and grace during the Christmas Season, when joy and grace should be abundant.  As Ol' Mister Scrooge learned, we cannot continue reacting or existing, striving for more, more, more-not without its dire consequences.  Here, this morning, afternoon or evening, may you find a quietness in which to breathe a moment.  Inhale, exhale, inhale and feel your body relax. Exhale all those toxins and frustrations.  Inhale once again and smile.  Oh, don't forget to exhale!  

     In this moment, no matter what the muck and guck, stress or worry, know that you are loved.  May we move forward into our day with a newfound strength and perhaps a morsel of Christmas Spirit. "And God bless us everyone!."